To Columbine’s surprise and to the rancher’s concern the prospective bridegroom did not return from Kremmling on the second day.  When night came Belllounds reluctantly gave up looking for him.

Jack’s non-appearance suited Columbine, and she would have been glad to be let alone until October first, which date now seemed appallingly close.  On the afternoon of Jack’s third day of absence from the ranch Columbine rode out for some needed exercise.  Pronto not being available, she rode another mustang and one that kept her busy.  On the way back to the ranch she avoided the customary trail which led by the cabins of Wade and the cowboys.  Columbine had not seen one of her friends since the unfortunate visit to the Andrews ranch.  She particularly shrank from meeting Wade, which feeling was in strange contrast to her former impulses.

As she rode around the house she encountered Wilson Moore seated in a light wagon.  Her mustang reared, almost unseating her.  But she handled him roughly, being suddenly surprised and angry at this unexpected meeting with the cowboy.

“Howdy, Columbine!” greeted Wilson, as she brought the mustang to his feet.  “You’re sure learning to handle a horse—­since I left this here ranch.  Wonder who’s teaching you!  I never could get you to rake even a bronc!”

The cowboy had drawled out his admiring speech, half amused and half satiric.

“I’m—­mad!” declared Columbine.  “That’s why.”

“What’re you mad at?” queried Wilson.

She did not reply, but kept on gazing steadily at him.  Moore still looked pale and drawn, but he had improved since last she saw him.

“Aren’t you going to speak to a fellow?” he went on.

“How are you, Wils?” she asked.

“Pretty good for a club-footed has-been cow puncher.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call yourself such names,” rejoined Columbine, peevishly.  “You’re not a club-foot.  I hate that word!”

“Me, too.  Well, joking aside, I’m better.  My foot is fine.  Now, if I don’t hurt it again I’ll sure never be a club-foot.”

“You must be careful,” she said, earnestly.

“Sure.  But it’s hard for me to be idle.  Think of me lying still all day with nothing to do but read!  That’s what knocked me out.  I wouldn’t have minded the pain if I could have gotten about....  Columbine, I’ve moved in!”

“What!  Moved in?” she queried, blankly.

“Sure.  I’m in my cabin on the hill.  It’s plumb great.  Tom Andrews and Bert and your hunter Wade fixed up the cabin for me.  That Wade is sure a good fellow.  And say! what he can do with his hands!  He’s been kind to me.  Took an interest in me, and between you and me he sort of cheered me up.”

“Cheered you up!  Wils, were you unhappy?” she asked, directly.

“Well, rather.  What’d you expect of a cowboy who’d crippled himself—­and lost his girl?”

Columbine felt the smart of tingling blood in her face, and she looked from Wilson to the wagon.  It contained saddles, blankets, and other cowboy accoutrements for which he had evidently come.