Dorn Of The Mountains by Zane Grey Page B

woods.”
    “It does,” replied Bo as slowly she sat down upon the blankets, stretched out with a long sigh, and laid her head on a saddle. “Nell, didn’t he say not to call him mister?”
    Dorn was throwing the packs off the other horses.
    Helen lay down beside Bo and then for once in her life she experienced the sweetness of rest.
    “Well, Sister, what do you intend to call him?” queried Helen curiously.
    “Milt, of course,” replied Bo.
    Helen had to laugh despite her weariness and aches.
    “I suppose then…when your Las Vegas cowboy comes along, you will call him what he called you.”
    Bo blushed, which was a rather unusual thing for her. “I will if I like,” she retorted. “Nell, ever since I could remember, you’ve raved about the West. Now you’re out West, right in it, good and deep. So wake up!”
    That was Bo’s blunt and characteristic way of advising the elimination of Helen’s superficialities. It sank deep. Helen had no retort. Her ambition, as far as the West was concerned, had most assuredly not been for such a wild unheard of jaunt as this. But possibly the West—a living from day to day—was one succession of adventures, trials, tests, troubles, and achievements. To make a place for others to live comfortably someday. That might be Bo’s meaning, embodied in her forceful hint. But—Helen was too tired to think it out then. She found it interesting, and vaguely pleasant to watch Dorn.
    He hobbled the horses and turned them loose. Then with axe in hand he approached a short dead tree standing among a few white-barked aspens. This dead stub was black, showing that fire had visited the forest. Dorn appeared to advantage swinging the axe. With his coat off, displaying his wide shoulders, straight back, and long powerful arms, he looked a young giant. He was lithe and supple, brawny but not bulky. The axe rang on the hard wood, reverberating through the forest. A few strokes sufficed to bring down the stub. Then he split it up. Helen was curious to see how he kindled a fire. First he ripped splinters out of the heart of the log, and laid them with coarser pieces on the ground. Then from saddlebag, which hung on a nearby branch, he took flint and steel, and a piece of what Helen supposed was rag or buckskin upon which powder had been rubbed. At any rate the first strike of the steel brought sparks, a blaze, and burning splinters. He put on larger pieces of wood, crosswise, and the fire roared.
    That done, he stood erect, and, facing the north, he listened. Helen remembered now that she had seen him do the same thing twice before, since the arrival at Big Spring. It was Roy for whom he was listening and watching. The sun had set and across the open space the tips of the pines were all losing their brightness.
    The camp utensils, which the hunter emptied out of a sack, gave forth a jangle of iron and tin. Next he unrolled a large pack, the contents of which appeared to be numerous packs of all sizes. These evidently contained food supplies. The bucket looked as if a horse had rolled over it, pack and all. Dorn filled it at the spring. Upon returning to the campfire, he poured water into a wash basin and, getting down to his knees, proceeded to wash his hands thoroughly. The act seemed a habit, for Helen saw that, while he was doing it, he gazed off into the woods and listened. Then he dried his hands over the fire, and, turning to the spread-out pack, he began preparations for the meal.
    Suddenly Helen thought of the man, and all that his actions implied. At Magdalena, on the stage ride, and last night, she had trusted this stranger, a hunter of the White Mountains, who appeared ready to befriend her. And she had felt an exceeding gratitude. Still she had looked at him impersonally. But it began to dawn upon her that chance had thrown her in the company of a remarkable man. That impression baffled her. It did not spring from the fact that he was brave and kind to help a young woman in peril,