The summary revealed a loss of one hundred livestock.
Belllounds reacted to the shocking news with a roar.

A September sun, losing some of its warmth if not its brightness, was setting low in the west over the dark Colorado range. A purple haze started to thicken in the wooded notches. Gray foothills, soft and rolling, extended down from the higher ground. They were smooth and sweeping, with long, velvety slopes and scattered patches of aspens glowing in autumn gold. Splashes of red vine added color to the soft gray of sage. Old White Slides, a mountain marked by avalanches, loomed with its stark rocky peak above the valley, protecting it from the north.

A girl rode down the slope, looking out at the vast expanse and colors of the mountain terrain that was her home. She followed an old path that led to a bluff overlooking a section of the valley. Once, it had been a familiar viewpoint for her, but she hadn't been there in a while. It was tied to significant moments in her life. Seven years ago, when she was twelve, she had made a difficult choice to please her guardian—the old rancher she loved and called father, who had truly been like a father to her. That choice was to attend school in Denver. For four years, she had lived away from her beloved gray hills and black mountains. Since her return, she had only climbed to this height once, and that moment was also memorable, but for unhappy reasons. It had been three years ago. Today, the struggles and sorrows of her girlhood felt like distant memories: she was a woman at nineteen, facing the first major challenge in her life.

The trail climbed up the back of the bluff, passing through a cluster of aspens with white trunks and yellow leaves fluttering in the breeze, and led across a flat area filled with lush grass and wildflowers to the rocky edge.

She got off the horse and tossed aside the bridle. Her mustang, used to being pet, bumped his smooth, dark head against her, clearly expecting the same affection in return. But when she didn’t respond, he lowered his nose to the grass and started grazing. The girl’s gaze was focused on some delicate, white-and-blue flowers swaying in the breeze. They looked up faintly, like pale stars, from the tall grass that had a hint of gold.

"Columbines," she thought, wistfully, as she picked several of the flowers and held them up to look at them in amazement, as if searching for some insight into the mystery surrounding her birth and her name. Then she stood with a dreamy look, gazing at the distant mountains.

"Columbine!... That's what they named me—the miners who found me—a baby—lost in the woods—sleeping among the columbines." She said it out loud, as if hearing her own voice could make it true.

So much of the mystery about her was uncovered that day by the man she had always referred to as her father. She had always had a vague awareness of some mystery, something unusual about her childhood, some relationship that was never explained.

"No name but Columbine," she whispered, sadly, and now she understood a strange yearning in her heart.

Scarcely an hour ago, as she ran down the wide porch of the White Slides ranch house, she had come across the man who had taken care of her her whole life. He had looked at her with the same kindness and fatherly affection as before, but there was a difference. She seemed to see him as old Bill Belllounds, the pioneer and rancher, a large man with a broad face, tough and weathered, with gray hair and intense blue eyes.

"Collie," the old man had said, "I think there's news. A letter from Jack... He's coming home."

Belllounds waved the letter. His large hand shook as he reached to place it on her shoulder. The toughness in him seemed oddly softened. Jack was his son. Buster Jack, as the range had always called him, along with other, less flattering names that never reached his father's ears. Jack had been sent away three years ago, just before Columbine returned from school. So, she hadn't seen him in over seven years. But she remembered him clearly—a tall, rugged boy, striking and untamed, who had made her childhood nearly unbearable.

"Yeah—my son—Jack—he's coming home," said Belllounds, with a crack in his voice. "And, Collie—now I need to tell you something."

"Yeah, dad," she had replied, with a firm grip of the heavy hand on her shoulder.

"That's just it, girl. I’m not your dad. I've tried to be a dad to you and I've loved you like my own. But you're not my flesh and blood. And now I have to tell you."

The short story unfolded. Seventeen years ago, miners working on Belllounds's claim in the mountains above Middle Park discovered a child asleep among the columbines along the trail. Around that area, Indians, likely Arapahoes crossing the mountains to attack the Utes, had either captured or killed the people in a prairie schooner. There were no other clues. The miners took the child to their camp, fed and cared for her, and, following their usual practice, named her Columbine. Then they brought her to Belllounds.

"Collie," said the old rancher, "it never needed to be said, and it wouldn’t have if it weren't for one reason. I’m getting old. I don’t plan to split my property between you and Jack. So I want you two to get married. You’ve always kept Jack in line. With a wife like you–well, maybe Jack’ll–"

"Dad!" exclaimed Columbine. "Marry Jack!... I don't even remember him!"

"Haw! Haw!" laughed Belllounds. "Well, you'll be here soon enough. Jack's in Kremling, and he'll be here tonight or tomorrow."

"But—I—I don't l-love him," stammered Columbine.

The old man lost his cheer; his weathered face took on a tough look again; his big eyes burned with emotion. Her heartfelt objection had hurt him. She remembered how sensitive the old man had always been about any criticism aimed at his son.

"Well, that's unfortunate," he replied gruffly. "Maybe you'll change. I guess no girl could really help a boy unless she cared about him. Anyway, you and Jack will marry."

He had stormed off, and Columbine had ridden her mustang far up the valley slope where she could be alone. Standing on the edge of the bluff, she suddenly realized that the quiet and solitude of her secluded spot had been interrupted. Cattle were mooing below her and along the slope of old White Slides and on the grassy hills above. She had forgotten that the cattle were being driven down into the lowlands for the fall round-up. A large red-and-white-spotted herd was milling in the park just below her. Calves and yearlings were kicking up dust along the mountain slope; wild old steers were crashing through the sage, stubbornly refusing to be driven down; cows were running and mooing for their lost ones. The clear, melodious calls of the cowboys rose up. The cattle recognized those calls, and only the wild steers kept moving uphill.

Columbine also recognized every call and which cowboy it came from. They sang, shouted, and cursed, but it all sounded like music to her. Here and there along the slope, where the aspen groves were gathered, a horse would dash across an open area; the dust would kick up, and a cowboy would let out a hearty yell that resonated along the slope and echoed under the bluff, lingering long after the bold rider had disappeared into the steep thickets.

"I wonder which one is Wils," murmured Columbine, as she watched and listened, vaguely aware of a slight difference, a strange block in her memory of this particular cowboy. She felt the change but didn’t understand it. One by one, she recognized the riders on the slopes below, but Wilson Moore wasn't among them. He must be above her, so she turned to look across the grassy bluff, up the long, yellow slope, toward where the shining aspens partially hid a red mountain bluff, rising high above. Then from far to her left, high up on a scrubby ridge of the slope, a voice rang out that thrilled her: "Go--aloong--you-ooooo." Red cattle rushed down the slope in a frenzy, kicking up dust, crashing through the brush, rolling rocks, and letting out deep bellows.

"Whoop-ee!" A clearer, high-pitched yell rang out.

Columbine spotted a white mustang darting along the ridge, outlined against the blue sky, its mane and tail flowing. The way it moved on that steep slope showed that its rider was a daring cowboy who wasn’t afraid of heights or depths. She would have recognized him by his riding style, even if she hadn’t known his slim, upright figure. The cowboy noticed her right away. He pulled the mustang back from the edge, just as it was about to race down the slope, lifting it up as it reared and spun around. Then Columbine waved. The cowboy urged his horse along the ridge, disappearing behind a cluster of aspens, and then reappeared on the right, where he slowed to a walk as he descended towards the bluff.

The girl watched him approach, feeling an unfamiliar sense of uncertainty about this meeting. She realized she was seeing him in a way she never had before, despite years of him being a playmate, a friend, almost like a brother. He had worked for Belllounds for years and was a cowboy because he loved cattle, even more so his love for horses, and above all, he cherished life outdoors. Unlike most cowboys, he had gone to school; he had a family in Denver who disapproved of his wild life on the range and often urged him to come home. At times, he seemed distant and difficult to understand.

While a lot of thoughts raced through Columbine's mind, she watched the cowboy ride slowly down to her, and she felt a sudden sense of restraint. How was Wilson going to react to the news of this forced change coming into her life? That thought hit her hard. It gave her an odd pang. But she and he were just good friends. As she thought about it, she realized they hadn’t been the close friends and companions they used to be. In the exciting uncertainty of this meeting, she had forgotten his distant attitude and the little gestures she had missed.

By this time, the cowboy had reached the flat ground and, with the relaxed elegance typical of his kind, slid off the saddle. He was tall and slim, with rounded limbs, small hips like a rider, and square, though not broad shoulders. He stood straight like an Indian. His eyes were hazel, his features were well-defined, and his face was sun-kissed. All men of the open had lean, strong faces, but in him, there was also a steadiness in his expression, a restraint that seemed to conceal sadness.

"Hey, Columbine!" he said. "What are you doing up here? You could get hit."

"Hey, Wils!" she said slowly. "Oh, I guess I can stay out of the way."

"Some troublemakers in that group. If any of them come running over here, Pronto will just leave you to walk home. That mustang can't stand cattle. And he's only half-tamed, you know."

"I forgot you were driving today," she replied, then turned her gaze away from him. There was a brief pause—longer than it felt to her.

"What did you come for?" he asked, with curiosity.

"I wanted to pick some columbines. Look." She offered him the swaying flowers. "Take one... Do you like them?"

"Yeah, I like columbine," he said, picking one up. His sharp hazel eyes softened and darkened. "It's Colorado's flower."

"Columbine! That's my name."

"Well, could you find a better one? It really fits you."

"Why?" she asked, looking at him again.

"You're slim—elegant. You keep your head held high and proud. Your skin is fair. Your eyes are blue. Not bluebell blue, but columbine blue—and they turn purple when you're angry."

"Wow! Wilson, this is a new way of talking for you," she said.

"You're different today."

"Yeah, I am." She glanced over the valley toward the setting sun, and the slight blush disappeared from her cheeks. "I have no right to hold my head up high. No one knows who I am or where I came from."

"As if that even mattered!" he exclaimed.

"Belllounds isn’t my father. I don’t have a dad. I was a stray. They found me in the woods—a baby—lost among the flowers. I've always been Columbine Belllounds. But that’s not my real name. No one knows what my true name is."

"I knew your story years ago, Columbine," he said sincerely. "Everyone knows. Old Bill should have told you this a long time ago. But he cares about you. So does everyone else. You can’t let this knowledge get you down... I regret that you’ve never had a mother or a sister. I could share the stories of many orphans who had different experiences."

"You don't get it. I've been happy. I haven't wished for anyone—anyone except a mom. It's just—"

"What am I missing?"

"I haven't told you everything."

"No? Well, keep going," he said, slowly.

Meaning of the hesitation and the restraint that had blocked her thoughts now hit Columbine. It was about what Wilson Moore might think of her potential marriage to Jack Belllounds. Still, she couldn't understand why that made her feel oddly insecure about her situation or how it caused a tension she had to struggle to conceal. Moreover, to her irritation, she realized she was dodging his direct request for the news she had held back.

"Jack Belllounds is coming home tonight or tomorrow," she said. After that, she waited for her companion to respond, keeping her gaze fixed blankly on the sparse pines bordering Old White Slides. But Moore didn’t respond. His silence made her turn toward him. The cowboy's face had subtly changed; it looked darker with a hint of red under the bronze, and his lower lip was pulled away from his teeth just as she glanced at him. He was focused on the lasso he was coiling. Suddenly, he turned to her, and the intense darkness of his eyes startled her.

"I've been waiting for that shorthorn back for months," he said bluntly.

"You—never—liked Jack?" Columbine asked slowly. That wasn’t what she meant to say, but it just came out.

"I should smile; I never did."

"Ever since you and he fought—long ago—all over—"

His quick movement caused the coiled lasso to loosen.

"Ever since I took care of him really well—don’t forget that," interrupted Wilson. The red had faded from the bronze.

"Yeah, you got him good," Columbine reflected. "I remember that. And Jack's been mad at you ever since."

"There's been no love lost."

"But, Wils, you've never talked like this before—spoken out so—against Jack," she protested.

"Well, I’m not the type to talk behind someone’s back. But I’m not shy about speaking my mind, either, and—and—"

He didn't finish his sentence, and what he meant was unclear. Overall, Moore didn't seem like himself. This worried Columbine. She had always confided in him. It was a complicated situation—she really wanted to tell him, yet felt a strange fear about it—she found an inexplicable satisfaction in his harsh mention of Jack—she realized that she valued Wilson's friendship more than she had realized, and now, for some odd reason, it was slipping away from her.

"We—we were such good friends—buddies," said Columbine, quickly and out of context.

“Who?” He looked at her.

"Why, you and I."

"Oh!" His tone became gentler, but there was still disapproval in his gaze. "What about that?"

"Something has happened that makes me feel like I’ve missed you lately—that’s it."

"Uh-huh!" His tone was final and bitter, but he wouldn't commit to anything. Columbine sensed a pride in him that seemed to be the reason for his distance.

"Wilson, why have you been acting different lately?" she asked, sadly.

"What's the point of telling you now?" he asked in response.

That left her with a profound feeling of loss. She had been caught up in dreams while he dealt with the real world. At this moment, she couldn't shake off her dream—she couldn't see or understand everything he seemed to. She felt like a child growing up way too fast. A deep longing for a mother surged within her like a powerful wave. Someone to rely on, someone who cared for her, someone to support her in this moment when fate was knocking at the door of her youth—how desperately she needed that!

"It might be bad for me to hear this, but go ahead and tell me anyway," she said finally, responding like someone older than she had been just an hour ago—addressing a feminine urge that had suddenly surfaced. She didn’t quite get this impulse, but it was there inside her.

"No!" Moore shouted, his face flushed dark red. He slammed the lasso against his saddle and tied it with awkward hands. He didn’t look at her. His voice was filled with anger and disbelief.

"Dad says I have to marry Jack," she said, suddenly sounding more like herself again.

"I heard him say that months ago," Moore snapped.

"You did! Was that—why?" she whispered.

"It was," he replied, emphatically.

"But that was no reason for you to be--be--to stay away from me," she said, with growing determination.

He gave a brief laugh.

"Wils, didn't you like me anymore after Dad said that?" she asked.

"Columbine, a girl who’s nineteen and about to get married, shouldn’t be foolish," he replied, with sarcasm.

"I'm not an idiot," she shot back, angrily.

"You ask stupid questions."

"Well, you didn't like me afterward or you would have never treated me badly."

"If you say I treated you badly—you’re saying something that’s not true," he replied, just as angrily.

They had never been so close to a fight before. Columbine felt something new—a mix of fear, heat, and pain, all in one heartbeat. Wilson was hurting her. A shiver ran through her, along her veins, swelling and tingling.

"You think I'm lying?" she shot back.

"Yeah, I do—if—"

But before he could finish, she slapped his face. It turned pale then, as she started to tremble.

"Oh—I didn’t mean to do that. I’m sorry," she stumbled.

He rubbed his cheek. The pain from the hit hadn’t been severe, but his eyes were filled with hurt and rage.

"Oh, don’t worry yourself," he exclaimed. "You slapped me once, years ago, for kissing you. I—I’m sorry for saying you lied. You're just not yourself right now. Neither am I."

That calmed the rough situation. The cowboy seemed to be torn between making a quick escape and the danger of staying any longer.

"Maybe that’s it," replied Columbine, with a half-laugh. She was close to tears and angry with herself. "Let’s make up—be friends again."

Moore stepped around aggressively. He seemed to brace himself against something in her. She sensed it. But his face became harder and older than she had ever seen it.

"Columbine, do you know where Jack Belllounds has been for the last three years?" he asked, deliberately, completely ignoring her attempts at friendship.

"No. Someone mentioned Denver. Another person said Kansas City. I never asked Dad because I knew Jack had been sent away. I assumed he was working—trying to make something of himself."

"Well, I hope to God—for your sake—that what you think will happen actually does," Moore replied, filled with deep resentment.

"Do you know where he has been?" asked Columbine. Some strange feeling prompted that. There was a mystery here. Wilson's agitation seemed unusual and intense.

"Yeah, I do." The cowboy said this through clenched teeth, as if he were holding back an overwhelming temptation.

Columbine lost her curiosity. She was mature enough to understand that there might be truths that would only complicate her situation further.

"Wilson," she started quickly, "I owe everything to Dad. He has taken care of me—sent me to school. He has been so good to me. I've always loved him. It would be a terrible way to repay all his protection and love if—if I turned him down—"

"Old Bill is the greatest guy ever," interrupted Moore, almost like he was trying to dismiss any suggestion of disloyalty to his boss. "Everyone in Middle Park and beyond owes Bill something. He's really good. There was never anything wrong with him, except for his stubborn blindness when it comes to his son. Buster Jack—the—the—"

Columbine placed a hand over Moore's mouth.

"The guy I have to marry," she said, seriously.

"You have to—you will?" he demanded.

"Of course. What else could I do? I never considered saying no."

"Columbine!" Wilson's shout was so intense, his movement so forceful, his dark eyes so striking that Columbine was left in shock, shaking and speechless. "How can you love Jack Belllounds? You were twelve years old when you last saw him. How can you love him?"

"I don't," replied Columbine.

"Then how can you marry him?"

"I owe Dad my obedience. He hopes that I can help Jack stay on track."

"Steady Jack!" Moore exclaimed passionately. "You, girl—you pale flower! You with your innocence and sweetness can calm that damn pup! My God! He was a gambler and a drunkard. He—"

"Shh!" pleaded Columbine.

"He cheated at cards," said the cowboy, with a contempt that made that vice seem completely low.

"But Jack was just a wild boy," Columbine replied, trying with brave words to defend the son of the man she loved as her father. "He’s been sent away to work. He'll have outgrown that wildness. He'll come home a man."

"Ugh!" exclaimed Moore, harshly.

Columbine felt a sinking feeling inside her. Where was her strength? She, who could walk and ride so many miles, was now feeling sick with an internal tremor! It was childish. She fought to hide her weakness from him.

"It's not like you to act this way," she said. "You used to be generous. Is it my fault? Did I choose this life?"

Moore quickly looked away from her and, with a hand resting on his horse, stayed silent for a moment. The way he squared his shoulders showed what he was thinking. Soon, he climbed into the saddle. The mustang snorted, chewed on the bit, and tossed its head, ready to take off.

"Forget my temper," the cowboy pleaded, looking down at Columbine. "I take it all back. I'm sorry. Don't let anything I said bother you. I was just jealous."

"Jealous!" exclaimed Columbine, amazed.

"Yeah. That really makes a guy see red and green. Not good! You’ve never experienced it."

"What were you jealous of?" Columbine asked.

The cowboy had control now and looked at her with a wry amusement.

"Well, Columbine, it’s like a story," he said. "I’m the guy disowned by my family—a drifter in the wild—no good—and no future.... Now our friend Jack, he's good-looking and wealthy. He has a loving old dad. Cattle, horses—ranches! He gets the girl. Get it!"

Spurring his mustang, the cowboy rode off. At the edge of the slope, he turned in the saddle. "I need to round up this herd of cattle. It's getting late. You should head home." Then he was gone. The stones cracked and rolled down the side of the bluff.

Columbine stood where he had left her: uncertain, yet with the blood still warm in her cheeks.

"Jealous?... He gets the girl?" she whispered to herself over and over. "What could he have meant? He didn't mean--he didn't--"

The straightforward, logical interpretation of Wilson's words opened Columbine's mind to a troubling possibility she had never considered. That he might actually love her! If he did, why hadn't he said anything? Jealous, maybe, but he didn't love her! The next surge of thought felt like a knock on the door of her heart—a door that had never been opened—behind which lay a mystery of feelings, hope, despair, unfulfilled longing, and loud voices. The woman that was just beginning to emerge in her, instinctive and self-protective, shut that door before she could see more than a glimpse inside. But then she felt her heart swell with its unnamed burdens.

Pronto was grazing nearby. She caught him and jumped on. It occurred to her then that her hands were numb from the cold. The wind had stopped rustling the aspens, but the yellow leaves were falling, making a soft noise. Out on the ridge, she turned toward home and the west.

A stunning Colorado sunset had just reached its peak of color and transformation. The sage slopes below her looked like rosy velvet; the golden aspens in the distance were flaming at the tips; the foothills rolled out clear, soft, and rich in light; the vast distance leading to the great black range was draped in mountain purple; and the faint peaks beyond the range stood tall, glowing with the sunset's flush. The narrow strip of blue sky between the crags and clouds resembled a river filled with fluffy sails and shimmering silver. Above, a dark cloud loomed, full of the shadows of the approaching night.

"Oh, beautiful!" the girl exclaimed, filled with awe for nature. That wild world of stunning sunsets, solitude, and beauty was hers. Over there, under a peak of the dark mountains, was where she had been discovered as a lost baby in the forest. She was a part of that, and so it was a part of her. She felt strength from the glorious light shining on the hills.

Pronto perked up his ears and adjusted his stride.

"What is it, boy?" called Columbine. The trail was getting dark. Shadows were creeping up the slope as she rode down to meet them. The mustang had sharp eyes and a strong sense of smell. She pulled him to a stop.

All was quiet. The valley was starting to darken on the far side, and the pinks and golds seemed to be fading from the closer side. Below, on the flat floor of the valley, rested the sprawling old ranch house, with the cabins tucked around it and the corrals stretching out to the soft hay fields, misty and gray in the dusk. One light shone brightly. It was like a beacon.

The air was chilly with a hint of frost. From far across the ridge she had come down from, she could hear the calls of the last few stray cattle from the roundup. But surely Pronto wasn't alert because of them. As if in response, a wild sound echoed down the slope, startling the mustang. Columbine recognized it from before.

"Don't worry, it's just a wolf," she reassured him.

The bell rang loudly, a bit harsh at first, then faded into a mournful, wild, lonely, haunting sound. A pack of coyotes responded with angry barks, creating a sharp, staccato, yelping chorus, the piercing notes cutting through the cold night air. These mountain howls and yelps were music to Columbine. She continued down the trail in the growing darkness, more afraid of what awaited her at White Slides Ranch than of the night and its wild creatures.

Darkness draped over the valley like a black cloak. Columbine was hoping to find Wilson there to take care of her horse, as was his usual routine, but she was let down. There was no light coming from the cabin where the cowboys stayed; he hadn’t returned from the round-up yet. She took off the saddle and let Pronto roam free in the pasture.

The windows of the long, low ranch house glowed like bright squares in the darkness, sending cheerful beams far away. Columbine nervously wondered if Jack Belllounds had come home. It took real effort to approach the house. But since she had to face him, the sooner it was over, the better. Still, she tiptoed past the bright windows, made her way along the long porch, turned around and went back, then hesitated, battling a heavy feeling in her heart. The door was rough and heavy. It opened with difficulty.

Columbine walked into a large room lit by a lamp on the table and by bright logs in a large stone fireplace. This was the living room, somewhat dark in the corners and sparse, but cozy for all basic needs. The logs were new, and the gaps between them were filled with clay that was still white, indicating that the house was recently built.

The rancher, Belllounds, sat in his recliner in front of the fire, his large, rough hands reaching out for the heat. He was in his shirtsleeves, a tough-looking gray-haired man over sixty years old, still strong and sturdy.

At the entrance of Columbine, he lifted his head, which got rid of the hint of sadness in his stance.

"Well, girl, here you are," was his greeting. "Jake has been shouting that the food is ready. Now we can eat."

"Dad, did your son come?" asked Columbine.

"No. I just got word at sunset. One of Baker's cowboys from up the valley. He rode up from Kremmlin' and stopped to say Jack was celebrating his arrival by drinking too much whiskey. I guess he won't be home tonight. Maybe tomorrow."

Belllounds spoke in a steady, heavy tone, showing no visible emotion. He was always brutally honest and never held back the truth. But Columbine, who knew him well, could sense how much this news hurt him. Resentment bubbled up in her towards the wayward son, but she knew better than to say anything.

"Naturally, I guess it's normal for Jack to feel happy when he gets home. I'm not holding that against him. These last three years must have been really frustrating for that boy."

Columbine reached her hands toward the fire.

"It's cold, Dad," she said. "I didn't dress warmly, so I almost 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 close."

"Well, well, time flies," sighed the old man. "Where did you ride?"

"Up the west slope to the cliff. It's a long way. I don't go there much."

"Have you met any of the boys? I sent the team to bring the livestock down from the mountain. I've lost quite a few recently. They're eating some weeds that poison them. They swell up and then die. It's worse this year than ever before."

"Wow, that’s serious, Dad! Those poor guys! That’s worse than eating loco.... Yeah, I saw Wilson Moore driving down the hill."

"Sure! Well, let's eat."

They took their seats at the table where the cook, Jake, was piling on steaming food. Dinner seemed to be quite a feast tonight, in honor of the expected guest, who hadn’t shown up. Columbine served the old man his favorite dishes, stealing discreet glances at his lined, shadowed face. She noticed a slight change in him since the afternoon, but couldn’t spot any indication of it in his appearance or behavior. His appetite was just as strong as always.

"So you met Wils. Is he still trying to win you over?" asked Belllounds, a moment later.

"No, he isn't. I don't think he ever did that, Dad," she answered.

"You're a kid at heart but a woman in appearance. That cowboy has been infatuated with you since you were a little girl. It's what kept him here working for me."

"Dad, I can't believe it," said Columbine, feeling the blood at her temples. "You've always thought stuff like that about Wilson and the other boys too."

"Ahuh! I'm an old fool about women, huh? Maybe I was years ago. But I can see now.... Didn't Wils always get teary-eyed when any of the other guys flirted with you?"

"I can't remember that he did," replied Columbine. She felt the urge to laugh, but the topic was far from funny to her.

"Well, you've always been kind of innocent. Thank goodness you never played the games most pretty girls do, flirting with all the guys. Anyway, about three months ago I told Wils to stay away from you—that you weren't for any poor cowboy."

"You never liked him. Why? Was it fair to treat him like that, just because he was a boy?"

"Well, I guess you're right," replied Belllounds, and as he looked up, his broad face turned a bright red. "That kid is the best rider and roper I've had in years. He’s not the bronco-busting type. He never drank. He’s honest and willing. He saves his money. He’s great at handling livestock. That kid will be a rich rancher someday."

"That's weird, then, you never liked him," murmured Columbine. She felt embarrassed by how much it pleased her to hear Wilson getting praise.

"No, it's not strange. I have my own reasons," replied Belllounds, gruffly, as he went back to eating.

Columbine thought she could figure out why the old rancher had such an unreasonable dislike for this cowboy. It was probably because Wilson had always been better than Jack Belllounds in every way. The two guys had always been natural rivals in everything related to life on the range. What Bill Belllounds respected the most in men was abundant in Wilson and missing in his own son.

"Are you going to put Jack in charge of your ranches now?" asked Columbine.

"Not much. I guess I'll give him a shot here at White Slides as the foreman. And if he manages the team well, then I'll reconsider."

"Dad, he'll never run the White Slides team," Columbine insisted.

"Well, it's a tough group, I’ll admit. But I think the guys will stick around, maybe except for Wils. And it might be for the best if he leaves."

"It's not smart business to let go of your best cowboy. I've heard you complain recently about not having enough workers."

"I definitely need some guys," Belllounds replied earnestly. "The livestock is getting to be more than we can manage. I messaged Meeker over the range, hoping to get some hands there. What I need most right now is a guy who knows dogs and will track down the wolves and lions and bears that are feeding on my cattle."

"Dad, you need a complete outfit to deal with all the hounds you have. What a mix! There must be a hundred of them. Just yesterday, some guy brought a bunch of scruffy, long-eared dogs. It's hilarious. Seriously, Dad, you’re the joke of the range!"

"Yeah, and the ranch will be grateful when I get rid of all these pests," said Belllounds. "Girl, I promised I'd buy every dog brought to me until I had enough to take out the coyotes, strays, and mountain lions. I'm going to do it, too. But I need a hunter."

"Why not let Wilson Moore take charge of the hounds? He's a hunter."

"Well, girl, that might be a good idea," replied the rancher, nodding his gray head. "So, you want me to keep Wils on."

"Sure, Dad."

"Why? Do you like him that much?"

"I like him—of course. He’s been like a brother to me."

"Uh-huh! Well, are you sure you don't like him more than you should, given what's happening?"

"Yeah, I'm sure I don't," replied Columbine, with flushed cheeks.

"Well, I'm glad about that. I don't think it will matter much whether Wils stays or goes. If he wants, I’ll offer him a job with the hounds."

That evening, Columbine went to her room early. It was a cozy little nest that she had set up and decorated all by herself. There was a small square window cut through the logs, where many nights the snow had blown in onto her bed. She loved her little secluded refuge. Tonight, it was cold, the first time this autumn, and although the lamp lit up the room, it didn't make it noticeably warmer. There was a stone fireplace, but since she had forgotten to bring in wood, she couldn't start a fire. So, she undressed, blew out the lamp, and climbed into bed. Columbine quickly warmed up, and the darkness of her little room felt comforting. Sleep seemed like it would never come that night. She wanted to think; she couldn't help but think, and she tried to stop the whirlwind in her mind. Wilson Moore occupied the forefront of her shifting thoughts—a rather striking and inexplicable fact. She tried to change it. It was pointless! Wilson lingered—on his white mustang racing across the ridge-top—coming to her like never before—with his anger and disapproval—his strange, haunting cry, "Columbine!" that echoed in her mind—with his bitter smile, his resignation, and his teasing comments about jealousy. He persisted and grew with the old rancher's honest praise.

"I shouldn’t think about him," she whispered. "Why, I'm going to be—getting married soon... Married!"

That word changed her thinking, and where she had felt excitement, she now felt numb. She turned the fact over in her mind.

"It's true, I'm getting married because I have to—I must," she said, almost to herself. "Because I can't help it. I should want to—for Dad's sake... But I don't—I really don't."

She wanted more than anything to be good, loyal, loving, and helpful, to show her gratitude for the home and the affection given to a nameless orphan. Bill Belllounds didn’t have to take in a strange, lost child. He did it because he was generous and kind. The old rancher had many admirable deeds associated with him. She wasn’t ungrateful. She intended to repay him. But the true meaning of the cost started to become clear to her.

"It'll change my whole life," she whispered, shocked.

But how? Columbine thought. She needed to go over the details of that change. No mother had ever taught her. The few women who had been in the Belllounds home occasionally weren't sympathetic or didn't stay long enough to help her much. Even her school life in Denver had left her still a child when it came to the serious issues women face.

"If I'm his wife," she continued, "I'll have to be with him--I'll have to give up this little room--I'll never be free--alone--happy, again."

That was the first detail she listed. It was also the last. Understanding hit her with a nauseating shudder. And in that moment, the seed of an unconscious rebellion started to grow.

The coyotes were howling. Wild, sharp, sweet sounds! They calmed her troubled, aching head, lulled her toward sleep, reminded her of the gold-and-purple sunset, the sagebrush slopes, the lonely heights, and the beauty that would never fade. Tomorrow, she sleepily thought, she would convince Wilson not to kill all the coyotes; to leave a few, because she loved them.

Bill Belllounds had moved to Middle Park in 1860. It was a rugged area, home to the Ute Indians, and a natural paradise for elk, deer, antelope, and buffalo. The mountain ranges were home to bears. These ranges sheltered the rolling valley land that some explorer had called Middle Park in earlier times.

Much of this enclosed plateau was prairie, where tall grass and wildflowers grew abundantly. Belllounds was a cattleman, and he recognized the potential there. To that end, he sought the friendship of Piah, chief of the Utes. This noble man was friendly towards the white settlers, and his tribe, during those turbulent times, maintained peace with these intruders of their mountain home.

In 1868, Belllounds played a key role in convincing the Utes to give up Middle Park. The hills were heavily forested, and gold and silver had been discovered in the mountains. It was an area that drew in prospectors, cattle ranchers, and lumberjack. The summer season was too short to grow grain, and the nights were too cold for corn; otherwise, Middle Park would have seen a rapid increase in population.

In the years after the Utes left, Bill Belllounds built several cattle ranches and bought others. White Slides Ranch was about twenty miles from Middle Park, extending into the main valley. Its development came later, and Belllounds chose to live there because the area was more rugged. As he got older, the rancher seemed to want to hold onto the solitude he had known in his youth. When his son returned to White Slides, Belllounds was wealthy in cattle and land, but he openly admitted that he hadn't saved any money and probably never would. He was always generous to everyone and never kept track of debts. He trusted everyone completely. He liked to say proudly that neither white nor Native American had ever broken his trust. His cowboys took advantage of him, and his neighbors exploited him, but everyone eventually repaid their debts with service or cattle. Belllounds was one of the great pioneers of the frontier days, and the West owed its settlement to people like him; he was exceptional because he showed that Native Americans would respond to kindness if not robbed or driven away.

Belllounds wasn’t seen doing his usual tasks on the day he expected his son. He walked through the fields and around the corrals; he often paced back and forth on the porch, scanning the horizon below, where the road from Kremmling appeared white down the valley; and for part of the time, he stayed inside.

It just so happened that early in the afternoon he stepped outside just in time to see a buckboard, pulled by dusty and sweaty horses, pull into the yard. And then he saw his son. Some of the cowboys ran over. They greeted the driver, who seemed to be well known to them.

Jack Belllounds didn’t look at them. He tossed a bag out of the buckboard and then climbed down slowly to head toward the porch.

"Well, Jack--my son--I'm really glad you're back home," said the old rancher, stepping forward. His voice was deep and resonant, uniquely rich. But that was the only sign of emotion he displayed.

"Hey, Dad!" replied the son, not very warmly, as he reached out his hand to his father's.

Jack Belllounds was tall, hinting at his father's build. But he didn't stand up straight; he had a bit of a slouch. His face was pale, indicating he hadn’t been exposed to the sun and wind recently. Any stranger who saw the boy and recognized the similarities to the man would acknowledge his good looks and confidence but would doubt his strength. The lower half of Jack Belllounds's face looked weak.

The tension in this meeting was mostly obvious in the way the son acted. He seemed ashamed, almost moody. But if he had been drinking at Kremmling, as reported the day before, he had completely sobered up.

"Come on in," said the rancher.

When they entered the large living room and Belllounds shut the doors, the son dropped his bags and confronted his father with hostility.

"Do they all know where I’ve been?" he asked, bitterly. Broken pride and shame burned in his face.

"Nobody knows. The secret has been kept," replied Belllounds.

Amazement and relief washed over the young man. "Aw, now, I'm--glad--" he exclaimed, and he sat down, partially covering his face with trembling hands.

"Jack, let's start fresh," said Belllounds seriously, and his big eyes sparkled with a warm and beautiful glow. "Right here. We'll never mention where you’ve been for the last three years. Not ever!"

Jack looked up, then, with all the gloom and darkness gone.

"Dad, you were wrong about helping me. It's actually hurt me. But now, if no one knows—well, I'll try to forget it."

"Maybe I messed up," Belllounds said, sounding miserable. "But honestly, I had good intentions. You really were—But that's enough talk.... You'll take over as foreman at White Slides. And if you do well, I'll be really happy to have you manage the ranch. I'm getting older, kid. And this past year has drained me financially. Here’s a great range, but I have fewer cattle this year than last. There’s been some cattle rustling, and I've suffered big losses from wolves, lions, and poison weed.... What do you say, kid?"

"I'll handle the White Slides," Jack replied, waving his hand. "I didn't expect this opportunity. But I deserve it. Who's in the group that I know?"

"Count on no one, except Wils Moore."

"Is that cowboy here yet? I don't want him."

"Well, I'll have him chasing down pests with the dogs. And listen, son, this crew is trouble. You get it—it's trouble. You can't manage that group. The only way to deal with them is to get up early and come back late. Keeping quiet but getting things done. Hard work."

Jack Belllounds showed no sign of understanding the seriousness of his father's words.

"I'll show them," he said. "They'll see who's in charge. Oh, I can't wait to put on my boots and ride around."

Belllounds stroked his gray beard and looked at his son with a mix of pride and uncertainty. At this moment, he was definitely unable to shake off the incredible fact that his only son was home.

"That's all right, son. But you've been off the ranch for three years. You’re going to need some advice. Now listen. Be gentle with horses. You used to be rough with them. Some cowboys jerk their horses around and make them buck and bite. But that’s not the best way. A horse has intelligence. I have some great stock, and I don’t want it ruined. And be calm and patient with the guys. It’s hard to find help these days. I'm short on hands right now... You’d do best, son, to stick to your dad's approach with horses and people."

"Dad, I’ve seen you kick horses and shoot at guys," replied Jack.

"Right, you have. But those were pretty bad cases. I'm not suggesting that approach... Son, this is really important to me—this hope I have that you'll—"

The full voice shook and cracked. It would truly take a tough young person not to feel something of the deep and indescribable love from the old man. Jack Belllounds put an arm around his father's shoulder.

"Dad, I’ll make you proud of me eventually. Just give me a chance. And please don’t be upset if I can’t do amazing things right away."

"Son, you'll have every opportunity. And that reminds me. Do you remember Columbine?"

"I definitely agree," replied Jack, excitedly. "They mentioned her in Kremmling. Where is she?"

"I think somewhere around here, Jack, you and Columbine are getting married."

"Marry! Columbine and me?" he exclaimed.

"Yes. You're my son and she's my adopted daughter. I won't divide my property. And it's only fair she gets a share. A lovely, strong, quiet, pretty girl, Jack, and she'll be a great wife. I'm really invested in the idea."

"But Columbine always disliked me."

"Well, she was a kid back then and you teased her. Now she's a woman, and she's willing to please me. Jack, you aren't going to fight against this deal again, are you?"

"That depends," replied Jack. "I'd marry just about any girl you wanted me to. But if Columbine were to dismiss me like she used to--well, I'd be really upset.... Dad, are you sure she knows nothing, suspects nothing about where you--you sent me?"

"Son, I swear she doesn’t."

"Do you mean you want us to get married soon?"

"Well, yes, as soon as Collie thinks it makes sense. Jack, she's shy and unusual, and she's also pretty deep. If you ever win her heart, you'll be richer than if you owned all the gold in the Rockies. I'd suggest taking it slow. But on the flip side, it might actually be safer for you, keeping you grounded at home, if you got married right away."

"Married right away!" Jack exclaimed with a laugh. "It sounds like a story. But just wait until I see her."

At that moment, Columbine was perched on the highest log of a tall corral, completely absorbed in the scene in front of her.

Two cowboys were in the pen with a saddled mustang. One of them had a canvas bag filled with tools and horseshoes. When he dropped it with a metallic clink, the mustang snorted, jumped, and rolled its eyes. It knew exactly what that sound meant.

"Miss Collie, are you all going to sit up there?" asked the taller cowboy, a lean, strong, and athletic guy, with a rough, reddish-blue face, tough as rock, and steady, bright eyes.

"I definitely am, Jim," she replied, unbothered.

"But we have to tie him up," protested the cowboy.

"Yes, I get it. And you're going to be careful with it."

Jim scratched his sandy hair and looked at his buddy, a slightly twisted guy, like the light-colored root of a tree. He looked like he was all legs.

"You hear me, you Wyoming guy," he said to Jim. "Those shoes go on Whang really gently."

Jim grinned and turned to talk to his mustang. "Whang, the law's been established and we want to see how much horse sense you have."

The shaggy mustang did not seem to be impressed by this speech. He gave the speaker a look full of strong distrust.

"Jim, since this job is going to be the last time Miss Collie will ever be our boss, we need to handle it without Whang getting upset," the other cowboy drawled.

"Lem, why is this the last job I'll ever manage you guys?" demanded Columbine, quickly.

Jim looked at her curiously, and Lem figured that blank, innocent expression Columbine always linked with cowboy mischief.

"Well, Miss Collie, we think the new boss of White Slides arrived today."

"You mean Jack Belllounds is back home," said Columbine. "Well, I'll manage you guys just like always."

"Thet'd be really great for us, but I'm worried it isn't written in the tragic history of White Slides," replied Jim.

"Buster Jack will run over the old man and marry you," Lem added.

"Oh, so that's what you think," Columbine replied playfully. "Well, if that ever happens, I’d be your boss even more than before."

"I don't think so, Miss Collie, because we won't be riding for White Sides," Jim said plainly.

Columbine had felt this importance long before when rumors about Buster Jack's return started. She understood cowboys. It was like trying to change the rocks on the hills!

"Boys, the day you leave White Slides will be a sad day for me," sighed Columbine.

"Miss Collie, we aren't gone yet," added Lem, with an uncomfortable gentleness. "Jim has always wanted to go to Wyoming and he just talks that way."

Then the cowboys got down to business. Jim took off the saddle but left the bridle on. This move tricked Whang. He had been trained to stand while his bridle was still on, and like a horse that would have been fine if given a chance, he tried to obey as best he could, shaking all over. Jim, seemingly to restrict Whang, roped his front legs together low down, but then suddenly slipped the rope over the knees. That’s when Whang realized he’d been fooled. He snorted angrily, let out a scream, and, rearing up on his hind legs, he kicked at the air violently. Jim pulled hard on the rope while Whang screamed and fought with his front feet in the air. Then Jim, with a strong jerk, pulled Whang down and threw him, while Lem grabbed the bridle, pulled him over to his side, and sat on his head. Jim then slipped the loop off one front hoof and pulled the other leg back across one of the hind ones, securing both with a quick hitch. Then the lasso was wrapped and looped around the front and back hooves together. Once that was done, the mustang was rolled onto his other side, his free front hoof lassoed and pulled back to the hind one, where both were secured just like the others. This made the mustang powerless, and the shoeing began.

Columbine hated to just sit there and watch, but she always stayed in her spot whenever she could, because she knew the cowboys wouldn’t be rough while she was around.

"Well, he'll step high tomorrow," said Lem, as he got up from his seat on the head of Whang.

"Yeah! And, like a mule, he'll stick around as my friend for twenty years just to get a chance to kick me," Jim replied.

For Columbine, the most striking moment of this incident was when the mustang lifted his head to examine his legs, to see what had happened to them. There was something almost human about that gaze. It conveyed intelligence, fear, and rage.

The cowboys let go of his legs and allowed him to stand up. Whang stomped his iron-shod hooves.

"It was a cruel trick, Whang," said Columbine. "If I owned you, that would never happen to you."

"I guess you can have him for the asking," said Jim, as he put the saddle on. "Nobody but me can ride him. Do you want to give it a shot?"

"Not in these clothes," Columbine said, laughing.

"Well, Miss Collie, you sure are dressed up nice today, for some reason," said Lem, shaking his head as he picked up the tools from the ground.

"Ahuh! And here comes the reason," Jim exclaimed in a low, hoarse whisper.

Columbine heard the whisper and at the same moment a sharp footstep on the gravel road. She quickly turned, almost losing her balance. And she recognized Jack Belllounds. The boy Buster Jack she remembered so well was approaching, now a young man, taller, heavier, older, with a paler face and a bolder look. Columbine had dreaded this meeting and had prepared herself for it. But when it happened, all she felt was annoyance at the fact that he had caught her sitting on top of the corral fence, without much regard for dignity. It didn’t occur to her to jump down. She simply sat up straight, smoothed down her skirt, and waited.

Jim led the mustang out of the corral, with Lem following behind. It seemed like they wanted to steer clear of the young man, but he wasn’t having it.

"Hey, guys! I'm Jack Belllounds," he said, quite arrogantly. But his attitude was relaxed. He didn't offer to shake hands.

Jim mumbled something, and Lem said, "How do."

"That's a cranky-looking bronc," Belllounds continued, reaching carelessly for the mustang. Whang yanked so hard that he nearly pulled Jim off balance.

"Well, he’s not a bronc, but I guess he’s everything else,” Jim said in a drawl.

Both cowboys seemed sluggish and careless. They were neither indifferent nor alert. Columbine noticed their sharp, steady looks scanning Belllounds. Then she took a second, more careful look at him. He wore high-heeled, stylish boots, tight dark pants, a heavy belt with a silver buckle, and a soft white shirt with a wide collar that was open at the neck. He was not wearing a hat.

"I'm going to run White Slides," he told the cowboys. "What are your names?"

Columbine wanted to laugh but held it back. The thought of anyone asking Jim his name! She had never managed to discover it.

"My name is Lemuel Archibawld Billings," Lem replied casually. The middle name was something no one had ever heard before.

Belllounds then turned his gaze and walked over to the girl. The cowboys lowered their heads and shuffled past.

"There's only one girl on the ranch," said Belllounds, "so you must be Columbine."

"Yes. And you’re Jack," she said, hopping off the fence. "I’m happy to have you back home."

She extended her hand, and he held it until she pulled it away. There was real surprise and happiness in his face.

"Well, I wouldn't have recognized you," he said, looking her over from head to toe. "It's funny. I had such a clear image of you in my mind. But you're nothing like I pictured. The Columbine I remember was slender, pale, and had big eyes."

"It's been a long time. Seven years," she said. "But I knew you. You're older, taller, bigger, but still the same Buster Jack."

"I hope not," he said, openly rejecting that old version of himself. "Dad needs me. He wants me to step up here—to be a man. I'm back now. It feels good to be home. I never really had much to offer. God! I hope I don't let him down again."

"I hope so, too," she whispered. Hearing him speak openly and seriously like this softened the negative impression she had gotten. He seemed sincere. He looked down at the ground, pushing small pebbles with the toe of his boot. She had a good chance to study his face, and she took it. He did resemble his father, with his big, handsome head and blue eyes, which seemed bolder due to their prominence rather than any direct gaze or intensity. His face was pale, shadowed by worry or discontent. It appeared as though a repressed nature was evident there. His mouth and chin lacked definition. Columbine couldn’t imagine that she disliked anything she saw in the features of this young man. Yet something about him kept her at a distance. She had decided to act selflessly. She would find the good in him, appreciate it, and be strong enough to endure and assist. Yet, she couldn’t control her vague and strange feelings. Why couldn’t she feel what she liked about Jim Montana or Lem or Wilson Moore in him?

"This was my second long stay away from home," said Belllounds. "The first one was when I went to school in Kansas City. I enjoyed that. I felt bad when they kicked me out—sent me home... But the last three years were a nightmare."

His face contorted, and a flush of dark blood spread across it.

"Did you work?" asked Columbine.

"Work! It was worse than work... Of course I worked," he replied.

Columbine's intense gaze searched his hands. They appeared as soft and unblemished as her own. What kind of work had he done, if he was being honest?

"Well, if you put in the effort for Dad, learn to manage the cowboys, and avoid picking up those old bad habits--"

"You mean drinks and cards? I swear I had forgotten about them for three years—until yesterday. I think I have the advantage."

"Then you'll make Dad and me happy. You'll be happy, too."

Columbine was excited by the refined qualities emerging in him. There was goodness in him, despite the crazy, wild antics of his youth.

"Dad wants us to get married," he said suddenly, a bit shy and with a strange, playful smile. "Isn’t that hilarious? You and me—who used to fight like crazy! Do you remember when I pushed you into that muddy spot? And you waited for me behind the house to hit me with a rotten cabbage?"

"Yeah, I remember," Columbine replied, lost in thought. "It feels like such a long time ago."

"And the time you ate my pie and I got back at you by tearing off your little dress, so you had to run home almost completely undressed?"

"Guess I totally forgot about that," Columbine said, blushing. "I must have been really young back then."

"You were such a little troublemaker.... Do you remember the argument I had with Moore--about you?"

She didn’t respond because she didn’t like the quick look that flashed across his face. He remembered all too clearly.

"I'll take care of that issue with Moore," he said. "Besides, I can't have him on the ranch."

"Dad needs good hands," she said, looking at the gray sage slopes. The mention of Wilson Moore heightened her sense of distance. A wave of annoyance ran through her.

"Before we go any further, I want to ask you something. Has Moore ever slept with you?"

Columbine felt that tingle grow into a hot, sharp wave of blood. Why was she at the mercy of strange, quick, unfamiliar feelings? Why did she hesitate over that simple question from Jack Belllounds?

"No, he never has," she replied, a moment later.

"That's really strange. You used to like him more than anyone else. You definitely hated me.... Columbine, have you outgrown that?"

"Yeah, of course," she replied. "But I barely hated you."

"Dad said you wanted to marry me. Is that true?"

Columbine lowered her head. His question, asked with kindness, didn’t offend her, as she had anticipated it. However, his actual presence and the meaning behind his words stirred a deep sense of protest within her. She had already agreed in her mind to the old man's demand; she was now realizing, though, that she couldn't make her body agree to a surrender it didn't want.

"Yeah, I'm in," she responded, confidently.

"Soon?" he said eagerly, his tone noticeably different.

"If I had my way, it wouldn't be—too soon," she hesitated. Her downcast eyes had noticed the way he stepped closer to her, and she wanted to run.

"Why? Dad thinks it would be good for me," Belllounds continued, now with strong, self-centered thoughts. "It would give me responsibility. I guess I need it. Why not do it soon?"

"Wouldn't it be better to wait a bit?" she asked. "We don't know each other—let alone care—"

"Columbine, I'm in love with you," he declared passionately.

"Oh, how could you!" cried Columbine, in disbelief.

"Honestly, I've always had a crush on you—ever since we were kids," he said. "And now seeing you all grown up like this—so beautiful and kind—such a healthy, vibrant girl... And with my dad saying that you'd be my wife soon—mine—I just lost my mind at the sight of you."

Columbine looked up at him and remembered how, as a boy, he had always had a quick, passionate desire for things he wanted and would surely have. And his father had never denied him. It could really be that Jack had suddenly fallen in love with her.

"Would you want to take me without my--my love?" she asked quietly. "I don't love you right now. I might someday, if you were good--if you made dad happy--if you succeeded--"

"Take you! I would take you if you--if you hated me," he replied, now caught up in the heat of the moment.

"I'll tell Dad how I feel," she said softly, "and—I'll marry you when he gives his okay."

He kissed her and would have hugged her if she hadn't pushed him away.

"Don’t! Someone will see."

"Columbine, we're engaged," he declared, laughing with a sense of ownership. "Hey, you don't have to look so pale and frightened. I won't bite you. But I would like to.... Oh, you're such a sweet girl! I really didn't want to come home. And look at my good fortune!"

Then, all of a sudden, he changed in a way that reflected his character; he lost his enthusiasm, dropped the half-confident, half-dominating attitude, and revealed his softer side.

"Collie, I was never any good," he said. "But I want to be better. I'll show you. I’ll come clean about everything. I won’t marry you with any secrets between us. You might find out later and hate me... Do you have any idea where I've been these last three years?"

"No," said Columbine.

"I'll tell you right now. But you have to promise never to tell anyone or bring it up to me—ever."

He spoke in a raspy voice and had become very pale. Suddenly, Columbine thought of Wilson Moore! He knew where Jack had spent those years. He had fought against a strong urge to tell her. That was as noble of him as the suggestion of Jack's location had been low.

"Jack, that's really generous of you," she said quickly. "I appreciate you—like you for it. But you don’t have to say it. I’d rather you didn’t. I'll take the intention over the action."

Belllounds clearly went through a strong mix of shock, relief, wonder, and gratitude. In an instant, he appeared completely changed.

"Collie, if I hadn't loved you before, I would love you now. Telling you my story was going to be the hardest thing I've ever done. I meant it. And now I won’t have to feel your shame for me, and I won’t have to feel like a cheat or a liar... But I will say this—if you love me, you’ll help me become a better man!"

The rancher thought it was best to wait until after the round-up to hand over the foremanship to his son. This was smart, but Jack didn’t see it that way. He showed that his old, impatient attitude had, if anything, intensified during his time away. Belllounds patiently explained to him what should have been obvious to a young man raised in Colorado. The fall round-up was the most important time of the year, and during the demanding drive, the designated foreman needed to have complete control. Jack eventually gave in, but not without reluctance.

It was unfortunate that he went straight from his father's presence out to the corrals. Some of the cowboys who had ridden all day before and had been on guard all night had just arrived. They were covered in dust, tired, and had sleepy eyes.

"This outfit won't see my tracks anymore," said one, disgustedly. "I never minded doing two men's work. But when it comes to rustling day and night, all the time, I'm going to pass."

"Turn in, guys, and sleep until we get back with the food truck," said Wilson Moore. "We'll take care of that group today."

"Aren't you tired, Wils?" asked Bludsoe, a short, bow-legged cowhand who seemed to be crippled or very limping.

"Me? No way!" Moore grunted, mocking. "Dude, you really ask dumb questions.... Why, you—mahogany-colored, short-legged, two-legged cowboy—I’ve only had three hours of sleep in four nights!"

"What's a biped?" Bludsoe asked, sounding skeptical.

No one educated him.

"Wils, you all are the only educated rancher I ever liked, but I swear we're going to end up fighting one of these days," declared Bludsoe.

"He sure can speak English," drawled Lem Billings. "I guess he swallowed a dictionary once."

"Well, he can throw a rope too, and that balances things out," added Jim Montana.

Just at that moment, Jack Belllounds showed up. The cowboys ignored him. Jim was wrapping a bandage around his horse's leg; Bludsoe was sluggishly collecting his saddle and gear; Lem was giving his tired mustang a final pat that meant a lot. Moore was clearly waiting for a new horse. A Mexican boy had come in from the pasture, leading several horses, one of which was the mottled white mustang that Moore usually rode.

Belllounds leaned in with curiosity as Moore whistled, and the mustang showed his enjoyment. Clearly, he didn't like the Mexican boy but had an affinity for Moore.

"Spottie, it's time to drag the yearlings around for you today," said the cowboy as he caught the mustang. Spottie tossed his head and stepped high until the bridle was on. When the saddle was thrown and strapped in place, the mustang looked great. He was beautiful, but not overly graceful or sleek or finely pointed or prancing enough to make any cowboy doubt his qualities for work.

Jack Belllounds walked around the mustang with admiration, getting a bit too close for Spottie's comfort.

"Moore, he's an average horse," said Belllounds, with the attitude of a horse expert. "What's his name?"

"Spottie," Moore replied curtly as he prepared to get on.

"Hold on, will you?" Jack ordered, assertively. "I like this horse. I want to check him out."

When he grabbed the reins from the cowboy's hand, Spottie jumped like he’d been shot. Belllounds tugged at him and moved in closer. The mustang reared up, snorting and thrashing to break free. Then Jack Belllounds displayed the quick temper he was known for. Red flushed his pale cheeks.

"Damn you—come down!" he shouted, furious at the mustang, and with both hands, he made a powerful lunge. Spottie came down and stood there, trembling all over, his ears pinned back, his eyes filled with fear and pain. Blood dripped from his mouth where the bit had cut him.

"I'll teach you to stand," Belllounds said ominously. "Moore, give me your spurs. I want to test him."

"I don't lend my spurs—or my horse, either," the cowboy replied calmly, stepping forward to get closer to Spottie.

The other cowboys had put down their gear and stood at attention, with focused eyes and silent lips.

"Is that your horse?" Jack asked, a quick flush rising to his cheeks.

"I think so," Moore replied slowly. "No one except me has ever ridden him."

"Does my dad own him or do you own him?"

"Well, if that’s how you see it—he's from White Slides," the cowboy replied. "I never bought him. I just raised him from a colt, trained him, and rode him."

"I knew it. Moore, he's mine, and I'm going to ride him now. Someone lend me some spurs, one of you cowboys."

Nobody moved to comply. There was a tension in the air that Belllounds couldn’t quite grasp.

"I'll ride him without spurs," he said, and then he turned to get on the mustang again.

"Belllounds, it would be better for you not to ride him right now," said Moore, coolly.

"Why, I’d like to know?" Belllounds demanded, showing the attitude of someone who couldn’t stand being challenged.

"He's the only horse I've got left to ride," the cowboy replied. "We're branding today. Hudson got hurt yesterday. He was the foreman, and he asked me to take over his job. I need to rope yearlings. Now, if you get on Spottie, you'll make him anxious. He's high-strung and nervous. That wouldn't be good for him because he really dislikes cutting out and roping."

The logic of this argument was lost on Belllounds.

"Moore, you might find it interesting to know that I'm the foreman of White Slides," he said, not without a sense of pride.

His speech clearly determined something important for the cowboy.

"Uh-huh!... I'm really interested right now," replied Moore, and then, stepping to the side of the mustang, he quickly unbuckled the cinch and, in one smooth motion, pulled the saddle and blanket to the ground.

The move shocked Belllounds. He stared. There was something childlike in his confusion. Then his anger erupted.

"What do you mean by that?" he demanded, his voice sharp. "Put that saddle back."

"Not much. It's my saddle. Paid sixty bucks for it in Kremmling last year. Good old hard-earned saddle!... And you can't ride it. Got it?"

"Yeah, I get it," replied Belllounds, angrily. "Now you'll understand what I'm saying. I’m going to get you fired."

"Nope. Too late," Moore said, with a laid-back, dismissive attitude. "I figured that out. And I quit a minute ago when you showed how little you care about a horse."

"You quit!... Well, it’s a damn good riddance. I wouldn’t want you in the team."

"You couldn't have held onto me, Buster Jack."

The nickname must have really ticked Belllounds off. "Don't you dare call me that," he shouted angrily.

Moore acted surprised. "Why not? It's your range name. We all get one, whether we want it or not. There’s Montana and Blud and Lemme Two Bits. They call me Professor. Why would you be upset about yours?"

"I can't take it anymore. Not from anyone—especially not you."

"Yeah, right! Well, I'm afraid it’s going to stick," Moore replied sarcastically. "It definitely fits you. Don’t you break everything you mess with? Your old man is going to be so happy to see you mess up the round-up today—and I guess the crew tomorrow."

"You arrogant cowboy!" shouted Belllounds, beside himself with rage. "If you don't shut up, I'll break your face."

"Shut up!... Me? No way. That can't happen. This is a free country, buddy." There was no denying Moore's calm, sharp repetition of the insult that had so offended Belllounds.

"I've always hated you!" he rasped, his voice hoarse. He swung hard at Moore, missed, but on his second swing, he landed a glancing blow on the cowboy's face.

Moore staggered back, regained his balance, and, after throwing a quick hit, he countered the blow. Belllounds crashed against the corral fence, which supported him.

"Buster Jack—you've lost your mind!" shouted the cowboy, his eyes sparkling with anger. "Do you really think you can take me on—after everything you've been through these past three years?"

Like a crazed kid, Belllounds lunged forward, his heightened aggression and wild expression showing rage. He swung his arms wildly. Moore dodged his punches and landed a fist directly on Belllounds' snarling mouth. Belllounds fell with a thud. He got up awkwardly but didn’t charge again. His big, bulging eyes were filled with a dark and ugly glare. His jaw quivered as he gasped for breath and tried to speak at the same time.

"Moore—I’ll kill you!" he hissed, glancing around frantically for a weapon. He looked from the ground to the cowboys. Bludsoe was the only one carrying a gun. Belllounds noticed it, and he moved so quickly forward that he got a hand on it before Bludsoe could stop him.

"Let go! Give me that gun! Damn it! I'll take care of him!" yelled Belllounds as Bludsoe wrestled with him.

There was a fierce struggle. Bludsoe yanked the other person's hands free and, reaching for the gun, tried to throw it away. But Belllounds stopped him, and the gun dropped at their feet.

"Grab it!" Bludsoe shouted loudly. "Quick, someone! That stupid idiot is going to get Wils killed."

Lem ran in and kicked the gun just as Belllounds was reaching for it. When it rolled against the fence, Jim was there to grab it. Lem also wrestled with the struggling Belllounds.

"Hear you, Jack Belllounds," said Lem, "couldn't you see Wils wasn't carrying a gun? Acting like that!... Stop your ranting or we're definitely going to deal with you harshly."

"The old man's coming," called Jim, as a warning.

The rancher showed up. He walked quickly and heavily. His gray hair flowed in the wind. His expression was as serious as that of an eagle.

"What the hell is going on?" he yelled.

The cowboys let Jack go. He, feeling worthy yet glum and downcast, muttered to himself as he walked toward the house.

"Jack, hold your position," shouted old Belllounds.

But the son didn't pay attention. He glanced back over his shoulder, and his dark gaze only saw Moore.

"Boss, there's been a bit of an argument," Jim said quickly as he hid Bludsoe's gun. "Nothing major."

"Jim, you're lying," replied the old rancher.

"Aw!" Jim exclaimed, feeling down.

"What are you hiding?... You've got something there. Give me that gun."

Without further delay, Jim handed over the gun.

"It's mine, boss," Bludsoe said.

"Uh-huh? Well, what was Jim hiding it for?" demanded Belllounds.

"Why, I just threw it to him—when I—kind of joined in with the argument. We were wrestling a bit and I didn't want any gun."

How typical of cowboys that they lied to protect Jack Belllounds! But it was pointless to try to fool the old rancher. This was a man who had spent forty years dealing with all kinds of people and situations.

"Bludsoe, you can't trick me," said old Bill, calmly. He had yelled at them, and his eyes still sparkled like blue fire, but he was steady and composed. Handing the gun back to its owner, he continued: "I guess you'd spare my feelings and lie about some trick Jack pulled. Did he break out?"

"Well, pretty decent," replied Bludsoe, dryly.

"Uh-huh! So tell me, then—no lies."

Belllounds's sharp eyes were fixed on Wilson Moore. The cowboy's face bore the scars of conflict and the intensity of passion.

"I'm not going to lie, you can count on that," he stated emphatically.

"Yeah! I might have known you and Jack would clash," said Belllounds, gruffly. "What happened?"

"He hurt my horse. If that hadn't happened, there wouldn't have been any trouble."

A spark ignited in the old man's bold eyes. He loved horses. He had often thrown harsh words and even punches at cowboys for their cruelty.

"What did he do?"

"Check out Spottie's mouth."

The rancher's approach to a horse was noticeably different from his son's, even though Spottie recognized him and didn't seem nervous. The assessment only took a moment.

"Tongue's cut bad. That's a real shame. Take that bridle off... There. If it had been a stubborn horse, now... Moore, how did this happen?"

"We just got here," Wilson replied quickly. "I was saddling Spottie when Jack showed up. He really liked the mustang and wanted to ride him. When Spottie reared up—he's nervous around new people—Jack yanked hard on the bridle. The bit cut Spottie.... That really annoyed me, but I kept my cool. I didn’t want Jack riding Spottie. You see, Hudson got hurt yesterday and he put me in charge for today. I needed Spottie. But your son didn’t get it, and that pissed me off. Jack said the mustang was his—"

"His?" interrupted Belllounds.

"Yeah. He took Spottie. Well, he wasn’t really mine, so I gave in. When I tossed off the saddle, which was mine, Jack started yelling. He said he was the foreman and he’d get me fired. But I told him I was already planning to quit. We both kept getting angrier and I called him Buster Jack…. He hit me first. Then we fought. I think I was getting the upper hand when he lunged for Bludsoe's gun. And that’s it."

"Boss, as sure as I'm a born cowboy," Bludsoe added, "he would have shot Wils if he had gotten my gun. He almost got it!"

The old man stroked his thin gray beard with his big, steady hand, seemingly not very bothered by the revelation.

"Montana, what do you think?" he asked, as if he really valued that quiet cowboy's opinion.

"Well, boss," replied Jim, hesitantly, "Buster Jack's temper was bad once, but now it's really awful."

Whereupon Belllounds turned to Moore with a gesture and the look of someone who, to be true to himself, needed to say something.

"Wils, it's unfortunate you ran into Jack right away," he said. "But that was to be expected. I think Jack was in the wrong. That horse was yours by every right a cowboy has. Maybe by law Spottie belonged to White Slides Ranch—to me. But he's yours now, because I gave him to you."

"Thanks a lot, Belllounds. I really appreciate it," Moore replied, warmly. "That's exactly what anyone would bet Bill Belllounds would do."

"Uh-huh! And I would really appreciate it if you could stick around today and get that branding done:"

"Okay, I'll do that for you," said Moore. "Lem, I suppose you won't get any sleep until tonight. Let’s go."

"Awl," Lem sighed as he picked up his bridle.

Late that afternoon, Columbine sat on the porch, watching the sunset. It had been a quiet day for her, mostly spent indoors. She had only seen Jack once, as he rode by toward the pasture, twirling a lasso over his head. Jack could ride like he was born to the range, but he wasn't very good with a rope. Columbine hadn’t seen the old rancher since breakfast either. However, she had heard his footsteps, slowly pacing back and forth in his room.

She was watching the last rays of the setting sun outline the mountain’s edges to the east with gold, creating a crown for Old White Slides peak. The distant sounds of cattle had faded away. The branding was done for that fall. She felt so happy! The wind, starting to get cold as the sun went down, cooled her flushed face. In the quiet of her room, Columbine had cried enough that day to leave her cheeks feeling raw.

Presently, down the lane between the pastures, she saw a cowboy ride into view. He came slowly, leading another horse. Columbine recognized Lem a moment before she noticed he was leading Pronto. That seemed odd to her. A closer look revealed that Pronto was limping. It seemed he could barely manage, and that was it. Columbine ran out in distress, reaching the corral gate before Lem did. At first, her focus was solely on her beloved mustang.

"Oh, Lem—Pronto's injured!" she cried.

"Well, I should smile he is," replied Lem.

But Lem was not smiling. And when he had a serious look for Columbine, something had really happened. The cowboy was covered in dust and so exhausted that he staggered.

"Lem, he's all covered in blood!" shouted Columbine as she rushed over to Pronto.

"Hurry up, you just wait," ordered Lem, impatiently. "Pronto's all messed up, and you need to grab some linen and salve."

Columbine took off to do what he asked, and she was so fast and fierce that by the time she returned to the corral, she was out of breath. Pronto whinnied as she collapsed, breathing hard, on her knees next to Lem, who was looking at the bloody cuts on the mustang's legs.

"Well, I guess it wasn't too bad," said Lem, feeling relieved. "But he really had a close call. Now help me fix him up."

"Yeah—I'll help," gasped Columbine. "I've done this kind of thing before—but never for Pronto.... Oh, I was worried—he'd been gored by a steer."

"Well, he was pretty close," replied Lem, grimly. "And if it hadn't been for riding that you don't see every day, that stubborn Texas steer would have gotten him."

"Who was riding? Lem, was it you? Oh, I'll never be able to do enough for you!"

"Wuss luck, it wasn't me," said Lem.

"No? Then who?"

"Well, it was Wils, and he made me promise not to tell you anything—at least not about him."

"Wils! Did he save Pronto? ... And didn’t want you to tell me? Lem, something's up. You're not acting like yourself."

"Miss Collie, I think I'm almost all out of energy," replied Lem, tiredly. "As soon as I finish this bandaging, I'm going to fall right off my horse."

"But you're on the ground now, Lem," Columbine said with a nervous laugh. "What happened?"

"Did you hear about the argument this morning?"

"No. What—who—"

"You can ask Ole Bill about that. Here’s how Pronto got hurt. Buster Jack rode out to where we were branding and jumped his horse over a fence into the pasture. He had a rope and started chasing some horses over there. One of them was Pronto, and the guy somehow got the noose over Pronto's head. But he couldn’t hold it, or didn’t want to, because Pronto broke free and jumped the fence. That wasn't too bad initially. But one of those aggressive steers went after Pronto. He ran and accidentally stepped on the rope, causing him to fall. The big steer almost landed on him. Pronto really took off then. He was definitely scared. However, he chose rough ground and ran straight into some dead brush. I guess he got cut up there. We were all pretty far away. The steer was bellowing and charging after Pronto. Wils yelled for a rifle, but no one had one. Or a six-shooter, either.... I'm going back to carrying a gun. Well, Wils did some riding to get over there in time to save Pronto."

"Lem, that's not everything," Columbine said seriously as the cowboy finished. Her understanding of the range made her realize that Lem hadn't shared anything so far that could explain his cold, grim, and avoiding demeanor; and her intuition sensed a disaster.

"Nope.... Wils's horse fell on him."

Lem delivered that final news with all the straightforwardness of a cowboy.

"Was he hurt—Lem!" cried Columbine.

"Hey, Miss Collie," Lem said, trying to calm her down, "we're taking care of your horse. You don't have to drop everything and grab me like that. And you look super pale, too. It’s not a big deal for a cowboy to have a horse fall on him."

"Lem Billings, I'm going to hate you if you don't tell me quickly," Columbine shot back, angrily.

"Ah, so that's how things are," replied Lem, knowingly. "Well, I'm sorry to say that Wils got really hurt. But not too bad!... The horse fell on his leg and broke it. I took off his boot. His foot was all smashed up. But there weren’t any other injuries—really! They’re taking him to Kremmlin'."

"Ah!" Columbine's soft cry felt unusual in her ears, almost like someone else had said it.

"Buster Jack made two bursts today," Lem concluded thoughtfully. "Miss Collie, I’m not sure how you see that guy, but I’m telling you this for your own good. He’s trouble. He inherited his dad’s temper, which flares up over nothing, and he’s never been controlled. Worse than that, he’s spoiled and acts like a wild colt that’s eaten loco weed. The idea of him roping Pronto right there near the roundup! Anyone would think he just came West. Old Bill isn’t a fool. But he puts blinders on when he looks at his son. I’m predicting tough times for White Slides Ranch."

Only one guy in Meeker seemed interested in the news that Rancher Bill Belllounds was hiring. He was a somewhat pale-looking guy, visibly neither young nor old, who said his name was Bent Wade. He had come into Meeker with two scruffy horses and a pack.

"Where are you from?" asked the innkeeper, noticing how Wade took care of his horses before thinking of himself. The question needed to be asked again.

"Cripple Creek. I cooked for some miners and panned for gold in my free time," was the reply.

"Humph! That should have been a better-paying job than anything around here."

"Yeah, the pay there is really good," said Wade, with a sigh.

"What did you leave for?"

"We had a fight over the diggings and I was the only one left. I'll tell you...." With that, Wade sat down on a box, took off his old sombrero, and started to talk. An onlooker wandered over, drawn in by something. Then a miner came by, stopped, and joined the group.

Next, old Kemp, the village patriarch, came and listened closely. Wade had a strange magnetism, a way with words.

He was small but lean and muscular. His clothes were old, dirty, and worn out. When he took off his wide-brimmed sombrero, he revealed a striking face. It was smooth except for a drooping mustache and pale, with beads of sweat on his high, broad forehead; gaunt and hollow-cheeked, with a large nose and deep-set, cavernous eyes beneath thick brows. However, these features alone weren’t so impressive. Long, sloping, nearly invisible lines of pain, a hint of mystery and sadness in his deep, dark eyes, and a somber harmony between his features and expression gave his face a story that no sharp eye could overlook.

Wade recounted a horrific story of gold, blood, and death. It seemed to lift a weight off his shoulders. His expression changed, losing what could have been described as its tragic glow and intense drive.

His listeners shook their heads in amazement. Tough stories were common in Colorado, but this one was something else. Two people from the group left without saying a word. Old Kemp stared with narrow, slightly recognizing eyes at the newcomer.

"Wow! Wow!" exclaimed the innkeeper. "It's unbelievable what can happen!... Stranger, will you stable your horses and stay?"

"I'm looking for work," replied Wade.

It was then that it was mentioned that Belllounds was sending to Meeker for workers.

"Old Bill Belllounds who settled Middle Park and became friends with the Utes," said Wade, sounding confident about his information.

"Yep, you’ve got Bill dead to rights. Do you know him?"

"I saw him once twenty years ago."

"Have you ever been to Middle Park? Belllounds owns ranches there," said the innkeeper.

"He isn't living in the Park now," interrupted Kemp. "He's at White Slides, I guess, these last eight or ten years. That's over the Gore Range."

"Checked out the whole area," said Wade.

"Well, it's a nice area of Colorado. Good for hay and livestock—too high for growing grain. Did you mean you've been through the Park?"

"Once—long ago," replied Wade, gazing with his deep, hollow eyes into the distance. A memory of Middle Park lingered in his mind.

"Well, then, I won't lead you astray," said the innkeeper. "I like that country. Some people don't. And I say if you can cook or pack or wrangle cows or just about anything else, you'll find a place with Old Bill. I hear he really needs a hunter. Lions and wolves are a big problem! Can you hunt?"

"Hey?" Wade asked, distractedly, as he tilted his head to listen. "I'm deaf in one ear."

"Are you a good guy with dogs and guns?" shouted his questioner.

"Okay," replied Wade.

"Then you're definitely guaranteed a job."

"I'll go. Thank you very much."

"Not at all. I'm doing Belllounds a favor. Think you'll stay here tonight?"

"I always sleep outside. But I'll buy feed and supplies," Wade replied as he turned to his horses.

Old Kemp walked down the road, shaking his gray head like he was battling with a memory that was slipping away from him. An hour later, when Bent Wade rode out of town, he saw Kemp and called out to him. The old-timer suddenly slapped his leg: "Oh wow! I knew I had met him before!"

Later, he said with a hint of gossipy excitement to his friend the innkeeper, "That guy was Bent Wade!"

"So he told me," the other person replied.

"But have you never heard of him? Bent Wade?"

"Now you mention it, that name sounds familiar. But honestly, I can’t remember. I knew he was someone important, though. I hope I didn’t wish a gunfighter or outlaw on Old Bill. Who was he, anyway?"

"They call him Hell-Bent Wade. I saw him in Wyoming, where he was a stagecoach driver. But I didn't find out who he was or what he was about until years later. One time I dropped into Boulder. Wade was there, all shot up, being taken care of by Sam Coles. Sam's dead now. He was a friend of Wade's and had known him for a long time. Well, I heard everything anyone ever heard about him, I guess. According to Coles, this Hell-Bent Wade was a strange, remarkable guy. He had the most amazing skills. He could do anything under the sun better than anyone else. Good with guns! He never stayed in one place for long. He never looked for trouble, but trouble followed him. As I remember Coles, that was Wade's strange idea—he couldn't shake trouble. No matter where he went, there was always chaos. That's what earned him the name Hell-Bent.... And Coles swore that Wade was the kindest man he ever knew. Heart of gold, he said. Always saving someone, helping someone, giving his money or time—never thinking of himself at all.... When he started telling that story about Cripple Creek, my old head began to ache with memories. Because I'd heard Bent Wade talk before. Just the same kind of story he told here, only worse. Goodness! that guy has seen some things. And the strangest part is that idea he has about how hell's on his trail and wherever he wanders, it catches up with him, and there he meets the person who's got to hear his story!"

Sunset found Bent Wade deep in the valley of White River beneath the Flat Top Mountains. It was a stunning place. Grassy hills

Slowly, the narrow valley expanded into a park, and at the far end, there was a log cabin. A few cows and horses grazed in a fenced pasture. The trail passed by the cabin. As Wade approached, a man with a bushy hairstyle stepped out of the door, rifle in hand. He seemed like he might be heading out to hunt, but his keen look at Wade was that of a solitary settler in an untamed land.

"Hey, stranger!" he said.

"Good evening," replied Wade. "I guess you're Blair and I'm near the source of this river?"

"Yep, just three miles to Trapper's Lake."

"My name's Wade. I'm heading over to take a job with Bill Belllounds."

"Come on in," Blair said. "Bill's guy was here with me a while ago."

"Sure, I appreciate it, but I'm heading out," Wade replied. "Do you have any deer meat? Game is really hard to find coming up this valley."

"Lots of deer and elk up higher. I chased a group of more than thirty, I guess, right out of my pasture this morning."

Blair went over to an open shed nearby and came back with half a deer leg, which he secured onto Wade's pack horse.

"My wife is sick. Do you happen to have any tobacco?"

"I sure do—both smoking and chewing, and I can spare more chewing. A little goes a long way with me."

"Well, give me some of both, mostly the chewy stuff," replied Blair, clearly pleased.

"You know Belllounds?" Wade asked, handing over the tobacco.

"Well, yeah, everyone knows Bill. You'd never find a nicer boss in these hills."

"Does he have any family?"

"Well, I can't really say about that," replied Blair. "I heard he lost a wife years ago. Maybe he got married again. But Bill's doing alright."

"Good day to you, Blair," Wade said, as he picked up his bridle.

"Good day and good luck. Take the right-hand trail. You should hurry a bit if you want to set up camp before dark."

Wade soon walked into the spruce forest. Then he reached a shallow, rushing river. The horses drank the water, which splashed white and amber around their knees, and then with a splash and a thud, they crossed it over the slippery rocks. As they emerged onto the trail, a group of grouse flew up into the low branches of the spruce trees. They were friendly.

"That’s something like," said Wade. "First birds I’ve seen this fall. I guess I can have stew any day."

He stopped his horse and started to get down, but keeping his eyes on the grouse, he paused. "They’re as tame as chickens, and they really are beautiful."

Then he rode on, leading his pack horse. The trail wasn't steep, although in some places it was washed out, making it hard to maintain a steady trot. As he moved forward, the forest became thicker and darker, and the scent of pine and spruce filled the air. A dreamy roar of water rushing over rocks echoed in the traveler's ears. It faded at times, then got louder. Soon the shade of the forest ahead lightened, and he rode into a wide area where green moss, flags, and flowers surrounded a beautiful spring hole. Sunset rays filtered through the trees to color the wide, round pool. It was shallow along the edges, with a deep, large green hole in the middle where the water bubbled up. Trout were feeding on gnats and playing on the surface, and some big ones left wakes behind them as they sped into deeper water. Wade had an appreciative eye for all this beauty, his gaze lingering longest on the flowers.

"Wild woods is the spot for me," he said to himself, as the cool wind brushed his cheeks and the fresh scent of evergreen filled his nose. "But I definitely feel haunted in these empty, quiet places."

Bent Wade had the appearance of a troubled man. Maybe the awareness he admitted to was part of his hidden truth.

Twilight had arrived when he rode out into the open again. Trapper's Lake stretched before him, a stunning expanse of water reflecting the dark slopes, the fringed spruces, and the flat peaks. Across its gray, twilight-softened surface, small swirls, bubbles, and splashes appeared where countless trout were rising. The trail wound out over grassy shores dotted with a few pines reaching down toward the lake, and clusters of spruces creating dark shapes against the shimmering water. Wade heard the distinct crack of hooves on rock and realized he had startled some deer at their drinking spot; he also caught the sound of antlers scraping against a tree branch and knew that an elk was stealthily making its way through the woods. Across the lake, he spotted a campfire and a pale, pointed shape that was either a trapper's tent or an Indian tepee.

Choosing a campsite for himself, he unsaddled his horse, tossed the pack off the other one, and hobbled both animals before letting them go. He placed his roll of bedding, wrapped in a canvas tarp, under a spruce tree. Then he opened his oxhide-covered packs and laid out his utensils and bags, both small and large. His actions were organized, yet quick, precise, and automatic. He wasn't thinking about what he was doing. It took him a little while to find a suitable log to split for firewood, and by the time he had started a fire, night had fallen, and the growing light danced vividly against the surrounding shadows.

He tossed the lid and pot of the little Dutch oven onto the crackling fire, and while they heated up, he washed his hands, mixed the biscuit dough, sliced pieces of meat from the deer haunch, and set water to boil. He grilled his meat over the hot, glowing coals and placed it on clean pine chips while he waited for the bread to bake and the coffee to brew. The smell of wood smoke, the fragrant steam from the pots, and the scent of spruce combined in a sharp, sweet, tempting aroma. Then he ate his simple meal eagerly, satisfied like a man who had experienced worse.

After he was done, he washed his gear and put it away with the bags. As a result, his movements became less nimble and quick. It was time to rest. Still, like a seasoned person outdoors, he looked around for more tasks, and his eyes landed on his weapons, resting on his saddle. His rifle was a Henry—shiny and smooth from years of use and care. His small gun was a Colt's 45, carried in a saddle holster. Wade wiped the rifle with his hands, then used a greasy rag he pulled from the sheath. After that, he held the rifle up to the fire's heat. A rainstorm had hit him that day, soaking his weapons. There was a subtle and unique difference in how he picked up the Colt's. His movements were slow, and his expression reluctant. The small gun was more than just metal, powder, and bullets. He dried it and cleaned it carefully but without affection, then put it away.

Next, Wade spread out his bed under the spruce tree, with one end of the tarpaulin resting on the soft layer of needles. On top of that, he placed two woolly sheepskins to lie on, followed by his blankets, and draped the other end of the tarpaulin over everything.

This wrapped up his tasks for the day. He lit his pipe and settled down next to the campfire to smoke and relax for a bit before heading to bed. The stillness of the wilderness surrounded the lake and shore; however, soon it turned into a silence punctuated by nearby and distant sounds that were faint, wild, and lonely—the soft murmur of falling water, the gentle splash of small waves on the shore, the chirping of insects, and the eerie hoot of owls.

"Bill Belllounds—and he needs a hunter," Bent Wade thought to himself, his eyes dark and intense, staring deep into the red embers. "That could work for me and maybe turn my luck around. Living in the woods, away from people—I could manage a job like that... But if this White Slides is near the old trail, there's no way I'll stick around."

He sighed, and a darker shadow, not from the flickering fire, covered his gaunt face. Eighteen years ago, he had pushed the woman he loved away from him, out into the world with her baby girl. Never had he sat by a campfire without that old pain coming back! Jealous fool! It was too late when he realized his terrible mistake; then he began a search all over Colorado, which ended not far from where he was now lost in his thoughts—about a hundred miles across the wild mountains—when he heard the tragic news of a wagon train being massacred by Indians.

That was Bent Wade's secret.

And no earthly suffering could have been more cruel than his pain and regret as he wandered on for years. The very good he tried to do seemed to create more evil. The wisdom that came from his suffering opened up traps for his wandering feet. The wildness of men and the passion of women somehow waited with incredible inevitability for the moment when chance brought him into their lives. He had worked hard, he had given, he had fought, he had sacrificed, he had killed, he had endured for the human nature he had betrayed in his savage youth. Yet from his relentless and endless struggle to make things right, to atone, to give his life, to find God, it seemed to Wade in his humiliation, he had only found a relentless torment.

But even though his thoughts and feelings shifted, changing and drifting, his memory held a clear and unchanging image of a woman, beautiful and kind, with eyes of an indescribable blue and a face as white as a flower.

"Baby would have been—let's see—almost nineteen years old now—if she’d lived," he said. "A big girl, I guess, like her mom.... It’s strange how, as I get older, I remember things better!"

The night wind howled through the spruces; dark clouds raced across the sky, covering the bright stars; a steady, low roar of water came from the lake outlet. The campfire flickered and eventually went out, preventing any sparks from drifting into the darkness, while the red embers glowed, faded, and crackled. After a while, Wade got up and got ready for bed. He pulled back the tarpaulin and blankets and set his rifle down next to him where he could reach it. His coat acted as a pillow, and he tucked the Colt's gun underneath it; after taking off his boots, he crawled into bed fully dressed and, like every man outdoors, quickly fell asleep.

For Wade, and for many men like him who had spent years exploring the West, sleeping alone in the wild brought both excitement and risk. However, the thrill was just a fleeting thought, and the danger was dismissed with laughter.

Over Bent Wade's still figure, the shadows danced, the spruce branches swayed, the pine needles fell, and the wind howled louder as the night went on. Eventually, the horses took a break from grazing; the insects stopped buzzing; and the constant sound of water filled the quiet. If wild animals approached Wade's camp, they stayed far away.

Sunrise found Wade on the path, climbing high above the lake, aiming for the pass over the range. He walked, guiding his horses up a winding trail that showed signs of recent travelers. Even though this area was thinly populated, there were always men riding from camp to camp or from one valley town to another. Wade never lingered on a well-used trail.

As he climbed higher, the spruce trees became smaller, no longer creating a green path ahead of him. Eventually, they became stunted and then disappeared completely. Soon he was above the tree line, on a flat-topped mountain range where the land rolled and dipped in both directions, devoid of trees or shrubs, vibrant with grass and flowers. The elevation was over eleven thousand feet. A strong wind swept across the plain. The sun was bright but pale in the east, slowly getting covered by gray clouds. Snow started to fall, first as scattered, light flakes, then increasing until the air was filled with a big, fluffy swirl. Wade rode along the edge of a mountain wall, watching a beautiful snowstorm cascade into the brown valley below him. As he rounded a bend, he spotted mountain sheep sheltered under a protective ledge. The snow squall blew away like a retreating wall, leaving the grass and flowers damp. As the dark clouds parted, the sun shone brighter from the blue sky. Gray peaks, dotted with patches of white, rose above their dark, tree-covered slopes.

Wade soon crossed the flat-topped pass over the range and faced a descent that was rocky and bare at first, but gradually gave way to greenery. He left the cold winds and desolate trails behind him. Within an hour, when he was halfway down the slope, the forest had become warm and dry, fragrant and calm. Eventually, he rode out onto the edge of a final wooded area overlooking a grassy valley, where a bright, winding stream sparkled in the sunlight. While the horses rested, Wade looked around. Nature never bored him. If he found any peace, it came from the quiet places, the solemn hills, and the flowers and animals of the wild and isolated land.

A few stray pines provided shade on this last low hill overlooking the valley. The grass grew thick and lush in the open areas but struggled to thrive under the trees, where the brown mats of pine needles held back the green. Clusters of columbines swayed gently with their beautiful, sweet, pale-blue flowers, which brought Wade joy to see. He loved flowers—columbines, the pride of Colorado, were at the top of his list, followed by the vibrant purple asters, the bold spikes of paintbrush, and then the countless wildflowers that adorned the mountain meadows, brightened the grass in the aspen groves, and peeked out from the edges of snowfields.

"Isn't it odd how good it feels to be alive—when I see a columbine flower—watch a beaver doing its thing—or hear an elk bugling!" Bent Wade thought to himself. He wondered why, after all he had been through, he could still find solace in these moments.

Then he continued on his way. The grassy valley, with its winding stream, gradually sloped and widened, leaving the foothills and mountains behind. Across a vast plain, another range rose, dark and striking against the blue sky. In the afternoon, Wade arrived in Elgeria, a small village that was significant because it was on the main stage line and served as a place for miners and cattlemen to buy supplies. It had one wide street that felt like a square, lined with impressive board houses with tall, flat fronts. Wade rode to the inn where the stagecoaches were based. It worked well for him to feed and rest his horses there, and to have a meal before continuing his journey.

The owner was a plump, friendly little woman, chatty and nice, happy to see a stranger just for the sake of it rather than out of any desire for profit. Even though Wade had never been to Elgeria before, he quickly learned all about the town, the miners in the hills, and the only important events—the arrival and departure of stagecoaches.

"Nice place," Wade said. "I noticed that. And it should be getting bigger."

"Not as prosperous for me as it used to be," replied the lady. "We did well when my husband was alive, before our competitor came to town. He runs a hotel where miners can drink and gamble. I don’t.... But I guess I have no reason to complain. I’m alive."

"Who manages the other hotel?"

"There's a guy named Smith. I bet that's not even his real name. I've had people here who--but it doesn't really matter."

"Guys change their names," replied Wade.

"Hey there, are you just passing through or planning to stick around?"

"On my way to White Slides Ranch, where I'm going to work for Belllounds. Do you know him?"

"Do you know Belllounds? Me? Well, he’s the best friend I’ve ever had when I was at Kremmlin’. I lived there for several years. My husband had stock there. Actually, Bill was the one who got us started in the cattle business. But we left there and came here, where Bob died, and I’ve been stuck ever since."

"Everyone has something nice to say about Belllounds," noted Wade.

"You'll never hear anything bad about him," replied the woman, with cheerful warmth. "Bill only had one flaw, and people loved him for that."

"What was that?"

"He's got a wild kid that he thinks the sun rises and sets around. They call him Buster Jack. He used to come here all the time, but Bill sent him away somewhere. The kid was spoiled. I saw his mother years ago—she's been gone for a long time—and she wasn't a good match for Bill Belllounds. Jack takes after her. And Bill was that woman's slave. When she died, all his big heart went to the son, and that explains it. Jack will never be any good."

Wade nodded thoughtfully, as if he got it, and was considering other options.

"Is he an only child?"

"There's a girl, but she's not related to Bill. He adopted her when she was a baby. And Jack's mom hated this child—we used to think it was because she was jealous that the girl might grow up and get some of Bill's money."

"What's the girl's name?" Wade asked.

"Columbine. She was here last summer with Old Bill. They stayed with me. It was then Bill had a heated argument with Smith across the street. Bill was resentful about something Smith did to me. Well, the girl is the prettiest I’ve ever seen in Colorado, and just as kind as she is beautiful. Old Bill hinted to me that he would probably try to arrange a match between her and his son Jack. I straight up told him that if Jack hadn’t changed his ways by the time he came home, then such a marriage would be rough for Columbine. Wow, Old Bill was furious. He just can’t handle any criticism of that troublemaker Jack."

"Columbine Belllounds," Wade thought. "Weird name."

"Oh, I've known three girls named Columbine. Don't you know the flower? It's common around here. Very delicate, like a sago lily, just lighter in color."

"Were you living in the Kremlin when Belllounds adopted the girl?" asked Wade.

"Laws no!" was the reply. "That was long before I came to Middle Park. But I heard all about it. The baby was found by gold-diggers up in the mountains. She must have gotten lost from a wagon train that the Indians attacked soon after--so the miners said. Anyway, Old Bill took the baby and raised her as his own."

"How old is she now?" Wade asked, his tone shifting noticeably.

"Columbine's about nineteen."

Bent Wade tilted his head slightly, shielding his face beneath the worn, wide-brimmed hat. The friendly innkeeper didn’t notice the tremor that coursed through him, nor the subtle tension that followed, nor the pale hue of his face. She continued speaking until someone called her.

Wade stepped outside, head down, and walked down the street, across a small river, and into lush pastures. He wrestled with an incredible possibility: Columbine Belllounds might actually be his daughter. His heart soared with joy, but that joy was fleeting. No such luck for Bent Wade in this world! This coincidence left him with a strange, prophetic feeling deep inside about a tragedy approaching White Slides Ranch. Wade had some kind of intuition, a weird ability to see into the future. But he couldn't control it; it came to him unexpectedly, like a messenger of trouble in the dark night. Moreover, he had never been able to resist the pull of this knowledge. It drew him in. His choice had always been to face this ominous situation or to stay back and confront it, hoping he might lighten someone’s burden. He felt it now, in the sharp, intense awareness of the moment—the chaos of life he was about to enter. Old Bill Belllounds, big and fine, a victim of his love for a wayward son; Buster Jack, the loser, the destroyer, the wild youth in a wild era; Columbine, the girl of unknown origins, good and loyal, caught in a situation that was sure to ruin her. Wade's strange mind spun through a hundred possible outcomes for this clash of characters, but none of them matched what was actually meant to happen. That remained a mystery. Never had he felt such a strong pull from the unknown, nor had he ever experienced such intense curiosity. Hope had long been dead in him, except for the tiny hope that he might somehow make amends for the wrong he had done to his wife. So, the emotional pangs that came back to him, despite his reason and bitterness, were not acknowledged as lingering hopes. Wade denied his humanity, yet he thrilled at the thought of meeting Columbine Belllounds. There was something here that went beyond anything he could grasp.

"It might--be true!" he whispered. "I'll know when I see her."

Then he walked back toward the inn. On the way, he glanced into the barroom of the hotel run by Smith. It was a rough-looking place, half-filled with idle men whose faces were like open books to Bent Wade. Curiosity wasn’t the only thing driving him to wait at the door until he could see the man Smith. Somewhere, at some point, Wade had met most of the veterans of western Colorado. He had traveled so much! But the feeling that held him back made sense when Smith walked in—a stocky man with an ugly scar marring one eye. Bent Wade recognized Smith. He recognized the scar. That scar was a mark he had given to this man, whose name wasn’t really Smith, and who had been as wicked as he appeared, with a wandering life not born out of remorse or a love for travel.

Wade slipped away unnoticed. This acknowledgment mattered less to him now than it would have ten years ago, as he wasn't the kind of guy who sought out old enemies for revenge or went to extreme lengths to avoid them. There were men in Colorado who would shoot at him on sight. More than one had shot at him before.

That night, Wade camped in the foothills east of Elgeria, and the next day, at sunrise, his horses were trampling the frosty grass and ferns of the wooded range. He crossed this, rode down into a valley where a lonely cabin sat, and followed an old, marked trail that wound up alongside a brook. The water was a color that made the rocks, sand, and moss look golden. He saw no signs or tracks of game. A gray jay occasionally screeched his approach to unseen inhabitants of the woods. The stream babbled past him over mossy ledges, under the dark shade of clusters of spruces, and it shrank as he moved closer to its source. Eventually, it disappeared into a hollow of tall, thick grass, and the marked trail continued through dense pine woods. By noon, he reached the top of the divide and, stopping on an open, rocky peak, looked down over a green and black forest, gradually sloping down to a large, uneven park that was his destination for the night.

Wade needed some meat, so as he continued on, he kept an eye out for deer, especially after he spotted fresh tracks crossing the trail. Moving quietly ahead of his horses, which followed him a little too closely for him to approach any game silently, he hunted all the way down to the big open park without getting a single shot.

This park stretched for miles in every direction, filled with tall, swaying grass and had winding edges that extended into the surrounding forest. It sloped gently toward the center, where a round patch of green grass hinted at a water source. Wade rode toward it, staying somewhat to the right because he wanted to set up camp at the edge of the woods. Soon, he rode out beyond one of the jutting forest edges and found the park opening up even wider in that direction. He spotted horses grazing alongside elk, and far down at a low point, where the park seemed to lead into a narrow valley, he caught sight of the dark, hump-shaped, shaggy forms of buffalo. They quickly disappeared from view. Then the elk must have seen or smelled him, and they dashed away, with the antlered bulls leading the cows. Wade wondered if the horses were wild. They seemed very curious but showed no signs of fear. Beyond them was a rising hill covered with pine, which looked elevated compared to the forest on both sides. After riding a mile or so further, he realized that this patch of woods looked like an island in a lake. Soon, he noticed smoke rising above the treetops.

A small creek bubbled up from the lush center of the park and wound its way past the island of pines. Wade noticed clear signs of prospecting along this creek, and further down, where he crossed it, he found fresh tracks from that day.

The elevated piece of land seemed to be several acres wide, covered with small pines, and at the far edge stood a little log cabin. Wade expected to catch a lone prospector off guard during his evening meal. As he rode up, a dog rushed out of the cabin, barking furiously. A man dressed in fringed buckskin followed. He was tall, with long, iron-gray hair cascading over his shoulders. His sun-tanned and weathered face was full of fine wrinkles that the grizzled hair didn’t cover, and his bright red complexion showed an honest, fearless spirit.

"Hey there, stranger!" he called, as Wade stopped several yards away. His greeting wasn’t friendly, but it was polite. His sharp gaze, though, revealed more than his words did.

"Evening, friend," replied Wade. "Can I set my backpack down here?"

"Sure. Get down," replied the other. "I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around here."

"No. I'm Bent Wade, and I'm heading to White Slides to work for Belllounds."

"Nice to meet you. I’m new around here as well, but I know Belllounds. My name’s Lewis. I was just cooking food. And it'll burn if I don’t hurry. Let your horses loose and come inside."

Wade showed up with more than his typical careful approach. He could smell buffalo steak, and he was really hungry. The cabin had been built years ago and was a makeshift shelter at best. However, the stone fireplace looked well-maintained. A bed of red coals glowed and popped in the hearth.

"Guess I definitely smelled buffalo meat," Wade said with great satisfaction. "It’s been a long time since I had a bite of that."

"All set. Now pitch in... Yes, there are some buffalo left in here. Not hunted much. There are plenty of elk and herds of deer. After a little snow, you'd think a bunch of sheep had been roaming around. And some bears."

Wade didn't say much until he finished that meal. Later, as he assisted his host, he returned to the topic of hunting.

"If there are so many deer, then there are lions and wolves."

"You bet. I see tracks every day. I had a chance at a deer not long ago. Missed him. But I think there are more critters over in the Troublesome area behind White Slides."

"Troublesome! Is that what they call it?" Wade asked, with a strange smile.

"Sure. And it's a hassle. Belllounds has been trying to hire a hunter. He offered me a lot of money to take out the wolves and lions."

"That's the job I'm going to take."

"Good!" Lewis exclaimed. "I'm really glad. Belllounds is a nice guy. I felt a bit cheap until I told him I wasn't really a hunter. You see, I'm up here prospecting and pretending to be a hunter."

"What are you bluffing for?" Wade asked.

"You couldn't trick anyone who's ever searched for gold. I noticed your clues out here."

"Well, you've got sharp eyes, that's all. Wade, I've got some undesirable neighbors over here. I'd prefer they didn't see me digging for gold. Lately, I've had a feeling they're rustling cattle. Anyway, they've sold cattle in Kremmling that came from around Elgeria."

"Wherever there are cattle, there's bound to be some stealing," Wade noted.

"Well, you don't have to say anything to Belllounds, because maybe I'm wrong. And if I find out I'm right, I'll go down to White Slides and tell it myself. Belllounds has done some favors."

"How far is it to White Slides?" Wade asked, taking a puff from his pipe.

"Roundabout trail, and rough, but you can do it in one day, easy. Beautiful countryside. Open, big peaks and ranges, with valleys and lakes. I've never seen such grass!"

"Have you ever seen Belllounds's son?"

"No. I didn't know he had one. But I saw his girl the first day I was there. She was nice to me. I went there to get cleaned up a bit. Almost chopped my hand off. The girl—Columbine, she's called—took care of me. The fact is, I owe a lot to that White Slides Ranch. There's a cowboy, Wils something, who rode up here with some medicine for me—some they didn't have when I was there. You'll like that guy. I could tell he was into the girl, and I definitely couldn’t blame him."

Bent Wade took out his pipe and let out a peculiar laugh, filled with a slight hint of grim acknowledgment.

"What's funny about that?" Lewis asked, somewhat surprised.

"I was just joking," Wade replied. "What you said about the cowboy having a crush on the girl came to my mind before you even said it. Well, boys will be boys. I was young once and had my time."

Lewis grunted as he bent down to pick up a red coal to light his pipe, and when he raised his head, he gave Wade a look of sympathetic curiosity.

"Well, I hope to see more of you," he said, as his guest stood up, clearly getting ready to leave.

"Guess you will, since I'll be chasing hounds all over. And I want to check out those neighbors you mentioned who might be rustlers.... I'm going to bed now. Good night."

Bent Wade rode out of the woods to gaze at the White Slides area during the time it looked its most stunning.

"Never seen anything like that!" he shouted, as he stopped.

The sun was setting, casting golden rays and shadows ahead of him down the rolling sage hills, all rosy and gray with rich, unusual softness. Groves of aspens stood apart from each other—one crowning a hill with vibrant yellow, another lining the edge of another hill with shining gold, and lower down reflecting the sunlight in bright red and purple. The valley was filled with a delicate haze, almost resembling smoke. White Slides Ranch was out of sight, tucked away in the bottomland. The gray old peak stood tall and distant, clearly outlined and glowing with sunset hues against the blue sky. The eastern side of the valley was a vast stretch of sagebrush, hills, grassy benches, and aspen stands, all ablaze with the colors of autumn, intensified by the last rays of the sun. Dark forested slopes provided sharp contrast, leading up to the red-walled cliffs of the mountain range.

Wade watched the scene until the fire faded, the golden rays dimmed and disappeared, and the rosy glow on the sage turned to a cold steel gray. Then he rode out onto the foothills. The trail wound up and down the slopes of sage. The grass got thicker as he went down. At one point, he startled a large flock of prairie chickens, or sage hens, big gray birds that were clumsy yet quick fliers. They took off into the air and soon settled back down into the sage. Twilight found him on one last long slope of the foothills, looking out over the valley's pastureland, with the ranch still five miles away, now appearing misty and dim in the growing shadows.

Wade set up camp by a brook next to a cluster of aspens. He wasn’t in a hurry to deal with whatever was happening at White Slides Ranch, even though he really wanted to see the girl who was with Belllounds. Night fell over the peaceful foothills. A pack of wandering coyotes approached Wade, sitting in a half-circle in the shadows behind the campfire. They howled and barked. Still, sleep came to Wade’s weary eyes as soon as he lay down and closed them.

The next morning, quite late, Wade rode down to White Slides Ranch. It seemed to him like the place of a wealthy rancher who clung to the traditional ways of his generation. The corrals were new, but their design was old-fashioned. Wade thought it would be tough for rustlers or horse thieves to sneak out of those corrals. A long lane led from the pasture, following the creek that flowed through the corrals and beside the back door of the sprawling, cozy-looking cabin. A cowboy was leading horses across a large open space between the main ranch house and a cluster of cabins and sheds. He saw Wade and paused to wait.

"Mornin'," Wade said as he rode up.

"How do," replied the cowboy.

Then these two looked at each other, not out of curiosity or suspicion, but with that steady, assessing gaze typical of Western men.

"My name's Wade," said the traveler. "I come from Meeker. I'm looking for a job with Belllounds."

"I'm Lem Billings," the other guy replied. "I've been riding for White Slides for years. I think the boss will be happy to bring you on board."

"Is he here?"

"Sure. I've just seen him," replied Billings, as he tied his horses to a post. "I guess I should give you a tip."

"I'd call that a favor."

"Well, we're short on hands," said the cowboy. "Just got the round-up finished. Hudson got hurt and Wils Moore got injured. Then the boss's son was made foreman. Three of the guys quit. They couldn’t stand him. This son of Belllounds is a real piece of work! My friends Montana and Bludsoe and I are sticking around—well, for reasons that aren't exactly about loving the boss. But Old Bill's the best of bosses... Now the deal is—if you come here, you'll have to do the work of two or three people."

"Thanks a lot," replied Wade. "I don't back down from that."

"Well, get down and come in," added Billings warmly.

He walked ahead across the square, around the corner of the ranch house, and up onto a long porch, where the setup of chairs and blankets showed a woman's influence. The first door was open, and voices came from it; first a sharp, whining complaint from a boy, and then a man's deep, calm, and steady response.

Lem Billings knocked on the doorframe.

"Well, what's up?" called Belllounds.

"Boss, there's a guy here who wants to see you," replied Lem.

Heavy footsteps approached the doorway and it was filled with the big figure of the rancher. Wade remembered Belllounds and saw only a gray difference in age.

"Good morning, Lem, and good morning to you, stranger," the rancher greeted, his bold, blue eyes honest, straightforward, and sharp, quickly assessing Wade with all his years of experience with people.

Lem quietly walked to the end of the porch as another figure, the son who looked like the father, filled the doorway, his eyes less warm, fixed on the visitor.

"My name's Wade. I'm from Meeker, hoping to find a job with you," said Wade.

"Nice to meet you," replied Belllounds, extending his large hand to shake Wade's. "I really need you. What's your area of expertise?"

"I think any kind."

"Sit down, stranger," Belllounds said, pulling up a chair. He took a seat on a bench and leaned against the log wall. "Now, when a kid comes and says he can do anything, I just laugh at him. But you're a man, Wade, and you've been through it. I'm in need of help. Just speak up for yourself. No one else can do that for you, that's for sure. And this is business."

"Any work with livestock, from branding cattle to treating horses," replied Wade calmly. "I'm a decent carpenter and mason. I'm a good packer. I know about farming. I can milk cows and make butter. I've cooked in many outfits. I can read and write and I'm pretty good with numbers. I can work on saddles and harnesses, and—"

"Hold on!" shouted Belllounds, laughing loudly. "I'm not counting on anyone, no matter how much I need help. You're really skilled at everything out here. I just wish you were a hunter."

"I was getting to that. You didn't give me time."

"Hey, do you know about hounds?" asked Belllounds, excitedly.

"Yeah. I was raised in a place where everyone had packs. I’m from Kentucky. And I've been running hounds on and off for years. I'll tell you—"

Belllounds cut off Wade.

"By all that's lucky! So, can you handle guns? We haven't had a decent shot on this range for ages. I used to hit dead center with a rifle. My vision isn't great anymore. And my son can't hit the broad side of a barn. The cowpunchers are almost as bad. Sometimes right here, where you could hit elk with a stick, we're out of fresh meat."

"Yeah, I can handle guns," Wade said with a slight smile, lowering his head. "I guess you didn't catch my name."

"Wal--no, I didn't," Belllounds replied slowly, and his pause, along with the intense look he gave Wade, showed how much Wade's question had hit a nerve.

"Wade--Bent Wade," said Wade, clearly and calmly.

"Not Hell-Bent Wade!" shouted Belllounds.

"The same... I'm not proud of the nickname, but I never pretend to be something I'm not."

"Well, I’ll be damned!" the rancher continued. "Wade, I’ve heard about you for years. Some of it bad, but most of it good, and I guess I’m just as glad to meet you as if you were someone else."

"Are you giving me the job?"

"I should grin."

"I'm thanking you. I guess I was pretty worried. Jobs are tough for me to find and even tougher to hold onto."

"That’s not unnatural, considering the trouble that’s said to follow you," replied Belllounds dryly. "Wade, I can’t say I believe much of that. I’ve spent fifty years west of the Missouri. I know the West and I know people. Gossip spreads from camp to ranch, from mining sites to town, and someone always embellishes a little. I trust my judgment and I trust people. No one has ever betrayed me yet."

"I'm the same way," Wade said. "But it doesn't get you anywhere, and still I kept being that way... Belllounds, my name's as bad as good all across western Colorado. But just between us, I swear—I never pulled a low-down trick in my life... except for one time."

"An' what was that?" asked the rancher, gruffly.

"I killed an innocent man," Wade replied, his lips trembling, "and--and I drove the woman I loved to her death."

"Aw! We all make mistakes at some point in our lives," said Belllounds, quickly. "I made almost as big a one as yours—so help me God!..."

"I'll tell you—" interrupted Wade.

"You don’t need to tell me anything," said Belllounds, interrupting. "But I'd like to hear about the Lascelles crew over on the Gunnison. I knew Lascelles. A friend of mine down in Middle Park came back from the Gunnison with the craziest story I ever heard. That was five years ago this summer. Of course, I knew your name long before, but this time I heard it really loudly. You got mixed up in that situation... Well, what I'm concerned about now is this. Is there any truth to the rumor that wherever you go, there’s trouble waiting?"

"Belllounds, it doesn’t make any sense, but there’s a lot of truth to it," Wade admitted, gloomily.

"Alright!... Well, Hell-Bent Wade, I'll take a chance on you," boomed the rancher's deep voice, full of the warmth of his big heart. "I've been taking risks my whole life. And the best friends I've ever had were the ones I helped.... What salary are you asking for?"

"I'll accept your offer."

"I'm paying the guys forty a month, but that's not enough for you."

"Yes, that works."

"Great, it's decided," Belllounds said as he got up. Then he noticed his son by the door. "Hey, Jack, shake hands with Bent Wade, the hunter and all-around guy. Wade, this is my boy. I've just promoted him to foreman of the crew, and while I'm mentioning it, I want to say that you'll take orders from me and not from him."

Wade looked up at Jack Belllounds, replied to his brief greeting, and shook his weak hand. The touch sent an odd chill through Wade. Young Belllounds's face was marked by a bruise and clouded by a gloomy expression.

"Have Billin's take you out to the new cabin and sheds I just had built," said the rancher. "You'll stay in the cabin.... I know, guys like you prefer sleeping outside. But you can't do that under Old White Slides in winter. Not at all! Make yourself at home, and I'll head out after a bit, and we'll check out the dog team. When you see that team, you'll yell for help."

Wade nodded his thanks, and, putting on his sombrero, he turned away. As he did, he heard light, quick footsteps at the far end of the porch.

"Hey, everyone!" shouted a girl's voice, with a tune in it that resonated sharply in Wade's sensitive ears.

"Morning, Columbine," replied the rancher.

Bent Wade's heart raced. This youthful voice struck a chord in his memory. Wade didn’t have the strength to look at her then. It wasn’t that he couldn’t stand to see her, but he couldn’t handle the disillusionment that would surely follow his first glimpse of this adopted daughter of Belllounds. It was comforting to fool himself! Oh, the years weighed heavier on him! The old dreams lingered, more sorrowful now because they had shifted into half-realities over time! Wade slowly crossed the green square to where the cowboy was waiting for him. His eyes were hazy, and a sense of nausea accompanied the sinking feeling in his heart.

"Wade, I'm not really a betting guy, but I bet Old Bill got you involved," Billings said, intrigued.

"Happy to say he did," replied Wade. "You're supposed to show me the new cabin where I'm supposed to stay."

"Come on," said Lem, taking the lead. "Are you going to handle livestock or go after coyotes?"

"I'm job hunting."

"Well, it might be from sunrise to sunset, but in between, I'm sure you'll be busy with other things, I think," continued Lem. "Did you meet the boss's son?"

"Yeah, he was there. And Belllounds made it clear that I was supposed to take orders from him and not from his son."

"That will make your job a million times easier," Lem said, trying to compensate for his earlier negativity. He led the way past some log cabins, sheds with dirt roofs, and low, flat-roofed barns, across another stream where willow trees were turning yellow. Then the new cabin came into view. It was small, with one door and one window, and a porch across the front. It was on a slight elevation, near the fast-moving brook, overlooking the ranch house about a quarter of a mile below. Above it, across the brook, there was a tall fence made of closely-laced aspen poles. The sounds coming from there indicated that this stockade was the dog pen.

Lem helped Wade unpack and bring his gear into the cabin. It had just one room, and one corner was stacked with blocks and slabs of pine, clearly leftover from the cabin's construction and intended for firewood. The large stone fireplace showed just how harsh the winters could be.

"Real sawed boards on the floor!" exclaimed Lem, trying to impress the newcomer. "I call this a pretty good bunk."

"Way too good for me," replied Wade.

"Well, I'll take care of your horses," said Lem. "I guess you'll get your bed set up. Take my advice and ask Miss Collie to help you find some furniture and stuff. She's Ole Bill's daughter, and she makes up for—well, for a lot of what we have to deal with. I'll bring the guys over later."

"Do you smoke?" Wade asked. "I've got something nice I brought back from Leadville."

"Smokes! Me? I'll trade you a horse right now for a cigar. I get one once a year, maybe."

"Here's a box I've been packing for a while," Wade said as he handed it up to Billings. "They're definitely Spanish. Too rich for my taste!"

A box of gold couldn't have made that cowboy's eyes shine any more brightly.

"Whoop-ee!" he shouted. "Man, you're like the fairy in a children's story! I'm going to make this outfit amazing! Oh, I forgot. There's only Jim and Blud left. Well, I'll share with them. For sure, Wade, you nailed it. I was craving a real smoke. And I guess what's mine is yours."

Then he walked out of the cabin, whistling a cheerful cowboy song.

Wade sat in the middle of the room on his bedding roll, and for a long time, he stayed there without moving, with his head down and his tired hands resting in his lap. A loud footstep outside pulled him out of his thoughts.

"Hey, Wade!" called the cheerful voice of Belllounds. Then the rancher appeared at the door. "How does this bunk work for you?"

"Way too fancy for an old guy like me," replied Wade.

"Hey there, old-timer! You're still young. Look at me. I turned sixty-eight last birthday! Well, every dog has his day.... What do you need to make this place comfortable?"

"Guess I don't need much."

"Well, you’ve got a bedding and cooking setup. Go grab a table, a chair, and a bench from that first cabin. The guys who had it are gone. Something with a back, like a rocking chair, if there’s one available. You’ll find tools, boxes, and other stuff in the workshop if you want to make a cupboard or anything."

"How about a mirror?" Wade asked. "I had one, but I broke it."

"Haw! Haw! Maybe we can wrangle that too. My girl is great at helping the guys get things sorted. Just how women are, you know. And she’ll grab some decorations by herself. Now, let’s check out the dogs."

Belllounds led the way out to the makeshift dog corral, and the way he jumped over the stream showed that he was still lively and quick. The pen door was made of boards attached with wire. As Belllounds opened it, there was a flurry of many padded feet and a chorus of barks and whines. Wade's surprised eyes took in forty or fifty dogs, mostly hounds, in browns, blacks, and yellows, of all sizes—a ragtag, scruffy, hungry pack, if he ever saw one.

"I promised I'd buy every dog that was brought to me until I'd gotten rid of all the pests around White Slides. And yeah, I got taken advantage of," the rancher explained.

"Some good-looking hounds in the group," replied Wade. "And there aren't too many. I'll train two packs, so I can rest one while the other is hunting."

"Well, I can't believe it!" exclaimed Belllounds, feeling relieved. "I really thought you'd go off! All this chaos to manage!"

"No trouble once I get to know them," said Wade. "Have they been hunted at all?"

"Some of the guys took out a pack of hounds. But they got distracted by deer tracks and elk tracks, and who knows what else. They never managed to catch a lion! Then again, Billings took some out after a pack of coyotes, and I’ll be damned if the coyotes didn’t outrun the hounds. And worse! Jack, my son, decided he wanted to be a hunter. The other morning, he found a fresh lion track behind the corral. So he went and put the whole pack of hounds on the trail. I had quite a few more hounds in the pack back then than you see now. Well, anyway, it was great to hear the commotion that pack made. Jack ended up losing every single one of them. That night and the next day, and the day after that, they straggled in. But around twenty never came back."

Wade laughed. "They might still show up. But I think they probably went home where they belong. Are any of these dogs good?"

"Every single one of them," declared Belllounds.

"That's funny. But I guess it's normal. Do you know for sure if you got any good dogs?"

"Yeah, I paid fifty bucks for two hounds. I got them from a friend in Middle Park whose pack took out the lions there. They're solid dogs, trained on lions, wolves, and bears."

"Pick them out," said Wade.

With a bunch of dogs crowding around him, yapping and playfully snapping at each other, it was tough for the rancher to pull the two specific ones apart so they could be examined. Eventually, he managed to do it, and Wade pushed the rest of the pack back.

"The big guy's Sampson and the other one’s Jim," said Belllounds.

Sampson was a big hound, gray and yellow, with splotchy black spots, very long ears, and big, serious eyes. Jim, a decent-sized dog, but small compared to the other, was completely black except around his nose and eyes. Jim had many scars. He was old, but not too old to be active, and he seemed like a quiet, dignified, wise hound, totally out of place in that mixed-breed pack.

"If they're as good as they seem, we're lucky," Wade said as he tied the ends of his rope around their necks. "Now, are there any more you know are good?"

"Denver, come here!" shouted Belllounds. A white hound with yellow spots came wagging his tail. "I swear by Denver. And there's one more—Kane. He's half bloodhound, a strange, sneaky kind of dog. He keeps to himself.... Kane! Come here!"

Belllounds walked around the corral and eventually found the hound he was looking for, sleeping in a dusty hole. Kane was the only beautiful dog in the bunch. If half of him was bloodhound, the other half was shepherd, as his black and brown fur had a slight curl, and his head had the refined shape of a shepherd. His long, droopy, thin ears revealed his hound heritage. Kane didn’t seem inclined to be friendly. His dark eyes, sad and mournful, shone with uncertainty.

Wade stopped Kane, Jim, and Sampson, which nearly sparked a fight, and led them out of the corral. Denver, happy and excited, followed close behind the rancher.

"I'll take care of them and train them to be lead dogs," Wade said. "Belllounds, that group hasn't had enough to eat. They're half-starved."

"Well, that’s worried me more than you’d think,” Belllounds said, sounding annoyed. “What do a bunch of cowboys know about dogs? They nearly tore Bludsoe apart. He wouldn’t feed them. And Wils, who seemed good with dogs, got hurt really badly the other day. Lem's been trying to find food for them. Now we’ll return the dogs you don’t want to keep, and that way we can thin out the pack."

"Yeah, we won’t need all of them. And I guess I’ll take the worry of this dog pack off your mind."

"That's your job, Wade. My orders are for you to get rid of the pests. Lions, wolves, coyotes. And every fall, some old silvertip acts up, and now and then other bears too. Whatever you need in terms of supplies, just ask for it. We send regular shipments to Kremmling. You can hunt for another two months, unless an unusually early winter hits... I'm asking you—if my son gets in your way—I would appreciate it if you could be patient. He's just a boy, after all, and awkward."

Wade sensed that it was a tough favor for Belllounds to ask. The old rancher, who had always been dominant, strong, and self-reliant, was starting to feel an opposition creeping in that was beyond his control. If he only understood, the favor he was asking from Wade was actually a plea for help.

"Belllounds, I get along with everyone," Wade assured him. "And maybe I can help your son. Before I got here, I heard he was acting out, so I'm ready."

"If you would do that—well, I’d never forget it," replied the rancher slowly. "Jack's been away for three years. He just got back about a week ago. I figured he’d be more mature and grounded from the work I had him doing. But I’m not so sure. He’s changed. When he gets his way, he's exactly what I could ask for. But what he wants isn't always what's best. So, there have been some conflicts. But Jack's a great young man. He’ll outgrow his temper and wild ideas. Work will help with that."

"Boys will be boys," Wade said, thinking about it. "I remember when I was a boy."

"Me neither. Well, I’m off, Wade. I guess Columbine will come by to see you. Since she’s the only woman in my house, she kind of takes charge. And she’s really interested in that pack of hounds."

Belllounds walked away, his head held high, his gray hair shining in the sunlight.

Wade sat down on the step of his cabin, thinking about the rancher's comments about his son. As he remembered the young man's face, Wade started to feel like he recognized him. He had seen Jack Belllounds before. Wade never made mistakes with faces, although he often struggled to remember names. He began to reflect on the recent past, recalling everything he could about Meeker and Cripple Creek, where he had worked for several months, and continued back to his last trip to Denver.

"Must have been there," Wade thought, trying to remember all the faces he had seen. This was obviously impossible, but he recalled many of them. Then he pictured the spots in Denver that had caught his attention for one reason or another. Suddenly, the pale, gloomy, bold face of Jack Belllounds popped into his mind.

"It was there!" he shouted, in disbelief. "Wow!... If that's not the weirdest thing yet! Could I be wrong? No. I saw him.... Belllounds must have known about it—must have let him stay there.... Maybe even put him there! He’s exactly the kind of guy who would go to any lengths to change his son."

Singular as this situation was, Wade only thought about it for a moment. He brushed it off, convinced it was just another strange occurrence in the series of events that had led him to White Slides Ranch. His mind turned to the likelihood of seeing Columbine Belllounds soon. He would look forward to it, both as something interesting and enjoyable, and definitely as a relief. The sooner he met her, the better. His life had been a long series of shocks, so he felt that nothing the future could bring would thrill, amaze, or torment him. Yet he knew that his heart was even more responsive after everything it had endured! Perhaps at White Slides, he might have an experience that surpassed all others. It was possible; that was the nature of events. And even though he rejected such a possibility, he prepared himself against a subtle sense that he might finally have reached the end of his long journey, where anything could happen.

Three of the hounds lay down at Wade's feet. Kane, the bloodhound, stood watching this new master like a dog who was judging a person. He sniffed at Wade and became a bit less grumpy.

Wade's eyes, however, were focused on the path that ran along the edge of the brook and disappeared into the willows. Above this group of yellowing trees, the ranch house was visible. A girl with light hair stepped off the porch. She seemed to be carrying something in her arms and soon vanished behind the willows. Wade noticed her and guessed she was heading to his cabin. He didn't expect anything more and didn't think further. His mind narrowed down to just what he could see.

The girl, when she reappeared, was maybe a hundred yards away. Wade focused on her with one sharp, clear glance. Then his heart and mind raced. He saw a slender girl in riding gear, agile and strong, moving with the confident stride of someone used to the outdoors. It was her shape, her movement that struck Wade. “My God! She looks so much like Lucy!” he whispered, trying to see her face through the distance. It shone in the sunlight. Her light hair flowed in the wind. She was coming, but so slowly! Everything in Wade—his physical self and his emotions—felt frozen. The moment stretched on endlessly, with nothing beyond it. As she got closer, her face became clear. And Wade felt a shocking jolt.... Then, like someone in a dream, struggling to make sense of a confusing scene, he recognized the face of his sweetheart, his wife, the Lucy of his youth. It pulled him out of the past. Closer! Pain after pain tightened in his heart. Was this just a nightmare? Or had he finally lost his mind? This girl lifted her head. She was looking—she saw him. Terror surged through Wade’s awareness.

"That's Lucy's face!" he exclaimed. "I swear to God!... It's for this—I came here! She's my own flesh and blood—my Lucy's child—my own!"

Fear, unease, and complete astonishment left him in a moment of sudden clarity that was also recognition. A shaking upheaval surrounded him, a passion so overwhelming that it nearly caused him to forget everything.

The three dogs jumped up, barking and wagging their tails. They greeted this visitor. Kane lost even more of his cool, detached demeanor.

Wade's chest rose and fell. The blue sky, the gray hills, the green willows all blended together in his vision, which only seemed to focus on the face getting closer.

"I'm Columbine Belllounds," a voice said.

It calmed the storm inside Wade. It was real. It was a voice from twenty years ago. The weight on his chest lifted. Then the spirit came alive, the old self-control of a man whose life had experienced many awful moments.

"Mornin', miss. I'm happy to meet you," he replied, and his greeting was smooth, with no awkward pauses or odd tones.

So they looked at each other, she with that instinctive gaze unique to women in its intuitive abilities, but also familiar to anyone who had lived away from crowds and saw a newcomer as a significant event. Wade's gaze, intense and all-encompassing, found that face now strikingly similar to the imagined Lucy's—a pretty face, more than beautiful, but strong and sweet—its standout features being a pale fairness of skin that still had hints of rose and gold, and eyes of a rare and exquisite shade of blue.

"Oh! Are you feeling sick?" she asked. "You look so--so pale."

"No. I’m just tired," Wade replied casually, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "It was a long trip to get here."

"I'm the lady of the house," she said with a smile. "I'm happy to welcome you to White Slides, and I hope you enjoy it."

"Well, Miss Columbine, I guess I will," he replied, returning the smile. "If I were younger, I’d really like it a lot."

She laughed at that. "Guys are all the same, no matter their age."

"Don't ever think that," Wade said sincerely.

"No? I guess you’re right about that. I’ve brought you some things for your cabin. Can I take a look inside?"

"Come in," Wade said as he stood up. "I apologize for my manners. It's been a long time since I’ve had a female guest."

She walked in, and Wade, standing at the doorway, watched her take in the room with a woman's quick, all-encompassing look.

"I told Dad to put some--"

"Miss, your dad asked me to go get them, and I haven't done it yet. But I will shortly."

"Okay, I'll leave these things here and come back later," she said, putting a bundle on the floor. "I hope you don't mind if I try to make you a bit more comfortable. It’s just awful how outdoor guys live when they finally get indoors."

"I guess I'll take my time showing you what a good housekeeper I am," he replied. "Because then, maybe, I'll get to see more of you."

"Weren't you a sad flatterer back in the day?" she asked, playfully.

Her tone, the way she tilted her head, hit Wade with such a jolt that he couldn't respond. To mask his brief hesitation, he turned back to the hounds. Then she stepped out onto the porch.

"I love hounds," she said, petting Denver, which instantly made Jim and Sampson jealous. "I've gotten along pretty well with these, but that Kane just won't warm up. Isn't he amazing? But he's scared—no, not scared of me, but he doesn't like me."

"It's trust issues. He's been hurt. I think he'll get over it after a while."

"You don't hit dogs?" she asked, eagerly.

"No, miss. That's not how to get along with hounds or horses."

Her gaze was a quick burst of joy.

"That makes me so happy! I stopped coming here to see and feed the dogs because someone was always mistreating them."

Wade handed her the rope. "You hold it, so when I come out with some meat, they won't knock me over." He went inside, took the remaining part of the deer haunch out of his pack, and, grabbing his knife, came back to the porch. The dogs saw the meat and yelped. They tugged on the rope.

"You dogs behave," Wade commanded as he sat down on the steps and started cutting the meat. "Jim, you're the oldest and hungriest. Here.... Now you, Sampson. Here!" The big hound lunged for the meat. Wade then slapped him. "Are you a puppy or a wolf that you go for it like that? Here." Sampson hesitated but snapped at it again. Wade hit him once more, with his open hand, not with anger or malice, but a strike that signified Sampson needed to listen.

Next time, the hound didn't snap. Denver had to be cuffed several times before he showed respect to this new master. But the bloodhound Kane refused to take any meat from Wade's hand. He growled, bared his teeth, and sniffed hungrily.

"Kane needs to be treated carefully," Wade remarked. "He'd snap pretty fast."

"But he's just so amazing," said the girl. "I don't want to believe he's unkind. You'll be nice to him—try to win him over?"

"I'll do my best with him."

"Dad's really happy that he finally has a true hunter at White Slides. Now, I feel both glad and sad about it. I hate the thought of little calves being ripped apart and killed by lions and wolves. It's awful knowing that bears eat full-grown cattle. But I love the howl of a wolf and the yip of a coyote. I can’t help but hope you don’t end up killing them all—completely."

"It's not likely, miss," he replied. "I'm pretty sure I'll clear out the lions and chase off the bears. But the wolf family can't be wiped out. No animal is as cunning as a wolf!... Let me tell you.... A few years back, I went to cook on a ranch north of Denver, right on the edge of the plains. And right away, I started hearing stories about a big lobo—a wolf that had been around for a long time. He'd been known for ages, and he got meaner and smarter the more he was hunted. His specialty became yearlings, and ranchers all over were up in arms against him. They hired all the old hunters and trappers in the area to take him down. No luck! Old Lobo kept taking yearlings. Every night, he'd get one or more. And he was so clever and so fast that he would hit different ranches on different nights. Finally, he killed eleven yearlings for my boss in one night. Eleven! Can you imagine that? So I told my boss, 'I think you should let me go take care of that gray butcher.' And my boss laughed at me. But he let me go. He was willing to try anything. I grabbed a chunk of meat, a blanket, my gun, and a pair of snowshoes, and I set off on old Lobo's trail.... And, Miss Columbine, I walked old Lobo to death in the snow!"

"Wow, that’s amazing!" the girl said, breathless and full of excitement. "Oh, it's such a shame that such a magnificent creature should be killed. Wild animals can be harsh. I wish it were different."

"Life is tough, miss, and I share your sentiment," replied Wade, sadly.

"You've had amazing experiences. Dad told me, 'Collie, here finally is a guy who can share enough stories!'... But I doubt you ever could."

"You like stories?" Wade asked, intrigued.

"Love them all. I enjoy all kinds, but I like adventure the most. I should have been a boy. Isn't it weird that I can't hurt anything myself or stand to see even a steer being slaughtered? But you can't tell me stories that are too bloody and terrible. Except I really hate Indian stories. Just thinking about Indians makes me shudder... One day I'll share a story with you."

Wade couldn't find his words easily.

"I have to go now," she said, stepping off the porch. Then she paused and turned back with a smile that was both nostalgic and spontaneous. "I think we'll be good friends."

"Miss Columbine, we definitely will, as long as I can do my part," replied Wade.

Her smile widened, even as her gaze became unknowingly intense. Wade sensed how naturally they were being pulled toward one another. But she had no idea about that.

"It takes two to make a deal," she said earnestly. "I've done my part. Goodbye."

Wade watched her graceful walk, and as she moved away, the control he had over himself started to slip. When she vanished from sight, his emotions overflowed. He pulled the dogs inside and shut the door. Then, feeling completely defeated, he leaned his face against the wall and whispered hoarsely, "I'm thanking God!"

September's brilliance of gold, red, and purple began to fade with the onset of the autumn equinox. It rained enough to soak the frost-bitten leaves, and then the mountain winds sent them flying, fluttering, and scurrying to cover the valleys, dot the pools in the streams, and add color to the trails. When the weather cleared and the sun shone brightly again, many of the aspen thickets were leafless and bare, the willows stood stark against the gray sage hills, and the vines had lost their vibrancy. The hills and valleys had taken on a more subdued beauty with subtle changes, yet they remained just as stunning.

A mile or more down the road from White Slides, in a sheltered spot, were two cabins owned by a cattleman named Andrews. He had previously worked for Belllounds and had recently started his own stock business. He had a pretty young wife, several kids, and a brother who worked for him. These people were Belllounds' only neighbors for about ten miles along the road to Kremmling.

Columbine liked Mrs. Andrews and often rode or walked over to visit her friend for a chat and to play with the kids.

Toward the end of September, Columbine found herself struggling with a strong urge to head down to the Andrews ranch and see if she could get any news about Wilson Moore. If there had been any updates at White Slides, they definitely hadn’t been shared with her. Jack Belllounds had made a round trip to Kremmling in one day, but Columbine would have put up with a lot before asking him for any information.

She did, however, ask the freighter who transported Belllounds's supplies, and the response she received was uncomfortably vague. That irritated Columbine. It also sparked a suspicion that she tried to push down. In the end, it became clear that Wilson Moore's name was off-limits for her.

First, as her resentment grew, she felt the urge to go to her new friend, the hunter Wade, and share not only her desire to learn about Wilson but also other issues that were becoming more and more overwhelming. It was strange for her to realize that in some way, Jack Belllounds had come between her and the old man she loved and called father. Columbine hadn’t figured that out until recently. She could feel it now in the way she no longer pursued the rancher like she used to, and he seemed to be avoiding her. But then, Columbine thought, she could be completely wrong, because whenever Belllounds did see her at meal times or anywhere else, he still seemed just as affectionate as before. Yet he wasn’t the same man. A chill, a sense of darkness, had spread over the once vibrant ranch. So, feeling like she didn’t know Wade well enough to confide in him so deeply, she suppressed her impulses and decided to make some effort on her own to find out what she wanted to know.

As luck would have it, when she set out to walk down to the Andrews ranch, she ran into Jack Belllounds.

"Where are you going?" he asked curiously.

"I'm going to see Mrs. Andrews," she said.

"No, you're not!" he said abruptly, with a quick flash.

Columbine felt a strange sensation deep inside her, a hot little feeling that seemed foreign to her body and ready to explode. Recently, it had stirred within her at Jack Belllounds' words or actions. She stared at him intently, and he met her gaze with curiosity. She had no idea what he was thinking, but for her, it was a reminder that she felt more and more distant from this young man she was supposed to marry. The weeks since he had arrived had been the most troubling she could remember.

"I'm going," she replied slowly.

"No!" he shouted, angrily. "I won't let you run off down there to--to gossip with that Andrews woman."

"Oh, you won't?" asked Columbine, very softly. He really didn't understand her at all!

"That's what I meant."

"You're not my boss yet, Mr. Jack Belllounds," she shot back, feeling more confident. He could annoy her like nobody else.

"I'll be there soon. And what's the difference between a week or a month?" he continued, relaxing a bit.

"I've promised, yes," she said, feeling her face go pale, "and I keep my promises.... But I didn't say when. If you talk to me like that, it might be a long time—weeks or even months—before I set the date."

"Columbine!" he shouted, as she turned away. There was real distress in his voice. Columbine felt again that unsettling certainty. No matter how she felt about this new relationship, it seemed painfully clear that Jack was genuinely falling in love with her. This time, she didn’t back down.

"I'll call Dad to make you stay home," he yelled again, his anger growing.

Columbine spun around like she was on a pivot.

"If you do, you have less common sense than I thought."

"I know why you’re going. It’s to see that club-footed cowboy Moore!...
Don’t let me catch you with him."

Passion took over then.

"I know why you're going. It's to see that club-footed cowboy, Moore!... Don’t let me catch you with him!"

Columbine turned her back on Belllounds and walked away, every pulse in her body throbbing and stinging. She hurried onto the road. She wanted to run, not to get out of sight or hearing, but to escape from something, though she didn’t know what.

"Oh! it's more than just his temper!" she exclaimed, tears streaming down her face. "He's cruel—cruel—CRUEL! What's the point of pretending that's not true—anymore—just because I love Dad?... My life will be miserable.... It is miserable!"

Her anger didn't last long, and neither did her resentment. She blamed herself for the sharp replies that had upset Jack. She promised herself she would never lose control like that again!

"But he--he drives me crazy," she said, suddenly justifying herself. "What did he say? 'That club-footed cowboy Moore'!... Oh, that was disgusting. He's heard that poor Wilson has a bad foot, maybe permanently injured.... If it's true.... But why would he shout that he knew I wanted to see Wilson?... I did not! I do not.... Oh, but I do, I do!"

And then Columbine was about to realize right away that she would forget herself again, that she had forgotten, and that a sadder, stranger truth was coming to light for her—she was uncovering another Columbine inside herself, a willful, passionate, different being who would no longer be ignored.

Almost before Columbine realized she had begun her visit, she was in sight of the Andrews ranch. She had walked so quickly! It was important for her to hide the excitement that had taken over her. To do this, she slowed down her pace, attempting to focus on other things.

The kids spotted her first and ran toward her, so by the time she got to the cabin door, she was definitely rosy and smiling. Mrs. Andrews, healthy and robust, looked like the hardworking wife of a pioneer rancher. Her face lit up when she saw Columbine, and she seemed a bit surprised and curious too.

"Laws, but it's great to see you, Columbine," was her greeting. "You haven't been around for a while."

"I've been meaning to come, but I just kept putting it off," replied Columbine.

And so, like women neighbors do, they started chatting about the fall round-up and the upcoming winter with its loneliness, and the kids, which naturally led to more personal and interesting topics.

"Is it true, Columbine, that you're going to marry Jack Belllounds?" asked Mrs. Andrews, a moment later.

"Yeah, I guess so," Columbine replied with a smile.

"Humph! I'm not related to you or even a close friend, but I just want to say--"

"Please don’t," interjected Columbine.

"Okay, my girl. I guess it's better if I don't say anything. It's a shame, though, unless you really love this Buster Jack. And you never used to feel that way, I swear."

"No, I don't love Jack—yet—as I should love a husband. But I’ll try, and if—I—I never do—still, it’s my duty to marry him."

"Some woman should talk to Bill Belllounds," Mrs. Andrews said with a seriousness that didn't look good for the old rancher.

"Did you know we have a new guy at the ranch?" asked Columbine, shifting the topic.

"You mean the hunter, Hell-Bent Wade?"

"Yeah. But I really hate that silly name," said Columbine.

"It's strange, like a lot of names guys get around here. And it'll stick. Wade's been here twice; once when he was passing through with the hounds, and the other night. I like him, Columbine. He's solid, despite his odd name. My family took to him like ducks to water."

"I'm glad. I connected with him right away," replied Columbine. "He has the saddest face I've ever seen."

"Sad? Well, yes. That man has been through a lot of what’s been attached to his name. I laughed the first time I saw him. That little lame guy, with crooked legs and ragged clothes, and that really unattractive face! But I forgot what he looked like the next time he came."

"That's exactly it. He's not really good-looking, but you quickly forget his plainness," Columbine replied enthusiastically. "You sense something deeper beyond his appearance."

"Well, you and I are women, and we feel differently," Mrs. Andrews replied. "Now my guys really value what Wade can do. He repaired Tom's gun, which has been broken for a year. He got our clock working again, and it runs better than ever. Then he saved our cow from that poison weed. And Tom was ready to let her die."

"The guys back home were saying that Mr. Wade had saved some of our cattle. Dad was thrilled. You know he has lost quite a few animals because of that poison weed. I saw so many dead steers on my last trip up the mountain. It's a shame our new guy didn’t arrive earlier to help save them. I asked him how he managed it, and he said he was a doctor."

"A cow doctor," laughed Mrs. Andrews. "Well, that's a new one for me. According to Tom, this guy Wade, when he saw our sick cow, said she’d eaten poison-weed—larkspur, I think he called it—and then when she drank water it formed gas in her stomach and she swelled up terribly. Wade just stuck his knife in her side a bit and let the gas out, and she got better."

"Ughh!... What harsh treatment! But if it saves the cattle, then it's worth it."

"It'll save them if we can get to them right away," replied Mrs. Andrews.

"Speaking of doctors," continued Columbine, trying to sound casual, "do you know if Wilson Moore had his foot treated by a doctor in Kremmling?"

"He didn’t," replied Mrs. Andrews. "There wasn’t a doctor available. They had to send to Denver, and since Wils couldn’t make that trip or wait so long, Mrs. Plummer took care of his foot. She did a great job, too, as I can confirm."

"Oh, I'm really thankful!" murmured Columbine. "He won't be crippled or have a club foot, then?"

"I don’t think so. You can see for yourself. Wils is here. He drove up the night before last and is staying with my brother-in-law—in the other cabin there."

Mrs. Andrews quickly brought all this up, clearly enjoying it, but with a woman's subtle intention. Her gaze was focused on the younger woman with shrewd kindness.

"Here!" Columbine exclaimed suddenly, and for a moment, she was overwhelmed by a mix of surprise, joy, and alarm. She alternated between flushing and paling.

"Of course he's here," replied Mrs. Andrews, now looking out the door. "He should be visible somewhere. He's walking with a crutch."

"Crutch!" cried Columbine, in shock.

"Yeah, crutch, and he made it himself.... I don't see him anywhere. Maybe he went inside when he saw you coming. He's really sensitive about that crutch."

"Then—if he's that sensitive, maybe I should just leave," said Columbine, feeling embarrassed and uneasy. What if she ran into him? Would he think she had a reason for being there? Her heart started to race unexpectedly.

"Suit yourself, girl," Mrs. Andrews replied kindly. "I know you and Wils had a fight, because he told me. It's a shame... Well, if you have to go, I hope you'll come back before it snows. Goodbye."

Columbine quickly said goodbye and set off with a sense of unease. Just around the corner of the second cabin she had to walk past, before she could gather her thoughts, she spotted Wilson Moore, struggling along with a crutch, keeping his bandaged foot off the ground. He had noticed her; he was rushing to avoid running into her or to get behind the corrals before she saw him.

"Wilson!" she called out without thinking. As soon as the name left her lips, she regretted it. But it was too late! The cowboy stopped and slowly turned around.

Then Columbine walked quickly up to him, suddenly as brave as she had been afraid. Seeing him had changed her.

"Wilson Moore, you were trying to avoid me," she said, with disappointment.

"Hey there, Columbine!" he said, brushing off her words.

"Oh, I'm so sorry you got hurt!" she exclaimed. "And now I'm so glad—you’re—you’re... Wilson, you look thin and pale—you’ve been through so much!"

"It brought me down a little," he replied.

Columbine had never seen his face as anything but bronzed, lean, and healthy, but now it reflected pain, strain, and quiet endurance. He looked older. Something in his fine, dark, hazel eyes hurt her deeply.

"You never let me know," she continued, with a hint of accusation. "No one would tell me anything. The guys said they had no idea. Dad got mad when I asked him. I would never have asked Jack. And the freighter who came by--he lied to me. So I came down here today specifically to check on you, but I never imagined you would be here.... Now I'm really glad I came."

What a unique, oddly kind, yet strange look he gave her!

"That was just like you, Columbine," he said. "I knew you'd feel upset about my accident. But how was I supposed to let you know?"

"You saved me—Pronto," she replied, her voice shaking. "I can't thank you enough."

"That was a funny thing. Pronto lost his mind. I hope he's okay."

"He's almost better. It took a while to get all the splinters out of him. He'll be fine soon—none the worse for that—thanks to that cowboy trick from Mister Jack Belllounds."

Columbine finished with bitterness. Moore turned his pensive gaze away from her.

"I hope Old Bill is doing okay," he said weakly.

"Have you told your parents about your accident?" asked Columbine, ignoring his comment.

"Nope."

"Oh, Wilson, you should have called for them or at least written a message."

"Me? Crying to them when I got into trouble? I just couldn't see it that way."

"Wilson, you're going home soon to Denver, right?" she hesitated.

"No," he replied, curtly.

"But what are you going to do? You can't possibly work—it's way too soon for that, right?"

"Columbine, I’ll never be able to ride again like I used to," he said sadly. "I’ll ride, sure, but not like before."

"Oh!" Columbine's tone, along with the gentle softness and tenderness with which she touched the rough crutch, would have been eye-opening to anyone except for these two who were lost in their own world. "I can't stand to think that."

"I'm afraid it's true. That was a rough hit, Columbine! I almost ended up with a clubfoot."

"You need to be careful. You should have.... Wilson, are you planning to stay here with the Andrews?"

"Not much. They have their own problems. Columbine, I'm going to settle on one hundred and sixty acres."

"Homestead!" she exclaimed, surprised. "Where?"

"Up there under Old White Slides. I've been planning to go for a while. You know that lovely little valley under the red bluff. There's a nice spring there. You've been there with me, by the old cabin built by the prospectors?"

"Yeah, I get it. It's a nice spot—a beautiful valley, but Wils, you can't live there," she exclaimed.

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

"That little cubby-hole! It's just a small one-room cabin, the roof is gone, there are gaps everywhere, and the chimney is falling apart... Wilson, you can't be serious about wanting to live there by yourself?"

"Sure. What did you think?" he replied, sarcastically.

"Do you really expect me to marry some girl? Honestly, I wouldn't, even if someone would want a disabled person."

"Who—who will take care of you?" she asked, blushing deeply.

"I'll take care of myself," he said. "Good grief! Columbine, I'm not incapacitated yet. I've got a few friends who can help me get the cabin sorted out. And that reminds me, there's a lot of my stuff in the bunkhouse at White Slides. I'm going to drive up there soon to pick it up."

"Wilson Moore, do you really mean it?" she asked, seriously intrigued. "Are you planning to settle down near White Slides Ranch—and actually live there—when—"

She couldn’t finish. An overwhelming disaster, which she couldn’t name, felt like it was about to happen.

"Yeah, I am," he replied. "It's funny how things work out, isn't it?"

"It's really funny," she said, a bit dazed, and she turned slowly away without saying anything else.

"Goodbye, Columbine," he called out after her, his voice truly filled with farewell.

All the way home, Columbine was consumed by emotions that overwhelmed her to the point of ignoring the growing confusion of her situation. To make things worse, when she got to the ranch, she found Jack Belllounds waiting for her with a face as dark as a storm cloud.

"The old man wants to see you," he said, with an accent that reminded him of the threat from a few hours ago.

"Does he?" asked Columbine, with an air of superiority. "The way you're speaking so politely makes me think it's significant."

Belllounds didn’t bother to respond to this. He sat on the porch, where it was clear he had been waiting for her to come back, and he looked far from happy.

"Where's Dad?" continued Columbine.

Jack pointed to the second door, behind which he was sitting, the one that led into the room the rancher used as an office and storage area. As Columbine walked past Jack, he grabbed her skirt.

"Columbine! Are you upset?" he said, looking for her approval.

"I guess I am," replied Columbine.

"Don't go to Dad when you're like that," Jack pleaded. "He's angry, too—and—and—it'll just make things worse."

From long experience, Columbine could sense when Jack had acted out of self-interest and then realized the potential consequences. She pulled away from him without saying a word and knocked on the office door.

"Come in," said the rancher.

Columbine walked in. "Hey, Dad! Do you need me?"

Belllounds sat at an old table, leaning over a dirty ledger, with a thick pencil in his large hand. When he looked up, Columbine jumped slightly.

"Where have you been?" he asked, gruffly.

"I've been visiting Mrs. Andrews," replied Columbine.

"Did you go there to see her?"

"Of course!" responded Columbine, pausing slightly as she spoke.

"You didn't go to meet Wilson Moore?"

"Nope."

"And I guess you'll say you hadn't heard he was there?"

"I haven't," flashed Columbine.

"Well, did you see him?"

"Yeah, I did, but it was totally by accident."

"Ahuh! Columbine, are you lying to me?"

The heat rushed to Columbine's cheeks, as if she had just been hit.

"Dad!" she exclaimed, in shocked disbelief.

Belllounds seemed heavy and lost in thought, as if something had triggered a crisis in him and his mind was in deep turmoil. His usual calm, relaxed, confident, and straightforward approach to every situation appeared to have been interrupted by confusion, uncertainty, and a drop in self-assurance.

"Well, are you lying?" he repeated, either blind to or unaware of her distress.

"I couldn't lie to you," she hesitated, "even if I wanted to."

The intense, dark gaze of his large eyes was fixed on her as if she had turned into a new and confusing puzzle.

"But have you seen Moore?"

"Yes, sir." Columbine's spirit lifted.

"And talked to him?"

"Absolutely."

"Lass, I don't like that, and I don't like the way you look and talk."

"I’m sorry. I can’t help either."

"What did this cowboy say to you?"

"We mostly talked about his injured foot."

"And what else?" continued Belllounds, his voice getting louder.

"About—what he was planning to do now."

"Uh-huh! And that's homesteading in the Sage Creek Valley?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you want him to do that?"

"I! No, I didn't."

"Columbine, not too long ago you told me this guy wasn't into you. And do you still say that to me—are you still insisting he doesn't love you?"

"He never said it out loud—I never believed it... and now I know for sure—he isn't!"

"Yeah! Well, that same day you were just as sure you didn't care about him at all. Are you that sure now?"

"No!" whispered Columbine, barely audible. She shook with a hint of unfamiliar energies. She wouldn’t sidestep any question from this man, to whom she had no ties, and to whom she owed her life and upbringing, just to protect a new and growing pride. But something cold started to build inside her.

Belllounds, as self-absorbed and serious as he was, appeared to hold back his questioning, either out of fear of hearing more from her or because of a sudden reminder of past kindness. However, her response stunned him, and, tossing aside his pencil in a way that suggested he had no choice but to act, he stood up to loom over her.

"You've been like a daughter to me. I've done everything I know how for you. I've lived up to the best of my abilities. And I've loved you," he said, both dramatically and sadly. "You know what my hopes are—for the boy—and for you... We don't need to talk anymore. From this moment on, you're free to do what you want. No matter what you choose, it won't change how much I care for you... But you have to decide. Will you marry Jack or not?"

"I promised you I would. I'll keep my word," replied Columbine, firmly.

"So far so good," the rancher continued. "I respect you for what you say... And now, when are you going to marry him?"

The small room floated in Columbine's hazy, empty gaze. Everything felt like it was moving aimlessly. She had no firm foundation.

"Any day you say—the sooner the better," she whispered.

"Well, girl, I really appreciate you," he said, his voice sounding distant to her. "And I promise, if I didn’t think it was best for Jack and you, I would never let you marry him... So let’s pick the date. October first! That’s the day you were brought to me as a baby—more than seventeen years ago."

"October—first—then, Dad," she said, her voice shaky, and she kissed him as if to acknowledge what she felt she owed him. Then she left, shutting the door behind her.

Jack, when he saw her, quickly got up, looking more than just worried on his pale face.

"Columbine!" he shouted, his voice rough. "You look so different!... Tell me. What happened? Girl, don’t tell me you’ve--you’ve--"

"Jack Belllounds," Columbine interrupted, her voice filled with dramatic shock at the truth she was about to reveal, "I've promised to marry you—on October first."

He let out a shout of boyish excitement and suddenly pulled her into his arms. But there was nothing childish about the way he held her, with an almost wild sense of possession. "Collie, I'm crazy about you," he started, passionately. "You never let me say it. And I've gotten worse and worse. Today, when I saw you heading down there—where that Wilson Moore is—I got really jealous. I felt sick. I would’ve been glad to kill him!... It made me realize how much I love you. Oh, I didn’t know. But now... Oh, I’m crazy for you!" He held her tightly, ignoring her protests; his face and neck were flushed; his eyes were blazing. He began trying to kiss her lips, but couldn’t, as she fought against him. His kisses landed on her cheek, ear, and hair.

"Let me—go!" gasped Columbine. "You have no—no—Oh, you could have waited." Breaking free from him, she ran and almost closed the door to her room when his foot stopped it.

Belllounds was half laughing in his triumph, half furious about her escape, and completely beside himself.

"No," she said so forcefully that it seemed to bring him to the realization that there was someone else besides him to think about.

"Aw!" He let out a heavy sigh. "Okay. I won't try to get in. Just listen.... Collie, don’t take my--my way of showing you how I felt the wrong way. The truth is, I totally lost it. Is that any surprise, you--you sweetheart--when I was so afraid you’d never want me? Collie, you’ve been the one thing in the world I wanted most and thought I’d never have. But now.... October first! Listen. I promise I won’t drink anymore--or gamble--or bug Dad for money. I don’t like how he runs the ranch, but I’ll deal with it, as long as he’s alive. I’ll even try to put up with that club-footed cowboy's nerve in homesteading a ranch right in my face. I’ll--I’ll do anything you ask of me."

"Then—please—just go away!" cried Columbine, sobbing.

When he left, Columbine locked the door and threw herself onto her bed to block out the light and let out her overwhelming emotions. She cried like a girl whose youth was coming to an end; and after the fit of tears passed, leaving her feeling weak and oddly transformed, she tried to figure out what had happened to her. Again and again, she thought about the rancher's plea, her sense of duty, the decision she had made, and the disgust and fear she felt from Jack Belllounds's reaction to her promise. These were the facts of the day, and they had turned her into a trembling, unhappy person who nonetheless had been brave enough to confront the rancher and admit what she had barely acknowledged to herself. But now, she was shaking and recoiling on the brink of a disaster that concealed its full truth.

"I start to understand now," she whispered, after the thought came and went and changed again. "If Wilson had—cared about me, I—I might have—cared, too... But I do—care—somehow. I couldn't lie to Dad. It's just that I'm not sure—how much. I never imagined—of loving him, or anyone. It's so weird. Suddenly, I feel old. And I can't make sense of these—these feelings that shake me."

So Columbine reflected on the trouble that had come her way, never regretting her promise to the old rancher, but becoming more aware of a complexity within her that would eventually divide her sense of duty from her desires. She felt completely alone, and when this feeling took over, she suddenly thought of the hunter Wade. She suppressed another urge to confide in him. Wade was gentle and his face showed the struggles he had faced without becoming hard or bitter. But how could she share her problems with him? He was a stranger, a rough man from the wilderness, known for his notorious and deadly reputation, carrying the spirit of the West in his name! Still, he drew her in, and she found herself thinking about him until the unsettling memory of Jack Belllounds's rough grip came back to her, bringing with it an increasing sense of disgust and fear. Did she have to put up with that? Had she promised that? And then Columbine began to realize some hard truths.

Columbine woke up in the gray dawn to the sound of coyotes barking. She dreaded the daylight that it brought. Never before had she hated the sunrise so much. Determined, she put the past behind her and faced the future, believing that now, with the big decision made, she only needed to keep her mind off what could have been and focus on her responsibilities.

At breakfast, she found the rancher in better spirits than he had been in weeks. He told her that Jack had left early for Kremmling to make arrangements for the wedding on October first.

"Jack's lost it," said Belllounds. "Well, that only happens once in a man's life. I remember ... Jack's going to drive you to Kremmlin' and then you'll take a stage to Denver. I think you'd better put in your best effort to get ready and pack the clothes you'll need. Women usually want to look sharp on wedding trips."

"Dad!" Columbine exclaimed, upset. "I never thought about clothes. And I don’t want to leave White Slides."

"But, girl, you're going to be married!" exclaimed Belllounds.

"Didn't Jack think to take me to Kremmling? I can't turn old dresses into new ones."

"Well, I guess neither of us thought of that. But you can buy whatever you want in Denver."

Columbine accepted her situation. After all, what did it matter to her? The vague, haunting dreams of her youth would never come true. So she went to her closet and laid out all her clothes. Taking inventory like this only deepened her disappointment, as she realized she had nothing suitable to wear for either getting married or going on a trip to Denver. It seemed the only option was to follow the rancher's advice, and Columbine started working on updating her small wardrobe. She sewed all day.

With self-control, effort, and the passage of time, Columbine started to feel a sense of calm. In her innocence, she even began to think that being good, reliable, and devoted would bring her some happiness. A fleeting doubt crossed her mind like a quick shadow of a black wing, but she brushed it aside just as she had pushed away the fear and disgust that often arose in her thoughts.

To Columbine's surprise and to the rancher's concern, the expected groom didn’t come back from Kremmling on the second day. When night fell, Belllounds reluctantly stopped searching for him.

Jack not showing up suited Columbine, and she would have been happy to be left alone until October first, which now felt alarmingly close. On the afternoon of Jack's third day away from the ranch, Columbine went out for some much-needed exercise. Since Pronto wasn't available, she rode another mustang that kept her on her toes. On her way back to the ranch, she avoided the usual path that passed by Wade's and the cowboys' cabins. Columbine hadn’t seen any of her friends since the unfortunate visit to the Andrews ranch. She especially wanted to avoid meeting Wade, which was a strange change from how she used to feel.

As she rode around the house, she saw Wilson Moore sitting in a light wagon. Her mustang reared up, almost throwing her off. But she managed him roughly, feeling suddenly surprised and angry at this unexpected encounter with the cowboy.

"Hey, Columbine!" Wilson said as she got the mustang up on its feet. "You're really getting the hang of riding a horse since I left this ranch. I wonder who's been showing you the ropes! I could never get you to handle even a bucking horse!"

The cowboy had delivered his admiring speech in a slow drawl, feeling both amused and a bit sarcastic.

"I'm mad!" declared Columbine. "That's why."

"What are you angry about?" asked Wilson.

She didn't respond, but continued to stare at him intently. Moore still looked pale and worn out, but he had gotten better since the last time she saw him.

"Aren't you going to talk to someone?" he continued.

"How are you, Wils?" she asked.

"Pretty good for a club-footed has-been cowboy."

"I wish you wouldn't call yourself those names," Columbine replied, annoyed. "You're not a club-foot. I hate that term!"

"Me, too. But seriously, I'm doing better. My foot is fine. As long as I don't hurt it again, I'll definitely never have a club foot."

"You need to be careful," she said seriously.

"Sure. But it's tough for me to sit around doing nothing. Imagine me lying still all day with just reading to keep me company! That's what really got to me. I wouldn't have cared about the pain if I could have gotten up and done things... Columbine, I've moved in!"

"What! Moved in?" she asked, blankly.

"Sure. I'm in my cabin on the hill. It's really great. Tom Andrews and Bert and your hunter Wade set up the cabin for me. That Wade is a really good guy. And you know what? He’s amazing with his hands! He’s been kind to me. He took an interest in me, and between you and me, he kind of cheered me up."

"Cheered you up! Wils, were you feeling down?" she asked, directly.

"Well, actually. What did you expect from a cowboy who had injured himself—and lost his girl?"

Columbine felt a rush of warmth in her face, and she looked from Wilson to the wagon. It held saddles, blankets, and other cowboy gear that he had clearly brought.

"That's a double misfortune," she replied flatly. "It's a shame both happened at the same time. It seems to me that if I were a cowboy and felt that way about a girl, I would have let her know."

"This girl, I mean, knew, for sure," he said, nodding his head.

"She didn't—she didn't!" cried Columbine.

"How do you know?" he asked, pretending to be surprised. He was determined to torment her.

"You meant me. I'm the girl you lost!"

"Yes, you are--God help me!" replied Moore, with real feeling.

"But you—you never told me—you never told me," faltered Columbine, feeling upset.

"Never told you what? That you were my girl?"

"No, no. But you cared—"

"Columbine Belllounds, I told you—let you see—in every way possible," he shot back at her.

"Let me see--what?" Columbine stammered, feeling like the world was about to end.

"I loved you."

"Oh!... Wilson!" whispered Columbine, frantically.

"Yeah—I loved you. Could you really have been that naïve—so clueless you never realized? I can't believe it."

"But I never imagined you--you--" She stopped, stunned, overwhelmed by a tragic, glorious truth.

"Collie!... Would it have changed anything?"

"Oh, it makes all the difference in the world!" she cried.

"What difference does it make?" he asked, passionately.

Columbine stared at the young man, wide-eyed and feeling helpless. She didn’t know how to explain to him what the real difference in the world actually was.

Suddenly, Wilson turned away from her to listen. Then she heard the sound of hooves rapidly pounding on the road.

"That's Buster Jack," the cowboy said. "Just my luck! No one was here when I got here. I guess I shouldn't have stayed. Columbine, you look really upset."

"What do I care about how I look!" she exclaimed, with a sharp resentment accompanying this sudden and painful interruption in her anxiety.

Next moment, Jack Belllounds rode a foam-flecked horse into the courtyard and abruptly stopped, showing off the recklessness he was known for. He jumped down hard and flung the reins away from him.

"Yep! I totally bet on this," he said firmly.

Columbine's heart dropped. He was staring at her face, which clearly showed signs of anxiety.

"What have you been crying about?" he asked.

"I haven't been," she replied.

His bold and intense eyes, inflamed with sudden anger, moved slowly from her to the cowboy. Columbine realized then that Jack was drunk. His flushed face turned an even deeper shade, filled with sneering contempt.

"Where's Dad?" he asked, turning toward her.

"I don't know. He's not here," Columbine said as she got down. The rush of emotion and blood to Jack's face made her heart sink even more. The situation was making her uneasy.

Wilson Moore had gotten a bit paler. He picked up his reins, ready to drive away.

"Belllounds, I went up after my stuff I left in the bunk," he said casually. "I ran into Columbine and paused to talk for a minute."

"That's what you say," mocked Belllounds. "You were being intimate with Columbine. I could see it in her expression. You know it—and she knows it—and I know it.... You're a liar!"

"Belllounds, I guess I am," replied Moore, turning pale. "I did tell Columbine what I thought she knew—what I should have said a long time ago."

"Uh-huh! Well, I don't want to hear it. But I'm going to check that wagon."

"What!" the cowboy exclaimed, dropping his reins as if they had shocked him.

"You just wait here while I check out what you've got in there," continued Belllounds, as he leaned over into the wagon and tugged at a saddle.

"Hey, do you mean anything by that?... This stuff is all mine, every single piece. Get your hands off."

Belllounds leaned on the wagon and looked up with a defiant, dark gaze.

"Moore, I wouldn’t trust you. I feel like you’d steal anything you could get your hands on."

Columbine let out a heartfelt cry of shame and protest.

"Jack, how could you?!"

"You shut up! Go inside!" he commanded.

"You insult me," she responded, feeling deeply humiliated.

"Are you going in?" he yelled.

"No, I won't."

"Okay, go ahead and look. I'd just as soon have you here." Then he turned to the cowboy. "Moore, unload that wagon full of stuff unless you want me to toss it out in the street."

"Belllounds, you know I can't do that," replied Moore, coolly. "And I'll give you a tip. You'd better keep quiet and let me take the lead... If not for her sake, then for your own."

Belllounds grabbed the reins and, with a quick tug, yanked them out of the cowboy's hands.

"You damn club-foot! Your way with words doesn't impress me," yelled Belllounds as he climbed onto the wheel hub. But it was clear that his desire to search the wagon was just a cover, because while he fiddled with this and that, his malicious gaze was fixed on the cowboy, ready to respond to any action that might give him a reason for violence. Moore clearly recognized this, as he looked at Columbine and shook his head, as if to let her know that the situation was beyond remedy.

"Columbine, please pass me the reins," he said. "I'm hurt, you know. Then I'll be on my way."

Columbine stepped forward to comply, when Belllounds, jumping down from the wheel, pushed her back with a commanding hand. Going against him was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. Columbine shrank back from his gaze as much as his touch.

"You stay out of this, or I'll show you who's in charge here," he said, loudly.

"You're going too far!" exclaimed Columbine.

Meanwhile, Wilson had slowly climbed out of the wagon, and, using his crutch, he made his way over to where Belllounds had tossed the reins and bent down to pick them up. Belllounds pushed Columbine further back and then jumped to face the cowboy.

"I've got you now, Moore," he said, his voice low and raspy. Stripped of all pretense, he couldn't control his temper. His face tensed and darkened. The hand he extended shook like a leaf. "You smooth-talking liar! I know what you're up to. I know you’d try to use her against me. I know you’d try to win her over—just days before her wedding.... But that's not why I'm going to beat you up! It's because I can't stand you! Ever since I can remember, my dad held you up as an example! And he sent me away because of you. Damn it! That’s why I hate you!"

All of the primitive, violent, and base elements came out with an odd honesty in Belllounds's tirade. Only when he was calm could his mind engage in hidden calculations. The devil inside him now seemed unleashed.

"Belllounds, you're really brave to stand up like this against a one-legged guy," the cowboy said, with sharp sarcasm.

"If you had two club feet, I’d be even happier," yelled Belllounds, and swinging his arm, he slapped Moore so hard that it almost knocked him over. Only the injured foot, coming down hard, saved him.

When Columbine saw that, and then how Wilson flinched and turned deathly pale, she let out a low cry, and she seemed suddenly frozen in place, weak and terrified at what was now unavoidable, feeling sick, cold, and faint.

"It's really lucky for you that I'm not carrying a gun," said Moore, sternly. "But you knew that—otherwise, you would never have hit me, you coward."

"I'll make you eat those words," Belllounds snarled, and this time he swung his fist, aiming a hard punch at Moore.

Then the cowboy swung the heavy crutch above his head. "If you come at me again, I'll knock out whatever little brains you have left. God knows that’s not much!... Belllounds, I'm going to say this to your face—before this girl, your bat-eyed old man plans to hand you over. You’re not drunk. You’re just ugly—mean. You’ve got a chance now to beat me while I’m crippled. And you’re going to take full advantage of it. Honestly, you coward, I could probably take you down with just one leg. But if you touch me again, I’ll knock you out!... You never were any good. You’re no good now. You’re never going to be anything but Buster Jack—half crazy, selfish as hell, stubborn, and mean!... And that’s the last thing I’ll ever waste on you."

"I'll kill you!" shouted Belllounds, seething with anger.

Moore swung the crutch threateningly, but since he wasn't stable on his feet, he was at the disadvantage his opponent had anticipated. Belllounds circled around the cowboy and then suddenly charged in to wrestle with him. The crutch came down, but it didn't help much. Belllounds's powerful attack knocked Moore to the ground. Before he could get back up, Belllounds jumped on him.

Columbine watched all this in a daze. As Wilson fell, she shut her eyes, fighting a wave of dizziness that almost knocked her out. She heard the sounds of struggling, thrashing, and heavy thuds, along with gravel scattering. At first, these noises felt distant, then they got closer. When she opened her eyes again, she saw Moore's horse pulling away from the fierce struggle that was happening right under its hooves. From what Columbine could tell, it was an equal fight. She felt repelled yet fascinated as she watched. They hit each other, grappled, and rolled around, with each one taking a turn on top. But it soon became clear that Belllounds had the upper hand. Moore was getting weaker; it became more noticeable after each round of wrestling and rolling. Then Belllounds, gaining the advantage, pressed his weight down on Moore, pinning him and kicking with all his might. He aimed to hurt the cowboy by attacking the injured foot, and it was working. Moore let out a strangled cry and struggled desperately but was overpowered and pinned. Belllounds pulled back and, looking down, kicked Moore's bandaged foot deliberately and furiously; once, twice, and again and again, until the struggling figure beneath him grew limp. Columbine, slowly freezing in horror, witnessed all of this. She couldn't move. She couldn't scream. She wanted to rush in and pull Jack off Wilson, to hurt him, to kill him, but her muscles were paralyzed. In her agony, she couldn't even look away. Belllounds got up, straddling his defeated opponent and began to beat him savagely, throwing down heavy, rain-soaked punches. His face was terrifying to see—he was intent on murder.

Columbine heard voices getting closer and hurried footsteps. That freed her tongue. She screamed wildly. Old Bill Belllounds stepped off the porch, and the hunter Wade came running down the path.

"Dad! He's killing Wilson!" yelled Columbine.

"Hear this, you devil!" shouted the rancher.

Jack Belllounds got up. Out of breath, a mess, with his hair all tousled and his face contorted, he was not a pleasant sight even for his father. Moore lay unconscious, with a terrifying, bloody face, and his bandaged foot had large patches of red showing through.

"My God, son!" gasped Old Bill. "You didn't pick on this here disabled kid?"

The evidence was clear, in Moore's quiet, sad appearance, in the panting, red-faced son. Jack Belllounds did not respond. He was caught in a passion that had finally been completely released and was still unfulfilled. Yet a malevolent and triumphant satisfaction showed on his face.

"That evens things out for us, Moore," he gasped, and walked off.

By this time, Wade reached the cowboy and knelt beside him. Columbine came running and dropped to her knees. The old rancher looked devastated.

"Oh—Oh! it was awful—" cried Columbine. "Oh—he's so pale—and the blood—"

"Now, girl, that's not how a woman should act," Wade said, and there was something in his gentle tone, in his gaze, in his presence that reassured Columbine. "I'll take care of Moore. You go get some water and a towel."

Columbine stumbled into the house. She noticed a red stain on the hand she had touched on the cowboy's face, and with a strange, intense feeling that was both overwhelming and exciting, she pressed that red spot to her lips. Hurrying out with what Wade needed, she just caught the rancher saying, "Looks hurt bad, to me."

"Yeah, I think so," replied Wade.

While Columbine held Moore's head on her lap, the hunter washed his bloody face. It was beaten, bruised, and cut, and in some areas, as fast as Wade rinsed away the red, it oozed out again.

Columbine watched that calm face, while her heart raced and swelled with feelings completely beyond her control and comprehension. When Wilson finally opened his eyes, briefly fluttering and then fully wide, she felt a rush that shook her entire body. He smiled faintly at her and at Wade, and then his gaze shifted to Belllounds.

"I guess—he licked me," he said in a weak voice. "He kept kicking my sore foot—until I fainted. But he licked me—yeah."

"Wils, maybe he did beat you," replied the old rancher, sadly, "but I think he's got very little to be proud of—beating a disabled man—like that."

"Boss, Jack was drinking," Moore said weakly. "And he definitely had some reason to lose it. He saw me chatting up Columbine ... and then—I called him every name I could think of."

"Uh-huh!" The old man looked speechless for a moment, then turned away, his shoulders slumped, and trudged into the house.

The cowboy, with Wade on one side and Columbine on the other, was helped to sit up, and after quite a struggle, he was lifted into the wagon. He attempted to sit upright but didn't manage it very well.

"I'll take him home and make sure he's okay," said Wade. "Now, Miss Collie, I know you're upset, and that's understandable. But you need to pull yourself together. It could have been worse. Just head to your room until you feel better."

Moore gave her another weak smile. "I'm sorry," he said.

"What for? Me?" she asked.

"I’m really sorry I was so incredibly unlucky to run into you and bring all this trouble your way. It was my fault. If only I had just kept my mouth shut!"

"You don't have to regret meeting me," she said, looking straight into his eyes. "I'm glad... But oh! if your foot is really hurt, I'll never--never--"

"Don’t say it," Wilson interrupted.

"Lass, you're determined to do something," said Wade, in his gentle voice.

"Bent?" she repeated, with something deep and resonant in her voice. "Yes, I'm bent—bent like your name—because I want to speak my mind!"

Then she ran toward the house and up onto the porch, entering the living room with a pounding heart and bright eyes. Clearly, the rancher was scolding his son. The rancher stared at her in surprise, while the son recoiled.

"Jack Belllounds," she shouted, "you're not even half a man.... You're a coward and a bully!"

One intense moment she stood there, lightning anger and emotion in her eyes, and then she hurried out, impulsively, just like she had arrived.

Columbine didn’t leave her room again that day. What she went through there was something she didn’t want anyone to know. She only vaguely understood how much it took to regain control over herself. Still, she did manage to do it, and that night she caught up on the sleep she had missed the night before.

Strangely enough, she didn’t feel scared to face the rancher and his son. Recent events had not only changed her, but also seemed to give her strength. When she showed up at the breakfast table, Jack was missing. The old rancher welcomed her with more concern than usual.

"Jack's sick," he said, later.

"Sure," replied Columbine.

"Yeah. He said it was the drinking he's not used to. Well, I guess it was what you called him. He didn’t care much about what I called him, which was wuss... I’m telling you, girl, Jack’s set his heart on you so hard that it’s terrible."

"Strange way he has of showing his feelings," replied Columbine shortly.

"Thet was the drink," the old man said, trying hard and sincerely to mend the argument.

"But he promised me he wouldn't drink anymore."

Belllounds shook his sad, gray head.

"Yep! Jack gets all fired up and promises anything. He really means it in the moment. But the next craving he gets makes him forget that promise. I know... But he's had a good reason for this slip-up. The guys in town started celebrating for October first. It's a miracle Jack didn't come home totally wasted."

"Dad, you're just the best," said Columbine, softening. How could she feel cold toward him?

"Collie, so you're really not going back to the old man?"

"Nope."

"I was afraid you’d change your mind about marrying Jack."

"When I promised, I meant it. I didn't do it with conditions."

"But, girl, promises can be broken," he said, with the rich tone in his voice.

"I've never broken any of mine."

"Well, I have. Not often, maybe, but I have... And, girl, it's understandable. There are times when a man just can't live up to what he promised. And for a girl—well, I get how easy it would be for her to change and grow overnight. It's only fair for me to say that no matter what you think you owe me, you can't be blamed now for disliking Jack."

“Dad, if marrying Jack can help him become a better son to you and more of a man, I’ll be happy to do it,” she replied.

"Lass, I'm starting to realize how amazing you are," replied Belllounds, deeply moved. "And it's concerning me... My neighbors have always said I only see my son. Just Buster Jack! I was completely blind and deaf to him!... Well, I'm not as blind as I used to be. The scales are falling off my old eyes... But I still have one hope left when it comes to Jack. That’s marrying him to you. And I'm sticking with that."

"So I will stick to it, Dad," she replied. "I'll go through with October first!"

Columbine stopped talking and didn’t say anything more. She soon got up from the breakfast table to start the work she had planned. She got it done, but many times her hands fell still and her eyes wandered out of the window at the dull slopes of the old mountain.

Later, when she went out to ride, she saw the cowboy Lem working in the blacksmith shop.

"Well, Miss Collie, are you still hanging around this ranch?" he asked, with a welcoming smile.

"Lem, I'm kind of embarrassed to face my good friends now since I've ignored them for so long," she said.

"Aw, now, what are friends for if not to go to?... You look pale, I guess. More like that flower I see a lot on the hills."

"Lem, I want to ride Pronto. Do you think he's okay now?"

"I think some exercise will be good for Pronto. He's eating like crazy."

The cowboy walked with her to the pasture gate and whistled for Pronto. The mustang came trotting over, clearly not worse for his injuries and eager to get back to the old climbs with his owner. Lem saddled him up, making sure to check the cinch carefully.

"Guess we should avoid tightening him too much," said Lem. "Just be careful and remember your saddle's loose."

"Okay, Lem," replied Columbine as she got on. "Where are the guys this morning?"

"Blud and Jim are fixing the fence by the creek."

"And where's Ben at?"

"Ben? Oh, you mean Wade. Well, I haven't seen him since yesterday. He was skinning a lion then, over here on the ridge. That was in the morning. I guess he's around, since I saw some of the hounds."

"Then, Lem—you haven't heard about the fight yesterday between Jack and Wilson Moore?"

Lem sat up straight. "Nope, I haven't heard a thing."

"Yeah, they fought, for sure," said Columbine, rushing. "I saw it. I was the only one there. Wilson was in pretty bad shape by the time Dad and Ben arrived. Ben took him away."

"But, Miss Collie, how did it go? I saw Wils the other day. I was at his place. And the guy just gets by on a crutch. He couldn't fight."

"That was exactly it. Jack saw his chance and forced Wilson to fight—accusing him of stealing. Wilson tried to steer clear of trouble. Then Jack attacked him. Wilson fought back and held his own until Jack started kicking his injured foot. Then Wilson passed out and—Jack beat him."

Lem hung his head, clearly trying to hide his feelings. "Well, gosh!" he exclaimed. "That's really unfortunate."

Columbine left the cowboy and rode up the path to Wade's cabin. She didn't think too much about her strong urge to be honest about that fight, but she really wanted to shout it out to the entire area and to everyone. Once she was away from the house, she felt liberated, lighter, and talking seemed to help clear her mind.

The hounds announced Columbine's arrival with a loud and powerful chorus. Sampson and Jim lay on the porch, free from their leashes. The other hounds were tied up separately in the aspen grove a short distance away. Sampson thumped the wooden boards with his big tail but didn’t get up, which showed his laziness due to the lion chase the day before that left him tired and sore. If Wade had been home, he would have come out to see what was causing all the noise. As Columbine rode by, she noticed another fresh lion pelt nailed to the wall of the cabin.

She followed the stream. It had cleared up since the rains and was shining and sparkling in the rough, fast parts, and clear and green in the calm spots. She passed the dam built by the lone beaver that lived in the valley. Freshly cut willows showed how the beaver was getting ready for the long winter ahead. Columbine remembered how happy Wade had been to learn about this old beaver; and more than once, Wade had talked about trapping some younger beavers and bringing them there to keep the old guy company.

The path crossed the stream at a wide, shallow spot, where the splashing from Pronto sent the trout darting into deeper water. Columbine stayed on that path, knowing it led up into Sage Valley, where Wilson Moore had settled on his homestead. Fresh horse tracks indicated that Wade had passed through there not long ago. Pronto jumped at the noise of the sage-hens. Soon, Columbine realized they had been startled by the hound Kane, who had broken free and followed her. He had done that before, and she didn't mind at all.

"Kane! Kane! Come here!" she called. He came quickly, but stopped about a stick's length away and tried to wag his tail, which seemed a bit hard for him. When she started trotting again, he followed her.

Old White Slides had lost most of its vibrant colors, leaving only the dull yellows and greens, and of course those pale, light slopes that gave the mountain its name. Sage Valley was just one of the valleys at its base. It stretched out half a mile wide, dominated by the towering peak, and was bordered on the other side by a slope filled with aspens. A brook bubbled along the edge of this thicket. Cattle and horses grazed here and there on the lush, grassy areas, and Columbine was surprised to see so many cattle and wondered who they belonged to. All of Belllounds's cattle had been driven lower down for the winter. Among the several horses that whinnied at her approach, she spotted the white mustang Belllounds had given to Moore. It excited her to see him. Then, she felt a pang thinking that maybe his owner would never ride him again. But Columbine kept her emotions in check.

The cabin sat high on a flat terrace, surrounded by clusters of aspens, and was protected from winter winds by a picturesque, crumbling gray cliff covered in creeping vines and colorful bushes. Wilson Moore couldn’t have picked a more private and beautiful valley for his homesteading adventure. The little gray cabin, with smoke curling from the stone chimney, had shed its look of neglect and disrepair, but Columbine couldn’t see anything new. The last part of the climb up the slope and the short distance across the flat terrace felt incredibly long to Columbine. As she got off and tied up Pronto, her heart raced, and she was breathing heavily.

The cabin door was open. Kane walked past the unsure Columbine and went inside.

"You son of a hound dog!" came to Columbine's ears in Wade's familiar voice. "I'll have to beat you—just you wait."

"I heard a horse," came a lower voice; it was Wilson's.

"Darn me if I'm not getting deafer every day," was the reply.

Then Wade showed up in the doorway.

"It's only Miss Collie," he said, stepping aside to let her in.

"Good morning!" said Columbine, in a voice that carried more than just cheerfulness.

"Collie!... Did you come to see me?"

She heard this unbelievable question just a moment before she saw Wilson at the far end of the room, lying under the light from a window. The inside of the cabin felt unclear and strange.

"I definitely did," she replied, stepping forward. "How are you?"

"Oh, I'm good. I'm really happy right now. It's just that I hate having you see my beaten-up face."

"You don’t have to care," said Columbine, unsteadily. And in that first glance, she didn’t see him clearly. A fog blurred her vision and there was a lump in her throat. Then, to regain her composure, she looked around the cabin.

"Well—Wils Moore—if this isn’t amazing!" she exclaimed, in shock and joy. Columbine was completely surprised. A magic hand had transformed the inside of that rough old prospector's cabin. A carpenter, a mason, and a decorator had done an incredible job. Columbine looked all around; from the big window where Wilson lay on a blanket-covered couch to the open fireplace where Wade smiled, she kept looking, then up at the clean, aspen-pole ceiling and down to the floor, which was covered with deer hides. The gaps between the logs in the walls were filled with red clay; the dust and dirt were gone; the place smelled like sage, wood smoke, and delicious frying meat. There were glowing embers and a steaming kettle and a smoking pot; the way the smoke and steam curled up into the gray old chimney showed it had good ventilation. In each corner hung a deer head, from which cowboy gear—spurs, ropes, belts, scarves, guns—was displayed. One corner contained a tall cupboard with brand-new, clean wooden doors, perfectly crafted; next to it stood a brand-new table. On the bare wall next to that were pegs holding saddles, bridles, blankets, and clothes.

"He did it—all this inside," Moore exclaimed, thrilled with her excitement. "Faster than lightning! Collie, isn’t this amazing? I don't even mind being flat on my back. And he says they call him Hell-Bent Wade. I call him Heaven-Sent Wade!"

When Columbine turned to the hunter, filled with joy and gratitude, he suddenly dropped the forked stick he was using as a lift, and she noticed his hand tremble when he bent down to pick it up. How odd that seemed to her!

"Ben, it's totally possible that you've been sent by Heaven," she said, with a humor that still had some seriousness to it.

"Me? A good angel? That would be a new role for Bent Wade," he responded with a strange laugh. "But I guess I'd try to rise to the occasion."

There were small branches of golden aspen leaves and red oak leaves on the wall above the foot of Wilson's bed. Below them, on pegs, hung a rifle. On the windowsill stood a glass jar holding columbines. They were fresh, just picked. They swayed gently in the breeze, sweetly white and blue, and held a special meaning for the girl.

Moore laughed boldly.

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

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

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

The cowboy laughed with dark humor.

"Did you see Jack this morning?"

"No," she replied curtly.

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

"Did you hurt him?" she asked, with a strange little shiver that wasn't so bad.

"Collie, I smashed that fist into his good-looking face."

"Oh, it was awful!" she whispered. "Wilson, he intended to kill you."

"Sure. And I would have gladly killed him."

"You two should never meet again," she continued.

"I really hope we never do," replied Moore, with a serious intensity that conveyed more than his actual words.

"Wilson, will you stay away from him—for my sake?" Columbine pleaded, unconsciously holding her bandaged hand.

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

"Why, you're just going to leave him to Hell-Bent Wade," the hunter interrupted, looking up from where he knelt, his deep, unreadable eyes fixed on the cowboy. Columbine sensed something beyond his face, something deeper than the darkness—a passion and spirit that pulled her in like a magnet. "And now, Miss Collie," he continued, "I guess you’ll want to take care of our invalid. He needs to be fed."

"I definitely will," replied Columbine happily, and she sat down on the edge of the bed. "Ben, go get that box and put his dinner on it."

While Wade went along with it, Columbine, slightly aware of how close she was to the cowboy, tried to keep the conversation going. "Couldn't you use your left hand to help yourself?" she asked.

"That's even worse," he replied, pulling it out from under the blanket where it had been hidden.

"Oh no!" cried Columbine, in dismay.

"Broke two bones in this one," said Wilson, excitedly. "Hey, Collie, our buddy Wade is a doctor as well. I've never seen anyone like him!"

"And a cook, too, because your dinner is ready. You need to sit up," ordered Columbine.

"Fold that blanket and help me get on it," replied Moore.

How strange and unsettling for Columbine to lean over him, to slip her arms underneath him and lift him! It brought back memories of a long-forgotten nurturing side from her doll-playing days. And her face turned bright red.

"Can't you move?" she asked, suddenly realizing how heavy the cowboy seemed.

"Not—very much," he replied. Drops of sweat formed on his bruised forehead. It must have been painful for him to move.

"You said your foot was fine."

"It is," he replied. "It's still on my leg, as I definitely know."

"Oh!" Columbine said doubtfully. Without saying anything more, she started to feed him.

"It's worth getting licked to enjoy this treat," he said.

"That's nonsense!" she replied.

"I'd go through it again—to have you come here and take care of me... But not from him."

"Wilson, I never knew you to be joking around like this before. Here, take this."

Apparently, he didn’t see her extended hand.

"Collie, you've changed. You're older. You're a woman now—and the prettiest—"

"Are you going to eat?" Columbine asked.

"Huh!" the cowboy exclaimed, blankly. "Eat? Oh yeah, for sure. I'm really hungry. And maybe Heaven-Sent Wade can't cook!"

But Columbine had a hard time feeding him. Between his helplessness, his tendency to watch her face instead of her hands, and her own growing feelings of sweet, natural joy and comfort being close to him, it was tough for her to show some skill as a nurse. All the while, she was aware of Wade, with his calm, strong presence nearby. Could he not see her hands shaking? And would he not find that odd? Then the thought crossed her mind that she wouldn’t mind if Wade could read her thoughts. Maybe even now he understood her better than she understood herself.

"I can't eat any more," Moore finally said.

"You've done really well for someone who's bedridden," Columbine noted. Then, shifting the topic, she asked, "Wilson, you're planning to stay here—spend the winter here, like Dad would say?"

Yes.

"Are those your cows down in the valley?"

"Sure. I have almost a hundred cattle. I saved my money and bought them."

"That's a great start for you. I'm happy to hear it. But who's going to look after you and your stock until you're able to work again?"

"Why, my friend over there, Heaven-Sent Wade," replied Moore, pointing to the small man focused on the utensils on the table, seemingly unaware of anything else.

"Can I get you anything to eat—or read?" she asked.

"Get it yourself," he replied, softly.

"But, seriously, how could I get you anything without getting myself?"

"Sure, that's right. Then get me some jam and a book tomorrow. Will you?"

"I definitely will."

"That's a promise. I remember your promises from the past."

"Then goodbye until tomorrow. I have to go. I hope you feel better."

"I'll stay sick in bed until you stop coming."

Columbine left rather suddenly, and once she was outside, it felt like the hills had never looked so softly, dreamily gray, nor had their loneliness felt so sweet, nor the sky been so richly and deeply blue. As she untied Pronto, the hunter came out with Kane following him.

"Miss Collie, if you take it easy, I'll grab my horse and ride down with you," he said.

She got on her horse and led Pronto out to the trail, gradually making her way down. It was actually higher up than she had thought. The view was stunning. The gray, rolling foothills, beautifully colored at that hour, the black-fringed mountain ranges stacked one above the other, and the distant peaks, glowing with the colors of sunset against the purple sky, all spread out clearly before her, vividly expressing the Colorado she loved.

At the bottom of the hill, Wade joined her.

"Lass, I'm asking you not to tell Belllounds that I care about Wils," he said, in his gentle, persuasive way.

"I won't. But why not tell Dad? He wouldn't care. He'd do that kind of thing himself."

"Yeah, I think he would. But this deal is unusual. And Wils isn't as good off as he believes. I'm not taking any risks. I don't want to lose my job, and I don't want anything to stop me from taking care of this kid."

They had ridden as far as the first aspen grove when Wade finished this comment. Columbine stopped her horse, prompting her companion to do the same. Her earlier worries were heightened by the sight of Wade's sad, weathered face.

"Ben, tell me," she whispered, reaching for his arm.

"Miss Collie, I'm a kind of doctor in my own way. I studied some medicine and surgery. And I know. I wouldn't tell you this if it wasn't because I need to count on you to help me."

"I will—but go on—tell me," interrupted Columbine, trying to gather her strength.

"Wils's foot is in really bad shape. Buster Jack kicked it all out of whack. And it's a hundred times worse than before. I'm worried about blood poisoning and gangrene. You know gangrene is when the flesh starts to die and rot.... I told the kid directly that he should let me amputate his foot. And he insisted he’d keep his foot or die! Well, if gangrene takes hold, we might not be able to save his leg, and maybe not even his life."

"Oh, it can't be that bad!" exclaimed Columbine. "Oh, I knew—I knew there was something... Ben, you mean even at best now—he'll be a—" She trailed off, unable to finish.

"Miss Collie, anyway Wils will never ride again—not like a cowboy."

That was the worst and final blow for Columbine. Hot tears blurred her vision, warm blood poured over her, and her heart raced in her throat.

"Poor boy! That’ll ruin him," she cried. "He loved a horse. He loved to ride. He was the best rider of them all. And now he’s ruined! He'll be lame—a cripple—club-footed!... All because of that Jack Belllounds! The brute—the coward! I hate him! Oh, I hate him!... And I have to marry him—on October first! Oh, God, have mercy on me!"

Blindly, Columbine fell off her saddle and slowly dropped to the grass, where she broke down in a violent storm of sobs and tears. It shook her to her core. It was hopeless, devastating grief. The dry grass soaked up her flood of tears and her jumbled words.

Wade got off his horse and, kneeling next to her, placed a gentle hand on her shaking shoulder, but he didn’t say anything. Eventually, when the storm started to calm down, he lifted her head.

"Lass, nothing is ever as bad as it seems," he said gently. "Come on, sit up. Let me talk to you."

"Oh, Ben, something terrible has happened," she cried. "It's inside me! I don't know what it is, but it'll kill me."

"I know," he said, as her head rested on his shoulder. "Miss Collie, I'm just an old guy who's been through it all, and I'm still here, trying to help people along. Nobody checks out that easily. Honestly, you're a strong, capable woman—and something tells me you were meant for happiness. I know how things go. Listen—"

"But, Ben—you don’t know—about me," she cried. "I've told you—I—hate Jack Belllounds. But I’ve—got to marry him!... His dad raised me—since I was a baby. He brought me up. I owe him—my life.... I have no family—no mother—no father! No one loves me—for who I am!"

"Nobody loves you!" Wade shouted, filled with a sharp sense of rejection. "It's strange how people deceive themselves! Listen, you’re holding onto your problems too tightly. And you're mistaken. Everyone loves you! Lem and Jim—you're the light in their tough lives. And that poor, hot-headed Jack—he loves you as much as he can love anything. And your father—no daughter could be more loved.... And I—I love you, girl, just like—like you could have been my own. I’m going to be the friend—the brother you need. And I think I can come close to being a mother, if you’ll allow me."

Something, some quiet power or charm, washed over Columbine, easing her intense feeling of loss and grief. There was a softness in this man's hands, in his voice, and from them pulsed strong and passionate life and spirit.

"Do you really love me—love me?" she whispered, feeling both comforted and like he was offering what she had missed as a child. "And you want to be everything for me?"

"Yeah, girl, and I think you should give me a shot."

"Oh, you’re so wonderful! I felt that the very first time I was with you. I’ve wanted to come to you to share my troubles. I love Dad, and he loves me, but he just doesn’t get it. Dad is so focused on his son. I’ve had no one. I’ve never had anyone."

"You have someone now," Wade said, his voice rich and soothing, making Columbine curious. "And because I've been through so much, I can tell you what will help you... Girl, if a woman isn’t strong and brave, how will a man ever be? There’s so much more in women than in men. Life has dealt you a tough hand, putting you here—no real parents—and making you responsible for a man whose only flaw is his blind love for his son. Well, you’ve got to face it with what a woman has more of than any man. Courage! Suppose you hate this Buster Jack. Suppose you love this poor, crippled Wilson Moore... Girl, don’t look like that! Don’t deny it. You do love that boy... Well, it’s tough. But you can never predict what will happen when you’re honest and straightforward. If you feel it’s your duty to repay the old man you call dad—by marrying his son—then do it, and be a woman. There’s nothing greater a woman can be. Happiness can come in strange, unexpected ways. There’s more in this life than what you want most. You didn’t put yourself in this situation. So if you meet it with courage and loyalty to yourself, then it won’t turn out as badly as you fear... Someday, if you ever think you’re heartbroken, I’ll tell you my story. And then you won’t think your situation is so hard. I’ve had a broken heart and a ruined life, but I’ve kept on living, finding happiness I never thought would come, through fighting or working. And how I’ve found the world beautiful, and how I love the flowers, the hills, and the wild things so much—that alone would be enough to live for!... And think, girl, of the wonderful happiness I will feel in showing all this to you. That will be the greatest reward. And if it means that much to me, then you can be sure there’s nothing on earth I won’t do for you."

Columbine raised her tear-streaked face with a spark of inspiration.

"Oh, Wilson was right!" she whispered. "You’re a gift from above! And I'm going to love you!"

A new energy, or a sense of freedom, had ignited Columbine and was now blazing inside her, unstoppable and indescribable. Some divine spark had reached into the depths of her being to ignite and enlighten her, so that when she emerged from this moment of hardship, she realized that alongside the tenderness, sorrow, and loyalty in her heart, the flash of passion had also joined her.

"Oh, Ben—will I be able to hold onto this?" she exclaimed, spreading her arms wide, as if to welcome the winds of heaven.

"What is this, girl?" he asked.

"This—this woman!" she replied, passionately, pressing her hands against her chest.

"No woman who wakes up ever goes back to being a girl again," he said, sadly.

"I wanted to die—and now I want to live—to fight.... Ben, you've lifted me up. I felt small, weak, miserable.... But in my dreams, or in some state I can't remember or understand, I've been waiting for your exact words. I was ready. It's like I knew you in some other world, before I was born here; and when you spoke to me so wonderfully—like my mother might have spoken—my heart skipped a beat in recognizing you and your call to my womanhood!... Oh, how strange and beautiful!"

"Miss Collie," he said slowly as he knelt to adjust his saddle straps, "you're young and you don’t understand the strange and terrible things in life. And beautiful, too, as you mentioned... Who knows? Maybe in another life, I meant something to you. I believe that. I can’t exactly say how or what that was. Maybe we were flowers or birds. I have a soft spot for that idea."

"Birds! I like that idea, too," Columbine replied. "I love most birds. But there are hawks, crows, and buzzards!"

"I think so. Girl, there has to be balance in nature. If it weren't for the ugly and the evil, we wouldn't recognize the beautiful and the good... Now let's ride home. It's getting late."

"Ben, shouldn't I go back to Wilson right now?" she asked, slowly.

"Why?"

"To tell him—something—and why I can't come tomorrow, or ever again," she said softly and nervously.

Wade thought about her words. Columbine felt that her keen instincts picked up on some hostility and opposition in him.

"Think tomorrow will be better," he said after a moment. "Wilson's had enough excitement for one day."

"Then I'll go tomorrow," she replied.

In the chilly dusk, they rode down the trail in silence.

"Good night, girl," said Wade, as he got to his cabin. "And remember, you're not alone anymore."

"Good night, my friend," she said, and continued riding.

Columbine ran into Jim Montana at the corrals, and it wasn’t too dark for her to see his frothy horse. Jim seemed indifferent, even a bit grumpy. But Columbine figured he had ridden to Kremmling and back in a day, on some errand for Jack.

"Miss Collie, I'll take care of Pronto," he said. "And your dinner will be ready."

A bright fire burned in the living room fireplace. The rancher was reading by its glow.

"Hey there, rosy-cheeks!" the rancher said with a surprising friendliness. "Been riding against the wind again, huh? Well, if you’re not pretty, then my eyesight is terrible!"

"It's cold, Dad," she said, "and the wind hurts. But I didn't ride quickly or far... I've been up to see Wilson Moore."

"Uh-huh! Well, how's the guy?" asked Belllounds, gruffly.

"He said he was fine, but—well, I guess that's not true," replied Columbine.

"Any friends taking care of him?"

"Oh yeah--he's got to have friends--the Andrewses and others. I'm happy to say his cabin is nice. He'll be taken care of."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that. I'll send Lem or Wade up there and see if we can do anything for the boy."

"Dad—that’s so typical of you," replied Columbine, as her hand reached for his broad shoulder.

"Yeah! Hey, Collie, here's letters from almost everyone in Kremmlin wanting to be invited up for October first. What do you think about asking them?"

"The more, the merrier," replied Columbine.

"Well, I guess I won't ask anyone."

"Why not, Dad?"

"No one can bet on that son of mine, not even on his wedding day," replied Belllounds, gloomily.

"Dad, what did Jack do today?"

"I'm not saying he did anything," answered the rancher.

"Dad, you can bet on me."

"Well, I should smile," he said, putting his big arm around her. "I wish you were Jack and Jack was you."

At that moment, the young man mentioned slouched into the room, his head bandaged, and took a seat at the dinner table.

"Well, Collie, let’s go and get it,” said the rancher, cheerfully. “I can always eat, anyway."

"I'm as hungry as a bear," Columbine replied as she took her seat across from Jack.

"Where have you been?" he asked, curiously.

"Hey, good evening, Jack! Did you finally see me?... I've been riding Pronto for the first time since he got hurt. Had a lovely ride—up through Sage Valley."

Jack glared at her with his one unbandaged eye and muttered something quietly, then started to poke at his meat and potatoes with his fork.

"What's wrong, Jack? Are you okay?" Columbine asked, her concern just a bit too sweet to feel sincere.

"Yes, I'm good," snapped Jack.

"But you look unwell. I mean, what I can see of your face looks unwell. Your mouth droops at the corners. You're really pale—and red in spots. And one of your eyes shines with a strange sadness, as if you aren't going to be around much longer!"

The incredible nature of this speech, coming from the girl who had always been so sweet, quiet, and shy, was evident in Jack's shock and his father's amusement.

"Are you mocking me?" Jack asked.

"Why, Jack! Do you really think I would make fun of you? I just wanted to point out how unusual you look.... Are you planning to get married with one eye?"

Jack collapsed at that, and the old man, after a long stare of open-mouthed wonder, burst out: "Ha! Ha! Ha!... Wow! I never thought that was in you... Jack, be brave and face the consequences... And both of you, just forgive and forget. There will be enough arguments, maybe, without going over the past."

When she was alone again, Columbine slipped into a mood that was a stark contrast to her cheerful demeanor with the rancher and his son. She was filled with serious, introspective thoughts, all centered around the sense of uplift, spiritual growth, and rising above her own personal concerns that she had strangely experienced through Bent Wade. From the moment they first met, he had a unique charm that now, with an understanding of the meaning of his life, appeared to Columbine as the man's nobility and wisdom, shaped by his struggles and the hard years that had left their marks on his face.

And so Columbine worked to permanently hold in her heart the spirit that had awakened within her, interpreting Wade's harsh words of wisdom in a way that provided her with the light and strength she needed.

She valued her responsibility to the man who had been like a father to her. She would do whatever he asked. As for the son she had to live with for the rest of her life, her role was to be a good wife, to accept his flaws, and to always try to support him with kindness, patience, loyalty, and whatever affection she could muster. She knew that hate had to be confronted, and that a good woman’s heart had no room for it. It had to be driven out, if that was at all possible. All of this was difficult, and it would only get harder, but she accepted it and was resolute in her choices.

Her soul belonged to her, unchanging despite any challenges. She could always rely on that, staying above the petty worries and troubles that people face. Wade's words had excited her with their secret, filled with the limitless hope of an unknown world of thoughts and feelings. Happiness, in the usual sense, might never come her way. Alas for her dreams! But she had caught a glimpse of something greater than pleasure and satisfaction. Dreams were just dreams. Yet she could still envision what had been, what could have been, the beauty and mystery of life, and something in nature that called out sweetly and irresistibly to her. Who could take away the rolling, gray, velvety hills, the purple peaks, and the black ranges where she had been found—a waif, a little lost creature, born like a columbine under the spruces?

Love, unexpected and hard to explain, was her secret, still nervously fresh, and dangerous in its sweetness. She feared to acknowledge and confront it because it was an unknown element, a threatening flame. Her sudden awareness of it felt tightly intertwined with the growing, strong, and unwavering flow of her spirit.

"I'll go to him. I'll tell him," she whispered. "He will have that!... Then I have to say good-bye to him--forever!"

To tell Wilson would be nice; to leave him would be painful. Uncertain possibilities lingered in her mind. What could happen if she told him? How heavy the pain seemed! She couldn’t know what would come from either choice until she made them. The hours dragged on, sleep felt distant, the silence of the house was torture, and the sad howling of coyotes reminded her of a joyful childhood that would never come back.

When the next day finally arrived, Columbine picked a horse that she could ride fast, and she galloped up the winding valley as fast as the wind. But at the aspen grove, where Wade's sharp, gentle voice had brought her to life, she felt a wave of emotion that made her slow down and climb the slope gradually, stopping many times along the way.

Sight of Wade's horse tied up near the cabin eased some of the overwhelming emotions Columbine felt. The hunter would be inside, so she wouldn't have to confess her secret right away. This hope energized her slow steps. Before she got to the open door, she called out.

"Collie, you're late," Wilson replied, feeling both happy and disappointed as she walked in. The cowboy was lying on his bed, and he was the only one in the room.

"Oh! Where's Ben?" exclaimed Columbine.

"He was here. He made my dinner. We waited, but you never showed up. The dinner got cold. I made sure you weren't coming at all, and I couldn't eat... Wade said he knew you'd show up. He went off with the hounds, somewhere... and oh, Collie, everything's fine now!"

Columbine walked to his bedside and looked down at him with a feeling as if some giant hand was pulling at her heart. He looked better. The swelling and redness of his face were less noticeable. And at that moment, there was no pain in his eyes. They seemed soft, dark, and expressive. If Columbine hadn’t come with her declared intention and need to share her feelings, she would have found that look in his eyes incredibly difficult to resist. Had it ever been there before? She had been blind to it.

"You're better," she said, joyfully.

"Sure--now. But I had a rough night. I didn't fall asleep until close to dawn. Wade found me asleep.... Collie, it's really nice of you to come. You look so--so amazing! I've never seen your face light up like that. And your eyes--oh!"

"You think I'm pretty, then?" she asked, dreamy and clearly not focused on that thought at all.

He gave a mocking laugh.

"Come closer," he said, reaching for her with an awkward, bandaged hand.

Down on her knees, Columbine fell. Both hands flew to cover her face. As she leaned forward, she shook violently, and a small, muffled sound escaped her lips.

"Why--Collie!" exclaimed Moore, shocked. "Oh my goodness! Don't cry! I--I didn't mean anything. I just wanted to feel you--hold your hand."

"Here," she replied, reaching out her hand blindly until she found his. Her other hand was still pressed to her eyes. For just a moment longer, Columbine would hold onto her secret—shield her eyes—delight in the indescribable mix of joy and sadness that this moment could bring to a woman only once.

"What in the world?" exclaimed the cowboy, now confused. But he took the trembling hand offered. "Collie, you're acting so weird... You're not crying!... Am I just crazy, or what? Honey, look at me."

Columbine brushed her hand away from her eyes in a gesture of complete surrender.

"Wilson, I feel ashamed—sad—and incredibly happy," she said, breathless.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because of something I need to tell you," she whispered.

"What's that?"

She leaned over him.

"Can’t you figure it out?"

He turned pale, and his eyes blazed with intense fire.

"I won't guess ... I'm too scared to guess."

"It's something that's been true for years—forever, it seems—something I never imagined until last night," she continued softly.

"Collie!" he shouted. "Don't torment me!"

"Do you remember way back when we fought so badly because you kissed me?" she asked.

"Do you think I could kiss you—and actually forget it?"

"I love you!" she whispered, shyly, feeling the heat rise in her.

That whisper changed Wilson Moore. His arm wrapped around her neck and pulled her face down to his, and while holding her tightly, he kissed her lips and cheeks and wet eyes, and then kissed her lips again, both passionately and tenderly.

Then he laid her head against his chest.

"My God! I can't believe it! Say it again!" he shouted, hoarsely.

Columbine buried her fiery face in the blanket over him, and her hands gripped it tightly. The intensity of his joy, the strange strength and passion of his kisses, completely transformed her. She lay on his chest, not wanting to lift her face. Everything felt different, more intense, as she answered his call: "Yes, I love you! Oh, I love—love—love you!"

"Darling!... Look up.... It's real now. I know. It's been confirmed. But let me see your face."

Columbine did her best to lift herself up. But she was blinded by tears and couldn’t get the words out, overwhelmed by a shaking feeling that came from realizing her loss at the moment she understood the profound and commanding sweetness of love.

"Kiss me, Columbine," he urged.

Through blurred vision, she saw his face, pale and absorbed, and she leaned in, meeting his lips with her first kiss, which turned out to be her last.

"Again, Collie—again!" he pleaded.

"No—no more," she whispered softly, wrapping her arms around his neck. She buried her face and held him tightly, trying to muffle the sobs that trembled through her.

Then Moore was quiet, holding her with one hand, breathing heavily, and gradually calming down. Columbine sensed that he recognized something was seriously wrong, and maybe he was too scared to say it out loud. Regardless, he held her in silence, just waiting. That silent wait became unbearable for Columbine. She wanted to stretch out this moment, the only thing she could truly give up. But she didn’t dare, knowing that if he kissed her again, her obligation to Belllounds would vanish like mist in the sun.

To let go of him felt like ripping her heart apart. She sat up, wiped the tears from her eyes, and got to her feet, all while trying to find the strength to face him again.

A loud voice echoing from the cliffs outside startled Columbine. It was Wade calling the hounds. He was back, and the news excited her.

"I'm going to marry Jack Belllounds on October first."

The cowboy pushed himself up as much as he could. It was painful for Columbine to see the change and paleness of his face!

"No! No!" he gasped.

"Yeah, it's true," she said, feeling hopeless.

"No!" he exclaimed, hoarsely.

"But, Wilson, I'm telling you yes. I came to tell you. It's true—oh, it's true!"

"But, girl, you said you love me," he said, locking her in with his dark, accusing eyes.

"That's just as true."

He relaxed a bit, and instead of anger, a mix of fear and dread filled him.

Just then, Wade entered the cabin quietly, hesitated, and then made his way to Columbine's side. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from Moore to look at her friend, but she reached out with a trembling hand to him. Wade took it in his rough palm.

Wilson struggled for self-control without success.

"Collie, if you really love me, how can you marry Jack Belllounds?" he asked.

"I have to."

"Why do you have to?"

"I owe my life and my upbringing to his father. He wants me to do it. He is completely focused on me helping Jack become a man.... Dad loves me, and I love him. I have to support him. I have to repay him. It's my responsibility."

"You have a responsibility to yourself--as a woman!" he replied passionately. "Belllounds is completely focused on his son. He's oblivious to the disgrace of such a marriage. But you aren't."

"Shame?" Columbine hesitated.

"Yes. The shame of marrying one guy when you love another. You can't love two guys.... You'll be his wife! Do you understand what that means?"

"I—I think—I do," replied Columbine, weakly. Where had all her amazing spirit gone? This fiery-eyed boy was shattering her heart with his accusation.

"But you'll have his kids," shouted Wilson. "Mother of—them—when you love me!... Didn't you think about that?"

"Oh no—I never did—I never did!" wailed Columbine.

"Then you'll think before it's too late?" he pleaded, frantically. "Darling Collie, please think! You won't destroy yourself! You won’t? Just say you won’t!"

"But—Oh, Wilson, what can I say? I have to marry him."

"Collie, I'll take him out before he can get to you."

"You shouldn't talk like that. If you get into another fight—if something really bad happens, it would break my heart."

"You'd be better off!" he shot back, pale as a ghost.

Columbine leaned against Wade for support. She was quickly losing her strength, though her spirit remained strong. She understood what was going to happen. But Wilson's pain was tearing her apart.

"Listen," the cowboy started again. "It's your life—your happiness—your soul.... Belllounds is crazy about that spoiled kid. He believes the sun rises and sets for him.... But Jack Belllounds is no good on this earth! Collie, sweetheart, don’t think this is just my jealousy. I am incredibly jealous. But I know him. He’s not worth you! No man is—and he the least of all. He’ll break your heart, drag you down, ruin your health—kill you, as sure as you’re standing there. I want you to know I could show you what he really is. But don’t make me. Trust me, Collie. Believe me."

"Wilson, I really believe you," Columbine exclaimed. "But it doesn't change anything. It just makes my job harder."

"He'll treat you like he treats a horse or a dog. He'll hit you--"

"He never will! If he ever touches me--"

"If that’s not the case, he'll get bored with you. Jack Belllounds has never committed to anything in his life, and he never will. It’s just not in his nature. He craves what he can't have. As soon as he gets it, he doesn’t want it anymore. Oh, I’ve known him since he was a kid... Columbine, you have a misguided sense of duty. No girl should have to give everything up just because some guy found her as a lost child and provided her a home. A woman owes more to herself than to anyone else."

"Oh, that's true, Wilson. I've considered everything... But you're being unfair—harsh. You don’t take into account that there might be some good in everyone. Dad believes I can change Jack. Maybe I can. I’ll pray for it."

"Reform Jack Belllounds! How can you save a bad apple? That damn coward! Didn't he show you what he was when he jumped on me and kicked my broken foot until I passed out?... What do you want?"

"Please don't say anything more," Columbine pleaded. "Oh, I'm so sorry... I shouldn't have come... Ben, please take me home."

"But, Collie, I love you," Wilson urged desperately. "And he—he might love you—but he's—Collie—he's been—"

Here Moore seemed to bite his tongue, to hold back his words, to fight against something awful, desperate, and cowardly within himself.

Columbine only heard his passionate declaration of love, and it resonated with her.

"You talk like this is one-sided," she exclaimed, as the rush of hot blood flooded over her again. "You don't love me any more than I love you. Not as much, because I'm a woman!... I love with all my heart and soul!"

Moore collapsed onto the bed, exhausted and overwhelmed.

"Wade, my friend, for heaven's sake, do something," he whispered, reaching out to the hunter as if it was his last chance. "Explain to Collie what it would mean for her to marry Belllounds. If that doesn't change her mind, then tell her what it would mean for me. I’ll never go back home. I’ll never leave this place. If she hadn’t said she loved me back then, I might have been able to handle it. But now I can't. It’ll destroy me, Wade."

"Man, you're rambling again," Wade replied. "This morning when I got here, you were dreaming and talking—totally out of it... Well, now, you and Collie listen up. You're right, and she's right. I guess I've never come across a situation with two people so set in their ways like you two. But that doesn’t stop me from feeling the same way about it as I would about something I'm familiar with."

He paused, gently letting go of Columbine, and went over to Moore. He retied the loose bandage and smoothed out the wrinkled blankets. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, leaned over a bit, and ran a rough hand through the thin hair that was starting to turn silver. After a moment, he looked up, and from that pale face, marked by lines and wrinkles, and those deep, unreadable eyes, there shone a light that, despite being sad and wise from its deep understanding of pain and struggle, was still relentless and unwavering in its hope.

"Wade, please save Columbine!" Wilson urged.

"Oh, if you could just do it!" cried Columbine, unable to hold back after that plea.

"Lass, you stand by your beliefs," he said, impressively. "And Moore, be a man and don’t make it so hard for her. Neither of you can do anything... Now there's old Belllounds—he'll never change. He might get upset about this or that, but he'll never change his hopes for his son... But Jack might change! Looking back over all the years, I remember many boys like Buster Jack, and I recall how, in their actions, they just ruined themselves. I have a strange intuition about people whose problems I've adopted as my own. It’s something that never fails. When their troubles are going to end badly, I feel a terrible urge to tell the story of Hell-Bent Wade. That intuition about trouble gave me my name... But it’s not working here... So, my young friends, you can trust me when I say something will happen. As far as October first is concerned, or any time around then, Collie isn’t going to marry Jack Belllounds."

One day Wade said to Belllounds, "You can never really know what a dog is like until you get to know him. Dogs are like people. Some look good on the outside, but they’re actually bad. And it can go the other way too. If a dog's meant to run wild and kill sheep, that’s just what he’ll do. I’ve known dogs that loved humans more deeply than any person could. A dog's feelings for his owner don’t change just because his master is a worthless jerk."

"Well, I guess most of those dogs I bought didn't have good owners, judging by how they behave," replied the rancher.

"I'm creating an excellent hunting pack," said Wade. "Jim doesn't have any faults except that he doesn't bark enough. Sampson isn't as sharp-nosed as Jim, but he follows Jim and has a deep, loud bark that you can hear for miles. So that makes up for Jim's one flaw. These two hounds stick together, and I'm developing others with them. Denver will stray off bear or lion tracks if he catches the scent of a deer. I guess he's too old to be trained out of that. Some of the younger hounds are doing really well. But there are two dogs in the group that completely outshine me."

"Which ones?" asked Belllounds.

"There's that bloodhound, Kane," the hunter replied. "He's definitely a strange dog. I can't seem to get through to him. He listens to me now because I gave him a good smack when he bit me... But he really doesn’t like me much. He's starting to get attached to Miss Columbine, and I think he could make a good guard dog for her. Where did he come from, Belllounds?"

"Well, if I remember correctly, he was born in a covered wagon while crossing the plains. His mother was a full-blood and came from Louisiana."

"That explains the instinct I've noticed in Kane," Wade replied. "He likes to track people. I've seen him do it. And he’s not into hunting lions or bears. Just the other day, when the hounds chased a lion and went crazy, Kane showed up, looked really annoyed, and wandered off on his own. He usually hunts alone anyway. At first, I thought he might be a sheep-killer. But I don't think that's the case. He can track people, and that's pretty much his only useful skill. His mother must have been a slave-hunter, and Kane picked up that tracking instinct."

"Yeah! Well, train him to track men, then. I've seen times when a dog like that would be really useful. And if he gets along with the Collie and you like him, let her have him. She's been asking me for a dog."

"That's not a bad idea. Miss Collie often walks and rides alone, and she never carries a gun."

"Funny about that," said Belllounds. "Collie is tough in most ways, but she’d never kill anything... Wade, you’re not thinking she should quit those lonely walks and rides, are you?"

"No, definitely not, as long as she doesn't go too far away."

"Ahuh! Well, what if she rode up out of the valley, heading west on the Black Range?"

"That won’t work, Belllounds," Wade said seriously. "But Miss Collie isn’t going to, because I’ve warned her. The truth is, I’ve encountered some rough-looking guys between here and Buffalo Park. They’re not hunters, prospectors, cattlemen, or travelers."

"Well, you don’t say!” replied Belllounds. “Now, Wade, are you linking those strangers to the cattle I missed in this last round-up?”

"Guess I can't go that far," Wade replied. "But I didn't like the way they looked."

"The fact that it’s coming from you, Wade, feels like a jury’s verdict… It’s getting close to October. Snow will be falling soon. Do you think those strangers will spend the winter in the woods?"

"No, I don't. Neither does Lewis. Do you remember him?"

"Yeah, the prospector who chills around Buffalo Park, searching for gold. He's been here. Good guy, but obsessed with gold."

"I've run into Lewis a few times here and there. I lost the dogs the other day. They treed a lion and Lewis heard the commotion, so he stuck with them until I showed up. Then he shared some interesting news with me. He’s been concerned about this gang that's been roaming around Buffalo Park, and he’s been trying to keep track of them. Someone took a shot at him in the woods. He can’t say for sure it was one of those guys, but he’s certain it wasn’t just an accident. Now Lewis thinks these men are coming and going from Elgeria, and he suspects they’re working with Smith, who runs a place there. Do you know Smith?"

"No, I don't, and I don't want to," Belllounds said curtly. "He always seemed shady to me. And he hasn't been honest with my friends in Elgeria. But no one ever proved he was dirty, no matter what people thought. As for me, I've never missed a guess in my life. Guys don't have scars on their face like his for nothing."

"Boss, I'm trusting you to keep this to yourself," said Wade quietly. "I knew Smith. He's as dangerous as they come out West. I gave him that scar... And when he sees me, he's going for his gun."

"Well, I'll be damned! I'm not surprised. It's a small world... Wade, I’ll stay quiet, for sure. But what’s your plan?"

"Lewis and I will find out if there’s any link between Smith and this group of strangers—and the occasional loss of a few cattle."

"Uh-huh! Well, you have my support, for sure... There’s definitely been some cattle rustling. Not enough to make any rancher shout, and I don’t think there will be any more of that in Colorado. Still, if we catch some group off guard, we definitely should round them up."

"Boss, I'm telling you--"

"Wade, you're not going to start telling those crazy things about what's going to happen here at White Slides?" interrupted Belllounds, sadly.

"No, I don't have a feeling like that right now," Wade replied seriously. "But I was going to say that if Smith is involved in any cattle rustling, he'll be tough to catch, and if he does get caught, there will be serious consequences. He's clever and has a lot of experience. It's unlikely that he'd operate openly like he did years ago. If he's stealing livestock or buying and selling livestock that someone else steals for him, it's probably just on a small scale, and it will be hard to trace."

"Well, he might be smart," said Belllounds, thoughtfully. "But guys like that, no matter how clever or sneaky they are, always meet a bad end. It just works out that way.... Did you have any issues with Smith?"

"What I gave him was meant for someone else, and it was hardly anything. He's got a grudge against me."

"Alright! Well, then, don’t go looking for trouble. Try to make White Slides one place that proves your name wrong. Still, don’t hesitate if you see anything suspicious around the ranch."

The old man walked away deep in thought, leaving the hunter also lost in his own thoughts.

"He's getting a feeling that I'll mention some dark shadow hanging over White Slides," Wade mused. "Maybe—maybe so. But I don't see anything yet... It's strange how someone will say things they didn't plan to say. Now, I intended to tell him about that amazing dog Fox."

Fox was the standout dog of the entire pack, and he had been completely ignored, a fact that Wade found shameful for himself. Wade happened upon this particular dog by chance. Somewhere in the large corral, there was a gap through which the smaller dogs could slip out, but Wade couldn’t locate it. In fact, the corral was full of holes, but none of them seemed to Wade to be large enough for anything except a squirrel to enter and exit.

One day, the hunter, feeling quite frustrated, was pacing back and forth inside the corral, looking for this mysterious opening. A small dog with short gray and brown fluffy hair and shaggy brows that partially covered its big, bright eyes approached, wagging its little stub of a tail.

"Well, what do you know about it?" Wade asked. He had definitely noticed this particular dog, but it hadn’t mattered before. This time, the dog clearly repeated signs of friendship, prompting Wade to examine him closely. He wasn’t young, attractive, or a purebred, but there was something in his intelligent eyes that caught the hunter’s attention. "Hey, maybe I missed something? There have been a lot of dogs around here, and you're not exactly a looker. So, if you're trying to talk to me, come help me find that hole."

Wade started searching the corral again. It was almost an acre large, and in some spots, the fence posts were set close to the rocks. More than once, Wade got down on his hands and knees to see if he could find the hole. The dog followed him, watching with understanding eyes that Wade thought actually looked like they were laughing at him. But they were friendly eyes that started to communicate something. Soon, when Wade reached a rough area, the dog slipped under a ledge and through a partially hidden hole in the fence; then he quickly came back to wag his stubby tail, looking like finding that hole was a piece of cake.

"You clever dog," Wade said, obviously happy, as he patted the dog. "You found it for me, didn't you? Good boy! Now I'll patch up that hole, and then you can come to the cabin with me. And your name is Fox."

That’s how Fox introduced himself to Wade and found his chance. The fact that he wasn’t a hound had worked against him being taken out hunting, so he hadn’t received much attention. Soon enough, Fox proved to be a dog of exceptional intelligence. The hunter had spent a lot of time with dogs and discovered that the longer he lived with them, the more there was to admire and love.

Fox insisted so strongly on being taken out to hunt with the hounds that Wade, promising not to be surprised by anything, let him go. It turned out to be a particularly tough day for the hounds because of old tracks, cross-tracks, and challenging terrain. Fox worked out a complicated trail that Sampson gave up on and Jim couldn't succeed with. This thrilled Wade, and that night he tried to learn from Andrews, who sold the dog to Belllounds, something about Fox. The only information he could get was that Andrews suspected the guy he got Fox from had stolen him. Belllounds had never noticed him at all. Wade kept his thoughts on Fox to himself, held off on making any judgments, and gave the dog another chance to show what he could do every day.

"I'm starting to feel like I can't let her marry that Buster Jack,"
Wade thought to himself as he rode along the grassy trail.

Long before the week ended, Wade loved Fox and realized he was a fantastic dog. Fox enjoyed hunting, but it didn’t really matter what he hunted; that was up to Wade. He would find horses that were hobbled and trying to hide to avoid being seen. He would follow cattle. He would chase squirrels up trees and point out grouse. He always matched his mood to the type of game he was hunting. If he was on the trail of elk or deer, he would follow quietly, staying within sight of Wade and never barking or yelping. Without much excitement, he would stick with it until he found the game or was called off. However, when he picked up bear or cat tracks, his wild instincts took over, and he transformed into a different dog. He barked with each jump on the trail, and whenever his bark became loud and constant, Wade knew they were close to the prey. He dealt with bears like a clever old dog, knowing when to charge in and when to hold back. When lions or wildcats were treed, Fox lost a lot of his ferocity and interest, and at that point, he was done with that particular hunt. His most impressive trait, though, was his ability to stay on whatever trail he was given. Wade believed that if he set Fox on a rabbit's trail, and a bear or lion crossed it ahead, Fox would stick to the rabbit. Even more impressive was that Fox would never steal a piece of meat, and he would even confront other dogs for trying to steal.

Fox and Kane, the hunter thought as he anticipated events at White Slides, were meant to play crucial roles.

Upon a certain morning, several days before October 1st—which date bothered Wade—he left Moore's cabin, leading a pack horse. He had left the hounds behind at the ranch, but Fox was with him.

"Wade, I want some elk steak," old Belllounds had said the day before. "Nothing beats a good rump steak! I grew up on elk meat. Now, more than a week ago, I told you I wanted some. There are elk all around. I heard a bull calling at sunrise today. Made me wish I was young again!... You need to go get an elk."

"I haven't seen any bulls lately," Wade said, but he didn’t mention that he had stayed away from them. The truth was, Wade admired and loved elk more than any other horned wild animals. His feelings for elk were so strong that he had gone hungry for meat many times while these magnificent stags were bugling near his camp.

As he climbed the yellow, grassy mountainside, working his way around above the valley, his mind wasn’t focused on what he was doing but on Wilson Moore, who had come to depend on him with the unspoken determination of a son whose faith in his father was unbreakable. The injured cowboy held onto hope, maintained his cheerful and grateful spirit, and endured pain with remarkable patience. There had been no improvement in his hurt foot. Wade worried about that much more than Moore did. The thing that occupied the cowboy’s thoughts was the approaching October first, which held a frightening possibility for him. He didn’t talk about it, except when fever made him irrational, but it was obvious to Wade how he prayed and hoped and waited in silence. It was strange how he trusted Wade to prevent the disaster of Columbine's marriage! Yet that kind of trust felt familiar to Wade as he reflected on the years gone by. Had he not desired such trust—had he not welcomed it?

For twenty years, Wade hadn’t found any happiness that compared to what he now secretly felt as he lived near Columbine Belllounds, increasingly realizing each day how truly she was a part of him and the image of the girl he had loved, married, and hurt. Columbine was his daughter. He recognized himself in her. And Columbine, once strongly attracted to him and trusting and relying on him, had come to love him. That was the most beautiful and terrible reality of his life—beautiful because it brought back memories of the past, her childhood, and his empty years, giving him this sudden change where he felt overwhelmed with the sense and joy of having her. It was terrible because she was unhappy, burdened by duty and honor, faced with ruin, and ultimately, Wade began to sense the vague, grim hints of an impending tragedy. Far off, like a cloud on the horizon, but there! Long ago he had learned the futility of battling his dark thoughts. But he held on to hope, faith in life, the triumph of the virtuous, and the downfall of evil. A thousand experiences had reinforced his grip on that hope.

There was personal dread and deep pain for Wade in Columbine Belllounds's situation. After all, he had only his subtle and intuitive confidence that things would work out for her in the end. To trust that now, as the shadow began to creep over his own daughter, felt unwise—a gamble with fate.

"I'm starting to feel like I can't let her marry that Buster Jack," Wade thought as he rode along the grassy trail. "At first, seeing how strong her sense of duty and loyalty was, I didn’t mind it so much. But something’s changing in me. Her love for that disabled boy, and his for her! Wow! They’re so young, and life must feel so intense and love so sweet! I guess that’s why I can’t let her marry Jack... But on the other hand, there’s the old man’s faith in his son, and Collie’s faith in herself and in life. I believe in that. And the years have shown me that there’s hope for even the worst people... I haven’t even talked to this Buster Jack. I don’t know him, only what I’ve heard. And I’m definitely biased, which isn’t surprising considering where I saw him in Denver... I guess before I go any further, I should meet this Belllounds guy and see what he’s really like."

It was typical of Wade that this monologue suddenly interrupted his deep thoughts for the moment. This happened because he settled on a decision, and also because it was time for him to focus on the purpose of his climb.

Bench after bench he climbed, and the higher he went, the thicker and more abundant the aspen thickets became, and the grass grew lusher. Soon, he faced the long, dark slope of spruce, its edge resembling a black wall. He stepped into the fragrant forest, where not a single twig moved and the silence was complete. On the soft, matted ground, the horses' hooves left no mark and barely made a sound.

Wade turned to the left, steering clear of the rough, rocky gorges with weathered cliffs and fallen trees, and aimed to find an easier path up to the mountain's summit far above. This was a new forest for him, full of medium-sized spruce trees growing so closely that he had to tread carefully to avoid breaking any dead branches. Fox trotted ahead, occasionally stopping to look up at his owner, as if seeking direction.

A lightening of the dark-green gloom ahead indicated to the hunter that he was getting close to a large clearing, where the sunlight came through brightly. It turned out to be a low, swampy area, several acres wide, right at the bottom of a steep, wooded slope. Here, Fox lifted his nose into the air and stopped.

"What are you smelling, Fox, old buddy?" asked Wade in a low voice as he looked ahead. The wind was blowing the wrong way, making it hard for him to get close to any game without being noticed. Fox wagged his short tail and gazed up with understanding eyes. Wade moved forward carefully. The swamp was thick with tall, weedy grasses and ferns, with patches of green moss-covered bogs partly hidden and several small oak trees. Wade's horse sank up to its knees in the muck. On the other side, fresh tracks were visible along the damp edge of the shallow depression.

"It's definitely elk," Wade said as he got off. "They heard us coming. Now, Fox, sniff that track. And take it easy."

With his rifle ready, Wade began walking up the slope, leading his horse. An old elk trail revealed a fresh track. Fox matched his pace to that of the struggling hunter. The climb was steep and went through a dense forest. Every so often, when Wade stopped to catch his breath and listen, he heard the faint sound of dead branches snapping far above. Eventually, he reached the top of the mountain and found a wide, open area, with heavy forest ahead and a bare, burnt-out section to his right. Fox growled, seemingly ready to charge forward. Then, through a gap in the trees, Wade spotted a large bull elk standing still, clearly watching him. It was an old gray bull with broken antlers. Wade didn’t make a move to shoot, and soon the elk disappeared from sight.

"You're too old and tough, Fox," the hunter told the anxious dog. But maybe that wasn't the only reason Wade decided to let him go.

Once again mounted, Wade focused on the burned area. It was a bleak, ugly patch, a black streak in the greenery of the mountain. It sloped down into a wide hollow and up another bare incline. The ground was strewn with white logs, trees that had first been destroyed by fire and then knocked down by the wind. Here and there, a tall, ghostly trunk still stood against the forces. Across the hollow lay a significant area where all the trees were dead yet still upright—a sorrowful sight. Beyond that, wrapping around and down to the left, was a slope of spruce and a bare ridge, where a few dark cedars appeared, followed by black, spear-like forests again, drawing the eye toward the stunning view of endless mountain ranges, appearing purple in the distance.

Wade found areas of grass where beds had recently been used.

"Mountain sheep, wow!" exclaimed the hunter. "And fresh tracks too!... Now I wonder if it would be a good idea to kill a sheep and tell Belllounds I couldn't find any elk."

The hunter had no issues with killing mountain sheep, but he loved the majestic stags and would have lied to protect them. He rode on, his sharp eyes scanning everywhere to catch any movement in the wilderness ahead. If there was any animal nearby, it stayed still. Wade crossed the hollow, took a winding path through the standing forest of dead trees, and entered a dense thicket that lined the mountain's edge. Soon, he emerged onto the open rim, where the deep greens and grays stretched out magnificently. In the distance, Old White Slides rose higher now, with an unspoken dignity and majesty that was unnoticed from below.

Wade found fresh sheep tracks in the yellow clay of the rim, small like little deer tracks, indicating that they had just been made by ewes and lambs. Not a single ram track in the group!

"Well, that rules me out," Wade said as he looked under the cliff for a glimpse of the sheep. They had gone over the steep edge as if they had wings. "It's amazing how sheep can go down without falling! And how they can hide!"

He knew they were close by and he spent time looking for them. Still, he couldn't find them. Fox waited impatiently for the signal to show how easily he could drive them out, but that permission didn't come.

"We're hunting elk, you Jack-of-all-trades," the hunter said to Fox, reproachfully.

So they continued around the edge, and after a few miles of travel, they reached the forest, followed by open areas of hollows that widened and deepened. This was great grazing land and shelter for elk. Wade left the edge to ride down these gently sloping half-open ridges, where cedars grew and jack-pines stood in clusters, and little grassy-bordered streams babbled between them. He saw tracks where a big buck deer had crossed in front of him, then he startled a group of grouse that scared the horses, and he noticed where a bear had torn a rotten log apart. Fox didn’t seem to care about any of this.

By and by, Wade made his way down to the meeting point of these hollows, where three small brooks came together to create a stream of pure, fast, clear water, around a foot deep and several yards wide.

"I think this is the beginning of the Troublesome," said Wade. "Whoever named this brook didn't have much sense... Yet here, at its source, it's gathering trouble for itself. That's just how youth is."

The grass was thick and lush, showing signs of recent grazing. Elk had visited the brook that morning. There were many tracks, similar to cow tracks but smaller, deeper, and more oval; and there were spots where elk had rested, along with ripped-up areas where bulls had plowed and stomped with their heavy hooves.

Fox followed the herd to higher ground, where they had clearly entered the woods. Wade tied up his horses and, whispering to Fox, made his way quietly through the strip of spruce. He emerged at an open point, making sure to stay well hidden, from where he caught a glimpse of a park-like hollow, lush and watered. Moving around to get a better view, he quickly spotted what had made Fox stand so stiff and alert. A herd of elk was making its way up the opposite slope, hardly a hundred yards away. They had either heard or smelled him but didn’t seem alarmed. They paused to look back. The hunter quickly estimated that there were nearly two dozen in the herd, mostly cows. A stunning bull with wide-spreading antlers, a black head and shoulders, and gray hindquarters came out from the herd and stood for a moment, head held high, magnificently embodying the wild. Then he trotted into the woods, his antlers quietly brushing against the greenery. Others followed suit. Wade raised his rifle and looked through the scope at the bull, but let him pass. Then he spotted another, and another one. Hesitant and compelled, he finally aimed and pulled the trigger. The heavy Henry rifle boomed in the stillness. Fox darted down with eager barks. When the smoke cleared, Wade saw the opposite slope empty except for one fallen elk.

Then he went back to his horses and brought them to where Fox was sitting next to the dead prey.

"Well, Fox, that stag will never bugle at sunrise again," said Wade. "It's strange how we’re built to need meat! I would have preferred it if it were different."

He butchered the elk, packed all the meat the horse could carry, and hung the best of what was left out of the reach of coyotes. Getting back on his horse, he climbed to the rim and found a slope leading down to the west. He had hunted in the basin below for several days. This way back to the ranch would take longer, he figured, but it would be easier on both him and the horse. His pack horse would have a tough time no matter what. From time to time, Wade stopped to rest the overloaded animal. Eventually, he came to a trail he had made himself, which he began to follow. It led out of the basin, through burned and soggy ground, and down the forest slope to the grassy and aspen-filled uplands. One aspen grove, where he had rested before, faced west and, for some unknown reason, had been little affected by frost. All the leaves were intact, some still green, but most were a brilliant gold against the blue sky. It was a large grove sloping gently, covered with yellow grass and a stunning abundance of purple asters that Wade had never seen in his flower-loving life. Here, he got off his horse and sat against an aspen tree. His horses greedily grazed on the purple blossoms.

Nature had truly outdone herself here. The aspen trees shone a pale white, and above was the fluttering, quivering canopy of gold mixed with green. Below, the asters clustered thick like stars in the sky, waving, nodding, and swaying gracefully to each little autumn breeze, in shades of lilac, lavender, pale violet, and all the exquisite shades of purple.

Wade lingered, his senses heightened. This was one of those moments that brightened his lonely wanderings. Just being here was enough. He would have pushed away the nagging thoughts about himself, others, and life, if that had been entirely possible. But after the initial moments of sensory overload, where the scent of grass and flowers filled the air and the golden light spread across the purple landscape, he started to think about how beautiful the earth was, how Nature reserved her greatest treasures for those who cherished her, and how wonderful it was to be alive, even just for these joys. And sadness crept into his thoughts because all this beauty was fleeting, all the gold would soon fade away, and the asters, so pale and pure and purple, would soon be like the glory of a dream that had slipped away.

Yet the comforting thought remained that frost and winter would eventually give way to the sun, and spring, summer, and autumn would return with their seasonal flowers in that everlasting cycle so beautiful and hopeful. The aspen leaves would tremble and gradually turn golden, the grass would sway in the breeze, and the asters would bloom, raising their pale star-like faces to the sky. Next autumn, and every year, and forever, as long as the sun warmed the earth!

It was only humans who wouldn’t always go back to the places they cherished.

When Bent Wade wanted opportunities, they seemed to come to him naturally.

Upon riding into the yard of White Slides Ranch, he spotted Jack Belllounds sitting idly in a slumped position on the porch. Something about his sad look stirred Wade's sympathy. With no one else around, the hunter seized the opportunity.

"Hey, Belllounds, can you help me out with this meat?" called Wade.

"Sure," Jack replied, getting up without hesitation. Wade brought the pack-horse to the door of the store-cabin, which was located behind the kitchen and connected to it by a roof. With Jack's help, he unloaded the meat and hung it up on pegs. Once that was finished, Wade grabbed a knife and got to work.

"I think a little trimming will make this body look better," said Wade.

"Wade, we never had anyone other than Dad who could take apart a steer or elk," Jack said. "But you've got him beat."

"I'm pretty good at most things."

"Wow! I wish I could do just one thing as well as you. I can ride, but that's it. No one ever taught me anything."

"You're still a young guy, and you have time if you're willing to embrace learning. I was older than you when I learned most of what I know."

The hunter's voice and his gaze, along with the allure that subtly lingered in his presence, finally seemed to spark a genuine interest in young Belllounds.

"I can't handle it, Dad says, and he curses at me," replied Belllounds. "But I bet I could learn from you."

"Think you could. Why can't you commit to anything?"

"I don't know. I've been just as excited about work as I am about riding mustangs. Riding comes naturally to me, but with work, when I mess it up, I really hate it."

"Ah, that's unfortunate. You shouldn't hate work. Hard work leads to the qualities you admire in a man, even if you don't realize it. Reflecting on my life—let me tell you, young man, it's been a rough ride—the moments I cherish the most and feel proud of are the toughest jobs I ever tackled, the ones that took the most effort and struggle."

As Wade got more into his topic, hoping to plant a good idea in Belllounds's mind, he realized he was wasting his effort. Belllounds wasn't focused on the conversation. His mind drifted, and now he was looking at Wade's rifle.

"Old Henry forty-four," he said. "Dad has one. He also has an old needle gun. Can I go hunting with you?"

"Glad to have you here. How do you use a rifle?"

"I used to shoot pretty well before I went to Denver," he said. "I haven't tried since I got back... Do you mind if I take a shot at that post?" From where he stood in the doorway, he pointed to a big hitching post near the corral gate.

The corral held horses, and in the field beyond were cattle, any of which could be at risk from such a shot. Wade noticed that the young man was serious, that he wanted to act on the idea in his mind. Any possible consequences didn’t register after the suggestion.

"Sure. Go ahead. Aim low now, just a little below where you want to hit," said Wade.

Belllounds took aim and shot. A loud bang shook the cabin. Dust and splinters flew from the post.

"I got it!" he shouted, excited. "I thought I wouldn’t, because I aimed way too low."

"Looks like you did. That was a great shot."

Then a door slammed and Old Bill Belllounds appeared, his hair sticking up, his expression and stride making it clear he was in a furious mood.

"Jack! What the hell are you doing?" he yelled, and he marched up to the door to find his son standing there with the rifle in his hands. "For God's sake! If it isn't one thing, it's another!"

"Boss, don’t go overboard," said Wade. "If I’d known the gun would make a noise like that, I wouldn’t have told Jack to shoot. I think it’s because we’re out in the open that it was so loud. I want to clean the gun while it’s still hot."

"Uh-huh! Well, I was scared at first, thinking back to the Indian days, and then I got mad because I figured Jack was up to something... Did you bring in the meat?"

"You bet. And I'd like a piece for myself," replied Wade.

"Help yourself, man. And hey, come down and eat with us for dinner."

"Thanks a lot, boss. I definitely will."

Then the old rancher walked back to the house.

"Wade, that was awesome of you!" Jack said gratefully. "You see how quick Dad is to jump on me? I bet he thought I got into trouble with one of the cowboys."

"Well, he's getting old and cranky," replied Wade. "You should indulge him. He won't be around forever."

Belllounds responded to that suggestion with a glint in his eyes and a look of understanding, warmth, and regret. Emotions appeared to surge and dance within him, but they didn’t stick around. Wade casually observed him, considering his thoughts, holding them back for a moment of judgment.

"Belllounds, has anyone told you that Wils Moore is seriously injured?" the hunter asked suddenly.

"He is, is he?" Jack replied, and suddenly his voice and face changed. "How bad?"

"I think he'll be disabled for life," Wade replied seriously, stopping his work to look at Belllounds. The next moment could be crucial for that young man.

"Club-footed!... He won't be bossing the cowboys anymore--or riding that white mustang!" The softer, more appealing expression on his face, the one that gave him some claim to good looks, shifted into an ugliness that Wade found hard to pin down, as it was neither glee, nor joy, nor satisfaction at his rival's misfortune. It was a rush of blood to his eyes and skin, a heated change that somehow made Wade think of an anxious, selfish craving. Belllounds was missing something, that much was clear. But it still needed to be determined how worthy he was of Wade's pity.

"Belllounds, that was a dirty move—jumping Moore," Wade said deliberately.

"The hell you say!" Belllounds shot back, his face turning red, a look of disbelief mixed with the threat of imminent anger. He slammed the gun down.

"Yeah, you better believe it," the hunter replied. "They call me Hell-Bent Wade!"

"Are you friends with Moore?" Belllounds asked, starting to shake.

"Yeah, I'm good like that with everyone. I'd love to be friends with you."

"I don't want you. And just so you know—you won't be around for long at White Slides."

"Neither will you!"

Belllounds turned pale, not seemingly out of anger or fear, but from a shock that originated deep within the complex emotions of his mind. He was completely stunned, as if facing an unclear, terrifying prediction about the future. Wade's quick words, resonating like the sound of bells, were not threatening, but rather prophetic.

"Hey, kid, we need to talk, so if you’ve got any sense, you’ll take this to heart," Wade continued. "I’m new here. But I’m someone who understands things, and I can see how your dad is messing up with you. You might not know me and probably don’t care, but if you listen, you could learn something that might help you.... No kid can just act on all their wild impulses without messing up their life. It’s not natural. There are other people—people with their own wants and needs, just like you. You have to coexist with others. There’s your dad, Miss Columbine, the cowboys, me, and all the ranchers, down to Kremmlin' and beyond. These are the people you have to deal with. You can’t keep going the way you have without ruining yourself, your dad, and that girl.... It’s never too late to improve. I know that. But sometimes, it becomes too late to save others' happiness. I can see where you’re headed as clearly as if I had a crystal ball. I have a gift that way.... And, Belllounds, you won’t last. Unless you start managing your temper, thinking of others, controlling your wild impulses, being kind, and learning what love really is—you won’t last!... Just look at your fights with Moore, scaring Pronto, drinking in Kremmlin', and that outburst at me—it's only a matter of time before this leads you to disaster! You have to change, Belllounds. Not some halfway, spoiled-kid change, but a full-on turnaround like a man!... This means you have to recognize you’re not good and genuinely change your mindset. Men can have transformations like that. I was a mess. I did worse things than you will ever do, because you aren’t big enough to be really bad, yet I’ve turned out okay.... There, I’m done, and I’m offering to be your friend and help you."

Belllounds stood with his arms wide open outside the door, still shocked and pale; but as the long lecture and plea wrapped up, he erupted loudly. "Who the hell are you?... If I hadn't been so taken aback—if I'd had a chance to speak—I would have told you to shut up! Are you a preacher pretending to be a hunter? Let me tell you, I won’t be talked to like that—not by any man. Keep your advice and friendship to yourself."

"You don't want me anymore?"

"No," Belllounds said sharply.

"Looks like you don't need any advice or a friend, huh?"

"No, you owl-eyed, soft-voiced fool!" shouted Belllounds.

It was then that Wade felt a unique and familiar sensation, a cold, creeping feeling, physical and primal, that hadn't come to him since he had been at White Slides.

"I thought so," he said in a low, gloomy voice, and he knew, whether Belllounds did or not, that he wasn't agreeing with the other man's harsh label, but was just acknowledging the emergence of something within himself.

Belllounds shrugged his broad shoulders and walked away with a slouch.

Wade finished preparing the meat. Then he rode up to hang out with Moore for an hour. When he got back to his cabin, he changed from his hunting clothes into his best outfit. It showed how much he was preoccupied that he did this before feeding the hounds. It was sunset when he left his cabin. Montana Jim and Lem called out to him as he passed by. Wade stopped to listen to their friendly teasing.