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In his day he was a real man.... Let him have the consolation that you faced Hell-Bent Wade an' died in your boots!" "I can't fight you!" panted Belllounds. "I know now!... I saw you throw a gun! It wouldn't be fair!" "But I'll make you fight me," returned Wade, in steely tones. "I'm givin' you a chance to dig up a little manhood. Askin' you to meet me man to man!
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.
You " Suddenly she shrank back with a strong shudder. She gasped. Her face grew ghastly white. "Oh, my God! ... horrible unspeakable!"... She covered her face with her hands, and every muscle of her seemed to contract until she was stiff. Then her hands shot out to Moore. "Wilson Moore, what have you to say to this sheriff to Jack Belllounds to me?"
"It do beat hell what can happen!... Stranger, will you put up your hosses an' stay?" "I'm lookin' for work," replied Wade. It was then that mention was made of Belllounds sending to Meeker for hands. "Old Bill Belllounds thet settled Middle Park an' made friends with the Utes," said Wade, as if certain of his facts. "Yep, you have Bill to rights. Do you know him?"
The cowboys and the rancher's son were about to engage in a game of poker when Wade entered the dimly lighted, smoke-hazed room. Montana Jim was sticking tallow candles in the middle of a rude table; Lem was searching his clothes, manifestly for money; Bludsoe shuffled a greasy deck of cards, and Jack Belllounds was filling his pipe before a fire of blazing logs on the hearth. "Dog-gone it!
His was the epitome of a successful rancher, sure in his opinions, speaking proudly and unreflectingly of his own son, and being just to another man. Wade bowed and backed out of the door. "Sure that's what I'd reckon you'd say, Belllounds.... I'll drop in on you if I find any sign in the woods. Good night."
It came from Wade calling the hounds. He had returned, and the fact stirred her. "I'm to marry Jack Belllounds on October first." The cowboy raised himself up as far as he was able. It was agonizing for Columbine to watch the changing and whitening of his face! "No no!" he gasped. "Yes, it's true," she replied, hopelessly. "No!" he exclaimed, hoarsely. "But, Wilson, I tell you yes.
"They'll find out who's boss. Oh, I'm aching to get into boots and ride and tear around." Belllounds stroked his grizzled beard and regarded his son with mingled pride and doubt. Not at this moment, most assuredly, could he get away from the wonderful fact that his only son was home. "Thet's all right, son. But you've been off the range fer three years. You'll need advice. Now listen.
And I'm giving you notice you won't last long at White Slides." "Neither will you!" Belllounds turned dead white, not apparently from fury or fear, but from a shock that had its birth within the deep, mysterious, emotional reachings of his mind. He was utterly astounded, as if confronting a vague, terrible premonition of the future.
"Collie," the old man had said, "I reckon hyar's news. A letter from Jack.... He's comin' home." Belllounds had waved the letter. His huge hand trembled as he reached to put it on her shoulder. The hardness of him seemed strangely softened. Jack was his son. Buster Jack, the range had always called him, with other terms, less kind, that never got to the ears of his father.
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