thief!" rang Columbine's voice, high and
clear.

"Ahuh! Well, go on," said Wade.

"Jack has taken money from rustlers--_for cattle stolen from his
father!_"

Wade felt the lift of her passion, and he vibrated to it.

"Reckon that's no news to me," he replied.

Then she quivered up to a strong and passionate delivery of the thing
that had transformed her.

"I'M GOING TO MARRY JACK BELLLOUNDS!"

Wilson Moore leaped toward her with a cry, to be held back by Wade's
hand.

"Now, Collie," he soothed, "tell us all about it."

Columbine, still upheld by the strength of her spirit, related how she
had ridden out the day before, early in the afternoon, in the hope of
meeting Wade. She rode over the sage hills, along the edges of the aspen
benches, everywhere that she might expect to meet or see the hunter,
but as he did not appear, and as she was greatly desirous of talking
with him, she went on up into the woods, following the line of the
Buffalo Park trail, though keeping aside from it. She rode very slowly
and cautiously, remembering Wade's instructions. In this way she
ascended the aspen benches, and the spruce-bordered ridges, and then the
first rise of the black forest. Finally she had gone farther than ever
before and farther than was wise.

When she was about to turn back she heard the thud of hoofs ahead of
her. Pronto shot up his ears. Alarmed and anxious, Columbine swiftly
gazed about her. It would not do for her to be seen. Yet, on the other
hand, the chances were that the approaching horse carried Wade. It was
lucky that she was on Pronto, for he could be trusted to stand still and
not neigh. Columbine rode into a thick clump of spruces that had long,
shelving branches, reaching down. Here she hid, holding Pronto
motionless.

Presently the sound of hoofs denoted the approach of several horses.
That augmented Columbine's anxiety. Peering out of her covert, she
espied three horsemen trotting along the trail, and one of them was Jack
Belllounds. They appeared to be in strong argument, judging from
gestures and emphatic movements of their heads. As chance would have it
they halted their horses not half a dozen rods from Columbine's place of
concealment. The two men with Belllounds were rough-looking, one of
them, evidently a leader, having a dark face disfigured by a
horrible scar.

Naturally they did not talk loud, and Columbine had to strain her ears
to catch anything. But a word distinguished here and