“It's no fault of yours that I'm not crippled—or dead or worse,” retorted Bo. “You said the south range was the only safe ride for me. And there—I—it happened.”
She panted a little and her bosom heaved. One of her gauntlets was gone, and the bare band, that was bruised and bloody, trembled as she held it out.
“Dear, tell us—are you badly hurt?” queried Helen, with hurried gentleness.
“Not much. I've had a spill,” replied Bo. “But oh! I'm mad—I'm boiling!”
She looked as if she might have exaggerated her doubt of injuries, but certainly she had not overestimated her state of mind. Any blaze Helen had heretofore seen in those quick eyes was tame compared to this one. It actually leaped. Bo was more than pretty then. Manifestly Roy was admiring her looks, but Carmichael saw beyond her charm. And slowly he was growing pale.
“I rode out the south range—as I was told,” began Bo, breathing hard and trying to control her feelings. “That's the ride you usually take, Nell, and you bet—if you'd taken it to-day—you'd not be here now.... About three miles out I climbed off the range up that cedar slope. I always keep to high ground. When I got up I saw two horsemen ride out of some broken rocks off to the east. They rode as if to come between me and home. I didn't like that. I circled south. About a mile farther on I spied another horseman and he showed up directly in front of me and came along slow. That I liked still less. It might have been accident, but it looked to me as if those riders had some intent. All I could do was head off to the southeast and ride. You bet I did ride. But I got into rough ground where I'd never been before. It was slow going. At last I made the cedars and here I cut loose, believing I could circle ahead of those strange riders and come round through Pine. I had it wrong.”
Here she hesitated, perhaps for breath, for she had spoken rapidly, or perhaps to get better hold on her subject. Not improbably the effect she was creating on her listeners began to be significant. Roy sat absorbed, perfectly motionless, eyes keen as steel, his mouth open. Carmichael was gazing over Bo's head, out of the window, and it seemed that he must know the rest of her narrative. Helen knew that her own wide-eyed attention alone would have been all-compelling inspiration to Bo Rayner.
“Sure I had it wrong,” resumed Bo. “Pretty soon heard a horse behind. I looked back. I saw a big bay riding down on me. Oh, but he was running! He just tore through the cedars. ... I was scared half out of my senses. But I spurred and beat my mustang. Then began a race! Rough going—thick cedars—washes and gullies I had to make him run—to keep my saddle—to pick my way. Oh-h-h! but it was glorious! To race for fun—that's one thing; to race for your life is another! My heart was in my mouth—choking me. I couldn't have yelled. I was as cold as ice—dizzy sometimes—blind others—then my stomach turned—and I couldn't get my breath. Yet the wild thrills I had!... But I stuck on and held my own for several miles—to the edge of the cedars. There the big horse gained on me. He came pounding closer—perhaps as close as a hundred yards—I could hear him plain enough. Then I had my spill. Oh, my mustang tripped—threw me 'way over his head. I hit light, but slid far—and that's what scraped me so. I know my knee is raw.... When I got to my feet the big horse dashed up, throwing gravel all over me—and his rider jumped off.... Now who do you think he was?”
Helen knew, but she did not voice her conviction. Carmichael knew positively, yet he kept silent. Roy was smiling, as if the narrative told did not seem so alarming to him.
“Wal, the fact of you bein' here, safe an' sound, sorta makes no difference who thet son-of-a-gun was,” he said.