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Some haunting doubt of this flashed over her mind like a swift shadow of a black wing, but she dispelled that as she had dispelled the fear and disgust which often rose up in her mind. To Columbine's surprise and to the rancher's concern the prospective bridegroom did not return from Kremmling on the second day. When night came Belllounds reluctantly gave up looking for him.
Meanwhile Wilson had laboriously climbed down out of the wagon, and, utilizing his crutch, he hobbled to where Belllounds had thrown the reins, and stooped to pick them up. Belllounds shoved Columbine farther back, and then he leaped to confront the cowboy. "I've got you now, Moore," he said, hoarse and low. Stripped of all pretense, he showed the ungovernable nature of his temper.
"Oh, you won't?" inquired Columbine, very quietly. How little he understood her! "That's what I said." "You're not my boss yet, Mister Jack Belllounds," she flashed, her spirit rising. He could irritate her as no one else. "I soon will be. And what's a matter of a week or a month?" he went on, calming down a little.
"What cattle did you say?" asked the rustler, as if he had not heard aright. "The cattle Buster Jack stole from his father an' sold to you." "Wal, now! Bent Wade at his old tricks! I might have knowed it, once I seen you.... Naw, I'd no idee Belllounds blamed thet stealin' on to any one." "He did." "Ahuh! Wal, who's this Wils Moore?" "He's a cowboy, as fine a youngster as ever straddled a horse.
"Yes, an' the range'll be thankin' me when I rid it of all these varmints," declared Belllounds. "Lass, I swore I'd buy every dog fetched to me, until I had enough to kill off the coyotes an' lofers an' lions. I'll do it, too. But I need a hunter." "Why not put Wilson Moore in charge of the hounds? He's a hunter."
White Slides Ranch lay some twenty-odd miles from Middle Park, being a winding arm of the main valley land. Its development was a matter of later years, and Belllounds lived there because the country was wilder. The rancher, as he advanced in years, seemed to want to keep the loneliness that had been his in earlier days.
Why did she hesitate over that natural query from Jack Belllounds? "No. He never has," she replied, presently. "That's damn queer. You used to like him better than anybody else. You sure hated me.... Columbine, have you outgrown that?" "Yes, of course," she answered. "But I hardly hated you." "Dad said you were willing to marry me. Is that so?" Columbine dropped her head.
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 to impossible."
Old Bill Belllounds, big and fine, victim of love for a wayward son; Buster Jack, the waster, the tearer-down, the destroyer, the wild youth at a wild time; Columbine, the girl of unknown birth, good and loyal, subject to a condition sure to ruin her. Wade's strange mind revolved a hundred outcomes to this conflict of characters, but not one of them was the one that was written.
"What do you mean by that?" he demanded, with a strident note in his voice. "Put that saddle back." "Not much. It's my saddle. Cost sixty dollars at Kremmling last year. Good old hard-earned saddle!... And you can't ride it. Savvy?" "Yes, I savvy," replied Belllounds, violently. "Now you'll savvy what I say. I'll have you discharged." "Nope. Too late," said Moore, with cool, easy scorn.
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