“Wilson, I never knew you to be facetious before. Here, take this.”
Apparently he did not see her outstretched hand.
“Collie, you've changed. You're older. You're a woman, now—and the prettiest—”
“Are you going to eat?” demanded Columbine.
“Huh!” exclaimed the cowboy, blankly. “Eat? Oh yes, sure. I'm powerful hungry. And maybe Heaven-Sent Wade can't cook!”
But Columbine had trouble in feeding him. What with his helplessness, and his propensity to watch her face instead of her hands, and her own mounting sensations of a sweet, natural joy and fitness in her proximity to him, she was hard put to it to show some dexterity as a nurse. And all the time she was aware of Wade, with his quiet, forceful presence, hovering near. Could he not see her hands trembling? And would he not think that weakness strange? Then driftingly came the thought that she would not shrink from Wade's reading her mind. Perhaps even now he understood her better than she understood herself.
“I can't—eat any more,” declared Moore, at last.
“You've done very well for an invalid,” observed Columbine. Then, changing the subject, she asked, “Wilson, you're going to stay here—winter here, dad would call it?”
“Yes.”
“Are those your cattle down in the valley?”
“Sure. I've got near a hundred head. I saved my money and bought cattle.”
“That's a good start for you. I'm glad. But who's going to take care of you and your stock until you can work again?”
“Why, my friend there, Heaven-Sent Wade,” replied Moore, indicating the little man busy with the utensils on the table, and apparently hearing nothing.
“Can I fetch you anything to eat—or read?” she inquired.
“Fetch yourself,” he replied, softly.
“But, boy, how could I fetch you anything without fetching myself?”
“Sure, that's right. Then fetch me some jam and a book—to-morrow. Will you?”
“I surely will.”
“That's a promise. I know your promises of old.”
“Then good-by till to-morrow. I must go. I hope you'll be better.”
“I'll stay sick in bed till you stop coming.”
Columbine left rather precipitously, and when she got outdoors it seemed that the hills had never been so softly, dreamily gray, nor their loneliness so sweet, nor the sky so richly and deeply blue. As she untied Pronto the hunter came out with Kane at his heels.
“Miss Collie, if you'll go easy I'll ketch my horse an' ride down with you,” he said.
She mounted, and walked Pronto out to the trail, and slowly faced the gradual descent. It was really higher up there than she had surmised. And the view was beautiful. The gray, rolling foothills, so exquisitely colored at that hour, and the black-fringed ranges, one above the other, and the distant peaks, sunset-flushed across the purple, all rose open and clear to her sight, so wildly and splendidly expressive of the Colorado she loved.
At the foot of the slope Wade joined her.
“Lass, I'm askin' you not to tell Belllounds that I'm carin' for Wils,” he said, in his gentle, persuasive way.
“I won't. But why not tell dad? He wouldn't mind. He'd do that sort of thing himself.”
“Reckon he would. But this deal's out of the ordinary. An' Wils's not in as good shape as he thinks. I'm not takin' any chances. I don't want to lose my job, an' I don't want to be hindered from attendin' to this boy.”
They had ridden as far as the first aspen grove when Wade concluded this remark. Columbine halted her horse, causing her companion to do likewise. Her former misgivings were augmented by the intelligence of Wade's sad, lined face.
“Ben, tell me,” she whispered, with a hand going to his arm.
“Miss Collie, I'm a sort of doctor in my way. I studied some medicine an' surgery. An' I know. I wouldn't tell you this if it wasn't that I've got to rely on you to help me.”
“I will—but go on—tell me,” interposed Columbine trying to fortify herself.
“Wils's foot is all messed up. Buster Jack kicked it all out of shape. An' it's a hundred times worse than ever. I'm afraid of blood-poisonin' an' gangrene. You know gangrene is a dyin' an' rottin' of the flesh.... I told the boy straight out that he'd better let me cut his foot off. An' he swore he'd keep his foot or die! Well, if gangrene does set in we can't save his leg, an' maybe not his life.”
“Oh, it can't be as bad as all that!” cried Columbine. “Oh, I knew—I knew there was something.... Ben, you mean even at best now—he'll be a—” She broke off, unable to finish.
“Miss Collie, in any case Wils'll never ride again—not like a cowboy.”
That for Columbine seemed the worst and the last straw. Hot tears blinded her, hot blood gushed over her, hot heart-beats throbbed in her throat.
“Poor boy! That'll—ruin him,” she cried. “He loved—a horse. He loved to ride. He was the—best rider of them all. And now he's ruined! He'll be lame—a cripple—club-footed!... All because of that Jack Belllounds! The brute— the coward! I hate him! Oh, I
