The Lone Star Ranger and the Mysterious Rider (51 page)

“Then—please—go away!” cried Columbine, with a sob.

When he was gone Columbine barred the door and threw herself upon her bed 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 had passed, leaving her weak and strangely changed, she tried to reason out what had happened to her. Over and over again she named the appeal of the rancher, the sense of her duty, the decision she had reached, and the disgust and terror inspired in her by Jack Belllounds's reception of her promise. These were facts of the day and they had made of her a palpitating, unhappy creature, who nevertheless had been brave to face the rancher and confess that which she had scarce confessed to herself. But now she trembled and cringed on the verge of a catastrophe that withheld its whole truth.

“I begin to see now,” she whispered, after the thought had come and gone and returned to change again. “If Wilson had cared for me I—I might have—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 any one. It's so strange. All at once I feel old. And I can't understand these—these feelings that shake me.”

So Columbine brooded over the trouble that had come to her, never regretting her promise to the old rancher, but growing keener in the realization of a complexity in her nature that sooner or later would separate the life of her duty from the life of her desire. She seemed all alone, and when this feeling possessed her a strange reminder of the hunter 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 the trials and travails through which he had come unhardened, unembittered. Yet how could she tell her troubles to him? A stranger, a rough man of the wilds, whose name had preceded him, notorious and deadly, with that vital tang of the West in its meaning! Nevertheless, Wade drew her, and she thought of him until the recurring memory of Jack Belllounds's rude clasp again crept over her with an augmenting disgust and fear. Must she submit to that? Had she promised that? And then Columbine felt the dawning of realities.

CHAPTER 7

Columbine was awakened in the gray dawn by the barking of coyotes. She dreaded the daylight thus heralded. Never before in her life had she hated the rising of the sun. Resolutely she put the past behind her and faced the future, believing now that with the great decision made she needed only to keep her mind off what might have been, and to attend to her duty.

At breakfast she found the rancher in better spirits than he had been for weeks. He informed her that Jack had ridden off early for Kremmling, there to make arrangements for the wedding on October first.

“Jack's out of his head,” said Belllounds. “Wal, thet comes only onct in a man's life. I remember … Jack's goin' to drive you to Kremmlin' an' ther take stage fer Denver. I allow you'd better put in your best licks on fixin' up an' packin' the clothes you'll need. Women-folk naturally want to look smart on weddin'-trips.”

“Dad!” exclaimed Columbine, in dismay. “I never thought of clothes. And I don't want to leave White Slides.”

“But, lass, you're goin' to be married!” expostulated Belllounds.

“Didn't it occur to Jack to take me to Kremmling? I can't make new dresses out of old ones.”

“Wal, I reckon neither of us thought of thet. But you can buy what you like in Denver.”

Columbine resigned herself. After all, what did it matter to her? The vague, haunting dreams of girlhood would never come true. So she went to her wardrobe and laid out all her wearing apparel. Taking stock of it this way caused her further dismay, for she had nothing fit to wear in which either to be married or to take a trip to Denver. There appeared to be nothing to do but take the rancher's advice, and Columbine set about refurbishing her meager wardrobe. She sewed all day.

What with self-control and work and the passing of hours, Columbine began to make some approach to tranquillity. In her simplicity she even began to hope that being good and steadfast and dutiful would earn her a little meed of happiness. Some haunting doubt of this flashed over her mind like a swift shadow of a black wing, but she dispelled that as she had dispelled the fear and disgust which often rose up in her mind.

To Columbine's surprise and to the rancher's concern the prospective bridegroom did not return from Kremmling on the second day. When night came Belllounds reluctantly gave up looking for him.

Jack's non-appearance suited Columbine, and she would have been glad to be let alone until October first, which date now seemed appallingly close. On the afternoon of Jack's third day of absence from the ranch Columbine rode out for some needed exercise. Pronto not being available, she rode another mustang and one that kept her busy. On the way back to the ranch she avoided the customary trail which led by the cabins of Wade and the cowboys. Columbine had not seen one of her friends since the unfortunate visit to the Andrews ranch. She particularly shrank from meeting Wade, which feeling was in strange contrast to her former impulses.

As she rode around the house she encountered Wilson Moore seated in a light wagon. Her mustang reared, almost unseating her. But she handled him roughly, being suddenly surprised and angry at this unexpected meeting with the cowboy.

“Howdy, Columbine!” greeted Wilson, as she brought the mustang to his feet. “You're sure learning to handle a horse—since I left this here ranch. Wonder who's teaching you! I never could get you to rake even a bronc!”

The cowboy had drawled out his admiring speech, half amused and half satiric.

“I'm—mad!” declared Columbine. “That's why.”

“What're you mad at?” queried Wilson.

She did not reply, but kept on gazing steadily at him. Moore still looked pale and drawn, but he had improved since last she saw him.

“Aren't you going to speak to a fellow?” he went on.

“How are you, Wils?” she asked.

“Pretty good for a club-footed has-been cowpuncher.”

“I wish you wouldn't call yourself such names,” rejoined Columbine, peevishly. “You're not a club-foot. I hate that word!”

“Me, too. Well, joking aside, I'm better. My foot is fine. Now, if I don't hurt it again I'll sure never be a club-foot.”

“You must be careful,” she said, earnestly.

“Sure. But it's hard for me to be idle. Think of me lying still all day with nothing to do but read! That's what knocked me out. I wouldn't have minded the pain if I could have gotten about.… Columbine, I've moved in!”

“What! Moved in?” she queried, blankly.

“Sure. I'm in my cabin on the hill. It's plumb great. Tom Andrews and Bert and your hunter Wade fixed up the cabin for me. That Wade is sure a good fellow. And say! what he can do with his hands! He's been kind to me. Took an interest in me, and between you and me he sort of cheered me up.”

“Cheered you up! Wils, were you unhappy?” she asked, directly.

“Well, rather. What'd you expect of a cowboy who'd crippled himself—and lost his girl?”

Columbine felt the smart of tingling blood in her face, and she looked from Wilson to the wagon. It contained saddles, blankets, and other cowboy accoutrements for which he had evidently come.

“That's a double misfortune,” she replied, evenly. “It's too bad both came at once. It seems to me if I were a cowboy and—and felt so toward a girl, I'd have let her know.”

“This girl I mean knew, all right,” he said, nodding his head.

“She didn't—she didn't!” cried Columbine.

“How do
you
know?” he queried, with feigned surprise. He was bent upon torturing her.

“You meant me. I'm the girl you lost!”

“Yes, you are—God help me!” replied Moore, with genuine emotion.

“But you—you never told me—you never told me,” faltered Columbine, in distress.

“Never told you what? That you were my girl?”

“No—no. But that you—you cared—”

“Columbine Belllounds, I told you—let you see—in every way under the sun,” he flashed at her.

“Let me see—
what?
” faltered Columbine, feeling as if the world were about to end.

“That I loved you.”

“Oh!… Wilson!” whispered Columbine, wildly.

“Yes—loved you. Could you have been so innocent—so blind you never knew? I can't believe it.”

“But I never dreamed you—you—” She broke off dazedly, overwhelmed by a tragic, glorious truth.

“Collie!… Would it have made any difference?”

“Oh, all the difference in the world!” she wailed.

“What difference?” he asked, passionately.

Columbine gazed wide-eyed and helpless at the young man. She did not know how to tell him what all the difference in the world really was.

Suddenly Wilson turned away from her to listen. Then she heard rapid beating of hoofs on the road.

“That's Buster Jack,” said the cowboy. “Just my luck! There wasn't any one here when I arrived. Reckon I oughtn't have stayed. Columbine, you look pretty much upset.”

“What do I care how I look!” she exclaimed, with a sharp resentment attending this abrupt and painful break in her agitation.

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!”