Columbine heard the whisper and at the same instant a sharp footfall on the gravel road.  She quickly turned, almost losing her balance.  And she recognized Jack Belllounds.  The boy Buster Jack she remembered so well was approaching, now a young man, taller, heavier, older, with paler face and bolder look.  Columbine had feared this meeting, had prepared herself for it.  But all she felt when it came was annoyance at the fact that he had caught her sitting on top of the corral fence, with little regard for dignity.  It did not occur to her to jump down.  She merely sat straight, smoothed down her skirt, and waited.

Jim led the mustang out of the corral and Lem followed.  It looked as if they wanted to avoid the young man, but he prevented that.

“Howdy, boys!  I’m Jack Belllounds,” he said, rather loftily.  But his manner was nonchalant.  He did not offer to shake hands.

Jim mumbled something, and Lem said, “Hod do.”

“That’s an ornery—­looking bronc,” went on Belllounds, and he reached with careless hand for the mustang.  Whang jerked so hard that he pulled Jim half over.

“Wal, he ain’t a bronc, but I reckon he’s all the rest.” drawled Jim.

Both cowboys seemed slow, careless.  They were neither indifferent nor responsive.  Columbine saw their keen, steady glances go over Belllounds.  Then she took a second and less hasty look at him.  He wore high-heeled, fancy-topped boots, tight-fitting trousers of dark material, a heavy belt with silver buckle, and a white, soft shirt, with wide collar, open at the neck.  He was bareheaded.

“I’m going to run White Slides,” he said to the cowboys.  “What’re your names?”

Columbine wanted to giggle, which impulse she smothered.  The idea of any one asking Jim his name!  She had never been able to find out.

“My handle is Lemuel Archibawld Billings,” replied Lem, blandly.  The middle name was an addition no one had ever heard.

Belllounds then directed his glance and steps toward the girl.  The cowboys dropped their heads and shuffled on their way.

“There’s only one girl on the ranch,” said Belllounds, “so you must be Columbine.”

“Yes.  And you’re Jack,” she replied, and slipped off the fence.  “I’m glad to welcome you home.”

She offered her hand, and he held it until she extricated it.  There was genuine surprise and pleasure in his expression.

“Well, I’d never have known you,” he said, surveying her from head to foot.  “It’s funny.  I had the clearest picture of you in mind.  But you’re not at all like I imagined.  The Columbine I remember was thin, white-faced, and all eyes.”

“It’s been a long time.  Seven years,” she replied.  “But I knew you.  You’re older, taller, bigger, but the same Buster Jack.”

“I hope not,” he said, frankly condemning that former self.  “Dad needs me.  He wants me to take charge here—­to be a man.  I’m back now.  It’s good to be home.  I never was worth much.  Lord!  I hope I don’t disappoint him again.”