But Wade knew.

He pitied them, he thrilled for them, he lived their torture with them.
"Tell me--everything," said Columbine, impulsively.
Moore, with dragging step, approached an aspen log that lay off the ground, propped by the stump, and here he leaned for support.

Columbine laid her gloves on the log.
"There's nothing to tell that you don't know," replied Moore.

"I wrote you all there was to write, except"-- here he dropped his head--"except that the last three weeks have been hell." "They've not been exactly heaven for me," replied Columbine, with a little laugh that gave Wade a twinge.
Then the lovers began to talk about spring coming, about horses and cattle, and feed, about commonplace ranch matters not interesting to them, but which seemed to make conversation and hide their true thoughts.

Wade listened, and it seemed to him that he could read their hearts.
"Lass, an' you, Wils--you're wastin' time an' gettin' nowhere," interposed Wade.