The Mysterious Rider

“If you say I mistreated you—you say what's untrue,” he replied, just as hotly.

They had never been so near a quarrel before. Columbine experienced a sensation new to her—a commingling of fear, heat, and pang, it seemed, all in one throb. Wilson was hurting her. A quiver ran all over her, along her veins, swelling and tingling.

“You mean I lie?” she flashed.

“Yes, I do—if—”

But before he could conclude she slapped his face. It grew pale then, while she began to tremble.

“Oh—I didn't intend that. Forgive me,” she faltered.

He rubbed his cheek. The hurt had not been great, so far as the blow was concerned. But his eyes were dark with pain and anger.

“Oh, don't distress yourself,” he burst out. “You slapped me before—once, years ago—for kissing you. I—I apologize for saying you lied. You're only out of your head. So am I.”

That poured oil upon the troubled waters. The cowboy appeared to be hesitating between sudden flight and the risk of staying longer.

“Maybe that's it,” replied Columbine, with a half-laugh. She was not far from tears and fury with herself. “Let us make up—be friends again.”

Moore squared around aggressively. He seemed to fortify himself against something in her. She felt that. But his face grew harder and older than she had ever seen it.

“Columbine, do you know where Jack Belllounds has been for these three years?” he asked, deliberately, entirely ignoring her overtures of friendship.

“No. Somebody said Denver. Some one else said Kansas City. I never asked dad, because I knew Jack had been sent away. I've supposed he was working—making a man of himself.”

“Well, I hope to Heaven—for your sake—what you suppose comes true,” returned Moore, with exceeding bitterness.

“Doyou know where he has been?” asked Columbine. Some strange feeling prompted that. There was a mystery here. Wilson's agitation seemed strange and deep.

“Yes, I do.” The cowboy bit that out through closing teeth, as if locking them against an almost overmastering temptation.

Columbine lost her curiosity. She was woman enough to realize that there might well be facts which would only make her situation harder.

“Wilson,” she began, hurriedly, “I owe all I am to dad. He has cared for me—sent me to school. He has been so good to me. I've loved him always. It would be a shabby return for all his protection and love if—if I refused —”

“Old Bill is the best man ever,” interrupted Moore, as if to repudiate any hint of disloyalty to his employer. “Everybody in Middle Park and all over owes Bill something. He's sure good. There never was anything wrong with him except his crazy blindness about his son. Buster Jack—the—the—”

Columbine put a hand over Moore's lips.

“The man I must marry,” she said, solemnly.

“You must—you will?” he demanded.

“Of course. What else could I do? I never thought of refusing.”

“Columbine!” Wilson's cry was so poignant, his gesture so violent, his dark eyes so piercing that Columbine sustained a shock that held her trembling and mute. “How can you love Jack Belllounds? You were twelve years old when you saw him last. How can you love him?”

“I don't” replied Columbine.

“Then how could you marry him?”

“I owe dad obedience. It's his hope that I can steady Jack.”

“Steady Jack!” exclaimed Moore, passionately. “Why, you girl—you white-faced flower!You with your innocence and sweetness steady that damned pup! My Heavens! He was a gambler and a drunkard. He—”

“Hush!” implored Columbine.

“He cheated at cards,” declared the cowboy, with a scorn that placed that vice as utterly base.

“But Jack was only a wild boy,” replied Columbine, trying with brave words to champion the son of the man she loved as her father. “He has been sent away to work. He'll have outgrown that wildness. He'll come home a man.”

“Bah!” cried Moore, harshly.

Columbine felt a sinking within her. Where was her strength? She, who could walk and ride so many miles, to become sick with an inward quaking! It was childish. She struggled to hide her weakness from him.

“It's not like you to be this way,” she said. “You used to be generous. Am I to blame? Did I choose my life?”

Moore looked quickly away from her, and, standing with a hand on his horse, he was silent for a moment. The squaring of his shoulders bore testimony to his thought. Presently he swung up into the saddle. The mustang snorted and champed the bit and tossed his head, ready to bolt.

“Forget my temper,” begged the cowboy, looking down upon Columbine. “I take it all back. I'm sorry. Don't let a word of mine worry you. I was only jealous.”