by Zane Grey
Next moment Jack Belllounds galloped a foam-lashed horse into the courtyard and hauled up short with a recklessness he was noted for. He swung down hard and violently cast the reins from him.
“Ahuh! I gambled on just this,” he declared, harshly.
Columbine’s heart sank. His gaze was fixed on her face, with its telltale evidences of agitation.
“What’ve you been crying about?” he demanded.
“I haven’t been,” she retorted.
His bold and glaring eyes, hot with sudden temper, passed slowly from her to the cowboy. Columbine became aware then that Jack was under the influence of liquor. His heated red face grew darker with a sneering contempt.
“Where’s dad?” he asked, wheeling toward her.
“I don’t know. He’s not here,” replied Columbine, dismounting. The leap of thought and blood to Jack’s face gave her a further sinking of the heart. The situation unnerved her.
Wilson Moore had grown a shade paler. He gathered up his reins, ready to drive off.
“Belllounds, I came up after my things I’d left in the bunk,” he said, coolly. “Happened to meet Columbine and stopped to chat a minute.”
“That’s what you say,” sneered Belllounds. “You were making love to Columbine. I saw that in her face. You know it—and she knows it—and I know it.… You’re a liar!”
“Belllounds, I reckon I am,” replied Moore, turning white. “I did tell Columbine what I thought she knew—what I ought to have told long ago.”
“Ahuh! Well, I don’t want to hear it. But I’m going to search that wagon.”
“What!” ejaculated the cowboy, dropping his reins as if they stung him.
“You just hold on till I see what you’ve got in there,” went on Belllounds, and he reached over into the wagon and pulled at a saddle.
“Say, do you mean anything?… This stuff’s mine, every strap of it. Take your hands off.”
Belllounds leaned on the wagon and looked up with insolent, dark intent.
“Moore, I wouldn’t trust you. I think you’d steal anything you got your hands on.”
Columbine uttered a passionate little cry of shame and protest.
“Jack, how dare you!”
“You shut up! Go in the house!” he ordered.
“You insult me,” she replied, in bitter humiliation.
“Will you go in?” he shouted.
“No, I won’t.”
“All right, look on, then. I’d just as lief have you.” Then he turned to the cowboy. “Moore, show up that wagon-load of stuff unless you want me to throw it out in the road.”
“Belllounds, you know I can’t do that,” replied Moore, coldly. “And I’ll give you a hunch. You’d better shut up yourself and let me drive on.… If not for her sake, then for your own.”
Belllounds grasped the reins, and with a sudden jerk pulled them out of the cowboy’s hands.
“You damn club-foot! Your gift of gab doesn’t go with me,” yelled Belllounds, as he swung up on the hub of the wheel. But it was manifest that his desire to search the wagon was only a pretense, for while he pulled at this and that his evil gaze was on the cowboy, keen to meet any move that might give excuse for violence. Moore evidently read this, for, gazing at Columbine, he shook his head, as if to acquaint her with a situation impossible to help.
“Columbine, please hand me up the reins,” he said. “I’m lame, you know. Then I’ll be going.”
Columbine stepped forward to comply, when Belllounds, leaping down from the wheel, pushed her back with masterful hand. Opposition to him was like waving a red flag in the face of a bull. Columbine recoiled from his look as well as touch.
“You keep out of this or I’ll teach you who’s boss here,” he said, stridently.
“You’re going too far!” burst out Columbine.
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. His face grew corded and black. The hand he thrust out shook like a leaf. “You smooth-tongued liar! I’m on to your game. I know you’d put her against me. I know you’d try to win her—less than a week before her wedding-day.… But it’s not for that I’m going to beat hell out of you! It’s because I hate you! Ever since I can remember my father held you up to me! And he sent me to—to—he sent me away because of you. By God! that’s why I hate you!”
All that was primitive and violent and base came out with strange frankness in Belllounds’s tirade. Only when calm could his mind be capable of hidden calculation. The devil that was in him now seemed rampant.
“Belllounds, you’re mighty brave to stack up this way against a one-legged man,” declared the cowboy, with biting sarcasm.
“If you had two club-feet I’d only be the gladder,” yelled Belllounds, and, swinging his arm, he slapped Moore so that it nearly toppled him over. Only the injured foot, coming down hard, saved him.
When Columbine saw that, and then how Wilson winced and grew deathly pale, she uttered a low cry, and she seemed suddenly rooted to the spot, weak, terrified at what was now inevitable, and growing sick and cold and faint.
“It’s a damn lucky thing for you I’m not packing a gun,” said Moore, grimly. “But you knew—or you’d never hit me—you coward.”
“I’ll make you swallow that,” snarled Belllounds, and this time he swung his fist, aiming a heavy blow at Moore.
Then the cowboy whirled aloft the heavy crutch. “If you hit at me again I’ll let out what little brains you’ve got. God knows that’s little enough!… Belllounds, I’m going to call you to your face—before this girl your bat-eyed old man means to give you. You’re not drunk. You’re only ugly—mean. You’ve got a chance now to lick me because I’m crippled. And you’re going to make the most of it. Why, you cur, I could come near licking you with only one leg. But if you touch me again I’ll brain you!… You never were any good. You’re no good now. You never will be anything but Buster Jack—half dotty, selfish as hell, bull-headed and mean!… And that’s the last word I’ll ever waste on you.”
“I’ll kill you!” bawled Belllounds, black with fury.
Moore wielded the crutch menacingly, but as he was not steady on his feet he was at the disadvantage his adversary had calculated upon. Belllounds ran around the cowboy, and suddenly plunged in to grapple with him. The crutch descended, but to little purpose. Belllounds’s heavy onslaught threw Moore to the ground. Before he could rise Belllounds pounced upon him.
Columbine saw all this dazedly. As Wilson fell she closed her eyes, fighting a faintness that almost overcame her. She heard wrestling, threshing sounds, and sodden thumps, and a scattering of gravel. These noises seemed at first distant, then grew closer. As she gazed again with keener perception, Moore’s horse plunged away from the fiercely struggling forms that had rolled almost under his feet. During the ensuing moments it was an equal battle so far as Columbine could tell. Repelled, yet fascinated, she watched. They beat each other, grappled and rolled over, first one on top, then the other. But the advantage of being uppermost presently was Belllounds’s. Moore was weakening. That became noticeable more and more after each time he had wrestled and rolled about. Then Belllounds, getting this position, lay with his weight upon Moore, holding him down, and at the same time kicking with all his might. He was aiming to disable the cowboy by kicking the injured foot. And he was succeeding. Moore let out a strangled cry, and struggled desperately. But he was held and weighted down. Belllounds raised up now and, looking backward, he deliberately and furiously kicked Moore’s bandaged foot; once, twice, again and again, until the straining form under him grew limp. Columbine, slowly freezing with horror, saw all this. She could not move. She could not scream. She wanted to rush in and dra
g Jack off of Wilson, to hurt him, to kill him, but her muscles were paralyzed. In her agony she could not even look away. Belllounds got up astride his prostrate adversary and began to beat him brutally, swinging heavy, sodden blows. His face then was terrible to see. He meant murder.
Columbine heard approaching voices and the thumping of hasty feet. That unclamped her cloven tongue. Wildly she screamed. Old Bill Belllounds appeared, striding off the porch. And the hunter Wade came running down the path.
“Dad! he’s killing Wilson!” cried Columbine.
“Hyar, you devil!” roared the rancher.
Jack Belllounds got up. Panting, disheveled, with hair ruffled and face distorted, he was not a pleasant sight for even the father. Moore lay unconscious, with ghastly, bloody features, and his bandaged foot showed great splotches of red.
“My Gawd, son!” gasped Old Bill. “You didn’t pick on this hyar crippled boy?”
The evidence was plain, in Moore’s quiet, pathetic form, in the panting, purple-faced son. Jack Belllounds did not answer. He was in the grip of a passion that had at last been wholly unleashed and was still unsatisfied. Yet a malignant and exultant gratification showed in his face.
“That—evens us—up, Moore,” he panted, and stalked away.
By this time Wade reached the cowboy and knelt beside him. Columbine came running to fall on her knees. The old rancher seemed stricken.
“Oh—Oh! it was terrible—” cried Columbine. “Oh—he’s so white—and the blood—”
“Now, lass, that’s no way for a woman,” said Wade, and there was something in his kind tone, in his look, in his presence, that calmed Columbine. “I’ll look after Moore. You go get some water an’ a towel.”
Columbine rose to totter into the house. She saw a red stain on the hand she had laid upon the cowboy’s face and with a strange, hot, bursting sensation, strong and thrilling, she put that red place to her lips. Running out with the things required by Wade, she was in time to hear the rancher say, “Looks hurt bad, to me.”
“Yes, I reckon,” replied Wade.
While Columbine held Moore’s head upon her lap the hunter bathed the bloody face. It was battered and bruised and cut, and in some places, as fast as Wade washed away the red, it welled out again.
Columbine watched that quiet face, while her heart throbbed and swelled with emotions wholly beyond her control and understanding. When at last Wilson opened his eyes, fluttering at first, and then wide, she felt a surge that shook her whole body. He smiled wanly at her, and at Wade, and then his gaze lifted to Belllounds.
“I guess—he licked me,” he said, in weak voice. “He kept kicking my sore foot—till I fainted. But he licked me—all right.”
“Wils, mebbe he did lick you,” replied the old rancher, brokenly, “but I reckon he’s damn little to be proud of—lickin’ a crippled man—thet way.”
“Boss, Jack’d been drinking,” said Moore, weakly. “And he sure had—some excuse for going off his head. He caught me—talking sweet to Columbine … and then—I called him all the names—I could lay my tongue to.”
“Ahuh!” The old man seemed at a loss for words, and presently he turned away, sagging in the shoulders, and plodded into the house.
The cowboy, supported by Wade on one side, with Columbine on the other, was helped to an upright position, and with considerable difficulty was gotten into the wagon. He tried to sit up, but made a sorry showing of it.
“I’ll drive him home an’ look after him,” said Wade. “Now, Miss Collie, you’re upset, which ain’t no wonder. But now you brace. It might have been worse. Just you go to your room till you’re sure of yourself again.”
Moore smiled another wan smile at her. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“What for? Me?” she asked.
“I mean I’m sorry I was so infernal unlucky—running into you—and bringing all this distress—to you. It was my fault. If I’d only kept—my mouth shut!”
“You need not be sorry you met me,” she said, with her eyes straight upon his. “I’m glad.… But oh! if your foot is badly hurt I’ll never—never—”
“Don’t say it,” interrupted Wilson.
“Lass, you’re bent on doin’ somethin’,” said Wade, in his gentle voice.
“Bent?” she echoed, with something deep and rich in her voice. “Yes, I’m bent—bent like your name—to speak my mind!”
Then she ran toward the house and up on the porch, to enter the living-room with heaving breast and flashing eyes. Manifestly the rancher was berating his son. The former gaped at sight of her and the latter shrank.
“Jack Belllounds,” she cried, “you’re not half a man.… You’re a coward and a brute!”
One tense moment she stood there, lightning scorn and passion in her gaze, and then she rushed out, impetuously, as she had come.
CHAPTER 8
Columbine did not leave her room any more that day. What she suffered there she did not want any one to know. What it cost her to conquer herself again she had only a faint conception of. She did conquer, however, and that night made up the sleep she had lost the night before.
Strangely enough, she did not feel afraid to face the rancher and his son. Recent happenings had not only changed her, but had seemed to give her strength. When she presented herself at the breakfast-table Jack was absent. The old rancher greeted her with more than usual solicitude.
“Jack’s sick,” he remarked, presently.
“Indeed,” replied Columbine.
“Yes. He said it was the drinkin’ he’s not accustomed to. Wal, I reckon it was what you called him. He didn’t take much store on what I called him, which was wuss.… I tell you, lass, Jack’s set his heart so hard on you thet it’s turrible.”
“Queer way he has of showing the—the affections of his heart,” replied Columbine, shortly.
“Thet was the drink,” remonstrated the old man, pathetic and earnest in his motive to smooth over the quarrel.
“But he promised me he would not drink any more.”
Belllounds shook his gray old head sadly.
“Ahuh! Jack fires up an’ promises anythin’. He means it at the time. But the next hankerin’ thet comes over him wipes out the promise. I know.… But he’s had good excuse fer this break. The boys in town began celebratin’ fer October first. Great wonder Jack didn’t come home clean drunk.”
“Dad, you’re as good as gold,” said Columbine, softening. How could she feel hard toward him?
“Collie, then you’re not agoin’ back on the ole man?”
“No.”
“I was afeared you’d change your mind about marryin’ Jack.”
“When I promised I meant it. I didn’t make it on conditions.”
“But, lass, promises can be broke,” he said, with the sonorous roll in his voice.
“I never yet broke one of mine.”
“Wal, I hev. Not often, mebbe, but I hev.… An’, lass, it’s reasonable. Thar’s times when a man jest can’t live up to what he swore by. An’ fer a girl—why, I can see how easy she’d change an’ grow overnight. It’s only fair fer me to say that no matter what you think you owe me you couldn’t be blamed now fer dislikin’ Jack.”
“Dad, if by marrying Jack I can help him to be a better son to you, and more of a man, I’ll be glad,” she replied.
“Lass, I’m beginnin’ to see how big an’ fine you are,” replied Belllounds, with strong feeling. “An’ it’s worryin’ me.… My neighbors hev always accused me of seein’ only my son. Only Buster Jack! I was blind an’ deaf as to him!… Wal, I’m not so damn blind as I used to be. The scales are droppin’ off my ole eyes.… But I’ve got one hope left as far as Jack’s concerned. Thet’s marryin’ him to you. An’ I’m stickin’ to it.”
“So will I stick to it, dad,” she replied. “I’ll go through with October first!”
Columbine broke off, vouchsafing no more, and soon left the breakfast-table, to take up the work she had laid out to do. And she accomplis
hed it, though many times her hands dropped idle and her eyes peered out of her window at the drab slides of the old mountain.
Later, when she went out to ride, she saw the cowboy Lem working in the blacksmith shop.
“Wal, Miss Collie, air you-all still hangin’ round this hyar ranch?” he asked, with welcoming smile.
“Lem, I’m almost ashamed now to face my good friends, I’ve neglected them so long,” she replied.
“Aw, now, what’re friends fer but to go to?… You’re lookin’ pale, I reckon. More like thet thar flower I see so much on the hills.”
“Lem, I want to ride Pronto. Do you think he’s all right, now?”
“I reckon some movin’ round will do Pronto good. He’s eatin’ his haid off.”
The cowboy went with her to the pasture gate and whistled Pronto up. The mustang came trotting, evidently none the worse for his injuries, and eager to resume the old climbs with his mistress. Lem saddled him, paying particular attention to the cinch.
“Reckon we’d better not cinch him tight,” said Lem. “You jest be careful an’ remember your saddle’s loose.”
“All right, Lem,” replied Columbine, as she mounted. “Where are the boys this morning?”
“Blud an’ Jim air repairin’ fence up the crick.”
“And where’s Ben?”
“Ben? Oh, you mean Wade. Wal, I ain’t seen him since yestidday. He was skinnin’ a lion then, over hyar on the ridge. Thet was in the mawnin’. I reckon he’s around, fer I seen some of the hounds.”
“Then, Lem—you haven’t heard about the fight yesterday between Jack and Wilson Moore?”
Lem straightened up quickly. “Nope, I ain’t heerd a word.”
“Well, they fought, all right,” said Columbine, hurriedly. “I saw it. I was the only one there. Wilson was badly used up before dad and Ben got there. Ben drove off with him.”
“But, Miss Collie, how’d it come off? I seen Wils the other day. Was up to his homestead. An’ the boy jest manages to rustle round on a crutch. He couldn’t fight.”
“That was just it. Jack saw his opportunity, and he forced Wilson to fight—accused him of stealing. Wils tried to avoid trouble. Then Jack jumped him. Wilson fought and held his own until Jack began to kick his injured foot. Then Wilson fainted and—and Jack beat him.”
