"Wilson!" she called, involuntarily. The instant the name left her lips she regretted it. But too late! The cowboy halted, slowly turned.
Then Columbine walked swiftly up to him, suddenly as brave as she had been fearful. Sight of him had changed her.
"Wilson Moore, you meant to avoid me," she said, with reproach.
"Howdy, Columbine!" he drawled, ignoring her words.
"Oh, I was so sorry you were hurt!" she burst out. "And now I'm so glad--you're--you're ... Wilson, you're thin and pale--you've suffered!"
"It pulled me down a bit," he replied.
Columbine had never before seen his face anything except bronzed and lean and healthy, but now it bore testimony to pain and strain and patient endurance. He looked older. Something in the fine, dark, hazel eyes hurt her deeply.
"You never sent me word," she went on, reproachfully. "No one would tell me anything. The boys said they didn't know. Dad was angry when I asked him. I'd never have asked Jack. And the freighter who drove up--he lied to me. So I came down here to-day purposely to ask news of you, but I never dreamed you were here.... Now I'm glad I came."
What a singular, darkly kind, yet strange glance he gave her!
"That was like you, Columbine," he said. "I knew you'd feel badly about my accident. But how could I send word to you?"