Kremmlin', an' he'll be hyar to-night or to-morrow."

"But--I--I don't l-love him," faltered Columbine.

The old man lost his mirth; the strong-lined face resumed its hard cast;
the big eyes smoldered. Her appealing objection had wounded him. She was
reminded of how sensitive the old man had always been to any reflection
cast upon his son.

"Wal, thet's onlucky;" he replied, gruffly. "Mebbe you'll change. I
reckon no girl could help a boy much, onless she cared for him. Anyway,
you an' Jack will marry."

He had stalked away and Columbine had ridden her mustang far up the
valley slope where she could be alone. Standing on the verge of the
bluff, she suddenly became aware that the quiet and solitude of her
lonely resting-place had been disrupted. Cattle were bawling below her
and along the slope of old White Slides and on the grassy uplands above.
She had forgotten that the cattle were being driven down into the
lowlands for the fall round-up. A great red-and-white-spotted herd was
milling in the park just beneath her. Calves and yearlings were making
the dust fly along the mountain slope; wild old steers were crashing in
the sage, holding level, unwilling to be driven down; cows were running
and lowing for their lost ones. Melodious and clear rose the clarion
calls of the cowboys. The cattle knew those calls and only the wild
steers kept up-grade.

Columbine also knew each call and to which cowboy it belonged. They sang
and yelled and swore, but it was all music to her. Here and there along
the slope, where the aspen groves clustered, a horse would flash across