ied, with
a queer laugh. "But I reckon I'd try to live up to it."

There were small sprigs of golden aspen leaves and crimson oak leaves on
the wall above the foot of Wilson's bed. Beneath them, on pegs, hung a
rifle. And on the window-sill stood a glass jar containing columbines.
They were fresh. They had just been picked. They waved gently in the
breeze, sweetly white and blue, strangely significant to the girl.

Moore laughed defiantly.

"Wade thought to fetch these flowers in," he explained. "They're his
favorites as well as mine. It won't be long now till the frost kills
them ... and I want to be happy while I may!"

Again Columbine felt that deep surge within her, beyond her control,
beyond her understanding, but now gathering and swelling, soon to be
reckoned with. She did not look at Wilson's face then. Her downcast gaze
saw that his right hand was bandaged, and she touched it with an
unconscious tenderness.

"Your hand! Why is it all wrapped up?"

The cowboy laughed with grim humor.

"Have you seen Jack this morning?"

"No," she replied, shortly.

"Well, if you had, you'd know what happened to my fist."

"Did you hurt it on him?" she asked, with a queer little shudder that
was not unpleasant.

"Collie, I busted that fist on his handsome face."

"Oh, it was dreadful!" she murmured. "Wilson, he meant to kill you."

"Sure. And I'd cheerfully have killed him."

"You two must never meet again," she went on.

"I hope to Heaven we never do," replied Moore, with a dark earnestness
that meant more than his actual words.

"Wilson, will you avoid him--for my sake?" implored Columbine,
unconsciously clasping the bandaged hand.

"I will. I'll take the back trails. I'll sneak like a coyote. I'll hide
and I'll watch.... But, Columbine Belllounds, if he ever corners
me again--"

"Why, you'll leave him to Hell-Bent Wade," interrupted the hunter, and
he looked up from where he knelt, fixing those great, inscrutable eyes
upon the cowboy. Columbine saw something beyond his face, deeper than
the gloom, a passion and a spirit that drew her like a magnet. "An' now,
Miss Collie," he went on, "I reckon you'll want to wait on our invalid.
He's got to be fed."

"I surely will," replied Columbine, gladly, and she sat down on the
edge of the bed. "Ben, you fetch that box and put his dinner on it."

While Wade complied, Columbine, shyly aware of her nearness to the
cowboy, sought to keep up conversation. "Couldn't