The Mysterious Rider

CHAPTER IX

A new spirit, or a liberation of her own, had fired Columbine, and was now burning within her, unquenchable and unutterable. Some divine spark had penetrated into that mysterious depth of her, to inflame and to illumine, so that when she arose from this hour of calamity she felt that to the tenderness and sorrow and fidelity in her soul had been added the lightning flash of passion.

“Oh, Ben—shall I be able to hold onto this?” she cried, flinging wide her arms, as if to embrace the winds of heaven.

“This what, lass?” he asked.

“This—thiswoman! ” she answered, passionately, with her hands sweeping back to press her breast.

“No woman who wakes ever goes back to a girl again,” he said, sadly.

“I wanted to die—and now I want to live—to fight.... Ben, you've uplifted me. I was little, weak, miserable.... But in my dreams, or in some state I can't remember or understand, I've waited for your very words. I was ready. It's as if I knew you in some other world, before I was born on this earth; and when you spoke to me here, so wonderfully—as my mother might have spoken—my heart leaped up in recognition of you and your call to my womanhood!... Oh, how strange and beautiful!”

“Miss Collie,” he replied, slowly, as he bent to his saddle-straps, “you're young, an' you've no understandin' of what's strange an' terrible in life. An' beautiful, too, as you say.... Who knows? Maybe in some former state I was somethin' to you. I believe in that. Reckon I can't say how or what. Maybe we were flowers or birds. I've a weakness for that idea.”

“Birds! I like the thought, too,” replied Columbine. “I love most birds. But there are hawks, crows, buzzards!”

“I reckon. Lass, there's got to be balance in nature. If it weren't for the ugly an' the evil, we wouldn't know the beautiful an' good.... An' now let's ride home. It's gettin' late.”

“Ben, ought I not go back to Wilson right now?” she asked, slowly.

“What for?”

“To tell him—something—and why I can't come to-morrow, or ever afterward,” she replied, low and tremulously.

Wade pondered over her words. It seemed to Columbine that her sharpened faculties sensed something of hostility, of opposition in him.

“Reckon to-morrow would be better,” he said, presently. “Wilson's had enough excitement for one day.”

“Then I'll go to-morrow,” she returned.

In the gathering, cold twilight they rode down the trail in silence.

“Good night, lass,” said Wade, as he reached his cabin. “An' remember you're not alone any more.”

“Good night, my friend,” she replied, and rode on.

Columbine encountered Jim Montana at the corrals, and it was not too dark for her to see his foam-lashed horse. Jim appeared non-committal, almost surly. But Columbine guessed that he had ridden to Kremmling and back in one day, on some order of Jack's.

“Miss Collie, I'll tend to Pronto,” he offered. “An' yore supper'll be waitin'.”

A bright fire blazed on the living-room hearth. The rancher was reading by its light.

“Hello, rosy-cheeks!” greeted the rancher, with unusual amiability. “Been ridin' ag'in' the wind, hey? Wal, if you ain't pretty, then my eyes are pore!”

“It's cold, dad,” she replied, “and the wind stings. But I didn't ride fast nor far.... I've been up to see Wilson Moore.”

“Ahuh! Wal, how's the boy?” asked Belllounds, gruffly.

“He said he was all right, but—but I guess that's not so,” responded Columbine.

“Any friends lookin' after him?”

“Oh yes—he must have friends—the Andrewses and others. I'm glad to say his cabin is comfortable. He'll be looked after.”

“Wal, I'm glad to hear thet. I'll send Lem or Wade up thar an' see if we can do anythin' fer the boy.”

“Dad—that's just like you,” replied Columbine, with her hand seeking his broad shoulder.

“Ahuh! Say, Collie, hyar's letters from 'most everybody in Kremmlin' wantin' to be invited up fer October first. How about askin' 'em?”

“The more the merrier,” replied Columbine.

“Wal, I reckon I'll not ask anybody.”

“Why not, dad?”

“No one can gamble on thet son of mine, even on his weddin'-day,” replied Belllounds, gloomily.

“Dad, What'd Jack do to-day?”

“I'm not sayin' he did anythin',” answered the rancher.

“Dad, you can gamble on me.”

“Wal, I should smile,” he said, putting his big arm around her. “I wish you was Jack an' Jack was you.”

At that moment the young man spoken of slouched into the room, with his head bandaged, and took a seat at the supper-table.

“Wal, Collie, let's go an' get it,” said the rancher, cheerily. “I can always eat, anyhow.”

“I'm hungry as a bear,” rejoined Columbine, as she took her seat, which was opposite Jack.

“Where 'ye you been?” he asked, curiously.

“Why, good evening, Jack! Did you finally notice me?... I've been riding Pronto, the first time since he was hurt. Had a lovely ride—up through Sage Valley.”

Jack glowered at her with the one unbandaged eye, and growled something under his breath, and then began to stab meat and potatoes with his fork.

“What's the matter, Jack? Aren't you well?” asked Columbine, with a solicitude just a little too sweet to be genuine.

“Yes, I'm well,” snapped Jack.

“But you look sick. That is, what I can see of your face looks sick. Your mouth droops at the corners. You're very pale—and red in spots. And your one eye glows with unearthly woe, as if you were not long for this world!”

The amazing nature of this speech, coming from the girl who had always been so sweet and quiet and backward, was attested to by the consternation of Jack and the mirth of his father.

“Are you making fun of me?” demanded Jack.

“Why, Jack! Do you think I would make fun of you? I only wanted to say how queer you look.... Are you going to be married with one eye?”

Jack collapsed at that, and the old man, after a long stare of open-mouthed wonder, broke out: “Haw! Haw! Haw!... By Golly! lass—I'd never believed thet was in you.... Jack, be game an' take your medicine.... An' both of you forgive an' forget. Thar'll be quarrels enough, mebbe, without rakin' over the past.”

When alone again Columbine reverted to a mood vastly removed from her apparent levity with the rancher and his son. A grave and inward-searching thought possessed her, and it had to do with the uplift, the spiritual advance, the rise above mere personal welfare, that had strangely come to her through Bent Wade. From their first meeting he had possessed a singular attraction for her that now, in the light of the meaning of his life, seemed to Columbine to be the man's nobility and wisdom, arising out of his travail, out of the terrible years that had left their record upon his face.

And so Columbine strove to bind forever in her soul the spirit which had arisen in her, interpreting from Wade's rude words of philosophy that which she needed for her own light and strength.

She appreciated her duty toward the man who had been a father to her. Whatever he asked that would she do. And as for the son she must live with the rest of her life, her duty there was to be a good wife, to bear with his faults, to strive always to help him by kindness, patience, loyalty, and such affection as was possible to her. Hate had to be reckoned with, and hate, she knew, had no place in a good woman's heart. It must be expelled, if that were humanly possible. All this was hard, would grow harder, but she accepted it, and knew her mind.

Her soul was her own, unchangeable through any adversity. She could be with that alone always, aloof from the petty cares and troubles common to people. Wade's words had thrilled her with their secret, with their limitless hope of an unknown world of thought and feeling. Happiness, in the ordinary sense, might never be hers. Alas for her dreams! But there had been given her a glimpse of something higher than pleasure and contentment. Dreams were but dreams. But she could still dream of what had been, of what might have been, of the beauty and mystery of life, of something in nature that called sweetly and irresistibly to her. Who could rob her of the rolling, gray, velvety hills, and the purple peaks and the black ranges, among which she had been found a waif, a little lost creature, born like a columbine under the spruces?

Love, sudden-dawning, inexplicable love, was her secret, still tremulously new, and perilous in its sweetness. That only did she fear to realize and to face, because it was an unknown factor, a threatening flame. Her sudden knowledge of it seemed inextricably merged with the mounting, strong, and steadfast stream of her spirit.

“I'll go to him. I'll tell him,” she murmured. “He shall havethat! ... Then I must bid him—good-by—forever!”

To tell Wilson would be sweet; to leave him would be bitter. Vague possibilities haunted her. What might come of the telling? How dark loomed the bitterness! She could not know what hid in either of these acts until they were fulfilled. And the hours became long, and sleep far off, and the quietness of the house a torment, and the melancholy wail of coyotes a reminder of happy girlhood, never to return.

* * * * *

When next day the long-deferred hour came Columbine selected a horse that she could run, and she rode up the winding valley swift as the wind. But at the aspen grove, where Wade's keen, gentle voice had given her secret life, she suffered a reaction that made her halt and ascend the slope very slowly and with many stops.

Sight of Wade's horse haltered near the cabin relieved Columbine somewhat of a gathering might of emotion. The hunter would be inside and so she would not be compelled at once to confess her secret. This expectancy gave impetus to her lagging steps. Before she reached the open door she called out.

“Collie, you're late,” answered Wilson, with both joy and reproach, as she entered. The cowboy lay upon his bed, and he was alone in the room.

“Oh!... Where is Ben?” exclaimed Columbine.

“He was here. He cooked my dinner. We waited, but you never came. The dinner got cold. I made sure you'd backed out—weren't coming at all—and I couldn't eat.... Wade said he knew you'd come. He went off with the hounds, somewhere ... and oh, Collie, it's all right now!”

Columbine walked to his bedside and looked down upon him with a feeling as if some giant hand was tugging at her heart. He looked better. The swelling and redness of his face were less marked. And at that moment no pain shadowed his eyes. They were soft, dark, eloquent. If Columbine had not come with her avowed resolution and desire to unburden her heart she would have found that look in his eyes a desperately hard one to resist. Had it ever shone there before? Blind she had been.

“You're better,” she said, happily.

“Sure—now. But I had a bad night. Didn't sleep till near daylight. Wade found me asleep.... Collie, it's good of you to come. You look so—so wonderful! I never saw your face glow like that. And your eyes—oh!”

“You think I'm pretty, then?” she asked, dreamily, not occupied at all with that thought.

He uttered a contemptuous laugh.

“Come closer,” he said, reaching for her with a clumsy bandaged hand.

Down upon her knees Columbine fell. Both hands flew to cover her face. And as she swayed forward she shook violently, and there escaped her lips a little, muffled sound.

“Why—Collie!” cried Moore, astounded. “Good Heavens! Don't cry! I—I didn't mean anything. I only wanted to feel you—touch your hand.”

“Here,” she answered, blindly holding out her hand, groping for his till she found it. Her other was still pressed to her eyes. One moment longer would Columbine keep her secret—hide her eyes—revel in the unutterable joy and sadness of this crisis that could come to a woman only once.

“What in the world?” ejaculated the cowboy, now bewildered. But he possessed himself of the trembling hand offered. “Collie, you act so strange.... You're not crying!... Am I only locoed, or flighty, or what? Dear, look at me.”

Columbine swept her hand from her eyes with a gesture of utter surrender.

“Wilson, I'm ashamed—and sad—and gloriously happy,” she said, with swift breathlessness.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because of—of something I have to tell you,” she whispered.

“What is that?”

She bent over him.

“Can't you guess?”

He turned pale, and his eyes burned with intense fire.

“I won't guess ... I daren't guess.”

“It's something that's been true for years—forever, it seems—something I never dreamed of till last night,” she went on, softly.

“Collie!” he cried. “Don't torture me!”

“Do you remember long ago—when we quarreled so dreadfully—because you kissed me?” she asked.

“Do you think I could kissyou —and live to forget?”

“I love you!” she whispered, shyly, feeling the hot blood burn her.

That whisper transformed Wilson Moore. His arm flashed round her neck and pulled her face down to his, and, holding her in a close embrace, he kissed her lips and cheeks and wet eyes, and then again her lips, passionately and tenderly.

Then he pressed her head down upon his breast.

“My God! I can't believe! Say it again!” he cried, hoarsely.

Columbine buried her flaming face in the blanket covering him, and her hands clutched it tightly. The wildness of his joy, the strange strength and power of his kisses, utterly changed her. Upon his breast she lay, without desire to lift her face. All seemed different, wilder, as she responded to his appeal: “Yes, I love you! Oh, I love—love—love you!”

“Dearest!... Lift your face.... It's true now. I know. It's proved. But let me look at you.”

Columbine lifted herself as best she could. But she was blinded by tears and choked with utterance that would not come, and in the grip of a shuddering emotion that was realization of loss in a moment when she learned the supreme and imperious sweetness of love.

“Kiss me, Columbine,” he demanded.

Through blurred eyes she saw his face, white and rapt, and she bent to it, meeting his lips with her first kiss which was her last.

“Again, Collie—again!” he begged.

“No—no more,” she whispered, very low, and encircling his neck with her arms she hid her face and held him convulsively, and stifled the sobs that shook her.

Then Moore was silent, holding her with his free hand, breathing hard, and slowly quieting down. Columbine felt then that he knew that there was something terribly wrong, and that perhaps he dared not voice his fear. At any rate, he silently held her, waiting. That silent wait grew unendurable for Columbine. She wanted to prolong this moment that was to be all she could ever surrender. But she dared not do so, for she knew if he ever kissed her again her duty to Belllounds would vanish like mist in the sun.

To release her hold upon him seemed like a tearing of her heartstrings. She sat up, she wiped the tears from her eyes, she rose to her feet, all the time striving for strength to face him again.

A loud voice ringing from the cliffs outside, startled Columbine. It came from Wade calling the hounds. He had returned, and the fact stirred her.

“I'm to marry Jack Belllounds on October first.”

The cowboy raised himself up as far as he was able. It was agonizing for Columbine to watch the changing and whitening of his face!

“No—no!” he gasped.

“Yes, it's true,” she replied, hopelessly.

“No!” he exclaimed, hoarsely.

“But, Wilson, I tell you yes. I came to tell you. It's true—oh, it's true!”

“But, girl, you said you love me,” he declared, transfixing her with dark, accusing eyes.

“That's just as terribly true.”

He softened a little, and something of terror and horror took the place of anger.

Just then Wade entered the cabin with his soft tread, hesitated, and then came to Columbine's side. She could not unrivet her gaze from Moore to look at her friend, but she reached out with trembling hand to him. Wade clasped it in a horny palm.

Wilson fought for self-control in vain.

“Collie, if you love me, how can you marry Jack Belllounds?” he demanded.

“I must.”

“Why must you?”

“I owe my life and my bringing up to his father. He wants me to do it. His heart is set upon my helping Jack to become a man.... Dad loves me, and I love him. I must stand by him. I must repay him. It is my duty.”

“You've a duty to yourself—as a woman!” he rejoined, passionately. “Belllounds is wrapped up in his son. He's blind to the shame of such a marriage. But you're not.”

“Shame?” faltered Columbine.

“Yes. The shame of marrying one man when you love another. You can't love two men.... You'll give yourself. You'll be hiswife ! Do you understand what that means?”

“I—I think—I do,” replied Columbine, faintly. Where had vanished all her wonderful spirit? This fire-eyed boy was breaking her heart with his reproach.

“But you'll bear his children,” cried Wilson. “Mother of—them—when you love me!... Didn't you think of that?”

“Oh no—I never did—I never did!” wailed Columbine.

“Then you'll think before it's too late?” he implored, wildly. “Dearest Collie, think! You won't ruin yourself! You won't? Say you won't!”

“But—Oh, Wilson, what can I say? I've got to marry him.”

“Collie, I'll kill him before he gets you.”

“You mustn't talk so. If you fought again—if anything terrible happened, it'd kill me.”

“You'd be better off!” he flashed, white as a sheet.

Columbine leaned against Wade for support. She was fast weakening in strength, although her spirit held. She knew what was inevitable. But Wilson's agony was rending her.

“Listen,” began the cowboy again. “It's your life—your happiness—your soul.... Belllounds is crazy over that spoiled boy. He thinks the sun rises and sets in him.... But Jack Belllounds is no good on this earth! Collie dearest, don't think that's my jealousy. I am horribly jealous. But I know him. He's not worth you! No man is—and he the least. He'll break your heart, drag you down, ruin your health—kill you, as sure as you stand there. I want you to know I could prove to you what he is. But don't make me. Trust me, Collie. Believe me.”

“Wilson, I do believe you,” cried Columbine. “But it doesn't make any difference. It only makes my duty harder.”

“He'll treat you like he treats a horse or a dog. He'll beat you—”

“He never will! If he ever lays a hand on me—”

“If not that, he'll tire of you. Jack Belllounds never stuck to anything in his life, and never will. It's not in him. He wants what he can't have. If he gets it, then right off he doesn't want it. Oh, I've known him since he was a kid.... Columbine, you've a mistaken sense of duty. No girl need sacrifice her all because some man found her a lost baby and gave her a home. A woman owes more to herself than to any one.”

“Oh, that's true, Wilson. I've thought it all.... But you're unjust—hard. You make no allowance for—for some possible good in every one. Dad swears I can reform Jack. Maybe I can. I'll pray for it.”

“Reform Jack Belllounds! How can you save a bad egg? That damned coward! Didn't he prove to you what he was when he jumped on me and kicked my broken foot till I fainted?... What do you want?”

“Don't say any more—please,” cried Columbine. “Oh, I'm so sorry.... I oughtn't have come.... Ben, take me home.”

“But, Collie, I love you,” frantically urged Wilson. “And he—he may love you—but he's—Collie—he's been—”

Here Moore seemed to bite his tongue, to hold back speech, to fight something terrible and desperate and cowardly in himself.

Columbine heard only his impassioned declaration of love, and to that she vibrated.

“You speak as if this was one—sided,” she burst out, as once more the gush of hot blood surged over her. “You don't love me any more than I love you. Not as much, for I'm a woman!... I love with all my heart and soul!”

Moore fell back upon the bed, spent and overcome.

“Wade, my friend, for God's sake do something,” he whispered, appealing to the hunter as if in a last hope. “Tell Collie what it'll mean for her to marry Belllounds. If that doesn't change her, then tell her what it'll mean to me. I'll never go home. I'll never leave here. If she hadn't told me she loved me then, I might have stood anything. But now I can't. It'll kill me, Wade.”

“Boy, you're talkin' flighty again,” replied Wade. “This mornin' when I come you were dreamin' an' talkin'—clean out of your head.... Well, now, you an' Collie listen. You're right an' she's right. I reckon I never run across a deal with two people fixed just like you. But that doesn't hinder me from feelin' the same about it as I'd feel about somethin' I was used to.”

He paused, and, gently releasing Columbine, he went to Moore, and retied his loosened bandage, and spread out the disarranged blankets. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed and bent over a little, running a roughened hand through the scant hair that had begun to silver upon his head. Presently he looked up, and from that sallow face, with its lines and furrows, and from the deep, inscrutable eyes, there fell a light which, however sad and wise in its infinite understanding of pain and strife, was still ruthless and unquenchable in its hope.

“Wade, for God's sake save Columbine!” importuned Wilson.

“Oh, if you only could!” cried Columbine, impelled beyond her power to resist by that prayer.

“Lass, you stand by your convictions,” he said, impressively. “An' Moore, you be a man an' don't make it so hard for her. Neither of you can do anythin'.... Now there's old Belllounds—he'll never change. He might r'ar up for this or that, but he'll never change his cherished hopes for his son.... But Jack might change! Lookin' back over all the years I remember many boys like this Buster Jack, an' I remember how in the nature of their doin's they just hanged themselves. I've a queer foresight about people whose trouble I've made my own. It's somethin' that never fails. When their trouble's goin' to turn out bad then I feel a terrible yearnin' to tell the story of Hell-Bent Wade. That foresight of trouble gave me my name.... But it's not operatin' here.... An' so, my young friends, you can believe me when I say somethin' will happen. As far as October first is concerned, or any time near, Collie isn't goin' to marry Jack Belllounds.”