Yesterday Helen might have hesitated at that question. But to-day Carmichael brought some proven quality of loyalty, some strange depth of rugged sincerity, as if she had learned his future worth.
“Yes, I am,” Helen replied, earnestly. And she offered her hand.
“Wal, then it 'll shore turn out happy,” he said, squeezing her hand. His smile was grateful, but there was nothing in it of the victory he hinted at. Some of his ruddy color had gone. “An' now I want to tell you why I come.”
He had lowered his voice. “Is Al asleep?” he whispered.
“Yes,” replied Helen. “He was a little while ago.”
“Reckon I'd better shut his door.”
Helen watched the cowboy glide across the room and carefully close the door, then return to her with intent eyes. She sensed events in his look, and she divined suddenly that he must feel as if he were her brother.
“Shore I'm the one thet fetches all the bad news to you,” he said, regretfully.
Helen caught her breath. There had indeed been many little calamities to mar her management of the ranch—loss of cattle, horses, sheep—the desertion of herders to Beasley—failure of freighters to arrive when most needed—fights among the cowboys—and disagreements over long-arranged deals.
“Your uncle Al makes a heap of this here Jeff Mulvey,” asserted Carmichael.