by Zane Grey
“But we’ve gotta hawg-tie him,” protested the cowboy.
“Yes, I know. And you’re going to be gentle about it.”
Jim scratched his sandy head and looked at his comrade, a little gnarled fellow, like the bleached root of a tree. He seemed all legs.
“You hear, you Wyomin’ galoot,” he said to Jim. “Them shoes goes on Whang right gentle.”
Jim grinned, and turned to speak to his mustang. “Whang, the law’s laid down an’ we wanta see how much hoss sense you hev.”
The shaggy mustang did not appear to be favorably impressed by this speech. It was a mighty distrustful look he bent upon the speaker.
“Jim, seein’ as how this here job’s aboot the last Miss Collie will ever boss us on, we gotta do it without Whang turnin’ a hair,” drawled the other cowboy.
“Lem, why is this the last job I’ll ever boss you boys?” demanded Columbine, quickly.
Jim gazed quizzically at her, and Lem assumed that blank, innocent face Columbine always associated with cowboy deviltry.
“Wal, Miss Collie, we reckon the new boss of White Slides rode in today.”
“You mean Jack Bellounds came home,” said Columbine. “Well, I’ll boss you boys the same as always.”
“Thet’d be mighty fine for us, but I’m feared it ain’t writ in the fatal history of White Slides,” replied Jim.
“Buster Jack will run over the ole man an’ marry you,” added Lem.
“Oh, so that’s your idea,” rejoined Columbine, lightly. “Well, if such a thing did come to pass I’d be your boss more than ever.”
“I reckon no, Miss Collie, for we’ll not be ridin’ fer White Sides,” said Jim, simply.
Columbine had sensed this very significance long before when the possibility of Buster Jack’s return had been rumored. She knew cowboys. As well try to change the rocks of the hills!
“Boys, the day you leave White Slides will be a sad one for me,” sighed Columbine.
“Miss Collie, we ain’t gone yet,” put in Lem, with awkward softness. “Jim has long hankered fer Wyomin’ an’ he jest talks thet way.”
Then the cowboys turned to the business in hand. Jim removed the saddle, but left the bridle on. This move, of course, deceived Whang. He had been broken to stand while his bridle hung, and, like a horse that would have been good if given a chance, he obeyed as best he could, shaking in every limb. Jim, apparently to hobble Whang, roped his forelegs together, low down, but suddenly slipped the rope over the knees. Then Whang knew he had been deceived. He snorted fire, let out a scream, and, rearing on his hind legs, he pawed the air savagely. Jim hauled on the rope while Whang screamed and fought with his forefeet high in the air. Then Jim, with a powerful jerk, pulled Whang down and threw him, while Lem, seizing the bridle, hauled him over on his side and sat upon his head. Whereupon Jim slipped the loop off one front hoof and pulled the other leg back across one of the hind ones, where both were secured by a quick hitch. Then the lasso was wound and looped around front and back hoofs together. When this had been done the mustang was rolled over on his other side, his free front hoof lassoed and pulled back to the hind one, where both were secured, as had been the others. This rendered the mustang powerless, and the shoeing proceeded.
Columbine hated to sit by and watch it, but she always stuck to her post, when opportunity afforded, because she knew the cowboys would not be brutal while she was there.
“Wal, he’ll step high to-morrer,” said Lem, as he got up from his seat on the head of Whang.
“Ahuh! An’, like a mule, he’ll be my friend fer twenty years jest to get a chance to kick me.” replied Jim.
For Columbine, the most interesting moment of this incident was when the mustang raised his head to look at his legs, in order to see what had been done to them. There was something almost human in that look. It expressed intelligence and fear and fury.
The cowboys released his legs and let him get up. Whang stamped his iron-shod hoofs.
“It was a mean trick, Whang,” said Columbine. “If I owned you that’d never be done to you.”
“I reckon you can have him fer the askin’,” said Jim, as he threw on the saddle. “Nobody but me can ride him. Do you want to try?”
“Not in these clothes,” replied Columbine, laughing.
“Wal, Miss Collie, you’re shore dressed up fine today, fer some reason or other,” said Lem, shaking his head, while he gathered up the tools from the ground.
“Ahuh! An’ here comes the reason,” exclaimed Jim, in low, hoarse whisper.
Columbine heard the whisper and at the same instant a sharp footfall on the gravel road. She quickly turned, almost losing her balance. And she recognized Jack Bellounds. The boy Buster Jack she remembered so well was approaching, now a young man, taller, heavier, older, with paler face and bolder look. Columbine had feared this meeting, had prepared herself for it. But all she felt when it came was annoyance at the fact that he had caught her sitting on top of the corral fence, with little regard for dignity. It did not occur to her to jump down. She merely sat straight, smoothed down her skirt, and waited.
Jim led the mustang out of the corral and Lem followed. It looked as if they wanted to avoid the young man, but he prevented that.
“Howdy, boys! I’m Jack Bellounds,” he said, rather loftily. But his manner was nonchalant. He did not offer to shake hands.
Jim mumbled something, and Lem said, “Hod do.”
“That’s an ornery—looking bronc,” went on Bellounds, and he reached with careless hand for the mustang. Whang jerked so hard that he pulled Jim half over.
“Wal, he ain’t a bronc, but I reckon he’s all the rest.” drawled Jim.
Both cowboys seemed slow, careless. They were neither indifferent nor responsive. Columbine saw their keen, steady glances go over Bellounds. Then she took a second and less hasty look at him. He wore high-heeled, fancy-topped boots, tight-fitting trousers of dark material, a heavy belt with silver buckle, and a white, soft shirt, with wide collar, open at the neck. He was bareheaded.
“I’m going to run White Slides,” he said to the cowboys. “What’re your names?”
Columbine wanted to giggle, which impulse she smothered. The idea of anyone asking Jim his name! She had never been able to find out.
“My handle is Lemuel Archibawld Billings,” replied Lem, blandly. The middle name was an addition no one had ever heard.
Bellounds then directed his glance and steps toward the girl. The cowboys dropped their heads and shuffled on their way.
“There’s only one girl on the ranch,” said Bellounds, “so you must be Columbine.”
“Yes. And you’re Jack,” she replied, and slipped off the fence. “I’m glad to welcome you home.”
She offered her hand, and he held it until she extricated it. There was genuine surprise and pleasure in his expression.
“Well, I’d never have known you,” he said, surveying her from head to foot. “It’s funny. I had the clearest picture of you in mind. But you’re not at all like I imagined. The Columbine I remember was thin, white-faced, and all eyes.”
“It’s been a long time. Seven years,” she replied. “But I knew you. You’re older, taller, bigger, but the same Buster Jack.”
“I hope not,” he said, frankly condemning that former self. “Dad needs me. He wants me to take charge here—to be a man. I’m back now. It’s good to be home. I never was worth much. Lord! I hope I don’t disappoint him again.”
“I hope so, too,” she murmured. To hear him talk frankly, seriously, like this counteracted the unfavorable impression she had received. He seemed earnest. He looked down at the ground, where he was pushing little pebbles with the toe of his boot. She had a good opportunity to study his face, and availed herself of it. He did look like his father, with his big, handsome head, and his blue eyes, bolder perhaps from their prominence than from any direct gaze or fire. His face was pale, and shadowed by worry or discontent. It seemed as though a repressed chara
cter showed there. His mouth and chin were undisciplined. Columbine could not imagine that she despised anything she saw in the features of this young man. Yet there was something about him that held her aloof. She had made up her mind to do her part unselfishly. She would find the best in him, like him for it, be strong to endure and to help. Yet she had no power to control her vague and strange perceptions. Why was it that she could not feel in him what she liked in Jim Montana or Lem or Wilson Moore?
“This was my second long stay away from home,” said Bellounds. “The first was when I went to school in Kansas City. I liked that. I was sorry when they turned me out—sent me home.… But the last three years were hell.”
His face worked, and a shade of dark blood rippled over it.
“Did you work?” queried Columbine.
“Work! It was worse than work.… Sure I worked,” he replied.
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.”
“Then you’ll make dad and me happy. You’ll be happy, too.”
Columbine thrilled at the touch of fineness coming out in him. There was good in him, whatever the mad, wild pranks of his boyhood.
“Dad wants us to marry,” he said, suddenly, with shyness and a strange, amused smile. “Isn’t that funny? You and me—who used to fight like cat and dog! Do you remember the time I pushed you into the old mud-hole? And you lay in wait for me, behind the house, to hit me with a rotten cabbage?”
“Yes, I remember,” replied Columbine, dreamily. “It seems so long ago.”
“And the time you ate my pie, and how I got even by tearing off your little dress, so you had to run home almost without a stitch on?”
“Guess I’ve forgotten that,” replied Columbine, with a blush. “I must have been very little then.”
“You were a little devil.… Do you remember the fight I had with Moore—about you?”
She did not answer, for she disliked the fleeting expression that crossed his face. He remembered too well.
“I’ll settle that score with Moore,” he went on. “Besides, I won’t have him on the ranch.”
“Dad needs good hands,” she said, with her eyes on the gray sage slopes. Mention of Wilson Moore augmented the aloofness in her. An annoyance pricked along her veins.
“Before we get any farther I’d like to know something. Has Moore ever made love to you?”
Columbine felt that prickling augment to a hot, sharp wave of blood. Why was she at the mercy of strange, quick, unfamiliar sensations? Why did she hesitate over that natural query from Jack Bellounds?
“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. His question, kindly put, did not affront her, for it had been expected. But his actual presence, the meaning of his words, stirred in her an unutterable spirit of protest. She had already in her will consented to the demand of the old man; she was learning now, however, that she could not force her flesh to consent to a surrender it did not desire.
“Yes, I’m willing,” she replied, bravely.
“Soon?” he flashed, with an eager difference in his voice.
“If I had my way it’d not be—too soon,” she faltered. Her downcast eyes had seen the stride he had made closer to her, and she wanted to run.
“Why? Dad thinks it’d be good for me,” went on Bellounds, now, with strong, self-centered thought. “It’d give me responsibility. I reckon I need it. Why not soon?”
“Wouldn’t it be better to wait awhile?” she asked. “We do not know each other—let alone care—”
“Columbine, I’ve fallen in love with you.” he declared, hotly.
“Oh, how could you!” cried Columbine, incredulously.
“Why, I always was moony over you—when we were kids,” he said. “And now to meet you grown up like this—so pretty and sweet—such a—a healthy, blooming girl.… And dad’s word that you’d be my wife soon—mine—why, I just went off my head at sight of you.”
Columbine looked up at him and was reminded of how, as a boy, he had always taken a quick, passionate longing for things he must and would have. And his father had not denied him. It might really be that Jack had suddenly fallen in love with her.
“Would you want to take me without my—my love?” she asked, very low. “I don’t love you now. I might some time, if you were good—if you made dad happy—if you conquered—”
“Take you! I’d take you if you—if you hated me,” he replied, now in the grip of passion.
“I’ll tell dad how I feel,” she said, faintly, “and—and marry you when he says.”
He kissed her, would have embraced her had she not put him back.
“Don’t! Some—someone will see.”
“Columbine, we’re engaged,” he asserted, with a laugh of possession. “Say, you needn’t look so white and scared. I won’t eat you. But I’d like to.… Oh, you’re a sweet girl! Here I was hating to come home. And look at my luck!”
Then with a sudden change, that seemed significant of his character, he lost his ardor, dropped the half-bold, half-masterful air, and showed the softer side.
“Collie, I never was any good,” he said. “But I want to be better. I’ll prove it. I’ll make a clean breast of everything. I won’t marry you with any secret between us. You might find out afterward and hate me.… Do you have any idea where I’ve been these last three years?”
“No,” answered Columbine.
“I’ll tell you right now. But you must promise never to mention it to anyone—or throw it up to me—ever.”
He spoke hoarsely, and had grown quite white. Suddenly Columbine thought of Wilson Moore! He had known where Jack had spent those years. He had resisted a strong temptation to tell her. That was as noble in him as the implication of Jack’s whereabouts had been base.
“Jack, that is big of you,” she replied, hurriedly. “I respect you—like you for it. But you needn’t tell me. I’d rather you didn’t. I’ll take the will for the deed.”
Bellounds evidently experienced a poignant shock of amaze, of relief, of wonder, of gratitude. In an instant he seemed transformed.
“Collie, if I hadn’t loved you before I’d love you now. That was going to be the hardest job I ever had—to tell you my—my story. I meant it. And now I’ll not have to feel your shame for me and I’ll not feel I’m a cheat or a liar.… But I will tell you this—if you love me you’ll make a man of me!”
CHAPTER III
The rancher thought it best to wait till after the round-up before he turned over the foremanship to his son. This was wise, but Jack did not see it that way. He showed that his old, intolerant spirit had, if anything, grown during his absence. Bellounds patiently argued with him, explaining what certainly should have been clear to a young man brought up in Colorado. The fall round-up was the most important time of the year, and during the strenuous drive the appointed foreman should have absolute control. Jack gave in finally with a bad grace.
It was unfortunate that he went directly from his father’s presence out to the corrals. Some of the cowboys who had ridden all the day before and stood guard all night had just come in. They were begrimed with dust, weary, and sleepy-eyed.
“This hyar outfit won’t see my tracks no more,” said one, disgustedly. “I never kicked on doin’ two men’s work. But when it comes to rustlin’ day and night, all the time, I’m a-goin’ to pass.”
&nb
sp; “Turn in, boys, and sleep till we get back with the chuck-wagon,” said Wilson Moore. “We’ll clean up that bunch today.”
“Ain’t you tired, Wils?” queried Bludsoe, a squat, bow-legged cowpuncher who appeared to be crippled or very lame.
“Me? Naw!” grunted Moore, derisively. “Blud, you sure ask fool questions.… Why, you—mahogany-colored, stump-legged, biped of a cowpuncher, I’ve had three hours’ sleep in four nights!”
“What’s a biped?” asked Bludsoe, dubiously.
Nobody enlightened him.
“Wils, you-all air the only eddicated cowman I ever loved, but I’m a son-of-a-gun if we ain’t agoin’ to come to blows some day,” declared Bludsoe.
“He shore can sling English,” drawled Lem Billings. “I reckon he swallowed a dictionary onct.”
“Wal, he can sling a rope, too, an’ thet evens up,” added Jim Montana.
Just at this moment Jack Bellounds appeared upon the scene. The cowboys took no notice of him. Jim was bandaging a leg of his horse; Bludsoe was wearily gathering up his saddle and trappings; Lem was giving his tired mustang a parting slap that meant much. Moore evidently awaited a fresh mount. A Mexican lad had come in out of the pasture leading several horses, one of which was the mottled white mustang that Moore rode most of the time.
Bellounds lounged forward with interest as Moore whistled, and the mustang showed his pleasure. Manifestly he did not like the Mexican boy and he did like Moore.
“Spottie, it’s drag yearlings around for you today,” said the cowboy, as he caught the mustang. Spottie tossed his head and stepped high until the bridle was on. When the saddle was thrown and strapped in place the mustang showed to advantage. He was beautiful, but not too graceful or sleek or fine-pointed or prancing to prejudice any cowboy against his qualities for work.
Jack Bellounds admiringly walked all around the mustang a little too close to please Spottie.
“Moore, he’s a fair-to-middling horse,” said Bellounds, with the air of judge of horseflesh. “What’s his name?”
“Spottie,” replied Moore, shortly, as he made ready to mount.
“Hold on, will you!” ordered Jack, peremptorily. “I like this horse. I want to look him over.”
