Helen heard the light, swift, rhythmic beat of hoofs, and then out on the curve of the road that led down to Pine she saw Bo's mustang, white with lather, coming on a dead run.
“Las Vegas, do you see any Apaches?” asked Roy, quizzingly.
The cowboy made no reply, but he strode out from the porch, directly in front of the mustang. Bo was pulling hard on the bridle, and had him slowing down, but not controlled. When he reached the house it could easily be seen that Bo had pulled him to the limit of her strength, which was not enough to halt him. Carmichael lunged for the bridle and, seizing it, hauled him to a standstill.
At close sight of Bo Helen uttered a startled cry. Bo was white; her sombrero was gone and her hair undone; there were blood and dirt on her face, and her riding-suit was torn and muddy. She had evidently sustained a fall. Roy gazed at her in admiring consternation, but Carmichael never looked at her at all. Apparently he was examining the horse. “Well, help me off—somebody,” cried Bo, peremptorily. Her voice was weak, but not her spirit.
Roy sprang to help her off, and when she was down it developed that she was lame.
“Oh, Bo! You've had a tumble,” exclaimed Helen, anxiously, and she ran to assist Roy. They led her up the porch and to the door. There she turned to look at Carmichael, who was still examining the spent mustang.
“Tell him—to come in,” she whispered.
“Hey, there, Las Vegas!” called Roy. “Rustle hyar, will you?”
When Bo had been led into the sitting-room and seated in a chair Carmichael entered. His face was a study, as slowly he walked up to Bo.
“Girl, you—ain't hurt?” he asked, huskily.