Part 19 (1/2)
”He's almost well. It took some time to pick all the splinters out of him. He'll be all right soon--none the worse for that--that cowboy trick of Mister Jack Belllounds.”
Columbine finished bitterly. Moore turned his thoughtful gaze away from her.
”I hope Old Bill is well,” he remarked, lamely.
”Have you told your folks of your accident?” asked Columbine, ignoring his remark.
”No.”
”Oh, Wilson, you ought to have sent for them, or have written at least.”
”Me? To go crying for them when I got in trouble? I couldn't see it that way.”
”Wilson, you'll be going--home--soon--to Denver--won't you?” she faltered.
”No,” he replied, shortly.
”But what will you do? Surely you can't work--not so soon?”
”Columbine, I'll never--be able to ride again--like I used to,” he said, tragically. ”I'll ride, yes, but never the old way.”
”Oh!” Columbine's tone, and the exquisite softness and tenderness with which she placed a hand on the rude crutch would have been enlightening to any one but these two absorbed in themselves. ”I can't bear to believe that.”
”I'm afraid it's true. Bad smash, Columbine! I just missed being club-footed.”
”You should have care. You should have.... Wilson, do you intend to stay here with the Andrews?”
”Not much. They have troubles of their own. Columbine, I'm going to homestead one hundred and sixty acres.”
”Homestead!” she exclaimed, in amaze. ”Where?”
”Up there under Old White Slides. I've long intended to. You know that pretty little valley under the red bluff. There's a fine spring. You've been there with me. There by the old cabin built by prospectors?”
”Yes, I know. It's a pretty place--fine valley, but Wils, you can't _live_ there,” she expostulated.
”Why not, I'd like to know?”
”That little cubby-hole! It's only a tiny one-room cabin, roof all gone, c.h.i.n.ks open, chimney crumbling.... Wilson, you don't mean to tell me you want to live there alone?”
”Sure. What'd you think?” he replied, with sarcasm.
”Expect me to _marry_ some girl? Well, I wouldn't, even if any one would have a cripple.”
”Who--who will take care of you?” she asked, blus.h.i.+ng 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--and _live_ there--when--”