Leo Tolstoy - "A Letter to a Hindu"

J. D. Hooker - "Himalayan Journals V2."

James Elroy Flecker - "Hassan: The Story of Hassan of Baghdad and How He Came to"

Margaret Sidney - "The Adventures of Joel Pepper"

New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: The Man of the Forest

Z >> Zane Grey >> The Man of the Forest




"How?" queried Helen, eagerly.

Carmichael lunged himself erect and stood gazing down at
her. He seemed completely detached now from that frank,
amiable cowboy of her first impressions. The redness was
totally gone from his face. Something strange and cold and
sure looked out of his eyes.

"I seen Beasley go in the saloon as I rode past. Suppose I
go down there, pick a quarrel with him -- an' kill him?"

Helen sat bolt-upright with a cold shock.

"Carmichael! you're not serious?" she exclaimed.

"Serious? I shore am. Thet's the only way, Miss Nell. An' I
reckon it's what Al would want. An' between you an' me -- it
would be easier than ropin' a calf. These fellars round Pine
don't savvy guns. Now, I come from where guns mean
somethin'. An' when I tell you I can throw a gun slick an'
fast, why I shore ain't braggin'. You needn't worry none
about me, Miss Nell."

Helen grasped that he had taken the signs of her shocked
sensibility to mean she feared for his life. But what had
sickened her was the mere idea of bloodshed in her behalf.

"You'd -- kill Beasley -- just because there are rumors of
his -- treachery?" gasped Helen.

"Shore. It'll have to be done, anyhow," replied the cowboy.

"No! No! It's too dreadful to think of. Why, that would be
murder. I -- I can't understand how you speak of it -- so --
so calmly."

"Reckon I ain't doin' it calmly. I'm as mad as hell," said
Carmichael, with a reckless smile.

"Oh, if you are serious then, I say no -- no -- no! I forbid
you. I don't believe I'll be robbed of my property."

"Wal, supposin' Beasley does put you off -- an' takes
possession. What 're you goin' to say then?" demanded the
cowboy, in slow, cool deliberation.

"I'd say the same then as now," she replied.

He bent his head thoughtfully while his red hands smoothed
his sombrero.

"Shore you girls haven't been West very long," be muttered,
as if apologizing for them. "An' I reckon it takes time to
learn the ways of a country."

"West or no West, I won't have fights deliberately picked,
and men shot, even if they do threaten me," declared Helen,
positively.

"All right, Miss Nell, shore I respect your wishes," he
returned. "But I'll tell you this. If Beasley turns you an'
Bo out of your home -- wal, I'll look him up on my own
account."

Helen could only gaze at him as he backed to the door, and
she thrilled and shuddered at what seemed his loyalty to
her, his love for Bo, and that which was inevitable in
himself.

"Reckon you might save us all some trouble -- now if you'd
-- just get mad -- an' let me go after thet greaser."

"Greaser! Do you mean Beasley?"

"Shore. He's a half-breed. He was born in Magdalena, where I
heard folks say nary one of his parents was no good."

"That doesn't matter. I'm thinking of humanity of law and
order. Of what is right."

"Wal, Miss Nell, I'll wait till you get real mad -- or till
Beasley --"

"But, my friend, I'll not get mad," interrupted Helen. "I'll
keep my temper."

"I'll bet you don't," he retorted. "Mebbe you think you've
none of Bo in you. But I'll bet you could get so mad -- once
you started -- thet you'd be turrible. What 've you got them
eyes for, Miss Nell, if you ain't an Auchincloss ?"

He was smiling, yet he meant every word. Helen felt the
truth as something she feared.

"Las Vegas, I won't bet. But you -- you will always come to
me -- first -- if there's trouble."

"I promise," he replied, soberly, and then went out.

Helen found that she was trembling, and that there was a
commotion in her breast. Carmichael had frightened her. No
longer did she hold doubt of the gravity of the situation.
She had seen Beasley often, several times close at hand, and
once she had been forced to meet him. That time had
convinced her that he had evinced personal interest in her.
And on this account, coupled with the fact that Riggs
appeared to have nothing else to do but shadow her, she had
been slow in developing her intention of organizing and
teaching a school for the children of Pine. Riggs had become
rather a doubtful celebrity in the settlements. Yet his
bold, apparent badness had made its impression. From all
reports he spent his time gambling, drinking, and bragging.
It was no longer news in Pine what his intentions were
toward Helen Rayner. Twice he had ridden up to the
ranch-house, upon one occasion securing an interview with
Helen. In spite of her contempt and indifference, he was
actually influencing her life there in Pine. And it began to
appear that the other man, Beasley, might soon direct
stronger significance upon the liberty of her actions.

The responsibility of the ranch had turned out to be a heavy
burden. It could not be managed, at least by her, in the way
Auchincloss wanted it done. He was old, irritable,
irrational, and hard. Almost all the neighbors were set
against him, and naturally did not take kindly to Helen.

She had not found the slightest evidence of unfair dealing
on the part of her uncle, but he had been a hard driver.
Then his shrewd, far-seeing judgment had made all his deals
fortunate for him, which fact had not brought a profit of
friendship.

Of late, since Auchincloss had grown weaker and less
dominating, Helen had taken many decisions upon herself,
with gratifying and hopeful results. But the wonderful
happiness that she had expected to find in the West still
held aloof. The memory of Paradise Park seemed only a dream,
sweeter and more intangible as time passed, and fuller of
vague regrets. Bo was a comfort, but also a very
considerable source of anxiety. She might have been a help
to Helen if she had not assimilated Western ways so swiftly.
Helen wished to decide things in her own way, which was as
yet quite far from Western. So Helen had been thrown more
and more upon her own resources, with the cowboy Carmichael
the only one who had come forward voluntarily to her aid.

For an hour Helen sat alone in the room, looking out of the
window, and facing stern reality with a colder, graver,
keener sense of intimacy than ever before. To hold her
property and to live her life in this community according to
her ideas of honesty, justice, and law might well be beyond
her powers. To-day she had been convinced that she could not
do so without fighting for them, and to fight she must have
friends. That conviction warmed her toward Carmichael, and a
thoughtful consideration of all he had done for her proved
that she had not fully appreciated him. She would make up
for her oversight.

There were no Mormons in her employ, for the good reason
that Auchincloss would not hire them. But in one of his
kindlier hours, growing rare now, he had admitted that the
Mormons were the best and the most sober, faithful workers
on the ranges, and that his sole objection to them was just
this fact of their superiority. Helen decided to hire the
four Beemans and any of their relatives or friends who would
come; and to do this, if possible, without letting her uncle
know. His temper now, as well as his judgment, was a
hindrance to efficiency. This decision regarding the
Beemans; brought Helen back to Carmichael's fervent wish for
Dale, and then to her own.

Soon spring would be at hand, with its multiplicity of range
tasks. Dale had promised to come to Pine then, and Helen
knew that promise would be kept. Her heart beat a little
faster, in spite of her business-centered thoughts. Dale was
there, over the black-sloped, snowy-tipped mountain, shut
away from the world. Helen almost envied him. No wonder he
loved loneliness, solitude, the sweet, wild silence and
beauty of Paradise Park! But he was selfish, and Helen meant
to show him that. She needed his help. When she recalled his
physical prowess with animals, and imagined what it must be
in relation to men, she actually smiled at the thought of
Beasley forcing her off her property, if Dale were there.
Beasley would only force disaster upon himself. Then Helen
experienced a quick shock. Would Dale answer to this
situation as Carmichael had answered? It afforded her relief
to assure herself to the contrary. The cowboy was one of a
blood-letting breed; the hunter was a man of thought,
gentleness, humanity. This situation was one of the kind
that had made him despise the littleness of men. Helen
assured herself that he was different from her uncle and
from the cowboy, in all the relations of life which she had
observed while with him. But a doubt lingered in her mind.
She remembered his calm reference to Snake Anson, and that
caused a recurrence of the little shiver Carmichael had
given her. When the doubt augmented to a possibility that
she might not be able to control Dale, then she tried not to
think of it any more. It confused and perplexed her that
into her mind should flash a thought that, though it would
be dreadful for Carmichael to kill Beasley, for Dale to do
it would be a calamity -- a terrible thing. Helen did not
analyze that strange thought. She was as afraid of it as she
was of the stir in her blood when she visualized Dale.

Her meditation was interrupted by Bo, who entered the room,
rebellious-eyed and very lofty. Her manner changed, which
apparently owed its cause to the, fact that Helen was alone.

"Is that -- cowboy gone?" she asked.

"Yes. He left quite some time ago," replied Helen.

"I wondered if he made your eyes shine -- your color burn
so. Nell, you're just beautiful."

"Is my face burning?" asked Helen, with a little laugh. "So
it is. Well, Bo, you've no cause for jealousy. Las Vegas
can't be blamed for my blushes."

"Jealous! Me? Of that wild-eyed, soft-voiced, two-faced
cow-puncher? I guess not, Nell Rayner. What 'd he say about
me?"

"Bo, he said a lot," replied Helen, reflectively. "I'll tell
you presently. First I want to ask you -- has Carmichael
ever told you how he's helped me?"

"No! When I see him -- which hasn't been often lately -- he
-- I -- Well, we fight. Nell, has he helped you?"

Helen smiled in faint amusement. She was going to be
sincere, but she meant to keep her word to the cowboy. The
fact was that reflection had acquainted her with her
indebtedness to Carmichael.

"Bo, you've been so wild to ride half-broken mustangs -- and
carry on with cowboys -- and read -- and sew -- and keep
your secrets that you've had no time for your sister or her
troubles."

"Nell!" burst out Bo, in amaze and pain. She flew to Helen
and seized her hands. "What 're you saying?"

"It's all true," replied Helen, thrilling and softening.
This sweet sister, once aroused, would be hard to resist.
Helen imagined she should hold to her tone of reproach and
severity.

"Sure it's true," cried Bo, fiercely. "But what's my fooling
got to do with the -- the rest you said? Nell, are you
keeping things from me?"

"My dear, I never get any encouragement to tell you my
troubles."

"But I've -- I've nursed uncle -- sat up with him -- just
the same as you," said Bo, with quivering lips.

"Yes, you've been good to him."

"We've no other troubles, have we, Nell?"

"You haven't, but I have," responded Helen, reproachfully.

"Why -- why didn't you tell me?" cried Bo, passionately.
"What are they? Tell me now. You must think me a -- a
selfish, hateful cat."

"Bo, I've had much to worry me -- and the worst is yet to
come," replied Helen. Then she told Bo how complicated and
bewildering was the management of a big ranch -- when the
owner was ill, testy, defective in memory, and hard as steel
-- when he had hoards of gold and notes, but could not or
would not remember his obligations -- when the neighbor
ranchers had just claims -- when cowboys and sheep-herders
were discontented, and wrangled among themselves -- when
great herds of cattle and flocks of sheep had to be fed in
winter -- when supplies had to be continually freighted
across a muddy desert and lastly, when an enemy rancher was
slowly winning away the best hands with the end in view of
deliberately taking over the property when the owner died.
Then Helen told how she had only that day realized the
extent of Carmichael's advice and help and labor -- how,
indeed, he had been a brother to her -- how --

But at this juncture Bo buried her face in Helen's breast
and began to cry wildly.

"I -- I -- don't want -- to hear -- any more," she sobbed.

"Well, you've got to hear it," replied Helen, inexorably "I
want you to know how he's stood by me."

"But I hate him."

"Bo, I suspect that's not true."

"I do -- I do."

"Well, you act and talk very strangely then."

"Nell Rayner -- are -- you -- you sticking up for that --
that devil?"

"I am, yes, so far as it concerns my conscience," rejoined
Helen, earnestly. "I never appreciated him as he deserved --
not until now. He's a man, Bo, every inch of him. I've seen
him grow up to that in three months. I'd never have gotten
along without him. I think he's fine, manly, big. I --"

"I'll bet -- he's made love -- to you, too," replied Bo,
woefully.

"Talk sense," said Helen, sharply. "He has been a brother to
me. But, Bo Rayner, if he HAD made love to me I -- I might
have appreciated it more than you."

Bo raised her face, flushed in part and also pale, with
tear-wet cheeks and the telltale blaze in the blue eyes.

"I've been wild about that fellow. But I hate him, too," she
said, with flashing spirit. "And I want to go on hating him.
So don't tell me any more."

Whereupon Helen briefly and graphically related how
Carmichael had offered to kill Beasley, as the only way to
save her property, and how, when she refused, that he
threatened he would do it anyhow.

Bo fell over with a gasp and clung to Helen.

"Oh -- Nell! Oh, now I love him more than -- ever," she
cried, in mingled rage and despair.

Helen clasped her closely and tried to comfort her as in the
old days, not so very far back, when troubles were not so
serious as now.

"Of course you love him," she concluded. "I guessed that
long ago. And I'm glad. But you've been wilful -- foolish.
You wouldn't surrender to it. You wanted your fling with the
other boys. You're -- Oh, Bo, I fear you have been a sad
little flirt."

"I -- I wasn't very bad till -- till he got bossy. Why,
Nell, he acted -- right off -- just as if he OWNED me. But
he didn't. . . . And to show him -- I -- I really did flirt
with that Turner fellow. Then he -- he insulted me. . . .
Oh, I hate him!"

"Nonsense, Bo. You can't hate any one while you love him,"
protested Helen.

"Much you know about that," flashed Bo. "You just can! Look
here. Did you ever see a cowboy rope and throw and tie up a
mean horse?"

"Yes, I have."

"Do you have any idea how strong a cowboy is -- how his
hands and arms are like iron?"

"Yes, I'm sure I know that, too."

"And how savage he is?"

"Yes."

"And how he goes at anything he wants to do?"

"I must admit cowboys are abrupt," responded Helen, with a
smile.

"Well, Miss Rayner, did you ever -- when you were standing
quiet like a lady -- did you ever have a cowboy dive at you
with a terrible lunge -- grab you and hold you so you
couldn't move or breathe or scream -- hug you till all your
bones cracked -- and kiss you so fierce and so hard that you
wanted to kill him and die?

Helen had gradually drawn back from this blazing-eyed,
eloquent sister, and when the end of that remarkable
question came it was impossible to reply.

"There! I see you never had that done to you," resumed Bo,
with satisfaction. "So don't ever talk to me."

"I've heard his side of the story," said Helen,
constrainedly.

With a start Bo sat up straighter, as if better to defend
herself.

"Oh! So you have? And I suppose you'll take his part -- even
about that -- that bearish trick."

"No. I think that rude and bold. But, Bo, I don't believe he
meant to be either rude or bold. From what he confessed to
me I gather that he believed he'd lose you outright or win
you outright by that violence. It seems girls can't play at
love out here in this wild West. He said there would be
blood shed over you. I begin to realize what he meant. He's
not sorry for what he did. Think how strange that is. For he
has the instincts of a gentleman. He's kind, gentle,
chivalrous. Evidently he had tried every way to win your
favor except any familiar advance. He did that as a last
resort. In my opinion his motives were to force you to
accept or refuse him, and in case you refused him he'd
always have those forbidden stolen kisses to assuage his
self-respect -- when he thought of Turner or any one else
daring to be familiar with you. Bo, I see through
Carmichael, even if I don't make him clear to you. You've
got to be honest with yourself. Did that act of his win or
lose you? In other words, do you love him or not?"

Bo hid her face.

"Oh, Nell! it made me see how I loved him -- and that made
me so -- so sick I hated him. . . . But now -- the hate is
all gone."



CHAPTER XVII

When spring came at last and the willows drooped green and
fresh over the brook and the range rang with bray of burro
and whistle of stallion, old Al Auchincloss had been a month
in his grave.

To Helen it seemed longer. The month had been crowded with
work, events, and growing, more hopeful duties, so that it
contained a world of living. The uncle had not been
forgotten, but the innumerable restrictions to development
and progress were no longer manifest. Beasley had not
presented himself or any claim upon Helen; and she,
gathering confidence day by day, began to believe all that
purport of trouble had been exaggerated.

In this time she had come to love her work and all that
pertained to it. The estate was large. She had no accurate
knowledge of how many acres she owned, but it was more than
two thousand. The fine, old, rambling ranch-house, set like
a fort on the last of the foot-hills, corrals and fields and
barns and meadows, and the rolling green range beyond, and
innumerable sheep, horses, cattle -- all these belonged to
Helen, to her ever-wondering realization and ever-growing
joy. Still, she was afraid to let herself go and be
perfectly happy. Always there was the fear that had been too
deep and strong to forget so soon.

This bright, fresh morning, in March, Helen came out upon
the porch to revel a little in the warmth of sunshine and
the crisp, pine-scented wind that swept down from the
mountains. There was never a morning that she did not gaze
mountainward, trying to see, with a folly she realized, if
the snow had melted more perceptibly away on the bold white
ridge. For all she could see it had not melted an inch, and
she would not confess why she sighed. The desert had become
green and fresh, stretching away there far below her range,
growing dark and purple in the distance with vague buttes
rising. The air was full of sound -- notes of blackbirds and
the baas of sheep, and blasts from the corrals, and the
clatter of light hoofs on the court below.

Bo was riding in from the stables. Helen loved to watch her
on one of those fiery little mustangs, but the sight was
likewise given to rousing apprehensions. This morning Bo
appeared particularly bent on frightening Helen. Down the
lane Carmichael appeared, waving his arms, and Helen at once
connected him with Bo's manifest desire to fly away from
that particular place. Since that day, a month back, when Bo
had confessed her love for Carmichael, she and Helen had not
spoken of it or of the cowboy. The boy and girl were still
at odds. But this did not worry Helen. Bo had changed much
for the better, especially in that she devoted herself to
Helen and to her work. Helen knew that all would turn out
well in the end, and so she had been careful of her rather
precarious position between these two young firebrands.

Bo reined in the mustang at the porch steps. She wore a
buckskin riding-suit which she had made herself, and its
soft gray with the touches of red beads was mightily
becoming to her. Then she had grown considerably during the
winter and now looked too flashing and pretty to resemble a
boy, yet singularly healthy and strong and lithe. Red spots
shone in her cheeks and her eyes held that ever-dangerous
blaze.

"Nell, did you give me away to that cowboy?" she demanded.

"Give you away!" exclaimed Helen, blankly.

"Yes. You know I told you -- awhile back -- that I was
wildly in love with him. Did you give me away -- tell on me?
"

She might have been furious, but she certainly was not
confused.

"Why, Bo! How could you? No. I did not," replied Helen.

"Never gave him a hint?"

"Not even a hint. You have my word for that. Why? What's
happened?"

"He makes me sick."

Bo would not say any more, owing to the near approach of the
cowboy.

"Mawnin', Miss Nell," he drawled. "I was just tellin' this
here Miss Bo-Peep Rayner --"

"Don't call me that!" broke in Bo, with fire in her voice.

"Wal, I was just tellin' her thet she wasn't goin' off on
any more of them long rides. Honest now, Miss Nell, it ain't
safe, an' --"

"You're not my boss," retorted Bo.

"Indeed, sister, I agree with him. You won't obey me."

"Reckon some one's got to be your boss," drawled Carmichael.
"Shore I ain't hankerin' for the job. You could ride to
Kingdom Come or off among the Apaches -- or over here a
ways" -- at this he grinned knowingly -- "or anywheres, for
all I cared. But I'm workin' for Miss Nell, an' she's boss.
An' if she says you're not to take them rides -- you won't.
Savvy that, miss?"

It was a treat for Helen to see Bo look at the cowboy.

"Mis-ter Carmichael, may I ask how you are going to prevent
me from riding where I like?"

"Wal, if you're goin' worse locoed this way I'll keep you
off'n a hoss if I have to rope you an' tie you up. By golly,
I will!"

His dry humor was gone and manifestly he meant what he said.

"Wal," she drawled it very softly and sweetly, but
venomously, "if -- you -- ever -- touch -- me again!"

At this he flushed, then made a quick, passionate gesture
with his hand, expressive of heat and shame.

"You an' me will never get along," he said, with a dignity
full of pathos. "I seen thet a month back when you changed
sudden-like to me. But nothin' I say to you has any
reckonin' of mine. I'm talkin' for your sister. It's for her
sake. An' your own. . . . I never told her an' I never told
you thet I've seen Riggs sneakin' after you twice on them
desert rides. Wal, I tell you now."

The intelligence apparently had not the slightest effect on
Bo. But Helen was astonished and alarmed.

"Riggs! Oh, Bo, I've seen him myself -- riding around. He
does not mean well. You must be careful."

"If I ketch him again," went on Carmichael, with his mouth
lining hard, "I'm goin' after him."

He gave her a cool, intent, piercing look, then he dropped
his head and turned away, to stride back toward the corrals.

Helen could make little of the manner in which her sister
watched the cowboy pass out of sight.

"A month back -- when I changed sudden-like," mused Bo. "I
wonder what he meant by that. . . . Nell, did I change --
right after the talk you had with me -- about him?"

"Indeed you did, Bo," replied Helen. "But it was for the
better. Only he can't see it. How proud and sensitive he is!
You wouldn't guess it at first. Bo, your reserve has wounded
him more than your flirting. He thinks it's indifference."

"Maybe that 'll be good for him," declared Bo. "Does he
expect me to fall on his neck? He's that thick-headed! Why,
he's the locoed one, not me."

"I'd like to ask you, Bo, if you've seen how he has
changed?" queried Helen, earnestly. "He's older. He's
worried. Either his heart is breaking for you or else he
fears trouble for us. I fear it's both. How he watches you!
Bo, he knows all you do -- where you go. That about Riggs
sickens me."

"If Riggs follows me and tries any of his four-flush
desperado games he'll have his hands full," said Bo, grimly.
"And that without my cowboy protector! But I just wish Riggs
would do something. Then we'll see what Las Vegas Tom
Carmichael cares. Then we'll see!"

Bo bit out the last words passionately and jealously, then
she lifted her bridle to the spirited mustang,

"Nell, don't you fear for me," she said. "I can take care of
myself."

Helen watched her ride away, all but willing to confess that
there might be truth in what Bo said. Then Helen went about
her work, which consisted of routine duties as well as an
earnest study to familiarize herself with continually new
and complex conditions of ranch life. Every day brought new
problems. She made notes of all that she observed, and all
that was told her, which habit she had found, after a few
weeks of trial, was going to be exceedingly valuable to her.
She did not intend always to be dependent upon the knowledge
of hired men, however faithful some of them might be.

This morning on her rounds she had expected developments; of
some kind, owing to the presence of Roy Beeman and two of
his brothers, who had arrived yesterday. And she was to
discover that Jeff Mulvey, accompanied by six of his
co-workers and associates, had deserted her without a word
or even sending for their pay. Carmichael had predicted
this. Helen had half doubted. It was a relief now to be
confronted with facts, however disturbing. She had fortified
herself to withstand a great deal more trouble than had
happened. At the gateway of the main corral, a huge
inclosure fenced high with peeled logs, she met Roy Beeman,
lasso in hand, the same tall, lean, limping figure she
remembered so well. Sight of him gave her an inexplicable
thrill -- a flashing memory of an unforgettable night ride.
Roy was to have charge of the horses on the ranch, of which
there were several hundred, not counting many lost on range
and mountain, or the unbranded colts.