"I ain't so shore. You see, I used to get drunk often --before I come here. An' I've been drunk only once. Back at Las Vegas the outfit would never believe thet. Wal, Ipromised Bo I wouldn't do it again, an' I've kept my word.""That is fine of you. But tell me, why is she angry now?""Bo makes up to all the fellars," confessed Carmichael, hanging his head. "I took her to the dance last week -- over in the town-hall. Thet's the first time she'd gone anywhere with me. I shore was proud. . . . But thet dance was hell.
Bo carried on somethin' turrible, an' I --"
"Tell me. What did she do?" demanded Helen, anxiously. "I'm responsible for her. I've got to see that she behaves.""Aw, I ain't sayin' she didn't behave like a lady," replied Carmichael. "It was -- she -- wal, all them fellars are fools over her -- an' Bo wasn't true to me.""My dear boy, is Bo engaged to you?"
"Lord -- if she only was!" he sighed.
"Then how can you say she wasn't true to you? Be reasonable.""I reckon now, Miss Nell, thet no one can be in love an' act reasonable," rejoined the cowboy. "I don't know how to explain, but the fact is I feel thet Bo has played the --the devil with me an' all the other fellars.""You mean she has flirted?"
"I reckon."
"Las Vegas, I'm afraid you're right," said Helen, with growing apprehension. "Go on. Tell me what's happened.""Wal, thet Turner boy, who rides for Beasley, he was hot after Bo," returned Carmichael, and he spoke as if memory hurt him. "Reckon I've no use for Turner. He's a fine-lookin', strappin', big cow-puncher, an' calculated to win the girls. He brags thet he can, an' I reckon he's right. Wal, he was always hangin' round Bo. An' he stole one of my dances with Bo. I only had three, an' he comes up to say this one was his; Bo, very innocent -- oh, she's a cute one! -- she says, 'Why, Mister Turner -- is it really yours?' An' she looked so full of joy thet when he says to me, 'Excoose us, friend Carmichael,' I sat there like a locoed jackass an' let them go. But I wasn't mad at thet. He was a better dancer than me an' I wanted her to have a good time. What started the hell was I seen him put his arm round her when it wasn't just time, accordin' to the dance, an' Bo -- she didn't break any records gettin' away from him. She pushed him away -- after a little -- after I near died. Wal, on the way home I had to tell her. I shore did. An' she said what I'd love to forget. Then -- then, Miss Nell, I grabbed her -- it was outside here by the porch an' all bright moonlight -- I grabbed her an' hugged an' kissed her good.
When I let her go I says, sorta brave, but I was plumb scared -- I says, "Wal, are you goin' to marry me now?'"He concluded with a gulp, and looked at Helen with woe in his eyes.
"Oh! What did Bo do?" breathlessly queried Helen.
"She slapped me," he replied. "An' then she says, I did like you best, but NOW I hate you!' An' she slammed the door in my face.""I think you made a great mistake," said Helen, gravely.
"Wal, if I thought so I'd beg her forgiveness. But I reckon I don't. What's more, I feel better than before. I'm only a cowboy an' never was much good till I met her. Then Ibraced. I got to havin' hopes, studyin' books, an' you know how I've been lookin' into this ranchin' game. I stopped drinkin' an' saved my money. Wal, she knows all thet. Once she said she was proud of me. But it didn't seem to count big with her. An' if it can't count big I don't want it to count at all. I reckon the madder Bo is at me the more chance I've got. She knows I love her -- thet I'd die for her -- thet I'm a changed man. An' she knows I never before thought of darin' to touch her hand. An' she knows she flirted with Turner.""She's only a child," replied Helen. "And all this change --the West -- the wildness -- and you boys making much of her -- why, it's turned her head. But Bo will come out of it true blue. She is good, loving. Her heart is gold.""I reckon I know, an' my faith can't be shook," rejoined Carmichael, simply. "But she ought to believe thet she'll make bad blood out here. The West is the West. Any kind of girls are scarce. An' one like Bo -- Lord! we cowboys never seen none to compare with her. She'll make bad blood an' some of it will be spilled."
"Uncle Al encourages her," said Helen, apprehensively. "It tickles him to hear how the boys are after her. Oh, she doesn't tell him. But he hears. And I, who must stand in mother's place to her, what can I do?""Miss Nell, are you on my side?" asked the cowboy, wistfully. He was strong and elemental, caught in the toils of some power beyond him.
Yesterday Helen might have hesitated at that question. But to-day Carmichael brought some proven quality of loyalty, some strange depth of rugged sincerity, as if she had learned his future worth.
"Yes, I am," Helen replied, earnestly. And she offered her hand.
"Wal, then it 'll shore turn out happy," he said, squeezing her hand. His smile was grateful, but there was nothing in it of the victory he hinted at. Some of his ruddy color had gone. "An' now I want to tell you why I come."He had lowered his voice. "Is Al asleep?" he whispered.
"Yes," replied Helen. "He was a little while ago.""Reckon I'd better shut his door."
Helen watched the cowboy glide across the room and carefully close the door, then return to her with intent eyes. She sensed events in his look, and she divined suddenly that he must feel as if he were her brother.
"Shore I'm the one thet fetches all the bad news to you," he said, regretfully.
Helen caught her breath. There had indeed been many little calamities to mar her management of the ranch -- loss of cattle, horses, sheep -- the desertion of herders to Beasley -- failure of freighters to arrive when most needed --fights among the cowboys -- and disagreements over long-arranged deals.
"Your uncle Al makes a heap of this here Jeff Mulvey,"asserted Carmichael.
"Yes, indeed. Uncle absolutely relies on Jeff," replied Helen.
"Wal, I hate to tell you, Miss Nell," said the cowboy, bitterly, "thet Mulvey ain't the man he seems.""Oh, what do you mean?"
