man look just like you—now—round the mouth—but most in the eyes!”
“Maybe the end of the long trail is White Slides Ranch,” replied Wade, sadly and dreamily, as if to himself.
“If Collie heard you say that!” exclaimed Moore, in anxious concern.
“Collie an' you will hear me say a lot before long,” returned Wade. “But, as it's calculated to make you happy—why, all's well. I'm tired an' hungry.”
Wade did not choose to sit round the fire that night, fearing to invite interrogation from his anxious friend, and for that matter from his other inquisitively morbid self.
Next morning, though Wade felt rested, and the sky was blue and full of fleecy clouds, and the melody of birds charmed his ear, and over all the June air seemed thick and beating with the invisible spirit he loved, he sensed the oppression, the nameless something that presaged catastrophe.
Therefore, when he looked out of the door to see Columbine swiftly riding up the trail, her fair hair flying and shining in the sunlight, he merely ejaculated, “Ahuh!”
“What's that?” queried Moore, sharp to catch the inflection.
“Look out,” replied Wade, as he began to fill his pipe.
“Heavens! It's Collie! Look at her riding! Uphill, too!”
Wade followed him outdoors. Columbine was not long in arriving at the cabin, and she threw the bridle and swung off in the same motion, landing with a light thud. Then she faced them, pale, resolute, stern, all the sweetness gone to bitter strength—another and a strange Columbine.
“I've not slept a wink!” she said. “And I came as soon as I could get away.”
Moore had no word for her, not even a greeting. The look of her had stricken him. It could have only one meaning.
“Mornin', lass,” said the hunter, and he took her hand. “I couldn't tell you looked sleepy, for all you said. Let's go into the cabin.”
So he led Columbine in, and Moore followed. The girl manifestly was in a high state of agitation, but she was neither trembling nor frightened nor sorrowful. Nor did she betray any lack of an unflinching and indomitable spirit. Wade read the truth of what she imagined was her doom in the white glow of her, in the matured lines of womanhood that had come since yesternight, in the sustained passion of her look.
“Ben! Wilson! The worst has come!” she announced.
Moore could not speak. Wade held Columbine's hand in both of his.
“Worst! Now, Collie, that's a terrible word. I've heard it many times. An' all my life the worst's been comin'. An' it hasn't come yet. You—only twenty years old—talkin' wild—the worst has come!... Tell me your trouble now an' I'll tell you where you're wrong.”
“Jack's a thief—a cattle-thief!” rang Columbine's voice, high and clear.
“Ahuh! Well, go on,” said Wade.
“Jack has taken money from rustlers—
Wade felt the lift of her passion, and he vibrated to it.
“Reckon that's no news to me,” he replied.
Then she quivered up to a strong and passionate delivery of the thing that had transformed her.
“I'M GOING TO MARRY JACK BELLLOUNDS!”
Wilson Moore leaped toward her with a cry, to be held back by Wade's hand.
“Now, Collie,” he soothed, “tell us all about it.”
Columbine, still upheld by the strength of her spirit, related how she had ridden out the day before, early in the afternoon, in the hope of meeting Wade. She rode over the sage hills, along the edges of the aspen benches, everywhere that she might expect to meet or see the hunter, but as he did not appear, and as she was greatly desirous of talking with him, she went on up into the woods, following the line of the Buffalo Park trail, though keeping aside from it. She rode very slowly and cautiously, remembering Wade's instructions. In this way she ascended the aspen benches, and the spruce-bordered ridges, and then the first rise of the black forest. Finally she had gone farther than ever before and farther than was wise.
When she was about to turn back she heard the thud of hoofs ahead of her. Pronto shot up his ears. Alarmed and anxious, Columbine swiftly gazed about her. It would not do for her to be seen. Yet, on the other hand, the chances were that the approaching horse carried Wade. It was lucky that she was on Pronto, for he could be trusted to stand still and not neigh. Columbine rode into a thick clump of spruces that had long, shelving branches, reaching down. Here she hid, holding Pronto motionless.
Presently the sound of hoofs denoted the approach of several horses. That augmented Columbine's anxiety. Peering out of her covert, she espied three horsemen trotting along the trail, and one of them was Jack Belllounds. They appeared to be in strong argument, judging from gestures and emphatic movements of their heads. As chance would have it they halted their horses not half a dozen rods from Columbine's place of concealment. The two men with Belllounds were rough-looking, one of them, evidently a leader, having a dark face disfigured by a horrible scar.
Naturally they did not talk loud, and Columbine had to strain her ears to catch anything. But a word distinguished here and there, and accompanying actions, made transparent the meaning of their presence and argument. The big man refused to ride any farther. Evidently he had come so far without realizing it. His importunities were for “more head of stock.” His scorn was for a “measly little bunch not worth the risk.” His anger was for Belllounds's foolhardiness in “leavin' a trail.” Belllounds had little to say, and most of that was spoken in a tone too low to be heard. His manner seemed indifferent, even reckless. But he wanted “money.” The scar-faced man's name was “Smith.” Then Columbine gathered from Smith's dogged and forceful gestures, and his words, “no money” and “bigger bunch,” that he was unwilling to pay what had been agreed upon unless Belllounds promised to bring a larger number of cattle. Here Belllounds roundly cursed the rustler, and apparently argued that course “next
