“Oh, you must be tired! How—how are you?” asked Helen, anxiously.
“Tired! Wal, if I am it's jest this here minit. When Joe Beeman rode in on me with thet news of you—wal, I jest fergot I was a worn-out old hoss. Haven't felt so good in years. Mebbe two such young an' pretty nieces will make a new man of me.”
“Uncle Al, you look strong and well to me,” said Bo. “And young, too, and—”
“Haw! Haw! Thet 'll do,” interrupted Al. “I see through you. What you'll do to Uncle Al will be aplenty.... Yes, girls, I'm feelin' fine. But strange—strange! Mebbe thet's my joy at seein' you safe—safe when I feared so thet damned greaser Beasley—”
In Helen's grave gaze his face changed swiftly—and all the serried years of toil and battle and privation showed, with something that was not age, nor resignation, yet as tragic as both.
“Wal, never mind him—now,” he added, slowly, and the warmer light returned to his face. “Dale—come here.”
The hunter stepped closer.
“I reckon I owe you more 'n I can ever pay,” said Auchincloss, with an arm around each niece.
“No, Al, you don't owe me anythin',” returned Dale, thoughtfully, as he looked away.
“A-huh!” grunted Al. “You hear him, girls.... Now listen, you wild hunter. An' you girls listen.... Milt, I never thought you much good, 'cept for the wilds. But I reckon I'll have to swallow thet. I do. Comin' to me as you did—an' after bein' druv off—keepin' your council an' savin' my girls from thet hold-up, wal, it's the biggest deal any man ever did for me.... An' I'm ashamed of my hard feelin's, an' here's my hand.”