ur folks of your accident?" asked Columbine, ignoring
his remark.

"No."

"Oh, Wilson, you ought to have sent for them, or have written at least."

"Me? To go crying for them when I got in trouble? I couldn't see it that
way."

"Wilson, you'll be going--home--soon--to Denver--won't you?" she
faltered.

"No," he replied, shortly.

"But what will you do? Surely you can't work--not so soon?"

"Columbine, I'll never--be able to ride again--like I used to," he said,
tragically. "I'll ride, yes, but never the old way."

"Oh!" Columbine's tone, and the exquisite softness and tenderness with
which she placed a hand on the rude crutch would have been enlightening
to any one but these two absorbed in themselves. "I can't bear to
believe that."

"I'm afraid it's true. Bad smash, Columbine! I just missed being
club-footed."

"You should have care. You should have.... Wilson, do you intend to stay
here with the Andrews?"

"Not much. They have troubles of their own. Columbine, I'm going to
homestead one hundred and sixty acres."

"Homestead!" she exclaimed, in amaze. "Where?"

"Up there under Old White Slides. I've long intended to. You know that
pretty little valley under the red bluff. There's a fine spring. You've
been there with me. There by the old cabin built by prospectors?"

"Yes, I know. It's a pretty place--fine valley, but Wils, you can't
_live_ there," she expostulated.

"Why not, I'd like to know?"

"That little cubby-hole! It's only a tiny one-room cabin, roof all gone,
chinks open, chimney crumbling.... Wilson, you don't mean to tell me you
want to live there alone?"

"Sure. What'd you think?" he replied, with sarcasm.

"Expect me to _marry_ some girl? Well, I wouldn't, even if any one would
have a cripple."

"Who--who will take care of you?" she asked, blushing furiously.

"I'll take care of myself," he declared. "Good Lord! Columbine, I'm not
an invalid yet. I've got a few friends who'll help me fix up the cabin.
And that reminds me. There's a lot of my stuff up in the bunk-house at
White Slides. I'm going to drive up soon to haul it away."

"Wilson Moore, do you mean it?" she asked, with grave wonder. "Are you
going to homestead near White Slides Ranch--and _live_ there--when--"

She could not finish. An overwhelming disaster, for which she had no
name, seemed to be impending.

"Yes, I am," he replied. "Funny how things turn out, isn't it?"

"It's very--very funny," she said, dazedly,