“Suit yourself, lass,” replied Mrs. Andrews, kindly.  “I know you and Wils quarreled, for he told me.  An’ it’s a pity....  Wal, if you must go, I hope you’ll come again before the snow flies.  Good-by.”

Columbine bade her a hurried good-by and ventured forth with misgivings.  And almost around the corner of the second cabin, which she had to pass, and before she had time to recover her composure, she saw Wilson Moore, hobbling along on a crutch, holding a bandaged foot off the ground.  He had seen her; he was hurrying to avoid a meeting, or to get behind the corrals there before she observed him.

“Wilson!” she called, involuntarily.  The instant the name left her lips she regretted it.  But too late!  The cowboy halted, slowly turned.

Then Columbine walked swiftly up to him, suddenly as brave as she had been fearful.  Sight of him had changed her.

“Wilson Moore, you meant to avoid me,” she said, with reproach.

“Howdy, Columbine!” he drawled, ignoring her words.

“Oh, I was so sorry you were hurt!” she burst out.  “And now I’m so glad—­you’re—­you’re ...  Wilson, you’re thin and pale—­you’ve suffered!”

“It pulled me down a bit,” he replied.

Columbine had never before seen his face anything except bronzed and lean and healthy, but now it bore testimony to pain and strain and patient endurance.  He looked older.  Something in the fine, dark, hazel eyes hurt her deeply.

“You never sent me word,” she went on, reproachfully.  “No one would tell me anything.  The boys said they didn’t know.  Dad was angry when I asked him.  I’d never have asked Jack.  And the freighter who drove up—­he lied to me.  So I came down here to-day purposely to ask news of you, but I never dreamed you were here....  Now I’m glad I came.”

What a singular, darkly kind, yet strange glance he gave her!

“That was like you, Columbine,” he said.  “I knew you’d feel badly about my accident.  But how could I send word to you?”

“You saved—­Pronto,” she returned, with a strong tremor in her voice.  “I can’t thank you enough.”

“That was a funny thing.  Pronto went out of his head.  I hope he’s all right.”

“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.