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The rancher, Belllounds, sat in his easy-chair before the fire, his big, horny hands extended to the warmth. He was in his shirt-sleeves, a gray, bold-faced man, of over sixty years, still muscular and rugged. At Columbine's entrance he raised his drooping head, and so removed the suggestion of sadness in his posture. "Wal, lass, hyar you are," was his greeting.
By the ruddy glow of the fire she saw a man's broad-chested figure, she saw the gleam of tawny hair above a thick bull-neck. He was bending slightly over the fire at her entrance, but, hearing her, he turned. And in that moment every numbed nerve in Columbine's body was pierced into quivering life.
"It wouldn't make it right, not if he was an angel from heaven," she declared. Columbine's gay laugh had in it that quality of youth that surmounts all obstacles. "He's much safer than an angel," she protested, "because he can't fly. Besides, the Spear Point Caves are all on this side of the Point. You could watch us all the time if you'd a mind to." But Mrs. Peck did not laugh.
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.
Hold on a minute, I'm going to shift my saddle to Columbine. I know her and she knows me, don't you, old girl?" "She's de quality, sure," agreed Junius. "This is something like," sighed Bolivar, falling easily into Columbine's smooth fox-trot. They had gone perhaps a mile when Bolivar suddenly clapped his hand to his breast-pocket and pulled up short. "What done happen, Mr. Bol'var?" asked Junius.
He made no overtures of friendship to the dainty witch at The Ship, but he took the trouble to make himself extremely respectable when he made his weekly appearance there. He kept his shag of red hair severely cropped. He attired himself in navy serge, and wore a collar. Adam's keen eyes took in the change and twinkled. Columbine's eyes twinkled too.
Columbine's sharp glance sought his hands. They looked as soft and unscarred as her own. What kind of work had he done, if he told the truth? "Well, if you work hard for dad, learn to handle the cowboys, and never take up those old bad habits " "You mean drink and cards? I swear I'd forgotten them for three years until yesterday. I reckon I've the better of them."
Columbine's keen faculties evidently sensed the change in Wade, and the direction of his uneasy glance convinced her. "Oh, there's a man!... Ben, it is yes, it's Jack," she exclaimed, excitedly. "Reckon you'd have it better if you say Buster Jack," replied Wade, with his tragic smile. "Ah!" whispered Columbine, as she gazed up at the aspen slope, with eyes lighting to battle.
Now, not real bad!... The hoss fell on his leg an' broke it. I cut off his boot. His foot was all smashed. But thar wasn't any other hurt honest! They're takin' him to Kremmlin'." "Ah!" Columbine's low cry sounded strangely in her ears, as if some one else had uttered it. "Buster Jack made two bursts this hyar day," concluded Lem, reflectively.
"Then I took up my newspaper to aid my digestion. Every Sunday I read the Gil Blas in the shade by the side of the water. It is Columbine's day, you know; Columbine, who writes the articles in the Gil Blas. I generally put Madame Renard into a rage by pretending to know this Columbine. It is not true, for I do not know her and have never seen her, but that does not matter.
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