Bo uttered a wild word that had more force than elegance, but it became her passionate resentment of this outrage done her sister. “Oh!... Does Tom Carmichael know this?” she added, breathlessly. “How could he?” “When he finds out, then--Oh, won't there be hell? I'm glad I got here first.... Nell, my boots haven't been off the whole blessed time. Help me. And oh, for some soap and hot water and some clean clothes! Nell, old girl, I wasn't raised right for these Western deals. Too luxurious!” And then Helen had her ears filled with a rapid-fire account of running horses and Riggs and outlaws and Beasley called boldly to his teeth, and a long ride and an outlaw who was a hero--a fight with Riggs--blood and death--another long ride--a wild camp in black woods--night--lonely, ghostly sounds--and day again--plot--a great actress lost to the world--Ophelia--Snakes and Ansons--hoodooed outlaws--mournful moans and terrible cries--cougar--stampede--fight and shots, more blood and death--Wilson hero--another Tom Carmichael--fallen in love with outlaw gun-fighter if--black night and Dale and horse and rides and starved and, “Oh, Nell, he WAS from Texas!” Helen gathered that wonderful and dreadful events had hung over the bright head of this beloved little sister, but the bewilderment occasioned by Bo's fluent and remarkable utterance left only that last sentence clear. Presently Helen got a word in to inform Bo that Mrs. Cass had knocked twice for supper, and that welcome news checked Bo's flow of speech when nothing else seemed adequate. It was obvious to Helen that Roy and Dale had exchanged stories. Roy celebrated this reunion by sitting at table the first time since he had been shot; and despite Helen's misfortune and the suspended waiting balance in the air the occasion was joyous. Old Mrs. Cass was in the height of her glory. She sensed a romance here, and, true to her sex, she radiated to it. Daylight was still lingering when Roy got up and went out on the porch. His keen ears had heard something. Helen fancied she herself had heard rapid hoof-beats. “Dale, come out!” called Roy, sharply. The hunter moved with his swift, noiseless agility. Helen and Bo followed, halting in the door. “Thet's Las Vegas,” whispered Dale. To Helen it seemed that the cowboy's name changed the very atmosphere. Voices were heard at the gate; one that, harsh and quick, sounded like Carmichael's. And a spirited horse was pounding and scattering gravel. Then a lithe figure appeared, striding up the path. It was Carmichael--yet not the Carmichael Helen knew. She heard Bo's strange little cry, a corroboration of her own impression. Roy might never have been shot, judging from the way he stepped out, and Dale was almost as quick. Carmichael reached them--grasped them with swift, hard hands. “Boys--I jest rode in. An' they said you'd found her!” “Shore, Las Vegas. Dale fetched her home safe an' sound.... There she is.”