Another day brought dull-gray scudding clouds, and gusts of wind and squalls of rain, and a wailing through the bare aspens. It grew colder and bleaker and darker. Rain changed to sleet and sleet to snow. That night brought winter.
Next morning, when Wade plodded up to Moore's cabin, it was through two feet of snow. A beautiful glistening white mantle covered valley and slope and mountain, transforming all into a world too dazzlingly brilliant for the unprotected gaze of man.
When Wade pushed open the door of the cabin and entered he awakened the cowboy.
“Mornin', Wils,” drawled Wade, as he slapped the snow from boots and legs. “Summer has gone, winter has come, an' the flowers lay in their graves! How are you, boy?”
Moore had grown paler and thinner during his long confinement in bed. A weary shade shone in his face and a shadow of pain in his eyes. But the spirit of his smile was the same as always.
“Hello, Bent, old pard!” replied Moore. “I guess I'm fine. Nearly froze last night. Didn't sleep much.”
“Well, I was worried about that,” said the hunter. “We've got to arrange things somehow.”
“I heard it snowing. Gee! how the wind howled! And I'm snowed in?”
“Sure are. Two feet on a level. It's good I snaked down a lot of fire-wood. Now I'll set to work an' cut it up an' stack it round the cabin. Reckon I'd better sleep up here with you, Wils.”
“Won't Old Bill make a kick?”
“Let him kick. But I reckon he doesn't need to know anythin' about it. It is cold in here. Well, I'll soon warm it up.... Here's some letters Lem got at Kremmlin' the other day. You read while I rustle some grub for you.”
Moore scanned the addresses on the several envelopes and sighed.
“From home! I hate to read them.”
“Why?” queried Wade.
“Oh, because when I wrote I didn't tell them I was hurt. I feel like a liar.”
“It's just as well, Wils, because you swear you'll not go home.”
“Me? I should smile not.... Bent—I—I—hoped Collie might answer the note you took her from me.”
“Not yet. Wils, give the lass time.”
“Time? Heavens! it's three weeks and more.”
“Go ahead an' read your letters or I'll knock you on the head with one of these chunks,” ordered Wade, mildly.
The hunter soon had the room warm and cheerful, with steaming breakfast on the red-hot coals. Presently, when he made ready to serve Moore, he was surprised to find the boy crying over one of the letters.
“Wils, what's the trouble?” he asked.
“Oh, nothing. I—I—just feel bad, that's all,” replied Moore.
“Ahuh! So it seems. Well, tell me about it?”
“Pard, my father—has forgiven me.”
“The old son-of-a-gun! Good! What for? You never told me you'd done anythin'.”
“I know—but I did—do a lot. I was sixteen then. We quarreled. And I ran off up here to punch cows. But after a while I wrote home to mother and my sister. Since then they've tried to coax me to come home. This letter's from the old man himself. Gee!... Well, he says he's had to knuckle. That he's ready to forgive me. But I must come home and take charge of his ranch. Isn't that great?... Only I can't go. And I couldn't—I couldn't ever ride a horse again—if I did go.”
“Who says you couldn't?” queried Wade. “I never said so. I only said you'd never be a bronco-bustin' cowboy again. Well, suppose you're not? You'll be able to ride a little, if I can save that leg.... Boy, your letter is damn good news. I'm sure glad. That will make Collie happy.”
The cowboy had a better appetite that morning, which fact mitigated somewhat the burden of Wade's worry. There was burden enough, however, and Wade had set this day to make important decisions about Moore's injured foot. He had dreaded to remove the last dressing because conditions at that time had been unimproved. He had done all he could to ward off the threatened gangrene.
“Wils, I'm goin' to look at your foot an' tell you things,” declared Wade, when the dreaded time could be put off no longer.
“Go ahead.... And, pard, if you say my leg has to be cut off—why just pass me my gun!”
The cowboy's voice was gay and bantering, but his eyes were alight with a spirit that frightened the hunter.
“Ahuh!... I know how you feel. But, boy, I'd rather live with one leg an' be loved by Collie Belllounds than have nine legs for some other lass.”
Wilson Moore groaned his helplessness.
“Damn you, Bent Wade! You always say what kills me!... Of course I would!”
“Well, lie quiet now, an' let me look at this poor, messed-up foot.”
Wade's deft fingers did not work with the usual precision and speed natural to them. But at last Moore's injured member lay bare, discolored and misshapen. The first glance made the hunter quicker in his movements, closer in his scrutiny. Then he yelled his joy.
“Boy, it's better! No sign of gangrene! We'll save your leg!”
“Pard, I never feared I'd lose that. All I've feared was that I'd be club-footed.... Let me look,” replied the cowboy, and he raised himself on his elbow. Wade lifted the unsightly foot.
“My God, it's crooked!” cried Moore, passionately. “Wade, it's healed. It'll stay that way always! I can't move it!... Oh, but Buster Jack's ruined me!”
The hunter pushed him back with gentle hands. “Wils, it might have been worse.”
“But I never gave up hope,” replied Moore, in poignant grief. “I couldn't. Butnow! ... How can you look at that—that club-foot, and not swear?”
“Well, well, boy, cussin' won't do any good. Now lay still an' let me work. You've had lots of good news this mornin'. So I think you can stand to hear a little bad news.”
“What! Bad news?” queried Moore, with a start.
“I reckon. Now listen.... The reason Collie hasn't answered your note is because she's been sick in bed for three weeks.”
“Oh no!” exclaimed the cowboy, in amaze and distress.
“Yes, an' I'm her doctor,” replied Wade, with pride. “First off they had Mrs. Andrews. An' Collie kept askin' for me. She was out of her head, you know. An' soon as I took charge she got better.”
“Heavens! Collie ill and you never told me!” cried Moore. “I can't believe it. She's so healthy and strong. What ailed her, Bent?”
“Well, Mrs. Andrews said it was nervous breakdown. An' Old Bill was afraid of consumption. An' Jack Belllounds swore she was only shammin'.”
The cowboy cursed violently.
“Here—I won't tell you any more if you're goin' to cuss that way an' jerk around,” protested Wade.