"Well, Columbine, it's like a story," he replied. "I'm the fellow
disowned by his family--a wanderer of the wilds--no good--and no
prospects.... Now our friend Jack, he's handsome and rich. He has a
doting old dad. Cattle, horses--ranches! He wins the girl. See!"

Spurring his mustang, the cowboy rode away. At the edge of the slope he
turned in the saddle. "I've got to drive in this bunch of cattle. It's
late. You hurry home." Then he was gone. The stones cracked and rolled
down under the side of the bluff.

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

"Jealous?... He wins the girl?" she murmured in repetition to herself.
"What ever could he have meant? He didn't mean--he didn't--"

The simple, logical interpretation of Wilson's words opened Columbine's
mind to a disturbing possibility of which she had never dreamed. That
he might love her! If he did, why had he not said so? Jealous, maybe,
but he did not love her! The next throb of thought was like a knock at a
door of her heart--a door never yet opened, inside which seemed a
mystery of feeling, of hope, despair, unknown longing, and clamorous
voices. The woman just born in her, instinctive and self-preservative,
shut that door before she had more than a glimpse inside. But then she
felt her heart swell with its nameless burdens.

Pronto was grazing near at hand. She caught him and mounted. It struck
her then that her hands were numb with cold. The wind had ceased
fluttering the aspens, but the yellow leaves were falling, rustling. Out