by Zane Grey
“Natural like, I reckon, fer Jack to feel gay on gettin’ home. I ain’t holdin’ thet ag’in’ him. These last three years must have been gallin’ to thet boy.”
Columbine stretched her hands to the blaze.
“It’s cold, dad,” she averred. “I didn’t dress warmly, so I nearly froze. Autumn is here and there’s frost in the air. Oh, the hills were all gold and red—the aspen leaves were falling. I love autumn, but it means winter is so near.”
“Wal, wal, time flies,” sighed the old man. “Where’d you ride?”
“Up the west slope to the bluff. It’s far. I don’t go there often.”
“Meet any of the boys? I sent the outfit to drive stock down from the mountain. I’ve lost a good many head lately. They’re eatin’ some weed thet poisons them. They swell up an’ die. Wuss this year than ever before.”
“Why, that is serious, dad! Poor things! That’s worse than eating loco.… Yes, I met Wilson Moore driving down the slope.”
“Ahuh! Wal, let’s eat.”
They took seats at the table which the cook, Jake, was loading with steaming victuals. Supper appeared to be a rather sumptuous one this evening, in honor of the expected guest, who had not come. Columbine helped the old man to his favorite dishes, stealing furtive glances at his lined and shadowed face. She sensed a subtle change in him since the afternoon, but could not see any sign of it in his look or demeanor. His appetite was as hearty as ever.
“So you met Wils. Is he still makin’ up to you?” asked Bellounds, presently.
“No, he isn’t. I don’t see that he ever did—that—dad,” she replied.
“You’re a kid in mind an’ a woman in body. Thet cowpuncher has been lovesick over you since you were a little girl. It’s what kept him hyar ridin’ fer me.”
“Dad, I don’t believe it,” said Columbine, feeling the blood at her temples. “You always imagined such things about Wilson, and the other boys as well.”
“Ahuh! I’m an old fool about wimmen, hey? Mebbe I was years ago. But I can see now.… Didn’t Wils always get ory-eyed when any of the other boys shined up to you?”
“I can’t remember that he did,” replied Columbine. She felt a desire to laugh, yet the subject was anything but amusing to her.
“Wal, you’ve always been innocent-like. Thank the Lord you never leaned to tricks of most pretty lasses, makin’ eyes at all the men. Anyway, a matter of three months ago I told Wils to keep away from you—thet you were not fer any poor cowpuncher.”
“You never liked him. Why? Was it fair, taking him as boys come?”
“Wal, I reckon it wasn’t,” replied Bellounds, and as he looked up his broad face changed to ruddy color. “Thet boy’s the best rider an’ roper I’ve had in years. He ain’t the bronco-bustin’ kind. He never drank. He was honest an’ willin’. He saves his money. He’s good at handlin’ stock. Thet boy will be a rich rancher some day.”
“Strange, then, you never liked him,” murmured Columbine. She felt ashamed of the good it did her to hear Wilson praised.
“No, it ain’t strange. I have my own reasons,” replied Bellounds, gruffly, as he resumed eating.
Columbine believed she could guess the cause of the old rancher’s unreasonable antipathy for this cowboy. Not improbably it was because Wilson had always been superior in every way to Jack Bellounds. The boys had been natural rivals in everything pertaining to life on the range. What Bill Bellounds admired most in men was paramount in Wilson and lacking in his own son.
“Will you put Jack in charge of your ranches, now?” asked Columbine.
“Not much. I reckon I’ll try him hyar at White Slides as foreman. An’ if he runs the outfit, then I’ll see.”
“Dad, he’ll never run the White Slides outfit,” asserted Columbine.
“Wal, it is a hard bunch, I’ll agree. But I reckon the boys will stay, exceptin’, mebbe, Wils. An’ it’ll be jest as well fer him to leave.”
“It’s not good business to send away your best cowboy. I’ve heard you complain lately of lack of men.”
“I sure do need men,” replied Bellounds, seriously. “Stock gettin’ more ’n we can handle. I sent word over the range to Meeker, hopin’ to get some men there. What I need most jest now is a fellar who knows dogs an’ who’ll hunt down the wolves an’ lions an’ bears thet’re livin’ off my cattle.”
“Dad, you need a whole outfit to handle the packs of hounds you’ve got. Such an assortment of them! There must be a hundred. Only yesterday some man brought a lot of mangy, long-eared canines. It’s funny. Why, dad, you’re the laughing-stock of the range!”
“Yes, an’ the range’ll be thankin’ me when I rid it of all these varmints,” declared Bellounds. “Lass, I swore I’d buy every dog fetched to me, until I had enough to kill off the coyotes an’ lofers an’ lions. I’ll do it, too. But I need a hunter.”
“Why not put Wilson Moore in charge of the hounds? He’s a hunter.”
“Wal, lass, thet might be a good idee,” replied the rancher, nodding his grizzled head. “Say, you’re sort of wantin’ me to keep Wils on.”
“Yes, dad.”
“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 gratitude for the home and the affection that had been bestowed upon a nameless waif. Bill Bellounds had not been under any obligation to succor a strange, lost child. He had done it because he was big, noble. 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 Bellounds 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.
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 Bellounds 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 grass and wild flowers grew luxuriantly. Bellounds was a cattleman, and he saw the possibilities there. To which end he sought the friendship of Piah, chief of the Utes. This noble 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 Bellounds 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 Bellounds 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 Bellounds 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 Bellounds 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. Bellounds 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.
* * * *
Bellounds 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 Bellounds 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 Bellounds’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 Bellounds’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 Bellounds 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.
“Nobody knows. The secret’s been kept.” replied Bellounds.
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 Bellounds, 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 nobody knows—why, I’ll try to forget it.”
“Mebbe I blundered,” replied Bellounds, pathetically. “Yet, God 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 Bellounds did not evince any sign of assimilating 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.”
Bellounds stroked his grizzled beard and regarded his son with mingled pride and doubt. Not at this moment, most assuredly, 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.
“Right, you have. But them was particular bad cases. I’m not advisin’ thet way.… Son, it’s close to my heart—this hope I have thet you’ll—”
The full voice quavered and broke. It would indeed have been a hardened youth who could not have felt something of the deep and unutterable affection in the old man. Jack Bellounds put an arm around his father’s shoulder.
“Dad, I’ll make you proud of me yet. Give me a chance. And don’t be sore if I can’t do wonders right at first.”
“Son, you shall have every chance. An’ thet reminds me. Do you remember Columbine?”
“I should say so,” replied Jack, eagerly. “They spoke of her in Kremmling. Where is she?”
/>
“I reckon somewheres about. Jack, you an’ Columbine are to marry.”
“Marry! Columbine and me?” he ejaculated.
“Yes. You’re my son an’ she’s my adopted daughter. I won’t split my property. An’ it’s right she had a share. A fine, strong, quiet, pretty lass, Jack, an’ she’ll make a good wife. I’ve set my heart on the idee.”
“But Columbine always hated me.”
“Wal, she was a kid then an’ you teased her. Now she’s a woman, an’ willin’ to please me. Jack, you’ll not buck ag’in’ this deal?”
“That depends,” replied Jack. “I’d marry `most any girl you wanted me to. But if Columbine were to flout me as she used to—why, I’d buck sure enough.… Dad, are you sure she knows nothing, suspects nothing of where you—you sent me?”
“Son, I swear she doesn’t.”
“Do you mean you’d want us to marry soon?”
“Wal, yes, as soon as Collie would think reasonable. Jack, she’s shy an’ strange, an’ deep, too. If you ever win her heart you’ll be richer than if you owned all the gold in the Rockies. I’d say go slow. But contrariwise, it’d mebbe be surer to steady you, keep you home, if you married right off.”
“Married right off!” echoed Jack, with a laugh. “It’s like a story. But wait till I see her.”
* * * *
At that very moment Columbine was sitting on the topmost log of a high corral, deeply interested in the scene before her.
Two cowboys were in the corral with a saddled mustang. One of them carried a canvas sack containing tools and horseshoes. As he dropped it with a metallic clink the mustang snorted and jumped and rolled the whites of his eyes. He knew what that clink meant.
“Miss Collie, air you-all goin’ to sit up thar?” inquired the taller cowboy, a lean, supple, and powerful fellow, with a rough, red-blue face, hard as a rock, and steady, bright eyes.
“I sure am, Jim,” she replied, imperturbably.