The girl watched him come, conscious of an unfamiliar sense of
uncertainty in this meeting, and of the fact that she was seeing him
differently from any other time in the years he had been a playmate, a
friend, almost like a brother. He had ridden for Belllounds for years,
and was a cowboy because he loved cattle well and horses better, and
above all a life in the open. Unlike most cowboys, he had been to
school; he had a family in Denver that objected to his wild range life,
and often importuned him to come home; he seemed aloof sometimes and not
readily understood.

While many thoughts whirled through Columbine's mind she watched the
cowboy ride slowly down to her, and she became more concerned with a
sudden restraint. How was Wilson going to take the news of this forced
change about to come in her life? That thought leaped up. It gave her a
strange pang. But she and he were only good friends. As to that, she
reflected, of late they had not been the friends and comrades they
formerly were. In the thrilling uncertainty of this meeting she had
forgotten his distant manner and the absence of little attentions she
had missed.

By this time the cowboy had reached the level, and with the lazy grace
of his kind slipped out of the saddle. He was tall, slim, round-limbed,
with the small hips of a rider, and square, though not broad shoulders.
He stood straight like an Indian. His eyes were hazel, his features
regular, his face bronzed. All men of the open had still, lean, strong
faces, but added to this in him was a steadiness of expression, a
restraint that seemed to hide sadness.

"Howdy, Columbine!" he said. "What are you doing up here? You might get
run over."