"Why? Do you like him so much?"
"I like him--of course. He has been almost a brother to me."
"Ahuh! Wal, are you sure you don"t like him more"n you ought--considerin" what"s in the wind?"
"Yes, I"m sure I don"t," replied Columbine, with tingling cheeks.
"Wal, I"m glad of thet. Reckon it"ll be no great matter whether Wils stays or leaves. If he wants to I"ll give him a job with the hounds."
That evening Columbine went to her room early. It was a cozy little blanketed nest which she had arranged and furnished herself. There was a little square window cut through the logs and through which many a night the snow had blown in upon her bed. She loved her little isolated refuge. This night it was cold, the first time this autumn, and the lighted lamp, though brightening the room, did not make it appreciably warmer. There was a stone fireplace, but as she had neglected to bring in wood she could not start a fire. So she undressed, blew out the lamp, and went to bed. Columbine was soon warm, and the darkness of her little room seemed good to her. Sleep she felt never would come that night. She wanted to think; she could not help but think; and she tried to halt the whirl of her mind. Wilson Moore occupied the foremost place in her varying thoughts--a fact quite remarkable and unaccountable. She tried to change it. In vain! Wilson persisted--on his white mustang flying across the ridge-top--coming to her as never before--with his anger and disapproval--his strange, poignant cry, "Columbine!" that haunted her--with his bitter smile and his resignation and his mocking talk of jealousy. He persisted and grew with the old rancher"s frank praise.
"I must not think of him," she whispered. "Why, I"ll be--be married soon.... Married!"
That word transformed her thought, and where she had thrilled she now felt cold. She revolved the fact in mind.
"It"s true, I"ll be married, because I ought--I must," she said, half aloud. "Because I can"t help myself. I ought to want to--for dad"s sake.... But I don"t--I don"t."
She longed above all things to be good, loyal, loving, helpful, to show her grat.i.tude for the home and the affection that had been bestowed upon a nameless waif. Bill Belllounds had not been under any obligation to succor a strange, lost child. He had done it because he was big, n.o.ble.
Many splendid deeds had been laid at the old rancher"s door. She was not of an ungrateful nature. She meant to pay. But the significance of the price began to dawn upon her.
"It will change my whole life," she whispered, aghast.
But how? Columbine pondered. She must go over the details of that change. No mother had ever taught her. The few women that had been in the Belllounds home from time to time had not been sympathetic or had not stayed long enough to help her much. Even her school life in Denver had left her still a child as regarded the serious problems of women.
"If I"m his wife," she went on, "I"ll have to be with him--I"ll have to give up this little room--I"ll never be free--alone--happy, any more."
That was the first detail she enumerated. It was also the last.
Realization came with a sickening little shudder. And that moment gave birth to the nucleus of an unconscious revolt.
The coyotes were howling. Wild, sharp, sweet notes! They soothed her troubled, aching head, lulled her toward sleep, reminded her of the gold-and-purple sunset, and the slopes of sage, the lonely heights, and the beauty that would never change. On the morrow, she drowsily thought, she would persuade Wilson not to kill all the coyotes; to leave a few, because she loved them.
Bill Belllounds had settled in Middle Park in 1860. It was wild country, a home of the Ute Indians, and a natural paradise for elk, deer, antelope, buffalo. The mountain ranges harbored bear. These ranges sheltered the rolling valley land which some explorer had named Middle Park in earlier days.
Much of this inclosed table-land was prairie, where long gra.s.s and wild flowers grew luxuriantly. Belllounds was a cattleman, and he saw the possibilities there. To which end he sought the friendship of Piah, chief of the Utes. This n.o.ble red man was well disposed toward the white settlers, and his tribe, during those troublous times, kept peace with these invaders of their mountain home.
In 1868 Belllounds was instrumental in persuading the Utes to relinquish Middle Park. The slopes of the hills were heavily timbered; gold and silver had been found in the mountains. It was a country that attracted prospectors, cattlemen, lumbermen. The summer season was not long enough to grow grain, and the nights too frosty for corn; otherwise Middle Park would have increased rapidly in population.
In the years that succeeded the departure of the Utes Bill Belllounds developed several cattle-ranches and acquired others. White Slides Ranch lay some twenty-odd miles from Middle Park, being a winding arm of the main valley land. Its development was a matter of later years, and Belllounds lived there because the country was wilder. The rancher, as he advanced in years, seemed to want to keep the loneliness that had been his in earlier days. At the time of the return of his son to White Slides Belllounds was rich in cattle and land, but he avowed frankly that he had not saved any money, and probably never would. His hand was always open to every man and he never remembered an obligation. He trusted every one. A proud boast of his was that neither white man nor red man had ever betrayed his trust. His cowboys took advantage of him, his neighbors imposed upon him, but none were there who did not make good their debts of service or stock. Belllounds was one of the great pioneers of the frontier days to whom the West owed its settlement; and he was finer than most, because he proved that the Indians, if not robbed or driven, would respond to friendliness.
Belllounds was not seen at his customary tasks on the day he expected his son. He walked in the fields and around the corrals; he often paced up and down the porch, scanning the horizon below, where the road from Kremmling showed white down the valley; and part of the time he stayed indoors.
It so happened that early in the afternoon he came out in time to see a buckboard, drawn by dust-and-lather-stained horses, pull into the yard.
And then he saw his son. Some of the cowboys came running. There were greetings to the driver, who appeared well known to them.
Jack Belllounds did not look at them. He threw a bag out of the buckboard and then clambered down slowly, to go toward the porch.
"Wal, Jack--my son--I"m sure glad you"re back home," said the old rancher, striding forward. His voice was deep and full, singularly rich.
But that was the only sign of feeling he showed.
"Howdy--dad!" replied the son, not heartily, as he put out his hand to his father"s.
Jack Belllounds"s form was tail, with a promise of his father"s bulk.
But he did not walk erect; he slouched a little. His face was pale, showing he had not of late been used to sun and wind. Any stranger would have seen the resemblance of boy to man would have granted the handsome boldness, but denied the strength. The lower part of Jack Belllounds"s face was weak.
The constraint of this meeting was manifest mostly in the manner of the son. He looked ashamed, almost sullen. But if he had been under the influence of liquor at Kremmling, as reported the day before, he had entirely recovered.
"Come on in," said the rancher.
When they got into the big living-room, and Belllounds had closed the doors, the son threw down his baggage and faced his father aggressively.
"Do they all know where I"ve been?" he asked, bitterly. Broken pride and shame flamed in his face.
"n.o.body knows. The secret"s been kept." replied Belllounds.
Amaze and relief transformed the young man. "Aw, now, I"m--glad--" he exclaimed, and he sat down, half covering his face with shaking hands.
"Jack, we"ll start over," said Belllounds, earnestly, and his big eyes shone with a warm and beautiful light. "Right hyar. We"ll never speak of where you"ve been these three years. Never again!"
Jack gazed up, then, with all the sullenness and shadow gone.
"Father, you were wrong about--doing me good. It"s done me harm. But now, if n.o.body knows--why, I"ll try to forget it."
"Mebbe I blundered," replied Belllounds, pathetically. "Yet, G.o.d knows I meant well. You sure were--But thet"s enough palaver.... You"ll go to work as foreman of White Slides. An" if you make a success of it I"ll be only too glad to have you boss the ranch. I"m gettin" along in years, son. An" the last year has made me poorer. Hyar"s a fine range, but I"ve less stock this year than last. There"s been some rustlin" of cattle, an a big loss from wolves an" lions an" poison-weed.... What d"you say, son?"
"I"ll run White Slides," replied Jack, with a wave of his hand. "I hadn"t hoped for such a chance. But it"s due me. Who"s in the outfit I know?"
"Reckon no one, except Wils Moore."
"Is that cowboy here yet? I don"t want him."
"Wal, I"ll put him to chasin" varmints with the hounds. An" say, son, this outfit is bad. You savvy--it"s bad. You can"t run that bunch. The only way you can handle them is to get up early an" come back late.
Sayin" little, but sawin" wood. Hard work."
Jack Belllounds did not evince any sign of a.s.similating the seriousness of his father"s words.
"I"ll show them," he said. "They"ll find out who"s boss. Oh, I"m aching to get into boots and ride and tear around."
Belllounds stroked his grizzled beard and regarded his son with mingled pride and doubt. Not at this moment, most a.s.suredly, could he get away from the wonderful fact that his only son was home.
"Thet"s all right, son. But you"ve been off the range fer three years.
You"ll need advice. Now listen. Be gentle with hosses. You used to be mean with a hoss. Some cowboys jam their hosses around an" make "em pitch an" bite. But it ain"t the best way. A hoss has got sense. I"ve some fine stock, an" don"t want it spoiled. An" be easy an" quiet with the boys. It"s hard to get help these days. I"m short on hands now....
You"d do best, son, to stick to your dad"s ways with hosses an" men."
"Dad, I"ve seen you kick horses an" shoot at men" replied Jack.