“Now, lass, that’s no way for a woman,” said Wade, and there was something in his kind tone, in his look, in his presence, that calmed Columbine.  “I’ll look after Moore.  You go get some water an’ a towel.”

Columbine rose to totter into the house.  She saw a red stain on the hand she had laid upon the cowboy’s face, and with a strange, hot, bursting sensation, strong and thrilling, she put that red place to her lips.  Running out with the things required by Wade, she was in time to hear the rancher say, “Looks hurt bad, to me.”

“Yes, I reckon,” replied Wade.

While Columbine held Moore’s head upon her lap the hunter bathed the bloody face.  It was battered and bruised and cut, and in some places, as fast as Wade washed away the red, it welled out again.

Columbine watched that quiet face, while her heart throbbed and swelled with emotions wholly beyond her control and understanding.  When at last Wilson opened his eyes, fluttering at first, and then wide, she felt a surge that shook her whole body.  He smiled wanly at her, and at Wade, and then his gaze lifted to Belllounds.

“I guess—­he licked me,” he said, in weak voice.  “He kept kicking my sore foot—­till I fainted.  But he licked me—­all right.”

“Wils, mebbe he did lick you,” replied the old rancher, brokenly, “but I reckon he’s damn little to be proud of—­lickin’ a crippled man—­thet way.”

“Boss, Jack’d been drinking,” said Moore, weakly.  “And he sure had—­some excuse for going off his head.  He caught me—­talking sweet to Columbine ... and then—­I called him all the names—­I could lay my tongue to.”

“Ahuh!” The old man seemed at a loss for words, and presently he turned away, sagging in the shoulders, and plodded into the house.

The cowboy, supported by Wade on one side, with Columbine on the other, was helped to an upright position, and with considerable difficulty was gotten into the wagon.  He tried to sit up, but made a sorry showing of it.

“I’ll drive him home an’ look after him,” said Wade.  “Now, Miss Collie, you’re upset, which ain’t no wonder.  But now you brace.  It might have been worse.  Just you go to your room till you’re sure of yourself again.”

Moore smiled another wan smile at her.  “I’m sorry,” he said.

“What for?  Me?” she asked.

“I mean I’m sorry I was so infernal unlucky—­running into you—­and bringing all this distress—­to you.  It was my fault.  If I’d only kept—­my mouth shut!”

“You need not be sorry you met me,” she said, with her eyes straight upon his.  “I’m glad....  But oh! if your foot is badly hurt I’ll never—­never—­’

“Don’t say it,” interrupted Wilson.

“Lass, you’re bent on doin’ somethin’,” said Wade, in his gentle voice.

“Bent?” she echoed, with something deep and rich in her voice.  “Yes, I’m bent—­bent like your name—­to speak my mind!”