by Zane Grey
When she was about to turn back she heard the thud of hoofs ahead of her. Pronto shot up his ears. Alarmed and anxious, Columbine swiftly gazed about her. It would not do for her to be seen. Yet, on the other hand, the chances were that the approaching horse carried Wade. It was lucky that she was on Pronto, for he could be trusted to stand still and not neigh. Columbine rode into a thick clump of spruces that had long, shelving branches, reaching down. Here she hid, holding Pronto motionless.
Presently the sound of hoofs denoted the approach of several horses. That augmented Columbine’s anxiety. Peering out of her covert, she espied three horsemen trotting along the trail, and one of them was Jack Bellounds. They appeared to be in strong argument, judging from gestures and emphatic movements of their heads. As chance would have it they halted their horses not half a dozen rods from Columbine’s place of concealment. The two men with Bellounds were rough-looking, one of them, evidently a leader, having a dark face disfigured by a horrible scar.
Naturally they did not talk loud, and Columbine had to strain her ears to catch anything. But a word distinguished here and there, and accompanying actions, made transparent the meaning of their presence and argument. The big man refused to ride any farther. Evidently he had come so far without realizing it. His importunities were for “more head of stock.” His scorn was for a “measly little bunch not worth the risk.” His anger was for Bellounds’s foolhardiness in “leavin’ a trail.” Bellounds had little to say, and most of that was spoken in a tone too low to be heard. His manner seemed indifferent, even reckless. But he wanted “money.” The scar-faced man’s name was “Smith.” Then Columbine gathered from Smith’s dogged and forceful gestures, and his words, “no money” and “bigger bunch,” that he was unwilling to pay what had been agreed upon unless Bellounds promised to bring a larger number of cattle. Here Bellounds roundly cursed the rustler, and apparently argued that course “next to impossible.” Smith made a sweeping movement with his arm, pointing south, indicating some place afar, and part of his speech was “Gore Peak.” The little man, companion of Smith, got into the argument, and, dismounting from his horse, he made marks upon the smooth earth of the trail. He was drawing a rude map showing direction and locality. At length, when Bellounds nodded as if convinced or now informed, this third member of the party remounted, and seemed to have no more to say. Bellounds pondered sullenly. He snatched a switch from off a bough overhead and flicked his boot and stirrup with it, an action that made his horse restive. Smith leered and spoke derisively, of which speech Columbine heard, “Aw hell!” and “yellow streak,” and “no one’d ever,” and “son of Bill Bellounds,” and “rustlin’ stock.” Then this scar-faced man drew out a buckskin bag. Either the contempt or the gold, or both, overbalanced vacillation in the weak mind of Jack Bellounds, for he lifted his head, showing his face pale and malignant, and without trace of shame or compunction he snatched the bag of gold, shouted a hoarse, “All right, damn you!” and, wheeling the white mustang, he spurred away, quickly disappearing.
The rustlers sat their horses, gazing down the trail, and Smith wagged his dark head doubtfully. Then he spoke quite distinctly, “I ain’t a-trustin’ thet Bellounds pup!” and his comrade replied, “Boss, we ain’t stealin’ the stock, so what th’ hell!” Then they turned their horses and trotted out of sight and hearing up the timbered slope.
Columbine was so stunned, and so frightened and horrified, that she remained hidden there for a long time before she ventured forth. Then, heading homeward, she skirted the trail and kept to the edge of the forest, making a wide detour over the hills, finally reaching the ranch at sunset. Jack did not appear at the evening meal. His father had one of his spells of depression and seemed not to have noticed her absence. She lay awake all night thinking and praying.
Columbine concluded her narrative there, and, panting from her agitation and hurry, she gazed at the bowed figure of Moore, and then at Wade.
“I had to tell you this shameful secret,” she began again. “I’m forced. If you do not help me, if something is not done, there’ll be a horrible—end to all!”
“We’ll help you, but how?” asked Moore, raising a white face.
“I don’t know yet. I only feel—I only feel what may happen, if I don’t prevent it.… Wilson, you must go home—at least for a while.”
“It’ll not look right for Wils to leave White Slides now,” interposed Wade, positively.
“But why? Oh, I fear—”
“Never mind now, lass. It’s a good reason. An’ you mustn’t fear anythin’. I agree with you—we’ve got to prevent this—this that’s goin’ to happen.”
“Oh, Ben, my dear friend, we must prevent it—you must!”
“Ahuh!… So I was figurin’.”
“Ben, you must go to Jack an’ tell him—show him the peril—frighten him terribly—so that he will not do—do this shameful thing again.”
“Lass, I reckon I could scare Jack out of his skin. But what good would that do?”
“It’ll stop this—this madness.… Then I’ll marry him—and keep him safe—after that!”
“Collie, do you think marryin’ Buster Jack will stop his bustin’ out?”
“Oh, I know it will. He had conquered over the evil in him. I saw that. I felt it. He conquered over his baser nature for love of me. Then—when he heard—from my own lips—that I loved Wilson—why, then he fell. He didn’t care. He drank again. He let go. He sank. And now he’ll ruin us all. Oh, it looks as if he meant it that way!… But I can change him. I will marry him. I will love him—or I will live a lie! I will make him think I love him!”
Wilson Moore, deadly pale, faced her with flaming eyes.
“Collie, why? For God’s sake, explain why you will shame your womanhood and ruin me—all for that coward—that thief?”
Columbine broke from Wade and ran to Wilson, as if to clasp him, but something halted her and she stood before him.
“Because dad will kill him!” she cried.
“My God! what are you saying?” exclaimed Moore, incredulously. “Old Bill would roar and rage, but hurt that boy of his—never!”
“Wils, I reckon Collie is right. You haven’t got Old Bill figured. I know,” interposed Wade, with one of his forceful gestures.
“Wilson, listen, and don’t set your heart against me. For I must do this thing,” pleaded Columbine. “I heard dad swear he’d kill Jack. Oh, I’ll never forget! He was terrible! If he ever finds out that Jack stole from his own father—stole cattle like a common rustler, and sold them for gold to gamble and drink with—he will kill him!… That’s as true as fate.… Think how horrible that would be for me! Because I’m to blame here, mostly. I fell in love with you, Wilson Moore, otherwise I could have saved Jack already.
“But it’s not that I think of myself. Dad has loved me. He has been as a father to me. You know he’s not my real father. Oh, if I only had a real one!… And I owe him so much. But then it’s not because I owe him or because I love him. It’s because of his own soul!… That splendid, noble old man, who has been so good to every one—who had only one fault, and that love of his son—must he be let go in blinded and insane rage at the failure of his life, the ruin of his son—must he be allowed to kill his own flesh and blood?… It would be murder! It would damn dad’s soul to everlasting torment. No! No! I’ll not let that be!”
“Collie—how about—your own soul?” whispered Moore, lifting himself as if about to expend a tremendous breath.
“That doesn’t matter,” she replied.
“Collie—Collie—” he stammered, but could not go on.
Then it seemed to Wade that they both turned to him unconscious of the inevitableness of his relation to this catastrophe, yet looking to him for the spirit, the guidance that became habitual to them. It brought the warm blood back to Wade’s cold heart. It was his great reward. How intensely and implacably did his soul mount to that crisis!
“Collie, I’ll never fail you,” he said, and his
gentle voice was deep and full. “If Jack can be scared into haltin’ in his mad ride to hell—then I’ll do it. I’m not promisin’ so much for him. But I’ll swear to you that Old Bellounds’s hands will never be stained with his son’s blood!”
“Oh, Ben! Ben!” she cried, in passionate gratitude. “I’ll love you—bless you all my life!”
“Hush, lass! I’m not one to bless.… An’ now you must do as I say. Go home an’ tell them you’ll marry Jack in August. Say August thirteenth.”
“So long! Oh, why put it off? Wouldn’t it be better—safer, to settle it all—once and forever?”
“No man can tell everythin’. But that’s my judgment.”
“Why August thirteenth?” she queried, with strange curiosity. “An unlucky date!”
“Well, it just happened to come to my mind—that date,” replied Wade, in his slow, soft voice of reminiscence. “I was married on August thirteenth—twenty-one years ago.… An’, Collie, my wife looked somethin’ like you. Isn’t that strange, now? It’s a little world.… An’ she’s been gone eighteen years!”
“Ben, I never dreamed you ever had a wife,” said Columbine, softly, with her hands going to his shoulder. “You must tell me of her some day.… But now—if you want time—if you think it best—I’ll not marry Jack till August thirteenth.”
“That’ll give me time,” replied Wade. “I’m thinkin’ Jack ought to be—reformed, let’s call it—before you marry him. If all you say is true—why we can turn him round. Your promise will do most.… So, then, it’s settled?”
“Yes—dear—friends,” faltered the girl, tremulously, on the verge of a breakdown, now that the ordeal was past.
Wilson Moore stood gazing out of the door, his eyes far away on the gray slopes.
“Queer how things turn out,” he said, dreamily. “August thirteenth!… That’s about the time the columbines blow on the hills.… And I always meant columbine-time—”
Here he sharply interrupted himself, and the dreamy musing gave way to passion. “But I mean it yet! I’ll—I’ll die before I give up hope of you!”
CHAPTER XVI
Wade, watching Columbine ride down the slope on her homeward way, did some of the hardest thinking he had yet been called upon to do. It was not necessary to acquaint Wilson Moore with the deeper and more subtle motives that had begun to actuate him. It would not utterly break the cowboy’s spirit to live in suspense. Columbine was safe for the present. He had insured her against fatality. Time was all he needed. Possibility of an actual consummation of her marriage to Jack Bellounds did not lodge for an instant in Wade’s consciousness. In Moore’s case, however, the present moment seemed critical. What should he tell Moore—what should he conceal from him?
“Son, come in here,” he called to the cowboy.
“Pard, it looks—bad!” said Moore, brokenly.
Wade looked at the tragic face and cursed under his breath.
“Buck up! It’s never as bad as it looks. Anyway, we know now what to expect, an’ that’s well.”
Moore shook his head. “Couldn’t you see how like steel Collie was?… But I’m on to you, Wade. You think by persuading Collie to put that marriage off that we’ll gain time. You’re gambling with time. You swear Buster Jack will hang himself. You won’t quit fighting this deal.”
“Buster Jack has slung the noose over a tree, an’ he’s about ready to slip his head into it,” replied Wade.
“Bah!… You drive me wild,” cried Moore, passionately. “How can you? Where’s all that feeling you seemed to have for me? You nursed me—you saved my leg—and my life. You must have cared about me. But now—you talk about that dolt—that spoiled old man’s pet—that damned cur, as if you believed he’d ruin himself. No such luck! no such hope!… Every day things grow worse. Yet the worse they grow the stronger you seem! It’s all out of proportion. It’s dreams. Wade, I hate to say it, but I’m sure you’re not always—just right in your mind.”
“Wils, now ain’t that queer?” replied Wade, sadly. “I’m agreein’ with you.”
“Aw!” Moore shook himself savagely and laid an affectionate and appealing arm on his friend’s shoulder. “Forgive me, pard!… It’s me who’s out of his head.… But my heart’s broken.”
“That’s what you think,” rejoined Wade, stoutly. “But a man’s heart can’t break in a day. I know.… An’ the God’s truth is Buster Jack will hang himself!”
Moore raised his head sharply, flinging himself back from his friend so as to scrutinize his face. Wade felt the piercing power of that gaze.
“Wade, what do you mean?”
“Collie told us some interestin’ news about Jack, didn’t she? Well, she didn’t know what I know. Jack Bellounds had laid a cunnin’ an’ devilish trap to prove you guilty of rustlin’ his father’s cattle.”
“Absurd!” ejaculated Moore, with white lips.
“I’d never given him credit for brains to hatch such a plot,” went on Wade. “Now listen. Not long ago Buster Jack made a remark in front of the whole outfit, includin’ his father, that the homesteaders on the range were rustlin’ cattle. It fell sort of flat, that remark. But no one could calculate on his infernal cunnin’. I quit workin’ for Bellounds that night, an’ I’ve put my time in spyin’ on the boy. In my day I’ve done a good deal of spyin’, but I’ve never run across anyone slicker than Buster Jack. To cut it short—he got himself a white-speckled mustang that’s a dead ringer for Spottie. He measured the tracks of your horse’s left front foot—the bad hoof, you know, an’ he made a shoe exactly the same as Spottie wears. Also, he made some kind of a contraption that’s like the end of your crutch. These he packs with him. I saw him ride across the pasture to hide his tracks, climb up the sage for the same reason, an’ then hide in that grove of aspens over there near the trail you use. Here, you can bet, he changed shoes on the left front foot of his horse. Then he took to the trail, an’ he left tracks for a while, an’ then he was careful to hide them again. He stole his father’s stock an’ drove it up over the grassy benches where even you or I couldn’t track him next day. But up on top, when it suited him, he left some horse tracks, an’ in the mud near a spring-hole he gets off his horse, steppin’ with one foot—an’ makin’ little circles with dots like those made by the end of your crutch. Then ’way over in the woods there’s a cabin where he meets his accomplices. Here he leaves the same horse tracks an’ crutch tracks.… Simple as a b c, Wils, when you see how he did it. But I’ll tell you straight—if I hadn’t been suspicious of Buster Jack—that trick of his would have made you a rustler!”
“Damn him!” hissed the cowboy, in utter consternation and fury.
“Ahuh! That’s my sentiment exactly.”
“I swore to Collie I’d never kill him!”
“Sure you did, son. An’ you’ve got to keep that oath. I pin you down to it. You can’t break faith with Collie.… An’ you don’t want his bad blood on your hands.”
“No! No!” he replied, violently. “Of course I don’t. I won’t. But God! how sweet it would be to tear out his lying tongue—to—”
“I reckon it would. Only don’t talk about that,” interrupted Wade, bluntly. “You see, now, don’t you, how he’s about hanged himself.”
“No, pard, I don’t. We can’t squeal that on him, any more than we can squeal what Collie told us.”
“Son, you’re young in dealin’ with crooked men. You don’t get the drift of motives. Buster Jack is not only robbin’ his father an’ hatchin’ a dirty trap for you, but he’s double-crossin’ the rustlers he’s sellin’ the cattle to. He’s riskin’ their necks. He’s goin’ to find your tracks, showin’ you dealt with them. Sure, he won’t give them away, an’ he’s figurin’ on their gettin’ out of it, maybe by leavin’ the range, or a shootin’-fray, or some way. The big thing with Jack is that he’s goin’ to accuse you of rustlin’ an’ show your tracks to his father. Well, that’s a risk he’s given the rustlers. It happens that I know this scar-face Sm
ith. We’ve met before. Now it’s easy to see from what Collie heard that Smith is not trustin’ Buster Jack. So, all underneath this Jack Bellounds’s game, there’s forces workin’ unbeknown to him, beyond his control, an’ sure to ruin him.”
“I see. I see. By Heaven! Wade, nothing else but ruin seems possible!… But suppose it works out his way!… What then? What of Collie?”
“Son, I’ve not got that far along in my reckonin’,” replied Wade.
“But for my sake—think. If Buster Jack gets away with his trick—if he doesn’t hang himself by some blunder or fit of temper or spree—what then of Collie?”
Wade could not answer this natural and inevitable query for the reason that he had found it impossible of consideration.
“Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,” he replied.
“Wade, you’ve said that before. It helped me. But now I need more than a few words from the Bible. My faith is low. I…oh, I tried to pray because Collie told me she had prayed! But what are prayers? We’re dealing with a stubborn, iron-willed old man who idolizes his son; we’re dealing with a crazy boy, absolutely self-centered, crafty, and vicious, who’ll stop at nothing. And, lastly, we’re dealing with a girl who’s so noble and high-souled that she’ll sacrifice her all—her life to pay her debt. If she were really Bill Bellounds’s daughter she’d never marry Jack, saying, of course, that he was not her brother.… Do you know that it will kill her, if she marries him?”
“Ahuh! I reckon it would,” replied Wade, with his head bowed. Moore roused his gloomy forebodings. He did not care to show this feeling or the effect the cowboy’s pleading had upon him.