“Mornin’, Columbine,” replied the rancher.

Bent Wade’s heart leaped up.  This girlish voice rang upon the chord of memory.  Wade had not the strength to look at her then.  It was not that he could not bear to look, but that he could not bear the disillusion sure to follow his first glimpse of this adopted daughter of Belllounds.  Sweet to delude himself!  Ah! the years were bearing sterner upon his head!  The old dreams persisted, sadder now for the fact that from long use they had become half-realities!  Wade shuffled slowly across the green square to where the cowboy waited for him.  His eyes were dim, and a sickness attended the sinking of his heart.

“Wade, I ain’t a bettin’ fellar, but I’ll bet Old Bill took you up,” vouchsafed Billings, with interest.

“Glad to say he did,” replied Wade.  “You’re to show me the new cabin where I’m to bunk.”

“Come along,” said Lem, leading off.  “Air you agoin’ to handle stock or chase coyotes?”

“My job’s huntin’.”

“Wal, it may be thet from sunup to sundown, but between times you’ll be sure busy otherwise, I opine,” went on Lem.  “Did you meet the boss’s son?”

“Yes, he was there.  An’ Belllounds made it plain I was to take orders from him an’ not from his son.”

“Thet’ll make your job a million times easier,” declared Lem, as if to make up for former hasty pessimism.  He led the way past some log cabins, and sheds with dirt roofs, and low, flat-topped barns, out across another brook where willow-trees were turning yellow.  Then the new cabin came into view.  It was small, with one door and one window, and a porch across the front.  It stood on a small elevation, near the swift brook, and overlooking the ranch-house perhaps a quarter of a mile below.  Above it, and across the brook, had been built a high fence constructed of aspen poles laced closely together.  The sounds therefrom proclaimed this stockade to be the dog-pen.

Lem helped Wade unpack and carry his outfit into the cabin.  It contained one room, the corner of which was filled with blocks and slabs of pine, evidently left there after the construction of the cabin, and meant for fire-wood.  The ample size of the stone fireplace attested to the severity of the winters.

“Real sawed boards on the floor!” exclaimed Lem, meaning to impress the new-comer.  “I call this a plumb good bunk.”

“Much too good for me,” replied Wade.

“Wal, I’ll look after your hosses,” said Lem.  “I reckon you’ll fix up your bunk.  Take my hunch an’ ask Miss Collie to find you some furniture an’ sich like.  She’s Ole Bill’s daughter, an’ she makes up fer—­fer—­wal, fer a lot we hev to stand.  I’ll fetch the boys over later.”

“Do you smoke?” asked Wade.  “I’ve somethin’ fine I fetched up from Leadville.”

“Smoke!  Me?  I’ll give you a hoss right now for a cigar.  I git one onct a year, mebbe.”

“Here’s a box I’ve been packin’ for long,” replied Wade, as he handed it up to Billings.  “They’re Spanish, all right.  Too rich for my blood!”