Dorn Of The Mountains by Zane Grey

Helen.
    “Nell, I’m goin’ wherever you go,” he said steadily. “You can take that friendly or not, just as it pleases you. But if you’ve got any sense, you’ll not give these people out here a hunch against me. I might hurt somebody…. An’ wouldn’t it be better to act friends? For I’m goin’ to look after you whether you like it or not.”
    Helen had considered this man an annoyance, and later a menace, and now she must declare open enmity with him. However disgusting the idea that he considered himself to be a factor in her new life, it was the truth. He existed, and he had control over his movements. She could not change that. She hated the need of thinking so much about him, and suddenly, she who had been only intolerant, with a hot bursting anger she hated the man.
    “You’ll not look after me. I’ll take care of myself,” she said, and she turned her back upon him. She heard him mutter under his breath and slowly move away down the car. Then Bo slipped a hand in hers.
    “Never mind, Nell,” she whispered. “You know what old Sheriff Haines said about Harve Riggs. ‘A four-flush would-be gunfighter. If he ever strikes a real Western town, he’ll get run out of it.’ I just wish my red-faced cowboy had got on this train!”
    Helen felt a rush of gladness that she had yielded to Bo’s wild importunities to take her West. The spirit that had made Bo incorrigible at home probably would make her react happily to life out in this free country. Yet Helen with all her warmth and gratefulness had to laugh at her sister.
    “Your red-faced cowboy! Why, Bo, you were scared stiff. And now you claim him.”
    “I certainly could love that fellow,” replied Bo dreamily.
    “Child, you’ve been saying that about fellows for a long time. And you’ve never looked twice at any of them yet.”
    “He was different…. Nell, I’ll bet he comes to Pine.”
    “I hope he does. I wish he was in this train. I liked his looks, Bo.”
    “Well, Nell dear, he looked at me first and last…so don’t get your hopes up…. Oh, the train’s starting! Good bye Albuker…. What’s that awful name? Nell, let’s eat dinner. I’m starved.”
    Then Helen forgot her troubles and the uncertain future, and what with listening to Bo’s chatter, and partaking again of the endless good things to eat in the huge basket, and watching the noble mountains, she drew once more into happy mood.
    The valley of the Río Grande opened to view, wide, near at hand in a great gray-green gap between the bare black mountains, narrow in the distance, where the yellow river wound away, glistening under a hot sun. Bo squealed in glee at sight of naked little Mexican children that darted into the adobe huts as the train clattered by, and she exclaimed her plea sure in the Indians, and the mustangs, and particularly in a group of cowboys riding into town upon spirited horses. Helen saw all Bo pointed out, but it was to the wonderful rolling valley that her gaze clung longest, and to the dim purple distance that seemed to hold something from her. She had never before experienced any feeling like that; she had never seen a tenth so far. And the sight awoke something strange in her. The sun was burning hot, as she could tell when she put a hand outside the window, and a strong wind blew sheets of dry dust at the train. She gathered at once what tremendous factors in the Southwest were the sun and the dust and the wind. And her realization was to love them. It was there, the open, the wild, the beautiful, the lonely land, and she felt the poignant call of blood in her—to seek, to strive, to find, to live. One look down that yellow valley, endless between its dark iron ramparts, had given her understanding of her uncle. She must be like him in spirit as it was claimed she resembled him otherwise.
    At length Bo grew tired of watching scenery that contained no life, and with her bright head upon the folded cloak she went to sleep. But Helen kept a