her. She heard wrestling, threshing sounds, and sodden thumps, and a scattering of gravel. These noises seemed at first distant, then grew closer. As she gazed again with keener perception, Moore's horse plunged away from the fiercely struggling forms that had rolled almost under his feet. During the ensuing moments it was an equal battle so far as Columbine could tell. Repelled, yet fascinated, she watched. They beat each other, grappled and rolled over, first one on top, then the other. But the advantage of being uppermost presently was Belllounds's. Moore was weakening. That became noticeable more and more after each time he had wrestled and rolled about. Then Belllounds, getting this position, lay with his weight upon Moore, holding him down, and at the same time kicking with all his might. He was aiming to disable the cowboy by kicking the injured foot. And he was succeeding. Moore let out a strangled cry, and struggled desperately. But he was held and weighted down. Belllounds raised up now and, looking backward, he deliberately and furiously kicked Moore's bandaged foot; once, twice, again and again, until the straining form under him grew limp. Columbine, slowly freezing with horror, saw all this. She could not move. She could not scream. She wanted to rush in and drag Jack off of Wilson, to hurt him, to kill him, but her muscles were paralyzed. In her agony she could not even look away. Belllounds got up astride his prostrate adversary and began to beat him brutally, swinging heavy, sodden blows. His face then was terrible to see. He meant murder.
Columbine heard approaching voices and the thumping of hasty feet. That unclamped her cloven tongue. Wildly she screamed. Old Bill Belllounds appeared, striding off the porch. And the hunter Wade came running down the path.
“Dad! he's killing Wilson!” cried Columbine.
“Hyar, you devil!” roared the rancher.
Jack Belllounds got up. Panting, disheveled, with hair ruffled and face distorted, he was not a pleasant sight for even the father. Moore lay unconscious, with ghastly, bloody features, and his bandaged foot showed great splotches of red.
“My Gawd, son!” gasped Old Bill. “You didn't pick on this hyar crippled boy?”
The evidence was plain, in Moore's quiet, pathetic form, in the panting, purple-faced son. Jack Belllounds did not answer. He was in the grip of a passion that had at last been wholly unleashed and was still unsatisfied. Yet a malignant and exultant gratification showed in his face.
“That—evens us—up, Moore,” he panted, and stalked away.
By this time Wade reached the cowboy and knelt beside him. Columbine came running to fall on her knees. The old rancher seemed stricken.
“Oh—Oh! it was terrible—” cried Columbine. “Oh—he's so white—and the blood—”
“Now, lass, that's no way for a woman,” said Wade, and there was something in his kind tone, in his look, in his presence, that calmed Columbine. “I'll look after Moore. You go get some water an' a towel.”
Columbine rose to totter into the house. She saw a red stain on the hand she had laid upon the cowboy's face, and with a strange, hot, bursting sensation, strong and thrilling, she put that red place to her lips. Running out with the things required by Wade, she was in time to hear the rancher say, “Looks hurt bad, to me.”
“Yes, I reckon,” replied Wade.
While Columbine held Moore's head upon her lap the hunter bathed the bloody face. It was battered and bruised and cut, and in some places, as fast as Wade washed away the red, it welled out again.
Columbine watched that quiet face, while her heart throbbed and swelled with emotions wholly beyond her control and understanding. When at last Wilson opened his eyes, fluttering at first, and then wide, she felt a surge that shook her whole body. He smiled wanly at her, and at Wade, and then his gaze lifted to Belllounds.
“I guess—he licked me,” he said, in weak voice. “He kept kicking my sore foot—till I fainted. But he licked me—all right.”
“Wils, mebbe he did lick you,” replied the old rancher, brokenly, “but I reckon he's damn little to be proud of —lickin' a crippled man—thet way.”
“Boss, Jack'd been drinking,” said Moore, weakly. “And he sure had—some excuse for going off his head. He caught me—talking sweet to Columbine ... and then—I called him all the names—I could lay my tongue to.”
“Ahuh!” The old man seemed at a loss for words, and presently he turned away, sagging in the shoulders, and plodded into the house.
The cowboy, supported by Wade on one side, with Columbine on the other, was helped to an upright position, and with considerable difficulty was gotten into the wagon. He tried to sit up, but made a sorry showing of it.
“I'll drive him home an' look after him,” said Wade. “Now, Miss Collie, you're upset, which ain't no wonder. But now you brace. It might have been worse. Just you go to your room till you're sure of yourself again.”
Moore smiled another wan smile at her. “I'm sorry,” he said.
“What for? Me?” she asked.
“I mean I'm sorry I was so infernal unlucky—running into you—and bringing all this distress—to you. It was my fault. If I'd only kept—my mouth shut!”
“You need not be sorry you met me,” she said, with her eyes straight upon his. “I'm glad.... But oh! if your foot is badly hurt I'll never—never—'
“Don't say it,” interrupted Wilson.
“Lass, you're bent on doin' somethin',” said Wade, in his gentle voice.
“Bent?” she echoed, with something deep and rich in her voice. “Yes, I'm bent—
Then she ran toward the house and up on the porch, to enter the living-room with heaving breast and flashing eyes. Manifestly the rancher was berating his son. The former gaped at sight of her and the latter shrank.
“Jack Belllounds,” she cried, “you're not half a man.... You're a coward and a brute!”
One tense moment she stood there, lightning scorn and passion in her gaze, and then she rushed out,
