Auchincloss's tone, passing from jest to earnest, betrayed to Helen the old rancher's need of new and true men, and hinted of trying days to come. Carmichael stood before Bo, sombrero in hand, rolling it round and round, manifestly bursting with words he could not speak. And the girl looked very young and sweet with her flushed face and shining eyes. Helen saw in the moment more than that little by-play of confusion. “Miss--Miss Rayner--I shore--am obliged,” he stammered, presently. “You're very welcome,” she replied, softly. “I--I got on the next train,” he added. When he said that Bo was looking straight at him, but she seemed not to have heard. “What's your name?” suddenly she asked. “Carmichael.” “I heard that. But didn't uncle call you Las Vegas?” “Shore. But it wasn't my fault. Thet cow-punchin' outfit saddled it on me, right off. They Don't know no better. Shore I jest won't answer to thet handle.... Now--Miss Bo--my real name is Tom.” “I simply could not call you--any name but Las Vegas,” replied Bo, very sweetly. “But--beggin' your pardon--I--I don't like thet,” blustered Carmichael. “People often get called names--they don't like,” she said, with deep intent. The cowboy blushed scarlet. Helen as well as he got Bo's inference to that last audacious epithet he had boldly called out as the train was leaving Las Vegas. She also sensed something of the disaster in store for Mr. Carmichael. Just then the embarrassed young man was saved by Dale's call to the girls to come to breakfast. That meal, the last for Helen in Paradise Park, gave rise to a strange and inexplicable restraint. She had little to say. Bo was in the highest spirits, teasing the pets, joking with her uncle and Roy, and even poking fun at Dale. The hunter seemed somewhat somber. Roy was his usual dry, genial self. And Auchincloss, who sat near by, was an interested spectator. When Tom put in an appearance, lounging with his feline grace into the camp, as if he knew he was a privileged pet, the rancher could scarcely contain himself. “Dale, it's thet damn cougar!” he ejaculated. “Sure, that's Tom.” “He ought to be corralled or chained. I've no use for cougars,” protested Al. “Tom is as tame an' safe as a kitten.” “A-huh! Wal, you tell thet to the girls if you like. But not me! I'm an old hoss, I am.” “Uncle Al, Tom sleeps curled up at the foot of my bed,” said Bo. “Aw--what?” “Honest Injun,” she responded. “Well, isn't it so?” Helen smilingly nodded her corroboration. Then Bo called Tom to her and made him lie with his head on his stretched paws, right beside her, and beg for bits to eat. “Wal! I'd never have believed thet!” exclaimed Al, shaking his big head. “Dale, it's one on me. I've had them big cats foller me on the trails, through the woods, moonlight an' dark. An' I've heard 'em let out thet awful cry. They ain't any wild sound on earth thet can beat a cougar's. Does this Tom ever let out one of them wails?”