“Wal, I just run in to say howdy an' to inquire after you-all,” said Carmichael. “I'm goin' to the dance, an' as Flo lives out of town a ways I'd shore better rustle.... Good night, Miss Bo; I hope you'll be ridin' Sam soon. An' good night, Miss Helen.” Bo roused to a very friendly and laconic little speech, much overdone. Carmichael strode out, and Helen, bidding him good-by, closed the door after him. The instant he had departed Bo's transformation was tragic. “Flo! He meant Flo Stubbs--that ugly, cross-eyed, bold, little frump!” “Bo!” expostulated Helen. “The young lady is not beautiful, I grant, but she's very nice and pleasant. I liked her.” “Nell Rayner, men are no good! And cowboys are the worst!” declared Bo, terribly. “Why didn't you appreciate Tom when you had him?” asked Helen. Bo had been growing furious, but now the allusion, in past tense, to the conquest she had suddenly and amazingly found dear quite broke her spirit. It was a very pale, unsteady, and miserable girl who avoided Helen's gaze and left the room. Next day Bo was not approachable from any direction. Helen found her a victim to a multiplicity of moods, ranging from woe to dire, dark broodings, from them to' wistfulness, and at last to a pride that sustained her. Late in the afternoon, at Helen's leisure hour, when she and Bo were in the sitting-room, horses tramped into the court and footsteps mounted the porch. Opening to a loud knock, Helen was surprised to see Beasley. And out in the court were several mounted horsemen. Helen's heart sank. This visit, indeed, had been foreshadowed. “Afternoon, Miss Rayner,” said Beasley, doffing his sombrero. “I've called on a little business deal. Will you see me?” Helen acknowledged his greeting while she thought rapidly. She might just as well see him and have that inevitable interview done with. “Come in,” she said, and when he had entered she closed the door. “My sister, Mr. Beasley.” “How d' you do, Miss?” said the rancher, in bluff, loud voice. Bo acknowledged the introduction with a frigid little bow. At close range Beasley seemed a forceful personality as well as a rather handsome man of perhaps thirty-five, heavy of build, swarthy of skin, and sloe-black of eye, like that of the Mexicans whose blood was reported to be in him. He looked crafty, confident, and self-centered. If Helen had never heard of him before that visit she would have distrusted him. “I'd called sooner, but I was waitin' for old Jose, the Mexican who herded for me when I was pardner to your uncle,” said Beasley, and he sat down to put his huge gloved hands on his knees. “Yes?” queried Helen, interrogatively.