“Cheer up, Las Vegas,” said Helen, smiling. “Bo's hot-tempered.”
“Miss Nell, I'm just like a dog. The meaner she treats me the more I love her,” he replied, dejectedly.
To Helen's first instinct of liking for this cowboy there had been added admiration, respect, and a growing appreciation of strong, faithful, developing character. Carmichael's face and hands were red and chapped from winter winds; the leather of wrist-bands, belt, and boots was all worn shiny and thin; little streaks of dust fell from him as he breathed heavily. He no longer looked the dashing cowboy, ready for a dance or lark or fight.
“How in the world did you offend her so?” asked Helen. “Bo is furious. I never saw her so angry as that.”
“Miss Nell, it was jest this way,” began Carmichael. “Shore Bo's knowed I was in love with her. I asked her to marry me an' she wouldn't say yes or no.... An', mean as it sounds—she never run away from it, thet's shore. We've had some quarrels—two of them bad, an' this last's the worst.”
“Bo told me about one quarrel,” said Helen. “It was—because you drank—that time.”
“Shore it was. She took one of her cold spells an' I jest got drunk.”
“But that was wrong,” protested Helen.
“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, I promised 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?”