house, an' a trail runs along there. But Wils can't ride very well yet, an' this appeared to be the best place.”
“Ben, I don't care if dad or Jack know I've met Wilson. I'll tell them,” said Columbine.
“Ahuh! Well, if I were you I wouldn't,” he replied.
They went down the slope and entered the grove. It was an open, pretty spot, with grass and wild flowers, and old, bleached logs, half sunny and half shady under the new-born, fluttering aspen leaves. Wade saw Moore sitting on his horse. And it struck the hunter significantly that the cowboy should be mounted when an hour back he had left him sitting disconsolately on a log. Moore wanted Columbine to see him first, after all these months of fear and dread, mounted upon his horse. Wade heard Columbine's glad little cry, but he did not turn to look at her then. But when they reached the spot where Moore stood Wade could not resist the desire to see the meeting between the lovers.
Columbine, being a woman, and therefore capable of hiding agitation, except in moments of stress, met that trying situation with more apparent composure than the cowboy. Moore's long, piercing gaze took the rose out of Columbine's cheeks.
“Oh, Wilson! I'm so happy to see you on your horse again!” she exclaimed. “It's too good to be true. I've prayed for that more than anything else. Can you get up into your saddle like you used to? Can you ride well again?... Let me see your foot.”
Moore held out a bulky foot. He wore a shoe, and it was slashed.
“I can't wear a boot,” he explained.
“Oh, I see!” exclaimed Columbine, slowly, with her glad smile fading. “You can't put that—that foot in a stirrup, can you?”
“No.”
“But—it—it will—you'll be able to wear a boot soon,” she implored.
“Never again, Collie,” he said, sadly.
And then Wade perceived that, like a flash, the old spirit leaped up in Columbine. It was all he wanted to see.
“Now, folks,” he said, “I reckon two's company an' three's a crowd. I'll go off a little ways an' keep watch.”
“Ben, you stay here,” replied Columbine, hurriedly.
“Why, Collie? Are you afraid—or ashamed to be with me alone?” asked Moore, bitterly.
Columbine's eyes flashed. It was seldom they lost their sweet tranquillity. But now they had depth and fire.
“No, Wilson, I'm neither afraid nor ashamed to be with you alone,” she declared. “But I can be as natural—as much myself with Ben here as I could be alone. Why can't you be? If dad and Jack heard of our meeting the fact of Ben's presence might make it look different to them. And why should I heap trouble upon my shoulders?”
“I beg pardon, Collie,” said the cowboy. “I've just been afraid of—of things.”
“My horse is restless,” returned Columbine. “Let's get off and talk.”
So they dismounted. It warmed Wade's gloomy heart to see the woman-look in Columbine's eyes as she watched the cowboy get off and walk. For a crippled man he did very well. But that moment was fraught with meaning for Wade. These unfortunate lovers, brave and fine in their suffering, did not realize the peril they invited by proximity. But Wade knew. He pitied them, he thrilled for them, he lived their torture with them.
“Tell me—everything,” said Columbine, impulsively.
Moore, with dragging step, approached an aspen log that lay off the ground, propped by the stump, and here he leaned for support. Columbine laid her gloves on the log.
“There's nothing to tell that you don't know,” replied Moore. “I wrote you all there was to write, except”— here he dropped his head—“except that the last three weeks have been hell.”
“They've not been exactly heaven for me,” replied Columbine, with a little laugh that gave Wade a twinge.
Then the lovers began to talk about spring coming, about horses and cattle, and feed, about commonplace ranch matters not interesting to them, but which seemed to make conversation and hide their true thoughts. Wade listened, and it seemed to him that he could read their hearts.
“Lass, an' you, Wils—you're wastin' time an' gettin' nowhere,” interposed Wade. “Now let me go, so's you'll be alone.”
“You stay right there,” ordered Moore.
“Why, Ben, I'm ashamed to say that I actually forgot you were here,” said Columbine.
“Then I'll remind you,” rejoined the hunter. “Collie, tell us about Old Bill an' Jack.”
“Tell you? What?”
“Well, I've seen changes in both. So has Wils, though Wils hasn't seen as much as he's heard from Lem an' Montana an' the Andrews boys.”
“Oh!...” Columbine choked a little over her exclamation of understanding. “Dad has gotten a new lease on life, I guess. He's happy, like a boy sometimes, an' good as gold.... It's all because of the change in Jack. That is remarkable. I've not been able to believe my own eyes. Since that night Jack came home and had the—the understanding with dad he has been another person. He has left me alone. He treats me with deference, but not a familiar word or look. He's kind. He offers the little civilities that occur, you know. But he never intrudes upon me. Not one word of the past! It is as if he would earn my respect, and have that or nothing.... Then he works as he never worked before—on dad's books, in the shop, out on the range. He seems obsessed with some thought all the time. He talks little. All the old petulance, obstinacy, selfishness, and especially his sudden, queer impulses, and bull-headed tenacity—all gone! He has suffered physical distress, because he never was used to hard work. And
