On the next morning Helen was awakened by what she imagined had been a dream of some one shouting. With a start she sat up. The sunshine showed pink and gold on the ragged spruce line of the mountain rims. Bo was on her knees, braiding her hair with shaking hands, and at the same time trying to peep out.
And the echoes of a ringing cry were cracking back from the cliffs. That had been Dale's voice.
"Nell! Nell! Wake up!" called Bo, wildly. "Oh, some one's come! Horses and men!"Helen got to her knees and peered out over Bo's shoulder.
Dale, standing tall and striking beside the campfire, was waving his sombrero. Away down the open edge of the park came a string of pack-burros with mounted men behind. In the foremost rider Helen recognized Roy Beeman.
"That first one's Roy!" she exclaimed. "I'd never forget him on a horse. . . . Bo, it must mean Uncle Al's come!""Sure! We're born lucky. Here we are safe and sound -- and all this grand camp trip. . . . Look at the cowboys. . . .
LOOK! Oh, maybe this isn't great!" babbled Bo.
Dale wheeled to see the girls peeping out.
"It's time you're up!" he called. "Your uncle Al is here."For an instant after Helen sank back out of Dale's sight she sat there perfectly motionless, so struck was she by the singular tone of Dale's voice. She imagined that he regretted what this visiting cavalcade of horsemen meant --they had come to take her to her ranch in Pine. Helen's heart suddenly began to beat fast, but thickly, as if muffled within her breast.
"Hurry now, girls," called Dale.
Bo was already out, kneeling on the flat stone at the little brook, splashing water in a great hurry. Helen's hands trembled so that she could scarcely lace her boots or brush her hair, and she was long behind Bo in making herself presentable. When Helen stepped out, a short, powerfully built man in coarse garb and heavy boots stood holding Bo's hands.
"Wal, wal! You favor the Rayners," he was saying I remember your dad, an' a fine feller he was."Beside them stood Dale and Roy, and beyond was a group of horses and riders.
"Uncle, here comes Nell," said Bo, softly.
"Aw!" The old cattle-man breathed hard as he turned.
Helen hurried. She had not expected to remember this uncle, but one look into the brown, beaming face, with the blue eyes flashing, yet sad, and she recognized him, at the same instant recalling her mother.
He held out his arms to receive her.
"Nell Auchincloss all over again!" he exclaimed, in deep voice, as he kissed her. "I'd have knowed you anywhere!""Uncle Al!" murmured Helen. "I remember you -- though I was only four.""Wal, wal, -- that's fine," he replied. "I remember you straddled my knee once, an' your hair was brighter -- an' curly. It ain't neither now. . . . Sixteen years! An' you're twenty now? What a fine, broad-shouldered girl you are! An', Nell, you're the handsomest Auchincloss I ever seen!"Helen found herself blushing, and withdrew her hands from his as Roy stepped forward to pay his respects. He stood bareheaded, lean and tall, with neither his clear eyes nor his still face, nor the proffered hand expressing anything of the proven quality of fidelity, of achievement, that Helen sensed in him.
"Howdy, Miss Helen? Howdy, Bo?" he said. "You all both look fine an' brown. . . . I reckon I was shore slow rustlin' your uncle Al up here. But I was figgerin' you'd like Milt's camp for a while.""We sure did," replied Bo, archly.
"Aw!" breathed Auchincloss, heavily. "Lemme set down."He drew the girls to the rustic seat Dale had built for them under the big pine.
"Oh, you must be tired! How -- how are you?" asked Helen, anxiously.
"Tired! Wal, if I am it's jest this here minit. When Joe Beeman rode in on me with thet news of you -- wal, I jest fergot I was a worn-out old hoss. Haven't felt so good in years. Mebbe two such young an' pretty nieces will make a new man of me.""Uncle Al, you look strong and well to me," said Bo. "And young, too, and --""Haw! Haw! Thet 'll do," interrupted Al. "I see through you.
What you'll do to Uncle Al will be aplenty. . . . Yes, girls, I'm feelin' fine. But strange -- strange! Mebbe thet's my joy at seein' you safe -- safe when I feared so thet damned greaser Beasley --"In Helen's grave gaze his face changed swiftly -- and all the serried years of toil and battle and privation showed, with something that was not age, nor resignation, yet as tragic as both.
"Wal, never mind him -- now," he added, slowly, and the warmer light returned to his face. "Dale -- come here."The hunter stepped closer.
"I reckon I owe you more 'n I can ever pay," said Auchincloss, with an arm around each niece.
"No, Al, you don't owe me anythin'," returned Dale, thoughtfully, as he looked away.
"A-huh!" grunted Al. "You hear him, girls. . . . Now listen, you wild hunter. An' you girls listen. . . . Milt, I never thought you much good, 'cept for the wilds. But I reckon I'll have to swallow thet. I do. Comin' to me as you did --an' after bein' druv off -- keepin' your council an' savin' my girls from thet hold-up, wal, it's the biggest deal any man ever did for me. . . . An' I'm ashamed of my hard feelin's, an' here's my hand.""Thanks, Al," replied Dale, with his fleeting smile, and he met the proffered hand. "Now, will you be makin' camp here?""Wal, no. I'll rest a little, an' you can pack the girls' outfit -- then we'll go. Sure you're goin' with us?""I'll call the girls to breakfast," replied Dale, and he moved away without answering Auchincloss's query.
Helen divined that Dale did not mean to go down to Pine with them, and the knowledge gave her a blank feeling of surprise. Had she expected him to go?
"Come here, Jeff," called Al, to one of his men.
A short, bow-legged horseman with dusty garb and sun-bleached face hobbled forth from the group. He was not young, but he had a boyish grin and bright little eyes.
Awkwardly he doffed his slouch sombrero.
