Pine, ostensibly on the trail of the
Mexicans who had executed Beasley's commands. The last seen of him
had been reported from Show Down, where he had appeared red-eyed and
dangerous, like a hound on a scent. Then two months had flown by without
a word.

Dale had shaken his head doubtfully when interrogated about the cowboy's
absence. It would be just like Las Vegas never to be heard of again.
Also it would be more like him to remain away until all trace of his
drunken, savage spell had departed from him and had been forgotten by
his friends. Bo took his disappearance apparently less to heart than
Helen. But Bo grew more restless, wilder, and more wilful than ever.
Helen thought she guessed Bo's secret; and once she ventured a hint
concerning Carmichael's return.

"If Tom doesn't come back pretty soon I'll marry Milt Dale," retorted
Bo, tauntingly.

This fired Helen's cheeks with red.

"But, child," she protested, half angry, half grave. "Milt and I are
engaged."

"Sure. Only you're so slow. There's many a slip--you know."

"Bo, I tell you Tom will come back," replied Helen, earnestly. "I feel
it. There was something fine in that cowboy. He understood me better
than you or Milt, either.... And he was perfectly wild in love with
you."

"Oh! WAS he?"

"Very much more than you deserved, Bo Rayner."

Then occurred one of Bo's sweet, bewildering, unexpected
transformations. Her defiance, resentment, rebelliousness, vanished from
a softly agitated face.

"Oh, Nell, I know that.... You just watch me if I ever get another
chance at him!... Then--maybe he'd never drink again!"

"Bo, be happy--and be good. Don't ride off any more--don't tease the
boys. It'll all come right in the end."

Bo recovered her equanimity quickly enough.

"Humph! You can afford to be cheerful. You've got a man who can't live
when you're out of his sight. He's like a fish on dry land.... And
you--why, once you were an old pessimist!"

Bo was not to be consoled or changed. Helen could only sigh and pray
that her convictions would be verified.

The first day of July brought an early thunder-storm, just at sunrise.
It roared and flared and rolled away, leaving a gorgeous golden cloud
pageant in the sky and a fresh, sweetly smelling, glistening green range
that delighted Helen's eye.

Birds were twittering in the arbors and bees were humming in the
flowers. From the fields down along the brook came a blended song of
swamp-blackbird a