on you--my life--my very soul," replied Moore,
fervently. "By Heaven! I'll be the man I might have been. I'll rise out
of despair. I'll even reconcile myself to being a cripple."

"An', Wils, will you rise above hate?" asked Wade, softly.

"Hate! Hate of whom?"

"Jack Belllounds."

The cowboy stared, and his lean, pale face contracted.

"Pard, you wouldn't--you couldn't expect me to--to forgive him?"

"No. I reckon not. But you needn't hate him. I don't. An' I reckon I've
some reason, more than you could guess.... Wils, hate is a poison in the
blood. It's worse for him who feels it than for him against whom it
rages. I know.... Well, if you put thought of Jack out of your
mind--quit broodin' over what he did to you--an' realize that he's not
to blame, you'll overcome your hate. For the son of Old Bill is to be
pitied. Yes, Jack Belllounds needs pity. He was ruined before he was
born. He never should have been born. An' I want you to understand that,
an' stop hatin' him. Will you try?"

"Wade, you're afraid I'll kill him?" whispered Moore.

"Sure. That's it. I'm afraid you might. An' consider how hard that
would be for Columbine. She an' Jack were raised sister an' brother,
almost. It would be hard on her. You see, Collie has a strange an'
powerful sense of duty to Old Bill. If you killed Jack it would likely
kill the old man, an' Collie would suffer all her life. You couldn't
cure her of that. You want her to be happy."

"I do--I do. Wade, I swear I'll never kill Buster Jack. And for Collie's
sake I'll try not to hate him."

"Well, that's fine. I'm sure glad to hear you promise that. Now I'll go
out an' chop some wood. We mustn't let the fire go out any more."

"Pard, I'll write another note--a letter to Collie. Hand me the
blank-book there. And my pencil.... And don't hurry with the wood."

Wade went outdoors with his two-bladed ax and shovel. The wood-pile was
a great mound of snow. He cleaned a wide space and a path to the side of
the cabin. Working in snow was not unpleasant for him. He liked the
cleanness, the whiteness, the absolute purity of new-fallen snow. The
air was crisp and nipping, the frost crackled under his feet, the smoke
from his pipe seemed no thicker than the steam from his breath, the ax
rang on the hard aspens. Wade swung this implement like a born woodsman.
The chips flew and the dead wood smelled sweet. Some logs he chopped
into three-foot pieces; others he chopped and split. When