“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, chinks 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, blushing 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—­”

She could not finish.  An overwhelming disaster, for which she had no name, seemed to be impending.

“Yes, I am,” he replied.  “Funny how things turn out, isn’t it?”

“It’s very—­very funny,” she said, dazedly, and she turned slowly away without another word.

“Good-by, Columbine,” he called out after her, with farewell, indeed, in his voice.

All the way home Columbine was occupied with feelings that swayed her to the exclusion of rational consideration of the increasing perplexity of her situation.  And to make matters worse, when she arrived at the ranch it was to meet Jack Belllounds with a face as black as a thunder-cloud.

“The old man wants to see you,” he announced, with an accent that recalled his threat of a few hours back.

“Does he?” queried Columbine, loftily.  “From the courteous way you speak I imagine it’s important.”