friendship.

"No. Somebody said Denver. Some one else said Kansas City. I never asked
dad, because I knew Jack had been sent away. I've supposed he was
working--making a man of himself."

"Well, I hope to Heaven--for your sake--what you suppose comes true,"
returned Moore, with exceeding bitterness.

"Do _you_ know where he has been?" asked Columbine. Some strange feeling
prompted that. There was a mystery here. Wilson's agitation seemed
strange and deep.

"Yes, I do." The cowboy bit that out through closing teeth, as if
locking them against an almost overmastering temptation.

Columbine lost her curiosity. She was woman enough to realize that there
might well be facts which would only make her situation harder.

"Wilson," she began, hurriedly, "I owe all I am to dad. He has cared for
me--sent me to school. He has been so good to me. I've loved him always.
It would be a shabby return for all his protection and love if--if I
refused--"

"Old Bill is the best man ever," interrupted Moore, as if to repudiate
any hint of disloyalty to his employer. "Everybody in Middle Park and
all over owes Bill something. He's sure good. There never was anything
wrong with him except his crazy blindness about his son. Buster
Jack--the--the--"