“Pard, if you bring me a letter I'll obey you—I'll lie still—I'll sleep—I'll stand anything.”
“Ahuh! Then I'll fetch one,” replied Wade, as he took the little book and deposited it in his pocket. “Good-by, now, an' think of your good news that come with the snow.”
“Good-by, Heaven-Sent Hell-Bent Wade!” called Moore. “It's no joke of a name any more. It's a fact.”
Wade plodded down through the deep snow, stepping in his old tracks, and as he toiled on his thoughts were deep and comforting. He was thinking that if he had his life to live over again he would begin at once to find happiness in other people's happiness. Upon arriving at his cabin he set to work cleaning a path to the dog corral. The snow had drifted there and he had no easy task. It was well that he had built an inclosed house for the hounds to winter in. Such a heavy snow as this one would put an end to hunting for the time being. The ranch had ample supply of deer, bear, and elk meat, all solidly frozen this morning, that would surely keep well until used. Wade reflected that his tasks round the ranch would be feeding hounds and stock, chopping wood, and doing such chores as came along in winter-time. The pack of hounds, which he had thinned out to a smaller number, would be a care on his hands. Kane had become a much-prized possession of Columbine's and lived at the house, where he had things his own way, and always greeted Wade with a look of disdain and distrust. Kane would never forgive the hand that had hurt him. Sampson and Jim and Fox, of course, shared Wade's cabin, and vociferously announced his return.
Early in the afternoon Wade went down to the ranch-house. The snow was not so deep there, having blown considerably in the open places. Some one was pounding iron in the blacksmith shop; horses were cavorting in the corrals; cattle were bawling round the hay-ricks in the barn-yard.
The hunter knocked on Columbine's door.
“Come in,” she called.
Wade entered, to find her alone. She was sitting up in bed, propped up with pillows, and she wore a warm, woolly jacket or dressing-gown. Her paleness was now marked, and the shadows under her eyes made them appear large and mournful.
“Ben Wade, you don't care for me any more!” she exclaimed, reproachfully.
“Why not, lass?” he asked.
“You were so long in coming,” she replied, now with petulance. “I guess now I don't want you at all.”
“Ahuh! That's the reward of people who worry an' work for others. Well, then, I reckon I'll go back an' not give you what I brought.”
He made a pretense of leaving, and he put a hand to his pocket as if to insure the safety of some article. Columbine blushed. She held out her hands. She was repentant of her words and curious as to his.
“Why, Ben Wade, I count the minutes before you come,” she said. “What'd you bring me?”
“Who's been in here?” he asked, going forward. “That's a poor fire. I'll have to fix it.”
“Mrs. Andrews just left. It was good of her to drive up. She came in the sled, she said. Oh, Ben, it's winter. There was snow on my bed when I woke up. I think I am better to-day. Jack hasn't been in here yet!”
At this Wade laughed, and Columbine followed suit.
“Well, you look a little sassy to-day, which I take is a good sign,” said Wade. “I've got some news that will come near to makin' you well.”
“Oh, tell it quick!” she cried.
“Wils won't lose his leg. It's gettin' well. An' there was a letter from his father, forgivin' him for somethin' he never told me.”
“My prayers were answered!” whispered Columbine, and she closed her eyes tight.
“An' his father wants him to come home to run the ranch,” went on Wade.
“Oh!” Her eyes popped open with sudden fright. “But he can't—he won't go?”
“I reckon not. He wouldn't if he could. But some day he will, an' take you home with him.”
Columbine covered her face with her hands, and was silent a moment.
“Such prophecies! They—they—” She could not conclude.
“Ahuh! I know. The strange fact is, lass, that they all come true. I wish I had all happy ones, instead of them black, croakin' ones that come like ravens.... Well, you're better to-day?”
“Yes. Oh yes. Ben, what have you got for me?”
“You're in an awful hurry. I want to talk to you, an' if I show what I've got then there will be no talkin'. You say Jack hasn't been in to-day?”
“Not yet, thank goodness.”
“How about Old Bill?”
“Ben, you never call him my dad. I wish you would. When youdon't it always reminds me that he's really not my dad.”
“Ahuh! Well, well!” replied Wade, with his head bowed. “It is just queer I can never remember.... An' how was he to-day?”
“For a wonder he didn't mention poor me. He was full of talk about going to Kremmling. Means to take Jack along. Do you know, Ben, dad can't fool me. He's afraid to leave Jack here alone with me. So dad talked a lot about selling stock an' buying supplies, and how he needed Jack to go, and so forth. I'm mighty glad he means to take him. But my! won't Jack be sore.”
“I reckon. It's time he broke out.”
“And now, dear Ben—what have you got for me? I know it's from Wilson,” she coaxed.
“Lass, would you give much for a little note from Wils?” asked Wade, teasingly.
“Would I? When I've been hoping and praying for just that!”
“Well, if you'd give so much for a note, how much would you give me for a whole bookful that took Wils two hours to write?”
“Ben! Oh, I'd—I'd give—” she cried, wild with delight. “I'dkiss you!”
“You mean it?” he queried, waving the book aloft.
“Mean it? Come here!”
There was fun in this for Wade, but also a deep and beautiful emotion that quivered through him. Bending over her, he placed the little book in her hand. He did not see clearly, then, as she pulled him lower and kissed him on the cheek, generously, with sweet, frank gratitude and affection.
Moments strong and all-satisfying had been multiplying for Bent Wade of late. But this one magnified all. As he sat back upon the chair he seemed a little husky of voice.
“Well, well, an' so you kissed ugly old Bent Wade?”
“Yes, and I've wanted to do it before,” she retorted. The dark excitation in her eyes, the flush of her pale cheeks, made her beautiful then.
“Lass, now you read your letter an' answer it. You can tear out the pages. I'll sit here an' be makin' out to be readin' aloud out of this book here, if any one happens in sudden-like!”
“Oh, how you think of everything!”
The hunter sat beside her pretending to be occupied with the book he had taken from the table when really he was stealing glances at her face. Indeed, she was more than pretty then. Illness and pain had enhanced the sweetness of her expression. As she read on it was manifest that she had forgotten the hunter's presence. She grew pink, rosy, scarlet, radiant. And Wade thrilled with her as she thrilled, loved her more and more as she loved. Moore must have written words of enchantment. Wade's hungry heart suffered a pang of jealousy, but would not harbor it. He read in her perusal of that letter what no other dreamed of, not even the girl herself; and it was certitude of tragic and brief life for her if she could not live for Wilson Moore. Those moments of watching her were unutterably precious to Wade. He saw how some divine guidance had directed his footsteps to this home. How many years had it taken him to get there! Columbine read and read and reread—a girl with her first love-letter. And for Wade, with his keen eyes that seemed to see the senses and the soul, there shone something infinite through her rapture. Never until that unguarded moment had he divined her innocence, nor had any conception been given him of the exquisite torture of her maiden fears or the havoc of love fighting for itself. He learned then much of the mystery and meaning of a woman's heart.