by Zane Grey
“No name but Columbine,” she whispered, sadly, and now she understood a strange longing of her heart.
Scarcely an hour back, as she ran down the wide porch of White Slides ranch-house, she had encountered the man who had taken care of her all her life. He had looked upon her as kindly and fatherly as of old, yet with a difference. She seemed to see him as old Bill Belllounds, pioneer and rancher, of huge frame and broad face, hard and scarred and grizzled, with big eyes of blue fire.
“Collie,” the old man had said, “I reckon hyar’s news. A letter from Jack.… He’s comin’ home.”
Belllounds had waved the letter. His huge hand trembled as he reached to put it on her shoulder. The hardness of him seemed strangely softened. Jack was his son. Buster Jack, the range had always called him, with other terms, less kind, that never got to the ears of his father. Jack had been sent away three years ago, just before Columbine’s return from school. Therefore she had not seen him for over seven years. But she remembered him well—a big, rangy boy, handsome and wild, who had made her childhood almost unendurable.
“Yes—my son—Jack—he’s comin’ home,” said Belllounds, with a break in his voice. “An’, Collie—now I must tell you somethin’.”
“Yes, dad,” she had replied, with strong clasp of the heavy hand on her shoulder.
“Thet’s just it, lass. I ain’t your dad. I’ve tried to be a dad to you an’ I’ve loved you as my own. But you’re not flesh an’ blood of mine. An’ now I must tell you.”
The brief story followed. Seventeen years ago miners working a claim of Belllounds’s in the mountains above Middle Park had found a child asleep in the columbines along the trail. Near that point Indians, probably Arapahoes coming across the mountains to attack the Utes, had captured or killed the occupants of a prairie-schooner. There was no other clue. The miners took the child to their camp, fed and cared for it, and, after the manner of their kind, named it Columbine. Then they brought it to Belllounds.
“Collie,” said the old rancher, “it needn’t never have been told, an’ wouldn’t but fer one reason. I’m gettin’ old. I reckon I’d never split my property between you an’ Jack. So I mean you an’ him to marry. You always steadied Jack. With a wife like you’ll be—wal, mebbe Jack’ll—”
“Dad!” burst out Columbine. “Marry Jack!… Why I—I don’t even remember him!”
“Haw! Haw!” laughed Belllounds. “Wal, you dog-gone soon will. Jack’s in Kremmlin’, an’ he’ll be hyar to-night or to-morrow.”
“But—I—I don’t l-love him,” faltered Columbine.
The old man lost his mirth; the strong-lined face resumed its hard cast; the big eyes smoldered. Her appealing objection had wounded him. She was reminded of how sensitive the old man had always been to any reflection cast upon his son.
“Wal, thet’s onlucky,” he replied, gruffly. “Mebbe you’ll change. I reckon no girl could help a boy much, onless she cared for him. Anyway, you an’ Jack will marry.”
He had stalked away and Columbine had ridden her mustang far up the valley slope where she could be alone. Standing on the verge of the bluff, she suddenly became aware that the quiet and solitude of her lonely resting-place had been disrupted. Cattle were bawling below her and along the slope of Old White Slides and on the grassy uplands above. She had forgotten that the cattle were being driven down into the lowlands for the fall round-up. A great red-and-white-spotted herd was milling in the park just beneath her. Calves and yearlings were making the dust fly along the mountain slope; wild old steers were crashing in the sage, holding level, unwilling to be driven down; cows were running and lowing for their lost ones. Melodious and clear rose the clarion calls of the cowboys. The cattle knew those calls and only the wild steers kept up-grade.
Columbine also knew each call and to which cowboy it belonged. They sang and yelled and swore, but it was all music to her. Here and there along the slope, where the aspen groves clustered, a horse would flash across an open space; the dust would fly, and a cowboy would peal out a lusty yell that rang along the slope and echoed under the bluff and lingered long after the daring rider had vanished in the steep thickets.
“I wonder which is Wils,” murmured Columbine, as she watched and listened, vaguely conscious of a little difference, a strange check in her remembrance of this particular cowboy. She felt the change, yet did not understand. One after one she recognized the riders on the slopes below, but Wilson Moore was not among them. He must be above her, then, and she turned to gaze across the grassy bluff, up the long, yellow slope, to where the gleaming aspens half hid a red bluff of mountain, towering aloft. Then from far to her left, high up a scrubby ridge of the slope, rang down a voice that thrilled her: “Go—aloong—you—ooooo.” Red cattle dashed pell-mell down the slope, raising the dust, tearing the brush, rolling rocks, and letting out hoarse bawls.
“Whoop-ee!” High-pitched and pealing came a clearer yell.
Columbine saw a white mustang flash out on top of the ridge, silhouetted against the blue, with mane and tail flying. His gait on that edge of steep slope proved his rider to be a reckless cowboy for whom no heights or depths had terrors. She would have recognized him from the way he rode, if she had not known the slim, erect figure. The cowboy saw her instantly. He pulled the mustang, about to plunge down the slope and lifted him, rearing and wheeling. Then Columbine waved her hand. The cowboy spurred his horse along the crest of the ridge, disappeared behind the grove of aspens, and came in sight again around to the right, where on the grassy bench he slowed to a walk in descent to the bluff.
The girl watched him come, conscious of an unfamiliar sense of uncertainty in this meeting, and of the fact that she was seeing him differently from any other time in the years he had been a playmate, a friend almost like a brother. He had ridden for Belllounds for years, and was a cowboy because he loved cattle well and horses better, and above all a life in the open. Unlike most cowboys, he had been to school; he had a family in Denver that objected to his wild range life, and often importuned him to come home; he seemed aloof sometimes and not readily understood.
While many thoughts whirled through Columbine’s mind she watched the cowboy ride slowly down to her, and she became more concerned with a sudden restraint. How was Wilson going to take the news of this forced change about to come in her life? That thought leaped up. It gave her a strange pang. But she and he were only good friends. As to that, she reflected, of late they had not been the friends and comrades they formerly were. In the thrilling uncertainty of this meeting she had forgotten his distant manner and the absence of little attentions she had missed.
By this time the cowboy had reached the level, and with the lazy grace of his kind slipped out of the saddle. He was tall, slim, round-limbed, with the small hips of a rider, and square, though not broad shoulders. He stood straight like an Indian. His eyes were hazel, his features regular, his face bronzed. All men of the open had still, lean, strong faces, but added to this in him was a steadiness of expression, a restraint that seemed to hide sadness.
“Howdy, Columbine!” he said. “What are you doing up here? You might get run over.”
“Hello, Wils!” she replied, slowly. “Oh, I guess I can keep out of the way.”
“Some bad steers in that bunch. If any of them run over here Pronto will leave you to walk home. That mustang hates cattle. And he’s only half broke, you know.”
“I forgot you were driving to-day,” she replied, and looked away from him. There was a moment’s pause—long, it seemed to her.
“What’d you come for?” he asked, curiously.
“I wanted to gather columbines. See.” She held out the nodding flowers toward him. “Take one.… Do you like them?”
“Yes. I like columbine,” he replied, taking one of them. His keen hazel eyes, softened, darkened. “Colorado’s flower.”
“Columbine!… It is my name.”
“Well, could you have a better? It sure suits you.”
“Why?�
� she asked, and she looked at him again.
“You’re slender—graceful. You sort of hold your head high and proud. Your skin is white. Your eyes are blue. Not bluebell blue, but columbine blue—and they turn purple when you’re angry.”
“Compliments! Wilson, this is new kind of talk for you,” she said.
“You’re different to-day.”
“Yes, I am.” She looked across the valley toward the westering sun, and the slight flush faded from her cheeks. “I have no right to hold my head proud. No one knows who I am—where I came from.”
“As if that made any difference!” he exclaimed.
“Belllounds is not my dad. I have no dad. I was a waif. They found me in the woods—a baby—lost among the flowers. Columbine Belllounds I’ve always been. But that is not my name. No one can tell what my name really is.”
“I knew your story years ago, Columbine,” he replied, earnestly. “Everybody knows. Old Bill ought to have told you long before this. But he loves you. So does—everybody. You must not let this knowledge sadden you.… I’m sorry you’ve never known a mother or a sister. Why, I could tell you of many orphans who—whose stories were different.”
“You don’t understand. I’ve been happy. I’ve not longed for any—any one except a mother. It’s only—”
“What don’t I understand?”
“I’ve not told you all.”
“No? Well, go on,” he said, slowly.
Meaning of the hesitation and the restraint that had obstructed her thought now flashed over Columbine. It lay in what Wilson Moore might think of her prospective marriage to Jack Belllounds. Still she could not guess why that should make her feel strangely uncertain of the ground she stood on or how it could cause a constraint she had to fight herself to hide. Moreover, to her annoyance, she found that she was evading his direct request for the news she had withheld.
“Jack Belllounds is coming home to-night or to-morrow,” she said. Then, waiting for her companion to reply, she kept an unseeing gaze upon the scanty pines fringing Old White Slides. But no reply appeared to be forthcoming from Moore. His silence compelled her to turn to him. The cowboy’s face had subtly altered; it was darker with a tinge of red under the bronze; and his lower lip was released from his teeth, even as she looked. He had his eyes intent upon the lasso he was coiling. Suddenly he faced her and the dark fire of his eyes gave her a shock.
“I’ve been expecting that shorthorn back for months.” he said, bluntly.
“You—never—liked Jack?” queried Columbine, slowly. That was not what she wanted to say, but the thought spoke itself.
“I should smile I never did.”
“Ever since you and he fought—long ago—all over—”
His sharp gesture made the coiled lasso loosen.
“Ever since I licked him good—don’t forget that,” interrupted Wilson. The red had faded from the bronze.
“Yes, you licked him,” mused Columbine. “I remember that. And Jack’s hated you ever since.”
“There’s been no love lost.”
“But, Wils, you never before talked this way—spoke out so—against Jack,” she protested.
“Well, I’m not the kind to talk behind a fellow’s back. But I’m not mealy-mouthed, either, and—and—”
He did not complete the sentence and his meaning was enigmatic. Altogether Moore seemed not like himself. The fact disturbed Columbine. Always she had confided in him. Here was a most complex situation—she burned to tell him, yet somehow feared to—she felt an incomprehensible satisfaction in his bitter reference to Jack—she seemed to realize that she valued Wilson’s friendship more than she had known, and now for some strange reason it was slipping from her.
“We—we were such good friends—pards,” said Columbine, hurriedly and irrelevantly.
“Who?” He stared at her.
“Why, you—and me.”
“Oh!” His tone softened, but there was still disapproval in his glance. “What of that?”
“Something has happened to make me think I’ve missed you—lately—that’s all.”
“Ahuh!” His tone held finality and bitterness, but he would not commit himself. Columbine sensed a pride in him that seemed the cause of his aloofness.
“Wilson, why have you been different lately?” she asked, plaintively.
“What’s the good to tell you now?” he queried, in reply.
That gave her a blank sense of actual loss. She had lived in dreams and he in realities. Right now she could not dispel her dream—see and understand all that he seemed to. She felt like a child, then, growing old swiftly. The strange past longing for a mother surged up in her like a strong tide. Some one to lean on, some one who loved her, some one to help her in this hour when fatality knocked at the door of her youth—how she needed that!
“It might be bad for me—to tell me, but tell me, anyhow,” she said, finally, answering as some one older than she had been an hour ago—to something feminine that leaped up. She did not understand this impulse, but it was in her.
“No!” declared Moore, with dark red staining his face. He slapped the lasso against his saddle, and tied it with clumsy hands. He did not look at her. His tone expressed anger and amaze.
“Dad says I must marry Jack,” she said, with a sudden return to her natural simplicity.
“I heard him tell that months ago,” snapped Moore.
“You did! Was that—why?” she whispered.
“It was,” he answered, ringingly.
“But that was no reason for you to be—be—to stay away from me,” she declared, with rising spirit.
He laughed shortly.
“Wils, didn’t you like me any more after dad said that?” she queried.
“Columbine, a girl nineteen years and about to—to get married—ought not be a fool,” he replied, with sarcasm.
“I’m not a fool,” she rejoined, hotly.
“You ask fool questions.”
“Well, you didn’t like me afterward or you’d never have mistreated me.”
“If you say I mistreated you—you say what’s untrue,” he replied, just as hotly.
They had never been so near a quarrel before. Columbine experienced a sensation new to her—a commingling of fear, heat, and pang, it seemed, all in one throb. Wilson was hurting her. A quiver ran all over her, along her veins, swelling and tingling.
“You mean I lie?” she flashed.
“Yes, I do—if—”
But before he could conclude she slapped his face. It grew pale then, while she began to tremble.
“Oh—I didn’t intend that. Forgive me,” she faltered.
He rubbed his cheek. The hurt had not been great, so far as the blow was concerned. But his eyes were dark with pain and anger.
“Oh, don’t distress yourself,” he burst out. “You slapped me before—once, years ago—for kissing you. I—I apologize for saying you lied. You’re only out of your head. So am I.”
That poured oil upon the troubled waters. The cowboy appeared to be hesitating between sudden flight and the risk of staying longer.
“Maybe that’s it,” replied Columbine, with a half-laugh. She was not far from tears and fury with herself. “Let us make up—be friends again.”
Moore squared around aggressively. He seemed to fortify himself against something in her. She felt that. But his face grew harder and older than she had ever seen it.
“Columbine, do you know where Jack Belllounds has been for these three years?” he asked, deliberately, entirely ignoring her overtures of friendship.
“No. Somebody said Denver. Some one else said Kansas City. I never asked dad, because I knew Jack had been sent away. I’ve supposed he was working—making a man of himself.”
“Well, I hope to Heaven—for your sake—what you suppose comes true,” returned Moore, with exceeding bitterness.
“Do you know where he has been?” asked Columbine. Some strange feeling prompted that. There was a mystery here. Wilson’
s agitation seemed strange and deep.
“Yes, I do.” The cowboy bit that out through closing teeth, as if locking them against an almost overmastering temptation.
Columbine lost her curiosity. She was woman enough to realize that there might well be facts which would only make her situation harder.
“Wilson,” she began, hurriedly, “I owe all I am to dad. He has cared for me—sent me to school. He has been so good to me. I’ve loved him always. It would be a shabby return for all his protection and love if—if I refused—”
“Old Bill is the best man ever,” interrupted Moore, as if to repudiate any hint of disloyalty to his employer. “Everybody in Middle Park and all over owes Bill something. He’s sure good. There never was anything wrong with him except his crazy blindness about his son. Buster Jack—the—the—”
Columbine put a hand over Moore’s lips.
“The man I must marry,” she said, solemnly.
“You must—you will?” he demanded.
“Of course. What else could I do? I never thought of refusing.”
“Columbine!” Wilson’s cry was so poignant, his gesture so violent, his dark eyes so piercing that Columbine sustained a shock that held her trembling and mute. “How can you love Jack Belllounds? You were twelve years old when you saw him last. How can you love him?”
“I don’t,” replied Columbine.
“Then how could you marry him?”
“I owe dad obedience. It’s his hope that I can steady Jack.”
“Steady Jack!” exclaimed Moore, passionately. “Why, you girl—you white-faced flower! You with your innocence and sweetness steady that damned pup! My Heavens! He was a gambler and a drunkard. He—”
“Hush!” implored Columbine.
“He cheated at cards,” declared the cowboy, with a scorn that placed that vice as utterly base.
“But Jack was only a wild boy,” replied Columbine, trying with brave words to champion the son of the man she loved as her father. “He has been sent away to work. He’ll have outgrown that wildness. He’ll come home a man.”
“Bah!” cried Moore, harshly.
