When spring came at last and the willows drooped green and fresh over the brook and the range rang with bray of burro and whistle of stallion, old Al Auchincloss had been a month in his grave.
To Helen it seemed longer. The month had been crowded with work, events, and growing, more hopeful duties, so that it contained a world of living. The uncle had not been forgotten, but the innumerable restrictions to development and progress were no longer manifest. Beasley had not presented himself or any claim upon Helen; and she, gathering confidence day by day, began to believe all that purport of trouble had been exaggerated.
In this time she had come to love her work and all that pertained to it. The estate was large. She had no accurate knowledge of how many acres she owned, but it was more than two thousand. The fine, old, rambling ranch-house, set like a fort on the last of the foot-hills, corrals and fields and barns and meadows, and the rolling green range beyond, and innumerable sheep, horses, cattle -- all these belonged to Helen, to her ever-wondering realization and ever-growing joy. Still, she was afraid to let herself go and be perfectly happy. Always there was the fear that had been too deep and strong to forget so soon.
This bright, fresh morning, in March, Helen came out upon the porch to revel a little in the warmth of sunshine and the crisp, pine-scented wind that swept down from the mountains. There was never a morning that she did not gaze mountainward, trying to see, with a folly she realized, if the snow had melted more perceptibly away on the bold white ridge. For all she could see it had not melted an inch, and she would not confess why she sighed. The desert had become green and fresh, stretching away there far below her range, growing dark and purple in the distance with vague buttes rising. The air was full of sound -- notes of blackbirds and the baas of sheep, and blasts from the corrals, and the clatter of light hoofs on the court below.
Bo was riding in from the stables. Helen loved to watch her on one of those fiery little mustangs, but the sight was likewise given to rousing apprehensions. This morning Bo appeared particularly bent on frightening Helen. Down the lane Carmichael appeared, waving his arms, and Helen at once connected him with Bo's manifest desire to fly away from that particular place. Since that day, a month back, when Bo had confessed her love for Carmichael, she and Helen had not spoken of it or of the cowboy. The boy and girl were still at odds. But this did not worry Helen. Bo had changed much for the better, especially in that she devoted herself to Helen and to her work. Helen knew that all would turn out well in the end, and so she had been careful of her rather precarious position between these two young firebrands.
Bo reined in the mustang at the porch steps. She wore a buckskin riding-suit which she had made herself, and its soft gray with the touches of red beads was mightily becoming to her. Then she had grown considerably during the winter and now looked too flashing and pretty to resemble a boy, yet singularly healthy and strong and lithe. Red spots shone in her cheeks and her eyes held that ever-dangerous blaze.
"Nell, did you give me away to that cowboy?" she demanded.
"Give you away!" exclaimed Helen, blankly.
"Yes. You know I told you -- awhile back -- that I was wildly in love with him. Did you give me away -- tell on me?
"She might have been furious, but she certainly was not confused.
"Why, Bo! How could you? No. I did not," replied Helen.
"Never gave him a hint?"
"Not even a hint. You have my word for that. Why? What's happened?""He makes me sick."
Bo would not say any more, owing to the near approach of the cowboy.
"Mawnin', Miss Nell," he drawled. "I was just tellin' this here Miss Bo-Peep Rayner --""Don't call me that!" broke in Bo, with fire in her voice.
"Wal, I was just tellin' her thet she wasn't goin' off on any more of them long rides. Honest now, Miss Nell, it ain't safe, an' --""You're not my boss," retorted Bo.
"Indeed, sister, I agree with him. You won't obey me.""Reckon some one's got to be your boss," drawled Carmichael.
"Shore I ain't hankerin' for the job. You could ride to Kingdom Come or off among the Apaches -- or over here a ways" -- at this he grinned knowingly -- "or anywheres, for all I cared. But I'm workin' for Miss Nell, an' she's boss.
An' if she says you're not to take them rides -- you won't.
Savvy that, miss?"
It was a treat for Helen to see Bo look at the cowboy.
"Mis-ter Carmichael, may I ask how you are going to prevent me from riding where I like?""Wal, if you're goin' worse locoed this way I'll keep you off'n a hoss if I have to rope you an' tie you up. By golly, I will!"His dry humor was gone and manifestly he meant what he said.
"Wal," she drawled it very softly and sweetly, but venomously, "if -- you -- ever -- touch -- me again!"At this he flushed, then made a quick, passionate gesture with his hand, expressive of heat and shame.
"You an' me will never get along," he said, with a dignity full of pathos. "I seen thet a month back when you changed sudden-like to me. But nothin' I say to you has any reckonin' of mine. I'm talkin' for your sister. It's for her sake. An' your own. . . . I never told her an' I never told you thet I've seen Riggs sneakin' after you twice on them desert rides. Wal, I tell you now."The intelligence apparently had not the slightest effect on Bo. But Helen was astonished and alarmed.
"Riggs! Oh, Bo, I've seen him myself -- riding around. He does not mean well. You must be careful.""If I ketch him again," went on Carmichael, with his mouth lining hard, "I'm goin' after him."He gave her a cool, intent, piercing look, then he dropped his head and turned away, to stride back toward the corrals.
Helen could make little of the manner in which her sister watched the cowboy pass out of sight.
