A new spirit, or a liberation of her own, had fired Columbine, and was
now burning within her, unquenchable and unutterable. Some divine spark
had penetrated into that mysterious depth of her, to inflame and to
illumine, so that when she arose from this hour of calamity she felt
that to the tenderness and sorrow and fidelity in her soul had been
added the lightning flash of passion.
"Oh, Ben--shall I be able to hold onto this?" she cried, flinging wide
her arms, as if to embrace the winds of heaven.
"This what, lass?" he asked.
"This--this _woman!_" she answered, passionately, with her hands
sweeping back to press her breast.
"No woman who wakes ever goes back to a girl again," he said, sadly.
"I wanted to die--and now I want to live--to fight.... Ben, you've
uplifted me. I was little, weak, miserable.... But in my dreams, or in
some state I can't remember or understand, I've waited for your very
words. I was ready. It's as if I knew you in some other world, before I
was born on this earth; and when you spoke to me here, so
wonderfully--as my mother might have spoken--my heart leaped up in
recognition of you and your call to my womanhood!... Oh, how strange and
beautiful!"
"Miss Collie," he replied, slowly, as he bent to his saddle-straps,
"you're young, an' you've no understandin' of what's strange an'
terrible in life. An' beautiful, too, as you say.... Who knows? Maybe in
some former state I was somethin' to you. I believe in that. Reckon I
can't say how or what. Maybe we were flowers or birds. I've a weakness
for that idea."
"Birds! I like the thought, too," replied Columbine. "I love most birds.
But there are hawks, crows, buzzards!"
"I reckon. Lass, there's got to be balance in nature. If it weren't for
the ugly an' the evil, we wouldn't know the beautiful an' good.... An'
now let's ride home. It's gettin' late."
"Ben, ought I not go back to Wilson right now?" she asked, slowly.
"What for?"
"To tell him--something--and why I can't come to-morrow, or ever
afterward," she replied, low and tremulously.
Wade pondered over her words. It seemed to Columbine that her sharpened
faculties sensed something of hostility, of opposition in him.
"Reckon to-morrow would be better," he said, presently. "Wilson's had
enough excitement for one day."
"Then I'll go to-morrow," she returned.
In the gathering, cold twilight they rode down the trail in silence.
"Good night, lass," said Wade, as he reached his cabin. "An' remember
you're not alone any more."
"Good night, my friend," she replied, and rode on.
Columbine encountered Jim Montana at the corrals, and it was not too
dark for her to see his foam-lashed horse. Jim appeared non-committal,
almost surly. But Columbine guessed that he had ridden to Kremmling and
back in one day, on some order of Jack's.
"Miss Collie, I'll tend to Pronto," he offered. "An' yore supper'll be
waitin'."
A bright fire blazed on the living-room hearth. The rancher was reading
by its light.
"Hello, rosy-cheeks!" greeted the rancher, with unusual amiability.
"Been ridin' ag'in' the wind, hey? Wal, if you ain't pretty, then my
eyes are pore!"
"It's cold, dad," she replied, "and the wind stings. But I didn't ride
fast nor far.... I've been up to see Wilson Moore."
"Ahuh! Wal, how's the boy?" asked Belllounds, gruffly.
"He said he was all right, but--but I guess that's not so," responded
Columbine.
"Any friends lookin' after him?"
"Oh yes--he must have friends--the Andrewses and others. I'm glad to say
his cabin is comfortable. He'll be looked after."
"Wal, I'm glad to hear thet. I'll send Lem or Wade up thar an' see if we
can do anythin' fer the boy."
"Dad--that's just like you," replied Columbine, with her hand seeking
his broad shoulder.
"Ahuh! Say, Collie, hyar's letters from 'most everybody in Kremmlin'
wantin' to be invited up fer October first. How about askin' 'em?"
"The more the merrier," replied Columbine.
"Wal, I reckon I'll not ask anybody."
"Why not, dad?"
"No one can gamble on thet son of mine, even on his weddin'-day,"
replied Belllounds, gloomily.
"Dad, What'd Jack do to-day?"
"I'm not sayin' he did anythin'," answered the rancher.
"Dad, you can gamble on me."
"Wal, I should smile," he said, putting his big arm around her. "I wish
you was Jack an' Jack was you."
At that moment the young man spoken of slouched into the room, with his
head bandaged, and took a seat at the supper-table.
"Wal, Collie, let's go an' get it," said the rancher, cheerily. "I can
always eat, anyhow."
"I'm hungry as a bear," rejoined Columbine, as she took her seat, which
was opposite Jack.
"Where 'ye you been?" he asked, curiously.
"Why, good evening, Jack! Did you finally notice me?... I've been riding
Pronto, the first time since he was hurt. Had a lovely ride--up through
Sage Valley."
Jack glowered at her with the one unbandaged eye, and growled something
under his breath, and then began to stab meat and potatoes with
his fork.
"What's the matter, Jack? Aren't you well?" asked Columbine, with a
solicitude just a little too sweet to be genuine.
"Yes, I'm well," snapped Jack.
"But you look sick. That is, what I can see of your face looks sick.
Your mouth droops at the corners. You're very pale--and red in spots.
And your one eye glows with unearthly woe, as if you were not long for
this world!"
The amazing nature of this speech, coming from the girl who had always
been so sweet and quiet and backward, was attested to by the
consternation of Jack and the mirth of his father.
"Are you making fun of me?" demanded Jack.
"Why, Jack! Do you think I would make fun of you? I only wanted to say
how queer you look.... Are you going to be married with one eye?"
Jack collapsed at that, and the old man, after a long stare of
open-mouthed wonder, broke out: "Haw! Haw! Haw!... By Golly! lass--I'd
never believed thet was in you.... Jack, be game an' take your
medicine.... An' both of you forgive an' forget. Thar'll be quarrels
enough, mebbe, without rakin' over the past."
When alone again Columbine reverted to a mood vastly removed from her
apparent levity with the rancher and his son. A grave and
inward-searching thought possessed her, and it had to do with the
uplift, the spiritual advance, the rise above mere personal welfare,
that had strangely come to her through Bent Wade. From their first
meeting he had possessed a singular attraction for her that now, in the
light of the meaning of his life, seemed to Columbine to be the man's
nobility and wisdom, arising out of his travail, out of the terrible
years that had left their record upon his face.
And so Columbine strove to bind forever in her soul the spirit which had
arisen in her, interpreting from Wade's rude words of philosophy that
which she needed for her own light and strength.
She appreciated her duty toward the man who had been a father to her.
Whatever he asked that would she do. And as for the son she must live
with the rest of her life, her duty there was to be a good wife, to bear
with his faults, to strive always to help him by kindness, patience,
loyalty, and such affection as was possible to her. Hate had to be
reckoned with, and hate, she knew, had no place in a good woman's heart.
It must be expelled, if that were humanly possible. All this was hard,
would grow harder, but she accepted it, and knew her mind.
Her soul was her own, unchangeable through any adversity. She could be
with that alone always, aloof from the petty cares and troubles common
to people. Wade's words had thrilled her with their secret, with their
limitless hope of an unknown world of thought and feeling. Happiness, in
the ordinary sense, might never be hers. Alas for her dreams! But there
had been given her a glimpse of something higher than pleasure and
contentment. Dreams were but dreams. But she could still dream of what
had been, of what might have been, of the beauty and mystery of life, of
something in nature that called sweetly and irresistibly to her. Who
could rob her of the rolling, gray, velvety hills, and the purple peaks
and the black ranges, among which she had been found a waif, a little
lost creature, born like a columbine under the spruces?
Love, sudden-dawning, inexplicable love, was her secret, still
tremulously new, and perilous in its sweetness. That only did she fear
to realize and to face, because it was an unknown factor, a threatening
flame. Her sudden knowledge of it seemed inextricably merged with the
mounting, strong, and steadfast stream of her spirit.
"I'll go to him. I'll tell him," she murmured. "He shall have _that!_...
Then I must bid him--good-by--forever!"
To tell Wilson would be sweet; to leave him would be bitter. Vague
possibilities haunted her. What might come of the telling? How dark
loomed the bitterness! She could not know what hid in either of these
acts until they were fulfilled. And the hours became long, and sleep far
off, and the quietness of the house a torment, and the melancholy wail
of coyotes a reminder of happy girlhood, never to return.
* * * * *
When next day the long-deferred hour came Columbine selected a horse
that she could run, and she rode up the winding valley swift as the
wind. But at the aspen grove, where Wade's keen, gentle voice had given
her secret life, she suffered a reaction that made her halt and ascend
the slope very slowly and with many stops.
Sight of Wade's horse haltered near the cabin relieved Columbine
somewhat of a gathering might of emotion. The hunter would be inside and
so she would not be compelled at once to confess her secret. This
expectancy gave impetus to her lagging steps. Before she reached the
open door she called out.
"Collie, you're late," answered Wilson, with both joy and reproach, as
she entered. The cowboy lay upon his bed, and he was alone in the room.
"Oh!... Where is Ben?" exclaimed Columbine.
"He was here. He cooked my dinner. We waited, but you never came. The
dinner got cold. I made sure you'd backed out--weren't coming at
all--and I couldn't eat.... Wade said he knew you'd come. He went off
with the hounds, somewhere ... and oh, Collie, it's all right now!"
Columbine walked to his bedside and looked down upon him with a feeling
as if some giant hand was tugging at her heart. He looked better. The
swelling and redness of his face were less marked. And at that moment no
pain shadowed his eyes. They were soft, dark, eloquent. If Columbine had
not come with her avowed resolution and desire to unburden her heart she
would have found that look in his eyes a desperately hard one to resist.
Had it ever shone there before? Blind she had been.
"You're better," she said, happily.
"Sure--_now_. But I had a bad night. Didn't sleep till near daylight.
Wade found me asleep.... Collie, it's good of you to come. You look
so--so wonderful! I never saw your face glow like that. And your
eyes--oh!"
"You think I'm pretty, then?" she asked, dreamily, not occupied at all
with that thought.
He uttered a contemptuous laugh.
"Come closer," he said, reaching for her with a clumsy bandaged hand.
Down upon her knees Columbine fell. Both hands flew to cover her face.
And as she swayed forward she shook violently, and there escaped her
lips a little, muffled sound.
"Why--Collie!" cried Moore, astounded. "Good Heavens! Don't cry! I--I
didn't mean anything. I only wanted to feel you--touch your hand."
"Here," she answered, blindly holding out her hand, groping for his till
she found it. Her other was still pressed to her eyes. One moment longer
would Columbine keep her secret--hide her eyes--revel in the unutterable
joy and sadness of this crisis that could come to a woman only once.
"What in the world?" ejaculated the cowboy, now bewildered. But he
possessed himself of the trembling hand offered. "Collie, you act so
strange.... You're not crying!... Am I only locoed, or flighty, or what?
Dear, look at me."
Columbine swept her hand from her eyes with a gesture of utter
surrender.
"Wilson, I'm ashamed--and sad--and gloriously happy," she said, with
swift breathlessness.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because of--of something I have to tell you," she whispered.
"What is that?"
She bent over him.
"Can't you guess?"
He turned pale, and his eyes burned with intense fire.
"I won't guess ... I daren't guess."
"It's something that's been true for years--forever, it seems--something
I never dreamed of till last night," she went on, softly.
"Collie!" he cried. "Don't torture me!"
"Do you remember long ago--when we quarreled so dreadfully--because you
kissed me?" she asked.
"Do you think I could kiss _you_--and live to forget?"
"I love you!" she whispered, shyly, feeling the hot blood burn her.
That whisper transformed Wilson Moore. His arm flashed round her neck
and pulled her face down to his, and, holding her in a close embrace, he
kissed her lips and cheeks and wet eyes, and then again her lips,
passionately and tenderly.
Then he pressed her head down upon his breast.
"My God! I can't believe! Say it again!" he cried, hoarsely.
Columbine buried her flaming face in the blanket covering him, and her
hands clutched it tightly. The wildness of his joy, the strange strength
and power of his kisses, utterly changed her. Upon his breast she lay,
without desire to lift her face. All seemed different, wilder, as she
responded to his appeal: "Yes, I love you! Oh, I love--love--love you!"
"Dearest!... Lift your face.... It's true now. I know. It's proved. But
let me look at you."
Columbine lifted herself as best she could. But she was blinded by tears
and choked with utterance that would not come, and in the grip of a
shuddering emotion that was realization of loss in a moment when she
learned the supreme and imperious sweetness of love.
"Kiss me, Columbine," he demanded.
Through blurred eyes she saw his face, white and rapt, and she bent to
it, meeting his lips with her first kiss which was her last.
"Again, Collie--again!" he begged.
"No--no more," she whispered, very low, and encircling his neck with her
arms she hid her face and held him convulsively, and stifled the sobs
that shook her.
Then Moore was silent, holding her with his free hand, breathing hard,
and slowly quieting down. Columbine felt then that he knew that there
was something terribly wrong, and that perhaps he dared not voice his
fear. At any rate, he silently held her, waiting. That silent wait grew
unendurable for Columbine. She wanted to prolong this moment that was to
be all she could ever surrender. But she dared not do so, for she knew
if he ever kissed her again her duty to Belllounds would vanish like
mist in the sun.
To release her hold upon him seemed like a tearing of her heartstrings.
She sat up, she wiped the tears from her eyes, she rose to her feet, all
the time striving for strength to face him again.
A loud voice ringing from the cliffs outside, startled Columbine. It
came from Wade calling the hounds. He had returned, and the fact
stirred her.
"I'm to marry Jack Belllounds on October first."
The cowboy raised himself up as far as he was able. It was agonizing for
Columbine to watch the changing and whitening of his face!
"No--no!" he gasped.
"Yes, it's true," she replied, hopelessly.
"_No!_" he exclaimed, hoarsely.
"But, Wilson, I tell you yes. I came to tell you. It's true--oh, it's
true!"
"But, girl, you said you love me," he declared, transfixing her with
dark, accusing eyes.
"That's just as terribly true."
He softened a little, and something of terror and horror took the place
of anger.
Just then Wade entered the cabin with his soft tread, hesitated, and
then came to Columbine's side. She could not unrivet her gaze from Moore
to look at her friend, but she reached out with trembling hand to him.
Wade clasped it in a horny palm.
Wilson fought for self-control in vain.
"Collie, if you love me, how can you marry Jack Belllounds?" he
demanded.
"I must."
"Why must you?"
"I owe my life and my bringing up to his father. He wants me to do it.
His heart is set upon my helping Jack to become a man.... Dad loves me,
and I love him. I must stand by him. I must repay him. It is my duty."
"You've a duty to yourself--as a woman!" he rejoined, passionately.
"Belllounds is wrapped up in his son. He's blind to the shame of such a
marriage. But you're not."
"Shame?" faltered Columbine.
"Yes. The shame of marrying one man when you love another. You can't
love two men.... You'll give yourself. You'll be his _wife_! Do you
understand what that means?"
"I--I think--I do," replied Columbine, faintly. Where had vanished all
her wonderful spirit? This fire-eyed boy was breaking her heart with
his reproach.
"But you'll bear his children," cried Wilson. "Mother of--them--when you
love me!... Didn't you think of that?"
"Oh no--I never did--I never did!" wailed Columbine.
"Then you'll think before it's too late?" he implored, wildly. "Dearest
Collie, think! You won't ruin yourself! You won't? Say you won't!"
"But--Oh, Wilson, what can I say? I've got to marry him."
"Collie, I'll kill him before he gets you."
"You mustn't talk so. If you fought again--if anything terrible
happened, it'd kill me."
"You'd be better off!" he flashed, white as a sheet.
Columbine leaned against Wade for support. She was fast weakening in
strength, although her spirit held. She knew what was inevitable. But
Wilson's agony was rending her.
"Listen," began the cowboy again. "It's your life--your happiness--your
soul.... Belllounds is crazy over that spoiled boy. He thinks the sun
rises and sets in him.... But Jack Belllounds is no good on this earth!
Collie dearest, don't think that's my jealousy. I am horribly jealous.
But I know him. He's not worth you! No man is--and he the least. He'll
break your heart, drag you down, ruin your health--kill you, as sure as
you stand there. I want you to know I could prove to you what he is. But
don't make me. Trust me, Collie. Believe me."
"Wilson, I do believe you," cried Columbine. "But it doesn't make any
difference. It only makes my duty harder."
"He'll treat you like he treats a horse or a dog. He'll beat you--"
"He never will! If he ever lays a hand on me--"
"If not that, he'll tire of you. Jack Belllounds never stuck to anything
in his life, and never will. It's not in him. He wants what he can't
have. If he gets it, then right off he doesn't want it. Oh, I've known
him since he was a kid.... Columbine, you've a mistaken sense of duty.
No girl need sacrifice her all because some man found her a lost baby
and gave her a home. A woman owes more to herself than to any one."
"Oh, that's true, Wilson. I've thought it all.... But you're
unjust--hard. You make no allowance for--for some possible good in every
one. Dad swears I can reform Jack. Maybe I can. I'll pray for it."
"Reform Jack Belllounds! How can you save a bad egg? That damned coward!
Didn't he prove to you what he was when he jumped on me and kicked my
broken foot till I fainted?... What do you want?"
"Don't say any more--please," cried Columbine. "Oh, I'm so sorry.... I
oughtn't have come.... Ben, take me home."
"But, Collie, I love you," frantically urged Wilson. "And he--he may
love you--but he's--Collie--he's been--"
Here Moore seemed to bite his tongue, to hold back speech, to fight
something terrible and desperate and cowardly in himself.
Columbine heard only his impassioned declaration of love, and to that
she vibrated.
"You speak as if this was one--sided," she burst out, as once more the
gush of hot blood surged over her. "You don't love me any more than I
love you. Not as much, for I'm a woman!... I love with all my heart
and soul!"
Moore fell back upon the bed, spent and overcome.
"Wade, my friend, for God's sake do something," he whispered, appealing
to the hunter as if in a last hope. "Tell Collie what it'll mean for her
to marry Belllounds. If that doesn't change her, then tell her what
it'll mean to me. I'll never go home. I'll never leave here. If she
hadn't told me she loved me then, I might have stood anything. But now I
can't. It'll kill me, Wade."
"Boy, you're talkin' flighty again," replied Wade. "This mornin' when I
come you were dreamin' an' talkin'--clean out of your head.... Well,
now, you an' Collie listen. You're right an' she's right. I reckon I
never run across a deal with two people fixed just like you. But that
doesn't hinder me from feelin' the same about it as I'd feel about
somethin' I was used to."
He paused, and, gently releasing Columbine, he went to Moore, and retied
his loosened bandage, and spread out the disarranged blankets. Then he
sat down on the edge of the bed and bent over a little, running a
roughened hand through the scant hair that had begun to silver upon his
head. Presently he looked up, and from that sallow face, with its lines
and furrows, and from the deep, inscrutable eyes, there fell a light
which, however sad and wise in its infinite understanding of pain and
strife, was still ruthless and unquenchable in its hope.
"Wade, for God's sake save Columbine!" importuned Wilson.
"Oh, if you only could!" cried Columbine, impelled beyond her power to
resist by that prayer.
"Lass, you stand by your convictions," he said, impressively. "An'
Moore, you be a man an' don't make it so hard for her. Neither of you
can do anythin'.... Now there's old Belllounds--he'll never change. He
might r'ar up for this or that, but he'll never change his cherished
hopes for his son.... But Jack might change! Lookin' back over all the
years I remember many boys like this Buster Jack, an' I remember how in
the nature of their doin's they just hanged themselves. I've a queer
foresight about people whose trouble I've made my own. It's somethin'
that never fails. When their trouble's goin' to turn out bad then I feel
a terrible yearnin' to tell the story of Hell-Bent Wade. That foresight
of trouble gave me my name.... But it's not operatin' here.... An' so,
my young friends, you can believe me when I say somethin' will happen.
As far as October first is concerned, or any time near, Collie isn't
goin' to marry Jack Belllounds."