by Zane Grey
CHAPTER VI
September's glory of gold and red and purple began to fade with theautumnal equinox. It rained enough to soak the frost-bitten leaves, andthen the mountain winds sent them flying and fluttering and scurrying tocarpet the dells and spot the pools in the brooks and color the trails.When the weather cleared and the sun rose bright again many of the aspenthickets were leafless and bare, and the willows showed stark againstthe gray sage hills, and the vines had lost their fire. Hills andvalleys had sobered with subtle change that left them none the lessbeautiful.
A mile or more down the road from White Slides, in a protected nook,nestled two cabins belonging to a cattleman named Andrews, who hadformerly worked for Belllounds and had recently gone into the stockbusiness for himself. He had a rather young wife, and several children,and a brother who rode for him. These people were the only neighbors ofBelllounds for some ten miles on the road toward Kremmling.
Columbine liked Mrs. Andrews and often rode or walked down there for alittle visit and a chat with her friend and a romp with the children.
Toward the end of September Columbine found herself combating a strongdesire to go down to the Andrews ranch and try to learn some news aboutWilson Moore. If anything had been heard at White Slides it certainlyhad not been told her. Jack Belllounds had ridden to Kremmling and backin one day, but Columbine would have endured much before asking him forinformation.
She did, however, inquire of the freighter who hauled Belllounds'ssupplies, and the answer she got was awkwardly evasive. That nettledColumbine. Also it raised a suspicion which she strove to subdue.Finally it seemed apparent that Wilson Moore's name was not to bementioned to her.
First, in her growing resentment, she had an impulse to go to her newfriend, the hunter Wade, and confide in him not only her longing tolearn about Wilson, but also other matters that were growing daily moreburdensome. How strange for her to feel that in some way Jack Bellloundshad come between her and the old man she loved and called father!Columbine had not divined that until lately. She felt it now in the factthat she no longer sought the rancher as she used to, and he hadapparently avoided her. But then, Columbine reflected, she might beentirely wrong, for when Belllounds did meet her at meal-times, oranywhere, he seemed just as affectionate as of old. Still he was not thesame man. A chill, an atmosphere of shadow, had pervaded the oncewholesome ranch. And so, feeling not yet well enough acquainted withWade to confide so intimately in him, she stifled her impulses andresolved to make some effort herself to find out what she wantedto know.
As luck would have it, when she started out to walk down to the Andrewsranch she encountered Jack Belllounds.
"Where are you going?" he inquired, inquisitively.
"I'm going to see Mrs. Andrews," she replied.
"No, you're not!" he declared, quickly, with a flash.
Columbine felt a queer sensation deep within her, a hot little gatheringthat seemed foreign to her physical being, and ready to burst out. Oflate it had stirred in her at words or acts of Jack Belllounds. Shegazed steadily at him, and he returned her look with interest. What hewas thinking she had no idea of, but for herself it was a recurrence andan emphasis of the fact that she seemed growing farther away from thisyoung man she had to marry. The weeks since his arrival had been themost worrisome she could remember.
"I _am_ going," she replied, slowly.
"No!" he replied, violently. "I won't have you running off down thereto--to gossip with that Andrews woman."
"Oh, _you_ won't?" inquired Columbine, very quietly. How little heunderstood her!
"That's what I said."
"You're not my boss yet, Mister Jack Belllounds," she flashed, herspirit 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.
"I've promised, yes," she said, feeling her face blanch, "and I keep mypromises.... But I didn't say when. If you talk like that to me it mightbe a good many weeks--or--or months before I name the day."
"_Columbine!_" he cried, as she turned away. There was genuine distressin his voice. Columbine felt again an assurance that had troubled her.No matter how she was reacting to this new relation, it seemed a fearfultruth that Jack was really falling in love with her. This time she didnot soften.
"I'll call dad to _make_ you stay home," he burst out again, his temperrising.
Columbine wheeled as on a pivot.
"If you do you've got less sense than I thought."
"I know why you're going. It's to see that club-footedcowboy Moore!... Don't let me catch you with him."]
Passion claimed him then.
"I know why you're going. It's to see that club-footed cowboy Moore!...Don't let me catch you with him!"
Columbine turned her back upon Belllounds and swung away, every pulse inher throbbing and smarting. She hurried on into the road. She wanted torun, not to get out of sight or hearing, but to fly from something, sheknew not what.
"Oh! it's more than his temper!" she cried, hot tears in her eyes. "He'smean--_mean_--MEAN! What's the use of me denying that--any more--justbecause I love dad?... My life will be wretched.... It _is_ wretched!"
Her anger did not last long, nor did her resentment. She reproachedherself for the tart replies that had inflamed Jack. Never again wouldshe forget herself!
"But he--he makes me furious," she cried, in sudden excuse for herself."What did he say? 'That club-footed cowboy Moore'!... Oh, that was vile.He's heard, then, that poor Wilson has a bad foot, perhaps permanentlycrippled.... If it's true.... But why should he yell that he knew Iwanted to see Wilson?... I did _not!_ I _do_ not.... Oh, but I do,I do!"
And then Columbine was to learn straightway that she would forgetherself again, that she had forgotten, and that a sadder, stranger truthwas dawning upon her--she was discovering another Columbine withinherself, a wilful, passionate, different creature who would no longerbe denied.
Almost before Columbine realized that she had started upon the visit shewas within sight of the Andrews ranch. So swiftly had she walked! Itbehooved her to hide such excitement as had dominated her. And to thatend she slowed her pace, trying to put her mind on other matters.
The children saw her first and rushed upon her, so that when shereached the cabin door she could not well have been otherwise than rosyand smiling. Mrs. Andrews, ruddy and strong, looked the pioneerrancher's hard-working wife. Her face brightened at the advent ofColumbine, and showed a little surprise and curiosity as well.
"Laws, but it's good to see you, Columbine," was her greeting. "You'ain't been here for a long spell."
"I've been coming, but just put it off," replied Columbine.
And so, after the manner of women neighbors, they began to talk of thefall round-up, and the near approach of winter with its loneliness, andthe children, all of which naturally led to more personal andinteresting topics.
"An' is it so, Columbine, that you're to marry Jack Belllounds?" askedMrs. Andrews, presently.
"Yes, I guess it is," replied Columbine, smiling.
"Humph! I'm no relative of yours or even a particular, close friend, butI'd like to say--"
"Please don't," interposed Columbine.
"All right, my girl. I guess it's better I don't say anythin'. It's apity, though, onless you love this Buster Jack. An' you never used to dothat, I'll swan."
"No, I don't love Jack--yet--as I ought to love a husband. But I'll try,and if--if I--I never do--still, it's my duty to marry him."
"Some woman ought to talk to Bill Belllounds," declared Mrs. Andrewswith a grimness that boded ill for the old rancher.
"Did you know we had a new man up at the ranch?" asked Columbine,changing the subject.
"You mean the hunter, Hell-Bent Wade?"
"Yes. But I hate that ridiculous name," said Columbine.
"It's queer, like lots of names men get in these parts. An' it'll stick.Wade's been here twice; once as he was passin' with the hounds, an' theother
night. I like him, Columbine. He's true-blue, for all his strangename. My men-folks took to him like ducks to water."
"I'm glad. I took to him almost like that," rejoined Columbine. "He hasthe saddest face I ever saw."
"Sad? Wal, yes. That man has seen a good deal of what they tacked on tohis name. I laughed when I seen him first. Little lame fellar,crooked-legged an' ragged, with thet awful homely face! But I forgot howhe looked next time he came."
"That's just it. He's not much to look at, but you forget his homelinessright off," replied Columbine, warmly. "You feel something behind allhis--his looks."
"Wal, you an' me are women, an' we feel different," replied Mrs.Andrews. "Now my men-folks take much store on what Wade can _do_. Hefixed up Tom's gun, that's been out of whack for a year. He made ourclock run ag'in, an' run better than ever. Then he saved our cow fromthat poison-weed. An' Tom gave her up to die."
"The boys up home were telling me Mr. Wade had saved some of our cattle.Dad was delighted. You know he's lost a good many head of stock fromthis poison-weed. I saw so many dead steers on my last ride up themountain. It's too bad our new man didn't get here sooner to save them.I asked him how he did it, and he said he was a doctor."
"A cow-doctor," laughed Mrs. Andrews. "Wal, that's a new one on me.Accordin' to Tom, this here Wade, when he seen our sick cow, said she'deat poison-weed--larkspur, I think he called it--an' then when she drankwater it formed a gas in her stomach an' she swelled up turrible. Wadejest stuck his knife in her side a little an' let the gas out, and shegot well."
"Ughh!... What cruel doctoring! But if it saves the cattle, then it'sgood."
"It'll save them if they can be got to right off," replied Mrs. Andrews.
"Speaking of doctors," went on Columbine, striving to make her querycasual, "do you know whether or not Wilson Moore had his foot treated bya doctor at Kremmling?"
"He did not," answered Mrs. Andrews. "Wasn't no doctor there. They'd hadto send to Denver, an', as Wils couldn't take that trip or wait so long,why, Mrs. Plummer fixed up his foot. She made a good job of it, too, asI can testify."
"Oh, I'm--very thankful!" murmured Columbine. "He'll not be crippledor--or club-footed, then?"
"I reckon not. You can see for yourself. For Wils's here. He was droveup night before last an' is stayin' with my brother-in-law--in the othercabin there."
Mrs. Andrews launched all this swiftly, with evident pleasure, but withmore of woman's subtle motive. Her eyes were bent with shrewd kindnessupon the younger woman.
"Here!" exclaimed Columbine, with a start, and for an instant she was atthe mercy of conflicting surprise and joy and alarm. Alternately sheflushed and paled.
"Sure he's here," replied Mrs. Andrews, now looking out of the door. "Heought to be in sight somewheres. He's walkin' with a crutch."
"Crutch!" cried Columbine, in dismay.
"Yes, crutch, an' he made it himself.... I don't see him nowheres. Mebbehe went in when he see you comin'. For he's powerful sensitive aboutthat crutch."
"Then--if he's so--so sensitive, perhaps I'd better go," said Columbine,struggling with embarrassment and discomfiture. What if she happened tomeet him! Would he imagine her purpose in coming there? Her heart beganto beat unwontedly.
"Suit yourself, lass," replied Mrs. Andrews, kindly. "I know you andWils quarreled, for he told me. An' it's a pity.... Wal, if you must go,I hope you'll come again before the snow flies. Good-by."
Columbine bade her a hurried good-by and ventured forth with misgivings.And almost around the corner of the second cabin, which she had to pass,and before she had time to recover her composure, she saw Wilson Moore,hobbling along on a crutch, holding a bandaged foot off the ground. Hehad seen her; he was hurrying to avoid a meeting, or to get behind thecorrals there before she observed him.
"Wilson!" she called, involuntarily. The instant the name left her lipsshe regretted it. But too late! The cowboy halted, slowly turned.
Then Columbine walked swiftly up to him, suddenly as brave as she hadbeen fearful. Sight of him had changed her.
"Wilson Moore, you meant to avoid me," she said, with reproach.
"Howdy, Columbine!" he drawled, ignoring her words.
"Oh, I was so sorry you were hurt!" she burst out. "And now I'm soglad--you're--you're ... Wilson, you're thin and pale--you've suffered!"
"It pulled me down a bit," he replied.
Columbine had never before seen his face anything except bronzed andlean and healthy, but now it bore testimony to pain and strain andpatient endurance. He looked older. Something in the fine, dark, hazeleyes hurt her deeply.
"You never sent me word," she went on, reproachfully. "No one would tellme anything. The boys said they didn't know. Dad was angry when I askedhim. I'd never have asked Jack. And the freighter who drove up--he liedto me. So I came down here to-day purposely to ask news of you, but Inever dreamed you were here.... Now I'm glad I came."
What a singular, darkly kind, yet strange glance he gave her!
"That was like you, Columbine," he said. "I knew you'd feel badly aboutmy accident. But how could I send word to you?"
"You saved--Pronto," she returned, with a strong tremor in her voice. "Ican't thank you enough."
"That was a funny thing. Pronto went out of his head. I hope he's allright."
"He's almost well. It took some time to pick all the splinters out ofhim. He'll be all right soon--none the worse for that--that cowboy trickof Mister Jack Belllounds."
Columbine finished bitterly. Moore turned his thoughtful gaze away fromher.
"I hope Old Bill is well," he remarked, lamely.
"Have you told your folks of your accident?" asked Columbine, ignoringhis remark.
"No."
"Oh, Wilson, you ought to have sent for them, or have written at least."
"Me? To go crying for them when I got in trouble? I couldn't see it thatway."
"Wilson, you'll be going--home--soon--to Denver--won't you?" shefaltered.
"No," he replied, shortly.
"But what will you do? Surely you can't work--not so soon?"
"Columbine, I'll never--be able to ride again--like I used to," he said,tragically. "I'll ride, yes, but never the old way."
"Oh!" Columbine's tone, and the exquisite softness and tenderness withwhich she placed a hand on the rude crutch would have been enlighteningto any one but these two absorbed in themselves. "I can't bear tobelieve that."
"I'm afraid it's true. Bad smash, Columbine! I just missed beingclub-footed."
"You should have care. You should have.... Wilson, do you intend to stayhere with the Andrews?"
"Not much. They have troubles of their own. Columbine, I'm going tohomestead one hundred and sixty acres."
"Homestead!" she exclaimed, in amaze. "Where?"
"Up there under Old White Slides. I've long intended to. You know thatpretty little valley under the red bluff. There's a fine spring. You'vebeen there with me. There by the old cabin built by prospectors?"
"Yes, I know. It's a pretty place--fine valley, but Wils, you can't_live_ there," she expostulated.
"Why not, I'd like to know?"
"That little cubby-hole! It's only a tiny one-room cabin, roof all gone,chinks open, chimney crumbling.... Wilson, you don't mean to tell me youwant to live there alone?"
"Sure. What'd you think?" he replied, with sarcasm.
"Expect me to _marry_ some girl? Well, I wouldn't, even if any one wouldhave a cripple."
"Who--who will take care of you?" she asked, blushing furiously.
"I'll take care of myself," he declared. "Good Lord! Columbine, I'm notan invalid yet. I've got a few friends who'll help me fix up the cabin.And that reminds me. There's a lot of my stuff up in the bunk-house atWhite Slides. I'm going to drive up soon to haul it away."
"Wilson Moore, do you mean it?" she asked, with grave wonder. "Are yougoing to homestead near White Slides Ranch--and _live_ there--when--"
She could not finish. An overwhelming disaster, for
which she had noname, seemed to be impending.
"Yes, I am," he replied. "Funny how things turn out, isn't it?"
"It's very--very funny," she said, dazedly, and she turned slowly awaywithout another word.
"Good-by, Columbine," he called out after her, with farewell, indeed, inhis voice.
All the way home Columbine was occupied with feelings that swayed her tothe exclusion of rational consideration of the increasing perplexity ofher situation. And to make matters worse, when she arrived at the ranchit was to meet Jack Belllounds with a face as black as a thunder-cloud.
"The old man wants to see you," he announced, with an accent thatrecalled his threat of a few hours back.
"Does he?" queried Columbine, loftily. "From the courteous way you speakI imagine it's important."
Belllounds did not deign to reply to this. He sat on the porch, whereevidently he had awaited her return, and he looked anything but happy.
"Where is dad?" continued Columbine.
Jack motioned toward the second door, beyond which he sat, the one thatopened into the room the rancher used as a kind of office and storeroom.As Columbine walked by Jack he grasped her skirt.
"Columbine! you're angry?" he said, appealingly.
"I reckon I am," replied Columbine.
"Don't go in to dad when you're that way," implored Jack. "He's angry,too--and--and--it'll only make matters worse."
From long experience Columbine could divine when Jack had done somethingin the interest of self and then had awakened to possible consequences.She pulled away from him without replying, and knocked on theoffice door.
"Come in," called the rancher.
Columbine went in. "Hello, dad! Do you want me?"
Belllounds sat at an old table, bending over a soiled ledger, with astubby pencil in his huge hand. When he looked up Columbine gave alittle start.
"Where've you been?" he asked, gruffly.
"I've been calling on Mrs. Andrews," replied Columbine.
"Did you go thar to see her?"
"Why--certainly!" answered Columbine, with a slow break in her speech.
"You didn't go to meet Wilson Moore?"
"No."
"An' I reckon you'll say you hadn't heerd he was there?"
"I had not," flashed Columbine.
"Wal, _did_ you see him?"
"Yes, sir, I did, but quite by accident."
"Ahuh! Columbine, are you lyin' to me?"
The hot blood flooded to Columbine's cheeks, as if she had been struck ablow.
"_Dad_!" she cried, in hurt amaze.
Belllounds seemed thick, imponderable, as if something had forced acrisis in him and his brain was deeply involved. The habitual, cool,easy, bold, and frank attitude in the meeting of all situations seemedto have been encroached upon by a break, a bewilderment, a lessening ofconfidence.
"Wal, are you lyin'?" he repeated, either blind to or unaware of herdistress.
"I could not--lie to you," she faltered, "even--if--I wanted to."
The heavy, shadowed gaze of his big eyes was bent upon her as if she hadbecome a new and perplexing problem.
"But you seen Moore?"
"Yes--sir." Columbine's spirit rose.
"An' talked with him?"
"Of course."
"Lass, I ain't likin' thet, an' I ain't likin' the way you look an'speak."
"I am sorry. I can't help either."
"What'd this cowboy say to you?"
"We talked mostly about his injured foot."
"An' what else?" went on Belllounds, his voice rising.
"About--what he meant to do now."
"Ahuh! An' thet's homesteadin' the Sage Creek Valley?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you want him to do thet?"
"I! Indeed I didn't."
"Columbine, not so long ago you told me this fellar wasn't sweet on you.An' do you still say that to me--are you still insistin' he ain't inlove with you?"
"He never said so--I never believed it ... and now I'm sure--he isn't!"
"Ahuh! Wal, thet same day you was jest as sure you didn't care anythin'particular fer him. Are you thet sure now?"
"No!" whispered Columbine, very low. She trembled with a suggestion ofunknown forces. Not to save a new and growing pride would she evade anyquestion from this man upon whom she had no claim, to whom she owed herlife and her bringing up. But something cold formed in her.
Belllounds, self-centered and serious as he strangely was, seemed tocheck his probing, either from fear of hearing more from her or from anawakening of former kindness. But her reply was a shock to him, and,throwing down his pencil with the gesture of a man upon whom decisionwas forced, he rose to tower over her.
"You've been like a daughter to me. I've done all I knowed how fer you.I've lived up to the best of my lights. An' I've loved you," he said,sonorously and pathetically. "You know what my hopes are--fer theboy--an' fer you.... We needn't waste any more talk. From this minnityou're free to do as you like. Whatever you do won't make any change inmy carin' fer you.... But you gotta decide. Will you marry Jack or not?"
"I promised you--I would. I'll keep my word," replied Columbine,steadily.
"So far so good," went on the rancher. "I'm respectin' you fer what yousay.... An' now, _when_ will you marry him?"
The little room drifted around in Columbine's vague, blank sight. Allseemed to be drifting. She had no solid anchor.
"Any--day you say--the sooner the--better," she whispered.
"Wal, lass, I'm thankin' you," he replied, with voice that sounded afarto her. "An' I swear, if I didn't believe it's best fer Jack an' you,why I'd never let you marry.... So we'll set the day. October first!Thet's the day you was fetched to me a baby--more'n seventeenyears ago."
"October--first--then, dad," she said, brokenly, and she kissed him asif in token of what she knew she owed him. Then she went out, closingthe door behind her.
Jack, upon seeing her, hastily got up, with more than concern in hispale face.
"Columbine!" he cried, hoarsely. "How you look!... Tell me. Whathappened? Girl, don't tell me you've--you've--"
"Jack Belllounds," interrupted Columbine, in tragic amaze at this truthabout to issue from her lips, "I've promised to marry you--onOctober first."
He let out a shout of boyish exultation and suddenly clasped her in hisarms. But there was nothing boyish in the way he handled her, in thealmost savage evidence of possession. "Collie, I'm mad about you," hebegan, ardently. "You never let me tell you. And I've grown worse andworse. To-day I--when I saw you going down there--where that WilsonMoore is--I got terribly jealous. I was sick. I'd been glad to killhim!... It made me see how I loved you. Oh, I didn't know. But now ...Oh, I'm mad for you!" He crushed her to him, unmindful of her struggles;his face and neck were red; his eyes on fire. And he began trying tokiss her mouth, but failed, as she struggled desperately. His kissesfell upon cheek and ear and hair.
"Let me--go!" panted Columbine. "You've no--no--Oh, you might havewaited." Breaking from him, she fled, and got inside her room with thedoor almost closed, when his foot intercepted it.
Belllounds was half laughing his exultation, half furious at her escape,and altogether beside himself.
"No," she replied, so violently that it appeared to awake him to thefact that there was some one besides himself to consider.
"Aw!" He heaved a deep sigh. "All right. I won't try to get in. Onlylisten.... Collie, don't mind my--my way of showing you how I felt. Factis, I went plumb off my head. Is that any wonder, you--you darling--whenI've been so scared you'd never have me? Collie, I've felt that you werethe one thing in the world I wanted most and would never get. Butnow.... October first! Listen. I promise you I'll not drink anymore--nor gamble--nor nag dad for money. I don't like his way of runningthe ranch, but I'll do it, as long as he lives. I'll even try totolerate that club-footed cowboy's brass in homesteading a ranch rightunder my nose. I'll--I'll do anything you ask of me."
"Then--please--go away!" cri
ed Columbine, with a sob.
When he was gone Columbine barred the door and threw herself upon herbed to shut out the light and to give vent to her surcharged emotions.She wept like a girl whose youth was ending; and after the paroxysm hadpassed, leaving her weak and strangely changed, she tried to reason outwhat had happened to her. Over and over again she named the appeal ofthe rancher, the sense of her duty, the decision she had reached, andthe disgust and terror inspired in her by Jack Belllounds's reception ofher promise. These were facts of the day and they had made of her apalpitating, unhappy creature, who nevertheless had been brave to facethe rancher and confess that which she had scarce confessed to herself.But now she trembled and cringed on the verge of a catastrophe thatwithheld its whole truth.
"I begin to see now," she whispered, after the thought had come and goneand returned to change again. "If Wilson had--cared for me I--I mighthave--cared, too.... But I do--care--something. I couldn't lie to dad.Only I'm not sure--how much. I never dreamed of--of _loving_ him, or anyone. It's so strange. All at once I feel old. And I can't understandthese--these feelings that shake me."
So Columbine brooded over the trouble that had come to her, neverregretting her promise to the old rancher, but growing keener in therealization of a complexity in her nature that sooner or later wouldseparate the life of her duty from the life of her desire. She seemedall alone, and when this feeling possessed her a strange reminder of thehunter Wade flashed up. She stifled another impulse to confide in him.Wade had the softness of a woman, and his face was a record of thetrials and travails through which he had come unhardened, unembittered.Yet how could she tell her troubles to him? A stranger, a rough man ofthe wilds, whose name had preceded him, notorious and deadly, with thatvital tang of the West in its meaning! Nevertheless, Wade drew her, andshe thought of him until the recurring memory of Jack Belllounds's rudeclasp again crept over her with an augmenting disgust and fear. Must shesubmit to that? Had she promised that? And then Columbine felt thedawning of realities.
