“Sure. What'd you think?” he replied, with sarcasm.
“Expect me tomarry some girl? Well, I wouldn't, even if any one would have a cripple.”
“Who—who will take care of you?” she asked, blushing furiously.
“I'll take care of myself,” he declared. “Good Lord! Columbine, I'm not an invalid yet. I've got a few friends who'll help me fix up the cabin. And that reminds me. There's a lot of my stuff up in the bunk-house at White Slides. I'm going to drive up soon to haul it away.”
“Wilson Moore, do you mean it?” she asked, with grave wonder. “Are you going to homestead near White Slides Ranch—andlive there—when—”
She could not finish. An overwhelming disaster, for which she had no name, seemed to be impending.
“Yes, I am,” he replied. “Funny how things turn out, isn't it?”
“It's very—very funny,” she said, dazedly, and she turned slowly away without another word.
“Good-by, Columbine,” he called out after her, with farewell, indeed, in his voice.
All the way home Columbine was occupied with feelings that swayed her to the exclusion of rational consideration of the increasing perplexity of her situation. And to make matters worse, when she arrived at the ranch it was to meet Jack Belllounds with a face as black as a thunder-cloud.
“The old man wants to see you,” he announced, with an accent that recalled his threat of a few hours back.
“Does he?” queried Columbine, loftily. “From the courteous way you speak I imagine it's important.”
Belllounds did not deign to reply to this. He sat on the porch, where evidently he had awaited her return, and he looked anything but happy.
“Where is dad?” continued Columbine.
Jack motioned toward the second door, beyond which he sat, the one that opened into the room the rancher used as a kind of office and storeroom. As Columbine walked by Jack he grasped her skirt.
“Columbine! you're angry?” he said, appealingly.
“I reckon I am,” replied Columbine.
“Don't go in to dad when you're that way,” implored Jack. “He's angry, too—and—and—it'll only make matters worse.”
From long experience Columbine could divine when Jack had done something in the interest of self and then had awakened to possible consequences. She pulled away from him without replying, and knocked on the office door.
“Come in,” called the rancher.
Columbine went in. “Hello, dad! Do you want me?”
Belllounds sat at an old table, bending over a soiled ledger, with a stubby pencil in his huge hand. When he looked up Columbine gave a little start.
“Where've you been?” he asked, gruffly.
“I've been calling on Mrs. Andrews,” replied Columbine.
“Did you go thar to see her?”
“Why—certainly!” answered Columbine, with a slow break in her speech.
“You didn't go to meet Wilson Moore?”
“No.”
“An' I reckon you'll say you hadn't heerd he was there?”
“I had not,” flashed Columbine.
“Wal,did you see him?”
“Yes, sir, I did, but quite by accident.”
“Ahuh! Columbine, are you lyin' to me?”
The hot blood flooded to Columbine's cheeks, as if she had been struck a blow.
“Dad!” she cried, in hurt amaze.
Belllounds seemed thick, imponderable, as if something had forced a crisis in him and his brain was deeply involved. The habitual, cool, easy, bold, and frank attitude in the meeting of all situations seemed to have been encroached upon by a break, a bewilderment, a lessening of confidence.
“Wal, are you lyin'?” he repeated, either blind to or unaware of her distress.
“I could not—lie to you,” she faltered, “even—if—I wanted to.”
The heavy, shadowed gaze of his big eyes was bent upon her as if she had become a new and perplexing problem.
“But you seen Moore?”
“Yes—sir.” Columbine's spirit rose.
“An' talked with him?”
“Of course.”
“Lass, I ain't likin' thet, an' I ain't likin' the way you look an' speak.”
“I am sorry. I can't help either.”
“What'd this cowboy say to you?”
“We talked mostly about his injured foot.”
“An' what else?” went on Belllounds, his voice rising.
“About—what he meant to do now.”
“Ahuh! An' thet's homesteadin' the Sage Creek Valley?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you want him to do thet?”
“I! Indeed I didn't.”
“Columbine, not so long ago you told me this fellar wasn't sweet on you. An' do you still say that to me—are you still insistin' he ain't in love with you?”
“He never said so—I never believed it ... and now I'm sure—he isn't!”
“Ahuh! Wal, thet same day you was jest as sure you didn't care anythin' particular fer him. Are you thet sure now?”
“No!” whispered Columbine, very low. She trembled with a suggestion of unknown forces. Not to save a new and growing pride would she evade any question from this man upon whom she had no claim, to whom she owed her life and her bringing up. But something cold formed in her.
Belllounds, self-centered and serious as he strangely was, seemed to check his probing, either from fear of hearing more from her or from an awakening of former kindness. But her reply was a shock to him, and, throwing down his pencil with the gesture of a man upon whom decision was forced, he rose to tower over her.
“You've been like a daughter to me. I've done all I knowed how fer you. I've lived up to the best of my lights. An' I've loved you,” he said, sonorously and pathetically. “You know what my hopes are—fer the boy—an' fer you.... We needn't waste any more talk. From this minnit you're free to do as you like. Whatever you do won't make any change in my carin' fer you.... But you gotta decide. Will you marry Jack or not?”
“I promised you—I would. I'll keep my word,” replied Columbine, steadily.
“So far so good,” went on the rancher. “I'm respectin' you fer what you say.... An' now,when will you marry him?”
The little room drifted around in Columbine's vague, blank sight. All seemed to be drifting. She had no solid anchor.
“Any—day you say—the sooner the—better,” she whispered.
“Wal, lass, I'm thankin' you,” he replied, with voice that sounded afar to her. “An' I swear, if I didn't believe it's best fer Jack an' you, why I'd never let you marry.... So we'll set the day. October first! Thet's the day you was fetched to me a baby—more'n seventeen years ago.”