The most exquisite and finest of these columbines hid in the shaded nooks, star-sweet in the silent gloom of the woods.
Wade's last few whispered words to Moore had been interpreted that the hunter desired to be buried among the columbines in the aspen grove on the slope above Sage Valley.

Here, then, had been made his grave.
* * * * * One day Belllounds sent Columbine to fetch Moore down to White Slides.
It was a warm, Indian-summer afternoon, and the old rancher sat out on the porch in his shirt-sleeves.

His hair was white now, but no other change was visible in him.

No restraint attended his greeting to the cowboy.
"Wils, I reckon I'd be glad if you'd take your old job as foreman of White Slides," he said.
"Are you asking me ?" queried Moore, eagerly.
"Wal, I reckon so." "Yes, I'll come," replied the cowboy.
"What'll your dad say ?" "I don't know.

That worries me.