The Man of the Forest Part 51

"Who 're you goin' to prove it to--thet I'm dishonest?"

"To my men--to your men--to the people of Pine--to everybody. There's not a person who won't believe me."

He seemed curious, discomfited, surlily annoyed, and yet fascinated by her statement or else by the quality and appearance of her as she spiritedly defended her cause.

"An' how 're you goin' to prove all thet?" he growled.

"Mr. Beasley, do you remember last fall when you met Snake Anson with his gang up in the woods--and hired him to make off with me?" asked Helen, in swift, ringing words.

The dark olive of Beasley's bold face shaded to a dirty white.

"Wha-at?" he jerked out, hoa.r.s.ely.

"I see you remember. Well, Milt Dale was hidden in the loft of that cabin where you met Anson. He heard every word of your deal with the outlaw."

Beasley swung his arm in sudden violence, so hard that he flung his glove to the floor. As he stooped to s.n.a.t.c.h it up he uttered a sibilant hiss. Then, stalking to the door, he jerked it open, and slammed it behind him. His loud voice, hoa.r.s.e with pa.s.sion, preceded the sc.r.a.pe and crack of hoofs.

Shortly after supper that day, when Helen was just recovering her composure, Carmichael presented himself at the open door. Bo was not there. In the dimming twilight Helen saw that the cowboy was pale, somber, grim.

"Oh, what's happened?" cried Helen.

"Roy's been shot. It come off in Turner's saloon But he ain't dead. We packed him over to Widow Ca.s.s's. An' he said for me to tell you he'd pull through."

"Shot! Pull through!" repeated Helen, in slow, unrealizing exclamation.

She was conscious of a deep internal tumult and a cold checking of blood in all her external body.

"Yes, shot," replied Carmichael, fiercely.

"An', whatever he says, I reckon he won't pull through."

"O Heaven, how terrible!" burst out Helen. "He was so good--such a man! What a pity! Oh, he must have met that in my behalf. Tell me, what happened? Who shot him?"

"Wal, I don't know. An' thet's what's made me hoppin' mad. I wasn't there when it come off. An' he won't tell me."

"Why not?"

"I don't know thet, either. I reckoned first it was because he wanted to get even. But, after thinkin' it over, I guess he doesn't want me lookin' up any one right now for fear I might get hurt. An' you're goin'

to need your friends. Thet's all I can make of Roy."

Then Helen hurriedly related the event of Beasley's call on her that afternoon and all that had occurred.

"Wal, the half-breed son-of-a-greaser!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Carmichael, in utter confoundment. "He wanted you to marry him!"

"He certainly did. I must say it was a--a rather abrupt proposal."

Carmichael appeared to be laboring with speech that had to be smothered behind his teeth. At last he let out an explosive breath.

"Miss Nell, I've sh.o.r.e felt in my bones thet I'm the boy slated to brand thet big bull."

"Oh, he must have shot Roy. He left here in a rage."

"I reckon you can coax it out of Roy. Fact is, all I could learn was thet Roy come in the saloon alone. Beasley was there, an' Riggs--"

"Riggs!" interrupted Helen.

"Sh.o.r.e, Riggs. He come back again. But he'd better keep out of my way.... An' Jeff Mulvey with his outfit. Turner told me he heard an argument an' then a shot. The gang cleared out, leavin' Roy on the floor. I come in a little later. Roy was still layin' there. n.o.body was doin' anythin' for him. An' n.o.body had. I hold that against Turner. Wal, I got help an' packed Roy over to Widow Ca.s.s's. Roy seemed all right.

But he was too bright an' talky to suit me. The bullet hit his lung, thet's sh.o.r.e. An' he lost a sight of blood before we stopped it. Thet skunk Turner might have lent a hand. An' if Roy croaks I reckon I'll--"

"Tom, why must you always be reckoning to kill somebody?" demanded Helen, angrily.

"'Cause somebody's got to be killed 'round here. Thet's why!" he snapped back.

"Even so--should you risk leaving Bo and me without a friend?" asked Helen, reproachfully.

At that Carmichael wavered and lost something of his sullen deadliness.

"Aw, Miss Nell, I'm only mad. If you'll just be patient with me--an'

mebbe coax me.... But I can't see no other way out."

"Let's hope and pray," said Helen, earnestly. "You spoke of my coaxing Roy to tell who shot him. When can I see him?"

"To-morrow, I reckon. I'll come for you. Fetch Bo along with you. We've got to play safe from now on. An' what do you say to me an' Hal sleepin'

here at the ranch-house?"

"Indeed I'd feel safer," she replied. "There are rooms. Please come."

"Allright. An' now I'll be goin' to fetch Hal. Sh.o.r.e wish I hadn't made you pale an' scared like this."

About ten o'clock next morning Carmichael drove Helen and Bo into Pine, and tied up the team before Widow Ca.s.s's cottage.

The peach and apple-trees were mingling blossoms of pink and white; a drowsy hum of bees filled the fragrant air; rich, dark-green alfalfa covered the small orchard flat; a wood fire sent up a lazy column of blue smoke; and birds were singing sweetly.

Helen could scarcely believe that amid all this tranquillity a man lay perhaps fatally injured. a.s.suredly Carmichael had been somber and reticent enough to rouse the gravest fears.

Widow Ca.s.s appeared on the little porch, a gray, bent, worn, but cheerful old woman whom Helen had come to know as her friend.

"My land! I'm thet glad to see you, Miss Helen," she said. "An' you've fetched the little la.s.s as I've not got acquainted with yet."

"Good morning, Mrs. Ca.s.s. How--how is Roy?" replied Helen, anxiously scanning the wrinkled face.

"Roy? Now don't you look so scared. Roy's 'most ready to git on his hoss an' ride home, if I let him. He knowed you was a-comin'. An' he made me hold a lookin'-gla.s.s for him to shave. How's thet fer a man with a bullet-hole through him! You can't kill them Mormons, nohow."

She led them into a little sitting-room, where on a couch underneath a window Roy Beeman lay. He was wide awake and smiling, but haggard. He lay partly covered with a blanket. His gray shirt was open at the neck, disclosing bandages.

"Mornin'--girls," he drawled. "Sh.o.r.e is good of you, now, comin' down."