“Child, you’ve been saying that about fellows for a long time. And you’ve never looked twice at any of them yet.”

  “He was different.... Nell, I’ll bet he comes to Pine.”

  “I hope he does. I wish he was on this train. I liked his looks, Bo.”

  “Well, Nell dear, he looked at ME first and last — so don’t get your hopes up.... Oh, the train’s starting!... Good-by, Albu-ker — what’s that awful name?... Nell, let’s eat dinner. I’m starved.”

  Then Helen forgot her troubles and the uncertain future, and what with listening to Bo’s chatter, and partaking again of the endless good things to eat in the huge basket, and watching the noble mountains, she drew once more into happy mood.

  The valley of the Rio Grande opened to view, wide near at hand in a great gray-green gap between the bare black mountains, narrow in the distance, where the yellow river wound away, glistening under a hot sun. Bo squealed in glee at sight of naked little Mexican children that darted into adobe huts as the train clattered by, and she exclaimed her pleasure in the Indians, and the mustangs, and particularly in a group of cowboys riding into town on spirited horses. Helen saw all Bo pointed out, but it was to the wonderful rolling valley that her gaze clung longest, and to the dim purple distance that seemed to hold something from her. She had never before experienced any feeling like that; she had never seen a tenth so far. And the sight awoke something strange in her. The sun was burning hot, as she could tell when she put a hand outside the window, and a strong wind blew sheets of dry dust at the train. She gathered at once what tremendous factors in the Southwest were the sun and the dust and the wind. And her realization made her love them. It was there; the open, the wild, the beautiful, the lonely land; and she felt the poignant call of blood in her — to seek, to strive, to find, to live. One look down that yellow valley, endless between its dark iron ramparts, had given her understanding of her uncle. She must be like him in spirit, as it was claimed she resembled him otherwise.

  At length Bo grew tired of watching scenery that contained no life, and, with her bright head on the faded cloak, she went to sleep. But Helen kept steady, farseeing gaze out upon that land of rock and plain; and during the long hours, as she watched through clouds of dust and veils of heat, some strong and doubtful and restless sentiment seemed to change and then to fix. It was her physical acceptance — her eyes and her senses taking the West as she had already taken it in spirit.

  A woman should love her home wherever fate placed her, Helen believed, and not so much from duty as from delight and romance and living. How could life ever be tedious or monotonous out here in this tremendous vastness of bare earth and open sky, where the need to achieve made thinking and pondering superficial?

  It was with regret that she saw the last of the valley of the Rio Grande, and then of its paralleled mountain ranges. But the miles brought compensation in other valleys, other bold, black upheavals of rock, and then again bare, boundless yellow plains, and sparsely cedared ridges, and white dry washes, ghastly in the sunlight, and dazzling beds of alkali, and then a desert space where golden and blue flowers bloomed.

  She noted, too, that the whites and yellows of earth and rock had begun to shade to red — and this she knew meant an approach to Arizona. Arizona, the wild, the lonely, the red desert, the green plateau — Arizona with its thundering rivers, its unknown spaces, its pasture-lands and timber-lands, its wild horses, cowboys, outlaws, wolves and lions and savages! As to a boy, that name stirred and thrilled and sang to her of nameless, sweet, intangible things, mysterious and all of adventure. But she, being a girl of twenty, who had accepted responsibilities, must conceal the depths of her heart and that which her mother had complained was her misfortune in not being born a boy.

  Time passed, while Helen watched and learned and dreamed. The train stopped, at long intervals, at wayside stations where there seemed nothing but adobe sheds and lazy Mexicans, and dust and heat. Bo awoke and began to chatter, and to dig into the basket. She learned from the conductor that Magdalena was only two stations on. And she was full of conjectures as to who would meet them, what would happen. So Helen was drawn back to sober realities, in which there was considerable zest. Assuredly she did not know what was going to happen. Twice Riggs passed up and down the aisle, his dark face and light eyes and sardonic smile deliberately forced upon her sight. But again Helen fought a growing dread with contemptuous scorn. This fellow was not half a man. It was not conceivable what he could do, except annoy her, until she arrived at Pine. Her uncle was to meet her or send for her at Snowdrop, which place, Helen knew, was distant a good long ride by stage from Magdalena. This stage-ride was the climax and the dread of all the long journey, in Helen’s considerations.

  “Oh, Nell!” cried Bo, with delight. “We’re nearly there! Next station, the conductor said.”

  “I wonder if the stage travels at night,” said Helen, thoughtfully.

  “Sure it does!” replied the irrepressible Bo.

  The train, though it clattered along as usual, seemed to Helen to fly. There the sun was setting over bleak New Mexican bluffs, Magdalena was at hand, and night, and adventure. Helen’s heart beat fast. She watched the yellow plains where the cattle grazed; their presence, and irrigation ditches and cottonwood-trees told her that the railroad part of the journey was nearly ended. Then, at Bo’s little scream, she looked across the car and out of the window to see a line of low, flat, red-adobe houses. The train began to slow down. Helen saw children run, white children and Mexican together; then more houses, and high upon a hill an immense adobe church, crude and glaring, yet somehow beautiful.

  Helen told Bo to put on her bonnet, and, performing a like office for herself, she was ashamed of the trembling of her fingers. There were bustle and talk in the car.

  The train stopped. Helen peered out to see a straggling crowd of Mexicans and Indians, all motionless and stolid, as if trains or nothing else mattered. Next Helen saw a white man, and that was a relief. He stood out in front of the others. Tall and broad, somehow striking, he drew a second glance that showed him to be a hunter clad in gray-fringed buckskin, and carrying a rifle.

  CHAPTER V

  HERE, THERE WAS no kindly brakeman to help the sisters with their luggage. Helen bade Bo take her share; thus burdened, they made an awkward and laborious shift to get off the train.

  Upon the platform of the car a strong hand seized Helen’s heavy bag, with which she was straining, and a loud voice called out:

  “Girls, we’re here — sure out in the wild an’ woolly West!”

  The speaker was Riggs, and he had possessed himself of part of her baggage with action and speech meant more to impress the curious crowd than to be really kind. In the excitement of arriving Helen had forgotten him. The manner of sudden reminder — the insincerity of it — made her temper flash. She almost fell, encumbered as she was, in her hurry to descend the steps. She saw the tall hunter in gray step forward close to her as she reached for the bag Riggs held.

  “Mr. Riggs, I’ll carry my bag,” she said.

  “Let me lug this. You help Bo with hers,” he replied, familiarly.

  “But I want it,” she rejoined, quietly, with sharp determination. No little force was needed to pull the bag away from Riggs.

  “See here, Helen, you ain’t goin’ any farther with that joke, are you?” he queried, deprecatingly, and he still spoke quite loud.

  “It’s no joke to me,” replied Helen. “I told you I didn’t want your attention.”

  “Sure. But that was temper. I’m your friend — from your home town. An’ I ain’t goin’ to let a quarrel keep me from lookin’ after you till you’re safe at your uncle’s.”

  Helen turned her back upon him. The tall hunter had just helped Bo off the car. Then Helen looked up into a smooth bronzed face and piercing gray eyes.

  “Are you Helen Rayner?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “My name’s Dale. I’ve come to meet you.”

  “Ah! My uncle sent you?” added Helen, in quick relief.

  “No; I can’t say Al sent me,” began the man, “but I reckon—”

  He was interrupted by Riggs, who, grasping Helen by the arm, pulled her back a step.

  “Say, mister, did Auchincloss send you to meet my young friends here?” he demanded, arrogantly.

  Dale’s glance turned from Helen to Riggs. She could not read this quiet gray gaze, but it thrilled her.

  “No. I come on my own hook,” he answered.

  “You’ll understand, then — they’re in my charge,” added Riggs.

  This time the steady light-gray eyes met Helen’s, and if there was not a smile in them or behind them she was still further baffled.

  “Helen, I reckon you said you didn’t want this fellow’s attention.”

  “I certainly said that,” replied Helen, quickly. Just then Bo slipped close to her and gave her arm a little squeeze. Probably Bo’s thought was like hers — here was a real Western man. That was her first impression, and following swiftly upon it was a sensation of eased nerves.

  Riggs swaggered closer to Dale.

  “Say, Buckskin, I hail from Texas—”

  “You’re wastin’ our time an’ we’ve need to hurry,” interrupted Dale. His tone seemed friendly. “An’ if you ever lived long in Texas you wouldn’t pester a lady an’ you sure wouldn’t talk like you do.”

  “What!” shouted Riggs, hotly. He dropped his right hand significantly to his hip.

  “Don’t throw your gun. It might go off,” said Dale.

  Whatever Riggs’s intention had been — and it was probably just what Dale evidently had read it — he now flushed an angry red and jerked at his gun.

  Dale’s hand flashed too swiftly for Helen’s eye to follow it. But she heard the thud as it struck. The gun went flying to the platform and scattered a group of Indians and Mexicans.

  “You’ll hurt yourself some day,” said Dale.

  Helen had never heard a slow, cool voice like this hunter’s. Without excitement or emotion or hurry, it yet seemed full and significant of things the words did not mean. Bo uttered a strange little exultant cry.

  Riggs’s arm had dropped limp. No doubt it was numb. He stared, and his predominating expression was surprise. As the shuffling crowd began to snicker and whisper, Riggs gave Dale a malignant glance, shifted it to Helen, and then lurched away in the direction of his gun.

  Dale did not pay any more attention to him. Gathering up Helen’s baggage, he said, “Come on,” and shouldered a lane through the gaping crowd. The girls followed close at his heels.

  “Nell! what ‘d I tell you?” whispered Bo. “Oh, you’re all atremble!”

  Helen was aware of her unsteadiness; anger and fear and relief in quick succession had left her rather weak. Once through the motley crowd of loungers, she saw an old gray stage-coach and four lean horses. A grizzled, sunburned man sat on the driver’s seat, whip and reins in hand. Beside him was a younger man with rifle across his knees. Another man, young, tall, lean, dark, stood holding the coach door open. He touched his sombrero to the girls. His eyes were sharp as he addressed Dale.

  “Milt, wasn’t you held up?”

  “No. But some long-haired galoot was tryin’ to hold up the girls. Wanted to throw his gun on me. I was sure scared,” replied Dale, as he deposited the luggage.

  Bo laughed. Her eyes, resting upon Dale, were warm and bright. The young man at the coach door took a second look at her, and then a smile changed the dark hardness of his face.

  Dale helped the girls up the high step into the stage, and then, placing the lighter luggage, in with them, he threw the heavier pieces on top.

  “Joe, climb up,” he said.

  “Wal, Milt,” drawled the driver, “let’s ooze along.”

  Dale hesitated, with his hand on the door. He glanced at the crowd, now edging close again, and then at Helen.

  “I reckon I ought to tell you,” he said, and indecision appeared to concern him.

  “What?” exclaimed Helen.

  “Bad news. But talkin’ takes time. An’ we mustn’t lose any.”

  “There’s need of hurry?” queried Helen, sitting up sharply.

  “I reckon.”

  “Is this the stage to Snowdrop?

  “No. That leaves in the mornin’. We rustled this old trap to get a start to-night.”

  “The sooner the better. But I — I don’t understand,” said Helen, bewildered.

  “It’ll not be safe for you to ride on the mornin’ stage,” returned Dale.

  “Safe! Oh, what do you mean?” exclaimed Helen. Apprehensively she gazed at him and then back at Bo.

  “Explainin’ will take time. An’ facts may change your mind. But if you can’t trust me—”

  “Trust you!” interposed Helen, blankly. “You mean to take us to Snowdrop?”

  “I reckon we’d better go roundabout an’ not hit Snowdrop,” he replied, shortly.

  “Then to Pine — to my uncle — Al Auchincloss?

  “Yes, I’m goin’ to try hard.”

  Helen caught her breath. She divined that some peril menaced her. She looked steadily, with all a woman’s keenness, into this man’s face. The moment was one of the fateful decisions she knew the West had in store for her. Her future and that of Bo’s were now to be dependent upon her judgments. It was a hard moment and, though she shivered inwardly, she welcomed the initial and inevitable step. This man Dale, by his dress of buckskin, must be either scout or hunter. His size, his action, the tone of his voice had been reassuring. But Helen must decide from what she saw in his face whether or not to trust him. And that face was clear bronze, unlined, unshadowed, like a tranquil mask, clean-cut, strong-jawed, with eyes of wonderful transparent gray.

  “Yes, I’ll trust you,” she said. “Get in, and let us hurry. Then you can explain.”

  “All ready, Bill. Send ’em along,” called Dale.

  He had to stoop to enter the stage, and, once in, he appeared to fill that side upon which he sat. Then the driver cracked his whip; the stage lurched and began to roll; the motley crowd was left behind. Helen awakened to the reality, as she saw Bo staring with big eyes at the hunter, that a stranger adventure than she had ever dreamed of had began with the rattling roll of that old stage-coach.

  Dale laid off his sombrero and leaned forward, holding his rifle between his knees. The light shone better upon his features now that he was bareheaded. Helen had never seen a face like that, which at first glance appeared darkly bronzed and hard, and then became clear, cold, aloof, still, intense. She wished she might see a smile upon it. And now that the die was cast she could not tell why she had trusted it. There was singular force in it, but she did not recognize what kind of force. One instant she thought it was stern, and the next that it was sweet, and again that it was neither.

  “I’m glad you’ve got your sister,” he said, presently.

  “How did you know she’s my sister?”

  “I reckon she looks like you.”

  “No one else ever thought so,” replied Helen, trying to smile.

  Bo had no difficulty in smiling, as she said, “Wish I was half as pretty as Nell.”

  “Nell. Isn’t your name Helen?” queried Dale.

  “Yes. But my — some few call me Nell.”

  “I like Nell better than Helen. An’ what’s yours?” went on Dale, looking at Bo.

  “Mine’s Bo. Just plain B-o. Isn’t it silly? But I wasn’t asked when they gave it to me,” she replied.

  “Bo. It’s nice an’ short. Never heard it before. But I haven’t met many people for years.”

  “Oh! we’ve left the town!” cried Bo. “Look, Nell! How bare! It’s just like desert.”

  “It is desert. We’ve forty miles of that before we come to a hill or a tree.”

  Helen glanced out. A flat, dull-green expanse waved away from the road on and on to a bright, dark horizon-line, where the sun was setting rayless in a clear sky. Open, desolate, and lonely, the scene gave her a cold thrill.

  “Did your uncle Al ever write anythin’ about a man named Beasley?” asked Dale.

  “Indeed he did,” replied Helen, with a start of surprise. “Beasley! That name is familiar to us — and detestable. My uncle complained of this man for years. Then he grew bitter — accused Beasley. But the last year or so not a word!”

  “Well, now,” began the hunter, earnestly, “let’s get the bad news over. I’m sorry you must be worried. But you must learn to take the West as it is. There’s good an’ bad, maybe more bad. That’s because the country’s young.... So to come right out with it — this Beasley hired a gang of outlaws to meet the stage you was goin’ in to Snowdrop — to-morrow — an’ to make off with you.”

  “Make off with me?” ejaculated Helen, bewildered.

  “Kidnap you! Which, in that gang, would be worse than killing you!” declared Dale, grimly, and he closed a huge fist on his knee.

  Helen was utterly astounded.

  “How hor-rible!” she gasped out. “Make off with me!... What in Heaven’s name for?”

  Bo gave vent to a fierce little utterance.

  “For reasons you ought to guess,” replied Dale, and he leaned forward again. Neither his voice nor face changed in the least, but yet there was a something about him that fascinated Helen. “I’m a hunter. I live in the woods. A few nights ago I happened to be caught out in a storm an’ I took to an old log cabin. Soon as I got there I heard horses. I hid up in the loft. Some men rode up an’ come in. It was dark. They couldn’t see me. An’ they talked. It turned out they were Snake Anson an’ his gang of sheep-thieves. They expected to meet Beasley there. Pretty soon he came. He told Anson how old Al, your uncle, was on his last legs — how he had sent for you to have his property when he died. Beasley swore he had claims on Al. An’ he made a deal with Anson to get you out of the way. He named the day you were to reach Magdalena. With Al dead an’ you not there, Beasley could get the property. An’ then he wouldn’t care if you did come to claim it. It ‘d be too late.... Well, they rode away that night. An’ next day I rustled down to Pine. They’re all my friends at Pine, except old Al. But they think I’m queer. I didn’t want to confide in many people. Beasley is strong in Pine, an’ for that matter I suspect Snake Anson has other friends there besides Beasley. So I went to see your uncle. He never had any use for me because he thought I was lazy like an Indian. Old Al hates lazy men. Then we fell out — or he fell out — because he believed a tame lion of mine had killed some of his sheep. An’ now I reckon that Tom might have done it. I tried to lead up to this deal of Beasley’s about you, but old Al wouldn’t listen. He’s cross — very cross. An’ when I tried to tell him, why, he went right out of his head. Sent me off the ranch. Now I reckon you begin to see what a pickle I was in. Finally I went to four friends I could trust. They’re Mormon boys — brothers. That’s Joe out on top, with the driver. I told them all about Beasley’s deal an’ asked them to help me. So we planned to beat Anson an’ his gang to Magdalena. It happens that Beasley is as strong in Magdalena as he is in Pine. An’ we had to go careful. But the boys had a couple of friends here — Mormons, too, who agreed to help us. They had this old stage.... An’ here you are.” Dale spread out his big hands and looked gravely at Helen and then at Bo.