September's glory of gold and red and purple began to fade with the autumnal equinox. It rained enough to soak the frost-bitten leaves, and then the mountain winds sent them flying and fluttering and scurrying to carpet the dells and spot the pools in the brooks and color the trails. When the weather cleared and the sun rose bright again many of the aspen thickets were leafless and bare, and the willows showed stark against the gray sage hills, and the vines had lost their fire. Hills and valleys had sobered with subtle change that left them none the less beautiful.
A mile or more down the road from White Slides, in a protected nook, nestled two cabins belonging to a cattleman named Andrews, who had formerly worked for Belllounds and had recently gone into the stock business for himself. He had a rather young wife, and several children, and a brother who rode for him. These people were the only neighbors of Belllounds for some ten miles on the road toward Kremmling.
Columbine liked Mrs. Andrews and often rode or walked down there for a little visit and a chat with her friend and a romp with the children.
Toward the end of September Columbine found herself combating a strong desire to go down to the Andrews ranch and try to learn some news about Wilson Moore. If anything had been heard at White Slides it certainly had not been told her. Jack Belllounds had ridden to Kremmling and back in one day, but Columbine would have endured much before asking him for information.
She did, however, inquire of the freighter who hauled Belllounds's supplies, and the answer she got was awkwardly evasive. That nettled Columbine. Also it raised a suspicion which she strove to subdue. Finally it seemed apparent that Wilson Moore's name was not to be mentioned to her.
First, in her growing resentment, she had an impulse to go to her new friend, the hunter Wade, and confide in him not only her longing to learn about Wilson, but also other matters that were growing daily more burdensome. How strange for her to feel that in some way Jack Belllounds had come between her and the old man she loved and called father! Columbine had not divined that until lately. She felt it now in the fact that she no longer sought the rancher as she used to, and he had apparently avoided her. But then, Columbine reflected, she might be entirely wrong, for when Belllounds did meet her at meal-times, or anywhere, he seemed just as affectionate as of old. Still he was not the same man. A chill, an atmosphere of shadow, had pervaded the once wholesome ranch. And so, feeling not yet well enough acquainted with Wade to confide so intimately in him, she stifled her impulses and resolved to make some effort herself to find out what she wanted to know.
As luck would have it, when she started out to walk down to the Andrews ranch she encountered Jack Belllounds.
"Where are you going?" he inquired, inquisitively.
"I'm going to see Mrs. Andrews," she replied.
"No, you're not!" he declared, quickly, with a flash.
Columbine felt a queer sensation deep within her, a hot little gathering that seemed foreign to her physical being, and ready to burst out. Of late it had stirred in her at words or acts of Jack Belllounds. She gazed steadily at him, and he returned her look with interest. What he was thinking she had no idea of, but for herself it was a recurrence and an emphasis of the fact that she seemed growing farther away from this young man she had to marry. The weeks since his arrival had been the most worrisome she could remember.
"I am going," she replied, slowly.
"No!" he replied, violently. "I won't have you running off down there to--to gossip with that Andrews woman."
"Oh, you won't?" inquired Columbine, very quietly. How little he understood her!
"That's what I said."
"You're not my boss yet, Mister Jack Belllounds," she flashed, her spirit rising. He could irritate her as no one else.
"I soon will be. And what's a matter of a week or a month?" he went on, calming down a little.
"I've promised, yes," she said, feeling her face blanch, "and I keep my promises.... But I didn't say when. If you talk like that to me it might be a good many weeks--or--or months before I name the day."
"Columbine!" he cried, as she turned away. There was genuine distress in his voice. Columbine felt again an assurance that had troubled her. No matter how she was reacting to this new relation, it seemed a fearful truth that Jack was really falling in love with her. This time she did not soften.
"I'll call dad to make you stay home," he burst out again, his temper rising.
Columbine wheeled as on a pivot.
"If you do you've got less sense than I thought."
Passion claimed him then.
"I know why you're going. It's to see that club-footed cowboy Moore!... Don't let me catch you with him!"
Columbine turned her back upon Belllounds and swung away, every pulse in her throbbing and smarting. She hurried on into the road. She wanted to run, not to get out of sight or hearing, but to fly from something, she knew not what.
"Oh! it's more than his temper!" she cried, hot tears in her eyes. "He's mean--mean--MEAN! What's the use of me denying that--any more--just because I love dad?... My life will be wretched.... It is wretched!"
Her anger did not last long, nor did her resentment. She reproached herself for the tart replies that had inflamed Jack. Never again would she forget herself!
"But he--he makes me furious," she cried, in sudden excuse for herself. "What did he say? 'That club-footed cowboy Moore'!... Oh, that was vile. He's heard, then, that poor Wilson has a bad foot, perhaps permanently crippled.... If it's true.... But why should he yell that he knew I wanted to see Wilson?... I did not! I do not.... Oh, but I do, I do!"
And then Columbine was to learn straightway that she would forget herself again, that she had forgotten, and that a sadder, stranger truth was dawning upon her--she was discovering another Columbine within herself, a wilful, passionate, different creature who would no longer be denied.
Almost before Columbine realized that she had started upon the visit she was within sight of the Andrews ranch. So swiftly had she walked! It behooved her to hide such excitement as had dominated her. And to that end she slowed her pace, trying to put her mind on other matters.
The children saw her first and rushed upon her, so that when she reached the cabin door she could not well have been otherwise than rosy and smiling. Mrs. Andrews, ruddy and strong, looked the pioneer rancher's hard-working wife. Her face brightened at the advent of Columbine, and showed a little surprise and curiosity as well.
"Laws, but it's good to see you, Columbine," was her greeting. "You 'ain't been here for a long spell."
"I've been coming, but just put it off," replied Columbine.
And so, after the manner of women neighbors, they began to talk of the fall round-up, and the near approach of winter with its loneliness, and the children, all of which naturally led to more personal and interesting topics.
"An' is it so, Columbine, that you're to marry Jack Belllounds?" asked Mrs. Andrews, presently.
"Yes, I guess it is," replied Columbine, smiling.
"Humph! I'm no relative of yours or even a particular, close friend, but I'd like to say--"
"Please don't," interposed Columbine.
"All right, my girl. I guess it's better I don't say anythin'. It's a pity, though, onless you love this Buster Jack. An' you never used to do that, I'll swan."
"No, I don't love Jack--yet--as I ought to love a husband. But I'll try, and if--if I--I never do--still, it's my duty to marry him."
"Some woman ought to talk to Bill Belllounds," declared Mrs. Andrews with a grimness that boded ill for the old rancher.
"Did you know we had a new man up at the ranch?" asked Columbine, changing the subject.
"You mean the hunter, Hell-Bent Wade?"
"Yes. But I hate that ridiculous name," said Columbine.
"It's queer, like lots of names men get in these parts. An' it'll stick. Wade's been here twice; once as he was passin' with the hounds, an' the other night. I like him, Columbine. He's true-blue, for all his strange name. My men-folks took to him like ducks to water."
"I'm glad. I took to him almost like that," rejoined Columbine. "He has the saddest face I ever saw."
"Sad? Wal, yes. That man has seen a good deal of what they tacked on to his name. I laughed when I seen him first. Little lame fellar, crooked-legged an' ragged, with thet awful homely face! But I forgot how he looked next time he came."
"That's just it. He's not much to look at, but you forget his homeliness right off," replied Columbine, warmly. "You feel something behind all his--his looks."
"Wal, you an' me are women, an' we feel different," replied Mrs. Andrews. "Now my men-folks take much store on what Wade can do. He fixed up Tom's gun, that's been out of whack for a year. He made our clock run ag'in, an' run better than ever. Then he saved our cow from that poison-weed. An' Tom gave her up to die."
"The boys up home were telling me Mr. Wade had saved some of our cattle. Dad was delighted. You know he's lost a good many head of stock from this poison-weed. I saw so many dead steers on my last ride up the mountain. It's too bad our new man didn't get here sooner to save them. I asked him how he did it, and he said he was a doctor."
"A cow-doctor," laughed Mrs. Andrews. "Wal, that's a new one on me. Accordin' to Tom, this here Wade, when he seen our sick cow, said she'd eat poison-weed--larkspur, I think he called it--an' then when she drank water it formed a gas in her stomach an' she swelled up turrible. Wade jest stuck his knife in her side a little an' let the gas out, and she got well."
"Ughh!... What cruel doctoring! But if it saves the cattle, then it's good."
"It'll save them if they can be got to right off," replied Mrs. Andrews.
"Speaking of doctors," went on Columbine, striving to make her query casual, "do you know whether or not Wilson Moore had his foot treated by a doctor at Kremmling?"
"He did not," answered Mrs. Andrews. "Wasn't no doctor there. They'd had to send to Denver, an', as Wils couldn't take that trip or wait so long, why, Mrs. Plummer fixed up his foot. She made a good job of it, too, as I can testify."
"Oh, I'm--very thankful!" murmured Columbine. "He'll not be crippled or--or club-footed, then?"
"I reckon not. You can see for yourself. For Wils's here. He was drove up night before last an' is stayin' with my brother-in-law--in the other cabin there."
Mrs. Andrews launched all this swiftly, with evident pleasure, but with more of woman's subtle motive. Her eyes were bent with shrewd kindness upon the younger woman.
"Here!" exclaimed Columbine, with a start, and for an instant she was at the mercy of conflicting surprise and joy and alarm. Alternately she flushed and paled.
"Sure he's here," replied Mrs. Andrews, now looking out of the door. "He ought to be in sight somewheres. He's walkin' with a crutch."
"Crutch!" cried Columbine, in dismay.
"Yes, crutch, an' he made it himself.... I don't see him nowheres. Mebbe he went in when he see you comin'. For he's powerful sensitive about that crutch."
"Then--if he's so--so sensitive, perhaps I'd better go," said Columbine, struggling with embarrassment and discomfiture. What if she happened to meet him! Would he imagine her purpose in coming there? Her heart began to beat unwontedly.
"Suit yourself, lass," replied Mrs. Andrews, kindly. "I know you and Wils quarreled, for he told me. An' it's a pity.... Wal, if you must go, I hope you'll come again before the snow flies. Good-by."
Columbine bade her a hurried good-by and ventured forth with misgivings. And almost around the corner of the second cabin, which she had to pass, and before she had time to recover her composure, she saw Wilson Moore, hobbling along on a crutch, holding a bandaged foot off the ground. He had seen her; he was hurrying to avoid a meeting, or to get behind the corrals there before she observed him.
"Wilson!" she called, involuntarily. The instant the name left her lips she regretted it. But too late! The cowboy halted, slowly turned.
Then Columbine walked swiftly up to him, suddenly as brave as she had been fearful. Sight of him had changed her.
"Wilson Moore, you meant to avoid me," she said, with reproach.
"Howdy, Columbine!" he drawled, ignoring her words.
"Oh, I was so sorry you were hurt!" she burst out. "And now I'm so glad--you're--you're ... Wilson, you're thin and pale--you've suffered!"
"It pulled me down a bit," he replied.
Columbine had never before seen his face anything except bronzed and lean and healthy, but now it bore testimony to pain and strain and patient endurance. He looked older. Something in the fine, dark, hazel eyes hurt her deeply.
"You never sent me word," she went on, reproachfully. "No one would tell me anything. The boys said they didn't know. Dad was angry when I asked him. I'd never have asked Jack. And the freighter who drove up--he lied to me. So I came down here to-day purposely to ask news of you, but I never dreamed you were here.... Now I'm glad I came."
What a singular, darkly kind, yet strange glance he gave her!
"That was like you, Columbine," he said. "I knew you'd feel badly about my accident. But how could I send word to you?"
"You saved--Pronto," she returned, with a strong tremor in her voice. "I can't thank you enough."
"That was a funny thing. Pronto went out of his head. I hope he's all right."
"He's almost well. It took some time to pick all the splinters out of him. He'll be all right soon--none the worse for that--that cowboy trick of Mister Jack Belllounds."
Columbine finished bitterly. Moore turned his thoughtful gaze away from her.
"I hope Old Bill is well," he remarked, lamely.
"Have you told your folks of your accident?" asked Columbine, ignoring his remark.
"No."
"Oh, Wilson, you ought to have sent for them, or have written at least."
"Me? To go crying for them when I got in trouble? I couldn't see it that way."
"Wilson, you'll be going--home--soon--to Denver--won't you?" she faltered.
"No," he replied, shortly.
"But what will you do? Surely you can't work--not so soon?"
"Columbine, I'll never--be able to ride again--like I used to," he said, tragically. "I'll ride, yes, but never the old way."
"Oh!" Columbine's tone, and the exquisite softness and tenderness with which she placed a hand on the rude crutch would have been enlightening to any one but these two absorbed in themselves. "I can't bear to believe that."
"I'm afraid it's true. Bad smash, Columbine! I just missed being club-footed."
"You should have care. You should have.... Wilson, do you intend to stay here with the Andrews?"
"Not much. They have troubles of their own. Columbine, I'm going to homestead one hundred and sixty acres."
"Homestead!" she exclaimed, in amaze. "Where?"
"Up there under Old White Slides. I've long intended to. You know that pretty little valley under the red bluff. There's a fine spring. You've been there with me. There by the old cabin built by prospectors?"
"Yes, I know. It's a pretty place--fine valley, but Wils, you can't live there," she expostulated.
"Why not, I'd like to know?"
"That little cubby-hole! It's only a tiny one-room cabin, roof all gone, chinks open, chimney crumbling.... Wilson, you don't mean to tell me you want to live there alone?"
"Sure. What'd you think?" he replied, with sarcasm.
"Expect me to marry some girl? Well, I wouldn't, even if any one would have a cripple."
"Who--who will take care of you?" she asked, blushing furiously.
"I'll take care of myself," he declared. "Good Lord! Columbine, I'm not an invalid yet. I've got a few friends who'll help me fix up the cabin. And that reminds me. There's a lot of my stuff up in the bunk-house at White Slides. I'm going to drive up soon to haul it away."
"Wilson Moore, do you mean it?" she asked, with grave wonder. "Are you going to homestead near White Slides Ranch--and live there--when--"
She could not finish. An overwhelming disaster, for which she had no name, seemed to be impending.
"Yes, I am," he replied. "Funny how things turn out, isn't it?"
"It's very--very funny," she said, dazedly, and she turned slowly away without another word.
"Good-by, Columbine," he called out after her, with farewell, indeed, in his voice.
All the way home Columbine was occupied with feelings that swayed her to the exclusion of rational consideration of the increasing perplexity of her situation. And to make matters worse, when she arrived at the ranch it was to meet Jack Belllounds with a face as black as a thunder-cloud.
"The old man wants to see you," he announced, with an accent that recalled his threat of a few hours back.
"Does he?" queried Columbine, loftily. "From the courteous way you speak I imagine it's important."
Belllounds did not deign to reply to this. He sat on the porch, where evidently he had awaited her return, and he looked anything but happy.
"Where is dad?" continued Columbine.
Jack motioned toward the second door, beyond which he sat, the one that opened into the room the rancher used as a kind of office and storeroom. As Columbine walked by Jack he grasped her skirt.
"Columbine! you're angry?" he said, appealingly.
"I reckon I am," replied Columbine.
"Don't go in to dad when you're that way," implored Jack. "He's angry, too--and--and--it'll only make matters worse."
From long experience Columbine could divine when Jack had done something in the interest of self and then had awakened to possible consequences. She pulled away from him without replying, and knocked on the office door.
"Come in," called the rancher.
Columbine went in. "Hello, dad! Do you want me?"
Belllounds sat at an old table, bending over a soiled ledger, with a stubby pencil in his huge hand. When he looked up Columbine gave a little start.
"Where've you been?" he asked, gruffly.
"I've been calling on Mrs. Andrews," replied Columbine.
"Did you go thar to see her?"
"Why--certainly!" answered Columbine, with a slow break in her speech.
"You didn't go to meet Wilson Moore?"
"No."
"An' I reckon you'll say you hadn't heerd he was there?"
"I had not," flashed Columbine.
"Wal, did you see him?"
"Yes, sir, I did, but quite by accident."
"Ahuh! Columbine, are you lyin' to me?"
The hot blood flooded to Columbine's cheeks, as if she had been struck a blow.
"Dad!" she cried, in hurt amaze.
Belllounds seemed thick, imponderable, as if something had forced a crisis in him and his brain was deeply involved. The habitual, cool, easy, bold, and frank attitude in the meeting of all situations seemed to have been encroached upon by a break, a bewilderment, a lessening of confidence.
"Wal, are you lyin'?" he repeated, either blind to or unaware of her distress.
"I could not--lie to you," she faltered, "even--if--I wanted to."
The heavy, shadowed gaze of his big eyes was bent upon her as if she had become a new and perplexing problem.
"But you seen Moore?"
"Yes--sir." Columbine's spirit rose.
"An' talked with him?"
"Of course."
"Lass, I ain't likin' thet, an' I ain't likin' the way you look an' speak."
"I am sorry. I can't help either."
"What'd this cowboy say to you?"
"We talked mostly about his injured foot."
"An' what else?" went on Belllounds, his voice rising.
"About--what he meant to do now."
"Ahuh! An' thet's homesteadin' the Sage Creek Valley?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you want him to do thet?"
"I! Indeed I didn't."
"Columbine, not so long ago you told me this fellar wasn't sweet on you. An' do you still say that to me--are you still insistin' he ain't in love with you?"
"He never said so--I never believed it ... and now I'm sure--he isn't!"
"Ahuh! Wal, thet same day you was jest as sure you didn't care anythin' particular fer him. Are you thet sure now?"
"No!" whispered Columbine, very low. She trembled with a suggestion of unknown forces. Not to save a new and growing pride would she evade any question from this man upon whom she had no claim, to whom she owed her life and her bringing up. But something cold formed in her.
Belllounds, self-centered and serious as he strangely was, seemed to check his probing, either from fear of hearing more from her or from an awakening of former kindness. But her reply was a shock to him, and, throwing down his pencil with the gesture of a man upon whom decision was forced, he rose to tower over her.
"You've been like a daughter to me. I've done all I knowed how fer you. I've lived up to the best of my lights. An' I've loved you," he said, sonorously and pathetically. "You know what my hopes are--fer the boy--an' fer you.... We needn't waste any more talk. From this minnit you're free to do as you like. Whatever you do won't make any change in my carin' fer you.... But you gotta decide. Will you marry Jack or not?"
"I promised you--I would. I'll keep my word," replied Columbine, steadily.
"So far so good," went on the rancher. "I'm respectin' you fer what you say.... An' now, when will you marry him?"
The little room drifted around in Columbine's vague, blank sight. All seemed to be drifting. She had no solid anchor.
"Any--day you say--the sooner the--better," she whispered.
"Wal, lass, I'm thankin' you," he replied, with voice that sounded afar to her. "An' I swear, if I didn't believe it's best fer Jack an' you, why I'd never let you marry.... So we'll set the day. October first! Thet's the day you was fetched to me a baby--more'n seventeen years ago."
"October--first--then, dad," she said, brokenly, and she kissed him as if in token of what she knew she owed him. Then she went out, closing the door behind her.
Jack, upon seeing her, hastily got up, with more than concern in his pale face.
"Columbine!" he cried, hoarsely. "How you look!... Tell me. What happened? Girl, don't tell me you've--you've--"
"Jack Belllounds," interrupted Columbine, in tragic amaze at this truth about to issue from her lips, "I've promised to marry you--on October first."
He let out a shout of boyish exultation and suddenly clasped her in his arms. But there was nothing boyish in the way he handled her, in the almost savage evidence of possession. "Collie, I'm mad about you," he began, ardently. "You never let me tell you. And I've grown worse and worse. To-day I--when I saw you going down there--where that Wilson Moore is--I got terribly jealous. I was sick. I'd been glad to kill him!... It made me see how I loved you. Oh, I didn't know. But now ... Oh, I'm mad for you!" He crushed her to him, unmindful of her struggles; his face and neck were red; his eyes on fire. And he began trying to kiss her mouth, but failed, as she struggled desperately. His kisses fell upon cheek and ear and hair.
"Let me--go!" panted Columbine. "You've no--no--Oh, you might have waited." Breaking from him, she fled, and got inside her room with the door almost closed, when his foot intercepted it.
Belllounds was half laughing his exultation, half furious at her escape, and altogether beside himself.
"No," she replied, so violently that it appeared to awake him to the fact that there was some one besides himself to consider.
"Aw!" He heaved a deep sigh. "All right. I won't try to get in. Only listen.... Collie, don't mind my--my way of showing you how I felt. Fact is, I went plumb off my head. Is that any wonder, you--you darling--when I've been so scared you'd never have me? Collie, I've felt that you were the one thing in the world I wanted most and would never get. But now.... October first! Listen. I promise you I'll not drink any more--nor gamble--nor nag dad for money. I don't like his way of running the ranch, but I'll do it, as long as he lives. I'll even try to tolerate that club-footed cowboy's brass in homesteading a ranch right under my nose. I'll--I'll do anything you ask of me."
"Then--please--go away!" cried Columbine, with a sob.
When he was gone Columbine barred the door and threw herself upon her bed to shut out the light and to give vent to her surcharged emotions. She wept like a girl whose youth was ending; and after the paroxysm had passed, leaving her weak and strangely changed, she tried to reason out what had happened to her. Over and over again she named the appeal of the rancher, the sense of her duty, the decision she had reached, and the disgust and terror inspired in her by Jack Belllounds's reception of her promise. These were facts of the day and they had made of her a palpitating, unhappy creature, who nevertheless had been brave to face the rancher and confess that which she had scarce confessed to herself. But now she trembled and cringed on the verge of a catastrophe that withheld its whole truth.
"I begin to see now," she whispered, after the thought had come and gone and returned to change again. "If Wilson had--cared for me I--I might have--cared, too.... But I do--care--something. I couldn't lie to dad. Only I'm not sure--how much. I never dreamed of--of loving him, or any one. It's so strange. All at once I feel old. And I can't understand these--these feelings that shake me."
So Columbine brooded over the trouble that had come to her, never regretting her promise to the old rancher, but growing keener in the realization of a complexity in her nature that sooner or later would separate the life of her duty from the life of her desire. She seemed all alone, and when this feeling possessed her a strange reminder of the hunter Wade flashed up. She stifled another impulse to confide in him. Wade had the softness of a woman, and his face was a record of the trials and travails through which he had come unhardened, unembittered. Yet how could she tell her troubles to him? A stranger, a rough man of the wilds, whose name had preceded him, notorious and deadly, with that vital tang of the West in its meaning! Nevertheless, Wade drew her, and she thought of him until the recurring memory of Jack Belllounds's rude clasp again crept over her with an augmenting disgust and fear. Must she submit to that? Had she promised that? And then Columbine felt the dawning of realities.
