“I wish you wouldn't call yourself such names,” rejoined Columbine, peevishly. “You're not a club-foot. I hate that word!”
“Me, too. Well, joking aside, I'm better. My foot is fine. Now, if I don't hurt it again I'll sure never be a club- foot.”
“You must be careful,” she said, earnestly.
“Sure. But it's hard for me to be idle. Think of me lying still all day with nothing to do but read! That's what knocked me out. I wouldn't have minded the pain if I could have gotten about.... Columbine, I've moved in!”
“What! Moved in?” she queried, blankly.
“Sure. I'm in my cabin on the hill. It's plumb great. Tom Andrews and Bert and your hunter Wade fixed up the cabin for me. That Wade is sure a good fellow. And say! what he can do with his hands! He's been kind to me. Took an interest in me, and between you and me he sort of cheered me up.”
“Cheered you up! Wils, were you unhappy?” she asked, directly.
“Well, rather. What'd you expect of a cowboy who'd crippled himself—and lost his girl?”
Columbine felt the smart of tingling blood in her face, and she looked from Wilson to the wagon. It contained saddles, blankets, and other cowboy accoutrements for which he had evidently come.
“That's a double misfortune,” she replied, evenly. “It's too bad both came at once. It seems to me if I were a cowboy and—and felt so toward a girl, I'd have let her know.”
“This girl I mean knew, all right,” he said, nodding his head.
“She didn't—she didn't!” cried Columbine.
“How do you know?” he queried, with feigned surprise. He was bent upon torturing her.
“You meant me. I'm the girl you lost!”
“Yes, you are—God help me!” replied Moore, with genuine emotion.
“But you—you never told me—you never told me,” faltered Columbine, in distress.
“Never told you what? That you were my girl?”
“No—no. But that you—you cared—”
“Columbine Belllounds, I told you—let you see—in every way under the sun,” he flashed at her.
“Let me see—what?” faltered Columbine, feeling as if the world were about to end.
“That I loved you.”
“Oh!... Wilson!” whispered Columbine, wildly.
“Yes—loved you. Could you have been so innocent—so blind you never knew? I can't believe it.”
“But I never dreamed you—you—” She broke off dazedly, overwhelmed by a tragic, glorious truth.
“Collie!... Would it have made any difference?”
“Oh, all the difference in the world!” she wailed.
“What difference?” he asked, passionately.
Columbine gazed wide-eyed and helpless at the young man. She did not know how to tell him what all the difference in the world really was.
Suddenly Wilson turned away from her to listen. Then she heard rapid beating of hoofs on the road.
“That's Buster Jack,” said the cowboy. “Just my luck! There wasn't any one here when I arrived. Reckon I oughtn't have stayed. Columbine, you look pretty much upset.”
“What do I care how I look!” she exclaimed, with a sharp resentment attending this abrupt and painful break in her agitation.
Next moment Jack Belllounds galloped a foam-lashed horse into the courtyard and hauled up short with a recklessness he was noted for. He swung down hard and violently cast the reins from him.
“Ahuh! I gambled on just this,” he declared, harshly.
Columbine's heart sank. His gaze was fixed on her face, with its telltale evidences of agitation.
“What've you been crying about?” he demanded.
“I haven't been,” she retorted.
His bold and glaring eyes, hot with sudden temper, passed slowly from her to the cowboy. Columbine became aware then that Jack was under the influence of liquor. His heated red face grew darker with a sneering contempt.
“Where's dad?” he asked, wheeling toward her.
“I don't know. He's not here,” replied Columbine, dismounting. The leap of thought and blood to Jack's face gave her a further sinking of the heart. The situation unnerved her.
Wilson Moore had grown a shade paler. He gathered up his reins, ready to drive off.
“Belllounds, I came up after my things I'd left in the bunk,” he said, coolly. “Happened to meet Columbine and stopped to chat a minute.”
“That's what
