“Love!” gasped Moore, breathlessly.

“Sure.  Jest love for a dog-gone lucky cowboy named Wils Moore!...  Her heart was breakin’, an’ she’d have died but for me!  Don’t imagine, Wils, that people can’t die of broken hearts.  They do.  I know.  Well, all Collie needed was me, an’ I cured her ravin’ and made her eat, an’ now she’s comin’ along fine.”

“Wade, I’ve believed in Heaven since you came down to White Slides,” burst out Moore, with shining eyes.  “But tell me—­what did you tell her?”

“Well, my particular medicine first off was to whisper in her ear that she’d never have to marry Jack Belllounds.  An’ after that I gave her daily doses of talk about you.”

“Pard!  She loves me—­still?” he whispered.

“Wils, hers is the kind that grows stronger with time.  I know.”

Moore strained in his intensity of emotion, and he clenched his fists and gritted his teeth.

“Oh God! this’s hard on me!” he cried.  “I’m a man.  I love that girl more than life.  And to know she’s suffering for love of me—­for fear of that marriage being forced upon her—­to know that while I lie here a helpless cripple—­it’s almost unbearable.”

“Boy, you’ve got to mend now.  We’ve the best of hope now—­for you—­for her—­for everythin’.”

“Wade, I think I love you, too,” said the cowboy.  “You’re saving me from madness.  Somehow I have faith in you—­to do whatever you want.  But how could you tell Collie she’d never have to marry Buster Jack?”

“Because I know she never will,” replied Wade, with his slow, gentle smile.

“You know that?”

“Sure.”

“How on earth can you prevent it?  Belllounds will never give up planning that marriage for his son.  Jack will nag Collie till she can’t call her soul her own.  Between them they will wear her down.  My friend, how can you prevent it?”

“Wils, fact is, I haven’t reckoned out how I’m goin’ to save Collie.  But that’s no matter.  Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.  I will do it.  You can gamble on me, Wils.  You must use that hope an’ faith to help you get well.  For we mustn’t forget that you’re in more danger than Collie.”

“I will gamble on you—­my life—­my very soul,” replied Moore, fervently.  “By Heaven!  I’ll be the man I might have been.  I’ll rise out of despair.  I’ll even reconcile myself to being a cripple.”

“An’, Wils, will you rise above hate?” asked Wade, softly.

“Hate!  Hate of whom?”

“Jack Belllounds.”

The cowboy stared, and his lean, pale face contracted.

“Pard, you wouldn’t—­you couldn’t expect me to—­to forgive him?”

“No.  I reckon not.  But you needn’t hate him.  I don’t.  An’ I reckon I’ve some reason, more than you could guess....  Wils, hate is a poison in the blood.  It’s worse for him who feels it than for him against whom it rages.  I know....  Well, if you put thought of Jack out of your mind—­quit broodin’ over what he did to you—­an’ realize that he’s not to blame, you’ll overcome your hate.  For the son of Old Bill is to be pitied.  Yes, Jack Belllounds needs pity.  He was ruined before he was born.  He never should have been born.  An’ I want you to understand that, an’ stop hatin’ him.  Will you try?”