CHAPTER XVIII
Wade's wounds were not in any way serious, and with Belllounds'sassistance he got to the cabin of Lewis, where weakness from loss ofblood made it necessary that he remain. Belllounds went home.
The next day Wade sent Lewis with pack-horse down to the rustler'scabin, to bury the dead men and fetch back their effects. Lewis returnedthat night, accompanied by Sheriff Burley and two deputies, who had beenbusy on their own account. They had followed horse tracks from thewater-hole under Gore Peak to the scene of the fight, and had arrived tofind Lewis there. Burley had appropriated the considerable amount ofgold, which he said could be identified by cattlemen who had bought thestolen cattle.
When opportunity afforded Burley took advantage of it to speak to Wadewhen the others were out of earshot.
"Thar was another man in thet cabin when the fight come off," announcedthe sheriff. "An' he come up hyar with you."
"Jim, you're locoed," replied Wade.
The sheriff laughed, and his shrewd eyes had a kindly, curious gleam.
"Next you'll be givin' me a hunch thet you're in a fever an' out of yourhead."
"Jim, I'm not as clear-headed as I might be."
"Wal, tell me or not, jest as you like. I seen his tracks--folleredthem. An' Wade, old pard, I've reckoned long ago thar's a nigger in thewood-pile."
"Sure. An' you know me. I'd take it friendly of you to put Moore's trialoff fer a while--till I'm able to ride to Krernmlin'. Maybe then I cantell you a story."
Burley threw up his hands in genuine apprehension. "Not much! You ain'tagoin' to tell _me_ no story!... But I'll wait on you, an' welcome.Reckon I owe you a good deal on this rustler round-up. Wade, thet musthave been a man-sized fight, even fer you. I picked up twenty-six emptyshells. An' the little half-breed had one empty shell an' five loadedones in his gun. You must have got him quick. Hey?"
"Jim, I'm observin' you're a heap more curious than ever, an' you alwayswas an inquisitive cuss," complained Wade. "I don't recollect whathappened."
"Wal, wal, have it your own way," replied Burley, with good nature."Now, Wade, I'll pitch camp hyar in the park to-night, an' to-morrerI'll ride down to White Slides on my way to Kremmlin'. What're youwantin' me to tell Belllounds?"
The hunter pondered a moment.
"Reckon it's just as well that you tell him somethin'.... You can saythe rustlers are done for an' that he'll get his stock back. I'd likeyou to tell him that the rustlers were more to blame than Wils Moore.Just say that an' nothin' else about Wils. Don't mention about yoursuspectin' there was another man around when the fight come off.... Tellthe cowboys that I'll be down in a few days. An' if you happen to get achance for a word alone with Miss Collie, just say I'm not bad hurt an'that all will be well."
"Ahuh!" Burley grunted out the familiar exclamation. He did not say anymore then, but he gazed thoughtfully down upon the pale hunter, as ifthat strange individual was one infinitely to respect, but never tocomprehend.
* * * * *
Wade's wounds healed quickly; nevertheless, it was more than severaldays before he felt spirit enough to undertake the ride. He had toreturn to White Slides, but he was reluctant to do so. Memory of JackBelllounds dragged at him, and when he drove it away it continuallyreturned. This feeling was almost equivalent to an augmentation of hisgloomy foreboding, which ever hovered on the fringe of hisconsciousness. But one morning he started early, and, riding veryslowly, with many rests, he reached the Sage Valley cabin before sunset.Moore saw him coming, yelled his delight and concern, and almost liftedhim off the horse. Wade was too tired to talk much, but he allowedhimself to be fed and put to bed and worked over.
"Boot's on the other foot now, pard," said Moore, with delight at theprospect of returning service. "Say, you're all shot up! And it's Iwho'll be nurse!"
"Wils, I'll be around to-morrow," replied the hunter. "Have you heardany news from down below?"
"Sure. I've met Lem every night."
Then he related Burley's version of Wade's fight with the rustlers inthe cabin. From the sheriff's lips the story gained much. Old BillBelllounds had received the news in a singular mood; he offered noencomiums to the victor; contrary to his usual custom of lauding everyachievement of labor or endurance, he now seemed almost to regret theaffray. Jack Belllounds had returned from Kremmling and he was presentwhen Burley brought news of the rustlers. What he thought none of thecowboys vouchsafed to say, but he was drunk the next day, and he lost ahandful of gold to them. Never had he gambled so recklessly. Indeed, itwas as if he hated the gold he lost. Little had been seen of Columbine,but little was sufficient to make the cowboys feel concern.
Wade made scarcely any comment upon this news from the ranch; next day,however, he was up, and caring for himself, and he told Moore about thefight and how he had terrorized Belllounds and exhorted thepromises from him.
"Never in God's world will Buster Jack live up to those promises!" criedMoore, with absolute conviction. "I know him, Ben. He meant them when hemade them. He'd swear his soul away--then next day he'd lie or forgetor betray."
"I'm not believin' that till I know," replied the hunter, gloomily. "ButI'm afraid of him.... I've known bad men to change. There's a grain ofgood in all men--somethin' divine. An' it comes out now an' then. Menrise on steppin'-stones of their dead selves to higher things!... Thisis Belllounds's chance for the good in him. If it's not there he will doas you say. If it is--that scare he had will be the turnin'-point in hislife. I'm hopin', but I'm afraid."
"Ben, you wait and see," said Moore, earnestly. "Heaven knows I'm notone to lose hope for my fellowmen--hope for the higher things you'vetaught me.... But human nature is human nature. Jack _can't_ give Collieup, just the same as I _can't_. That's self-preservation as wellas love."
* * * * *
The day came when Wade walked down to White Slides. There seemed to be afever in his blood, which he tried to convince himself was a result ofhis wounds instead of the condition of his mind. It was Sunday, a day ofsunshine and squall, of azure-blue sky, and great, sailing, purpleclouds. The sage of the hills glistened and there was a sweetness inthe air.
The cowboys made much of Wade. But the old rancher, seeing him from theporch, abruptly went into the house. No one but Wade noticed thisomission of courtesy. Directly, Columbine appeared, waving her hand, andrunning to meet him.
"Dad saw you. He told me to come out and excuse him.... Oh, Ben, I'm sohappy to see you! You don't look hurt at all. What a fight you had!...Oh, I was sick! But let me forget that.... How are you? And how's Wils?"
Thus she babbled until out of breath.
"Collie, it's sure good to see you," said Wade, feeling the old, richthrill at her presence. "I'm comin' on tolerable well. I wasn't badhurt, but I bled a lot. An' I reckon I'm older 'n I was when packin'gun-shot holes was nothin'. Every year tells. Only a man doesn't knowtill after.... An' how are you, Collie?"
Her blue eyes clouded, and a tremor changed the expression of her sweetlips.
"I am unhappy, Ben," she said. "But what could we expect? It might beworse. For instance, you might have been killed. I've much to bethankful for."
"I reckon so. We all have.... I fetched a message from Wils, but Ioughtn't tell it."
"Please do," she begged, wistfully.
"Well, Wils says, tell Collie I love her every day more an' more, an'that my love keeps up my courage an' my belief in God, an' if she evermarries Jack Belllounds she can come up to visit my grave among thecolumbines on the hill."
Strange how Wade experienced comfort in thus torturing her! She wasrosy at the beginning of his speech and white at its close. "Oh, it'strue! it's true!" she whispered. "It'll kill him, as it will me!"
"Cheer up, Columbine," said Wade. "It's a long time till Augustthirteenth.... An' now tell me, why did Old Bill run when he sawme comin'?"
"Ben, I suspect dad has the queerest notion you want to tell him someawful bloody story about the rustle
rs."
"Ahuh! Well, not yet.... An' how's Jack Belllounds actin' these days?"
Wade felt the momentousness of that query, but it seemed her face hadbeen telltale enough, without confirmation of words.
"My friend, somehow I hate to tell you. You're always so hopeful, soready to think good instead of evil.... But Jack has been rough with me,almost brutal. He was drunk once. Every day he drinks, sometimes alittle, sometimes more. But drink changes him. And it's dragging daddown. Dad doesn't say so, yet I feel he's afraid of what will comenext.... Jack has nagged me to marry him right off. He wanted to the dayhe came back from Kremmling. He's eager to leave White Slides. Dad knowsthat, also, and it worries him. But of course I refused."
The presence of Columbine, so vivid and sweet and stirring, and allabout her the sunlight, the golden gleams on the sage hills, and Wade'sheart and brain and spirit sustained a subtle transformation. It was asif what had been beautiful with light had suddenly, strangely darkened.Then Wade imagined he stood alone in a gloomy house, which was his ownheart, and he was listening to the arrival of a tragic messenger whosefoot sounded heavy on the stairs, whose hand turned slowly upon theknob, whose gray presence opened the door and crossed the threshold.
"Buster Jack didn't break off with you, Collie?" asked the hunter.
"Break off with me!... No, indeed! Whatever possessed you to say that?"
"An' he didn't offer to give you up to Wils Moore?"
"Ben, are you crazy?" cried Columbine.
"Collie; listen. I'll tell you." The old urge knocked at Wade's mind."Buster Jack was in the cabin, gamblin' with the rustlers, when Icornered them. You remember I meant to scare Buster Jack within an inchof his life? Well, I made use of my opportunity. I worked up therustlers. Then I told Jack I'd give away his secret. He made to jump an'run, I reckon. But he hadn't the nerve. I shot a piece out of his ear,just to begin the fun. An' then I told the rustlers how Jack haddouble-crossed them. Folsom, the boss rustler, roared like a mad steer.He was wild to kill Jack. He begged for a gun to shoot out Jack's eyes.An' so were the other rustlers burnin' to kill him. Bad outfit. Therewas a fight, which, I'm bound to confess, was not short an' sweet. Therewas a lot of shootin'. An' in a cabin gun-shots almost lift the roof.Folsom was on his knees, dyin', wavin' his gun, whisperin' in fiendishglee that he had done for me. When he saw Jack an' remembered he shookso with fury that he scattered blood all over. An' he took long aim atJack, tryin' to steady his gun. He couldn't, an' he missed, an' thenfell over dead with his head on Jack's knees. That left the red-beardedrustler, who had hid behind the chimney. Jack watched the rest of thatfight, an' for a youngster it must have been nerve-rackin'. I broke therustler's arm, an' then his knee, an' then I got him in the hip two moretimes before he hobbled out to his finish. He'd shot me upconsiderable, so that when I braced Jack I must have been a hair-raisin'sight. I made Jack believe I meant to murder him. He begged an' cried,an' he got to prayin' for his life for your sake. It was sickenin', butit was what I wanted. So then I made him swear he'd free you an' giveyou up to Moore."
"Oh! Oh, Ben, how awful!" whispered Columbine, shuddering. "How _could_you tell me such a horrible story?"
"Reckon I wanted you to know how Jack come to make the promises an' whatthey were."
"Promises! What are promises or oaths to Jack Belllounds?" she cried, inpassionate contempt. "You wasted your breath. Coward--liar that he is!"
"Ahuh!" Wade looked straight ahead of him as if he saw some expected andunpleasant thing far in the distance. Then with irresistible steps,neither swift nor slow, but ponderous, he strode to the porch andmounted the steps.
"Why, Ben, where are you going?" called Columbine, in surprise, as shefollowed him.
He did not answer. He approached the closed door of the living-room.
"Ben!" cried Columbine, in alarm.
But he had no reply for her--indeed, no thought of her. Withoutknocking, he opened the door with rude and powerful hand, and, stridingin, closed it after him.
Bill Belllounds was standing, back against the great stone chimney, armsfolded, a stolid and grim figure, apparently fortified against anintrusion he had expected.
"Wal, what do you want?" he asked, gruffly. He had sensed catastrophe inthe first sight of the hunter.
"Belllounds, I reckon I want a hell of a lot," replied Wade. "An' I'maskin' you to see we're not disturbed."
"Bar the door."
Wade dropped the bar in place, and then, removing his sombrero, he wipedhis moist brow.
"Do you see an enemy in me?" he asked, curiously.
"Speakin' out fair, Wade, there ain't any reason I can see that you'rean enemy to me," replied Belllounds. "But I feel somethin'. It ain'tbecause I'm takin' my son's side. It's more than that. A queer feelin',an' one I never had before. I got it first when you told the story ofthe Gunnison feud."
"Belllounds, we can't escape our fates. An' it was written long ago Iwas to tell you a worse an' harder story than that."
"Wal, mebbe I'll listen an' mebbe I won't. I ain't promisin', thesedays."
"Are you goin' to make Collie marry Jack?" demanded the hunter.
"She's willin'."
"You know that's not true. Collie's willin' to sacrifice love, honor,an' life itself, to square her debt to you."
The old rancher flushed a burning red, and in his eyes flared a spiritof earlier years.
"Wade, you can go too far," he warned. "I'm appreciatin' yourgood-heartedness. It sort of warms me toward you.... But this is mybusiness. You've no call to interfere. You've done that too muchalready. An' I'm reckonin' Collie would be married to Jack now if ithadn't been for you."
"Ahuh!... That's why I'm thankin' God I happened along to White Slides.Belllounds, your big mistake is thinkin' your son is good enough forthis girl. An' you're makin' mistakes about me. I've interfered here,an' you may take my word for it I had the right."
"Strange talk, Wade, but I'll make allowances."
"You needn't. I'll back my talk.... But, first, I'm askin' you--an' ifthis talk hurts, I'm sorry--why don't you give some of your love foryour no-good Buster Jack to Collie?"
Belllounds clenched his huge fists and glared. Anger leaped within him.He recognized in Wade an outspoken, bitter adversary to his cherishedhopes for his son and his stubborn, precious pride.
"By Heaven! Wade, I'll--"
"Belllounds, I can make you swallow that kind of talk," interruptedWade. "It's man to man now. An' I'm a match for you any day. Savvy?...Do you think I'm damn fool enough to come here an' brace you unless Iknew that. Talk to me as you'd talk about some other man's son."
"It ain't possible," rejoined the rancher, stridently.
"Then listen to me first.... Your son Jack, to say the least, will ruinCollie. Do you see that?"
"By Gawd! I'm afraid so," groaned Belllounds, big in his humiliation."But it's my one last bet, an' I'm goin' to play it."
"Do you know marryin' him will _kill_ her?"
"What!... You're overdoin' your fears, Wade. Women don't die so easy."
"Some of them die, an' Collie's one that will, _if_ she ever marriesJack."
"_If_!... Wal, she's goin' to."
"We don't agree," said Wade, curtly.
"Are you runnin' my family?"
"No. But I'm runnin' a large-sized _if_ in this game. You'll admit thatpresently.... Belllounds, you make me mad. You don't meet me man toman. You're not the Bill Belllounds of old. Why, all over this state ofColorado you're known as the whitest of the white. Your name's a bywordfor all that's square an' big an' splendid. But you're so blinded byyour worship of that wild boy that you're another man in all pertainin'to him. I don't want to harp on his short-comm's. I'm for the girl. Shedoesn't love him. She can't. She will only drag herself down an' die ofa broken heart.... Now, I'm askin' you, before it's too late--give upthis marriage."
"Wade! I've shot men for less than you've said!" thundered the rancher,beside himself with rage and shame.
"Ahuh! I reckon y
ou have. But not men like me.... I tell you, straightto your face, it's a fool deal you're workin'--a damn selfish one--adirty job, to put on an innocent, sweet girl--an' as sure as you standthere, if you do it, you'll ruin four lives!"
"Four!" exclaimed Belllounds. But any word would have expressed hishumiliation.
"I should have said three, leavin' Jack out. I meant Collie's an' yoursan' Wils Moore's."
"Moore's is about ruined already, I've a hunch."
"You can get hunches you never dreamed of, Belllounds, old as you are.An' I'll give you one presently.... But we drift off. Can't youkeep cool?"
"Cool! With you rantin' hell-bent for election? Haw! Raw!... Wade,you're locoed. You always struck me queer.... An' if you'll excuse me,I'm gettin' tired of this talk. We're as far apart as the poles. An' tosave what good feelin's we both have, let's quit."
"You don't love Collie, then?" queried Wade, imperturbably.
"Yes, I do. That's a fool idee of yours. It puts me out of patience."
"Belllounds, you're not her real father."
The rancher gave a start, and he stared as he had stared before, fixedlyand perplexedly at Wade.
"No, I'm not."
"If she _were_ your real daughter--your own flesh an' blood--an' JackBelllounds was _my_ son, would you let her marry him?"
"Wal, Wade, I reckon I wouldn't."
"Then how can you expect my consent to her marriage with your son?"
"WHAT!" Belllounds lunged over to Wade, leaned down, shaken byoverwhelming amaze.
"Collie is my daughter!"
A loud expulsion of breath escaped Belllounds. Lower he leaned, andlooked with piercing gaze into the face and eyes that in this momentbore strange resemblance to Columbine.
"So help me Gawd!... That's the secret?... Hell-Bent Wade! An' you'vebeen on my trail!"
He staggered to his big chair and fell into it. No trace of doubt showedin his face. The revelation had struck home because of its verygreatness.
Wade took the chair opposite. His likeness to Columbine had faded now.It had been love, a spirit, a radiance, a glory. It was gone. And Wade'sface became the emblem of tragedy.
"Listen, Belllounds. I'll tell you!... The ways of God are inscrutable.I've been twenty years tryin' to atone for the wrong I did Collie'smother. I've been a prospector for the trouble of others. I've been abearer of their burdens. An' if I can save Collie's happiness an' hersoul, I reckon I won't be denied the peace of meetin' her mother in theother world.... I recognized Collie the moment I laid eyes on her. Shefavors her mother in looks, an' she has her mother's sensitiveness, herfire an' pride, an' she even has her voice. It's low an' sweet--alto,they used to call it.... But I'd recognized Collie as my own if I'd beenblind an' deaf.... It's over eighteen years ago that we had the trouble.I was no boy, but I was terribly in love with Lucy. An' she loved mewith a passion I never learned till too late. We came West fromMissouri. She was born in Texas. I had a rovin' disposition an' didn'tstick long at any kind of work. But I was lookin' for a ranch. My wifehad some money an' I had high hopes. We spent our first year of marriedlife travelin' through Kansas. At Dodge I got tied up for a while. Youknow, in them days Dodge was about the wildest camp on the plains. Mywife's brother run a place there. He wasn't much good. But she thoughthe was perfect. Strange how blood-relations can't see the truth abouttheir own people! Anyway, her brother Spencer had no use for me, becauseI could tell how slick he was with the cards an' beat him at his owngame. Spencer had a gamblin' pard, a cowboy run out of Texas, one CapFol--But no matter about his name. One night they were fleecin' astranger an' I broke into the game, winnin' all they had. The game endedin a fight, with bloodshed, but nobody killed. That set Spencer an' hispard Cap against me. The stranger was a planter from Louisiana. He'dbeen an officer in the rebel army. A high-strung, handsome Southerner,fond of wine an' cards an' women. Well, he got to payin' my wife a gooddeal of attention when I was away, which happened to be often. She nevertold me. I was jealous those days.
"My little girl you call Columbine was born there durin' a long absenceof mine. When I got home Lucy an' the baby were gone. Also theSoutherner!... Spencer an' his pard Cap, an' others they had in thedeal, proved to me, so it seemed, that the little girl was not reallymine!... An' so I set out on a hunt for my wife an' her lover. I foundthem. An' I killed him before her eyes. But she was innocent, an' so washe, as came out too late. He'd been, indeed, her friend. She scorned me.She told me how her brother Spencer an' his friends had establishedguilt of mine that had driven her from me.
"I went back to Dodge to have a little quiet smoke with these men whohad ruined me. They were gone. The trail led to Colorado. Nearly a yearlater I rounded them all up in a big wagon-train post north of Denver.Another brother of my wife's, an' her father, had come West, an' byaccident or fate we all met there. We had a family quarrel. My wifewould not forgive me--would not speak to me, an' her people backed herup. I made the great mistake to take her father an' other brothers tobelong to the same brand as Spencer. In this I wronged them an' her.
"What I did to them, Belllounds, is one story I'll never tell to any manwho might live to repeat it. But it drove my wife near crazy. An' itmade me Hell-Bent Wade!... She ran off from me there, an' I trailed herall over Colorado. An' the end of that trail was not a hundred milesfrom where we stand now. The last trace I had was of the burnin' of aprairie-schooner by Arapahoes as they were goin' home from a foray onthe Utes.... The little girl might have toddled off the trail. But Ireckon she was hidden or dropped by her mother, or some one fleein' forlife. Your men found her in the columbines."
Belllounds drew a long, deep breath.
"What a man never expects always comes true.... Wade, the lass is yours.I can see it in the way you look at me. I can feel it.... She's beenlike my own. I've done my best, accordin' to my conscience. An' I'veloved her, for all they say I couldn't see aught but Jack.... You'lltake her away from me?"
"No. Never," was the melancholy reply.
"What! Why not?"
"Because she loves you.... I could never reveal myself to Collie. Icouldn't win her love with a lie. An' I'd have to lie, to be false ashell.... False to her mother an' to Collie an' to all I hold high! I'dhave to tell Collie the truth--the wrong I did her mother--the _hell_ Ivisited upon her mother's people.... She'd fear me."
"Ahuh!... An' you'll never change--I reckon that!" exclaimed Belllounds.
"No. I changed once, eighteen years ago. I can't go back.... I can'tundo all I hoped was good."
"You think Collie'd fear you?"
"She'd never _love_ me as she does you, or as she loves me even now.That is my rock of refuge."
"She'd hate you, Wade."
"I reckon. An' so she must never know."
"Ahuh!... Wal, wal, life is a hell of a deal! Wade, if you could liveyours over again, knowin' what you know now, an' that you'd love an'suffer the same--would you want to do it?"
"Yes. I love life, with all it brings. I wouldn't have the joy withoutthe pain. But I reckon only men who've come to our years would want itover again."
"Wal, I'm with you thar. I'd take what came. Rain an' sun!... But allthis you tell, an' the hell you hint at, ain't changin' this hyar dealof Jack's an' Collie's. Not one jot!... If she remains my adopteddaughter she marries my son.... Wade, I'm haltered like the north starin that."
"Belllounds, will you take a day to think it over?" appealed Wade.
"Ahuh! But that won't change me."
"Won't it change you to know that if you force this marriage you'll loseall?"
"All! Ain't that more queer talk?"
"I mean lose all--your son, your adopted daughter--his chance ofreformin', her hope of happiness. These ought to be all in life leftto you."
"Wal, they are. But I can't see your argument. You're beyond me, Wade.You're holdin' back, like you did with your hell-bent story."
Ponderously, as if the burden and the doom of the world weighed himdown, the hunter got up and fronted Belllounds. r />
"When I'm driven to tell I'll come.... But, once more, old man, choosebetween generosity an' selfishness. Between blood tie an' noble loyaltyto your good deed in its beginnin'.... Will you give up this marriagefor your son--so that Collie can have the man she loves?"
"You mean your young pard an' two-bit of a rustler--Wils Moore?"
"Wils Moore, yes. My friend, an' a man, Belllounds, such as you or Inever was."
"No!" thundered the rancher, purple in the face.
With bowed head and dragging step Wade left the room.
* * * * *
By slow degrees of plodding steps, and periods of abstracted lagging,the hunter made his way back to Moore's cabin. At his entrance thecowboy leaped up with a startled cry.
"Oh, Wade!... Is Collie dead?" he cried.
Such was the extent of calamity he imagined from the somber face ofWade.
"No. Collie's well."
"Then, man, what on earth's happened?"
"Nothin' yet.... But somethin' is goin' on in my mind.... Moore, I'dlike you to let me alone."
At sunset Wade was pacing the aspen grove on the hill. There wassunlight and shade under the trees, a rosy gold on the sage slopes, apurple-and-violet veil between the black ranges and the sinking sun.
Twilight fell. The stars came out white and clear. Night cloaked thevalley with dark shadows and the hills with its obscurity. The bluevault overhead deepened and darkened. The hunter patrolled his beat, andhours were moments to him. He heard the low hum of the insects, themurmur of running water, the rustle of the wind. A coyote cut the keenair with high-keyed, staccato cry. The owls hooted, with dismal andweird plaint, one to the other. Then a wolf mourned. But these soundsonly accentuated the loneliness and wildness of the silent night.
Wade listened to them, to the silence. He felt the wildness andloneliness of the place, the breathing of nature; he peered aloft at thevelvet blue of the mysterious sky with its deceiving stars. All that hadbeen of help to him through days of trial was now as if it had neverbeen. When he lifted his eyes to the great, dark peak, so bold andclear-cut against the sky, it was not to receive strength again. Naturein its cruelty mocked him. His struggle had to do with the most perfectof nature's works--man.
Wade was now in passionate strife with the encroaching mood that was amocker of his idealism. Many times during the strange, long martyrdom ofhis penance had he faced this crisis, only to go down to defeat beforeelemental instincts. His soul was steeped in gloom, but hisintelligence had not yet succumbed to passion. The beauty ofColumbine's character and the nobility of Moore's were not illusions toWade. They were true. These two were of the finest fiber of humannature. They loved. They represented youth and hope--a progress throughthe ages toward a better race. Wade believed in the good to be, in thefuture of men. Nevertheless, all that was fine and worthy in Columbineand Moore was to go unrewarded, unfulfilled, because of the selfishpride of an old man and the evil passion of the son. It was a conflictas old as life. Of what avail were Columbine's high sense of duty,Moore's fine manhood, the many victories they had won over the headlongand imperious desires of love? What avail were Wade's good offices, hisspiritual teaching, his eternal hope in the order of circumstancesworking out to good? These beautiful characteristics of virtue were notso strong as the unchangeable passion of old Belllounds and the viciousdepravity of his son. Wade could not imagine himself a god, proving thatthe wages of sin was death. Yet in his life he had often been animpassive destiny, meting out terrible consequences. Here he wasincalculably involved. This was the cumulative end of years of mountingplots, tangled and woven into the web of his pain and his remorse andhis ideal. But hope was dying. That was his strife-realization againstthe morbid clairvoyance of his mind. He could not help Jack Bellloundsto be a better man. He could not inspire the old rancher to aforgetfulness of selfish and blinded aims. He could not prove to Moorethe truth of the reward that came from unflagging hope and unassailablevirtue. He could not save Columbine with his ideals.
The night wore on, and Wade plodded under the rustling aspens. Theinsects ceased to hum, the owls to hoot, the wolves to mourn. Theshadows of the long spruces gradually merged into the darkness of night.Above, infinitely high, burned the pale stars, wise and cold, aloof andindifferent, eyes of other worlds of mystery.
In those night hours something in Wade died, but his idealism,unquenchable and inexplicable, the very soul of the man, saw itsjustification and fulfilment in the distant future.
The gray of the dawn stole over the eastern range, and before its opaquegloom the blackness of night retreated, until valley and slope and grovewere shrouded in spectral light, where all seemed unreal.
And with it the gray-gloomed giant of Wade's mind, the morbid andbrooding spell, had gained its long-encroaching ascendancy. He had againfound the man to whom he must tell his story. Tragic and irrevocabledecree! It was his life that forced him, his crime, his remorse, hisagony, his endless striving. How true had been his steps! They had led,by devious and tortuous paths, to the home of his daughter.
Wade crouched under the aspens, accepting this burden as a man beingphysically loaded with tremendous weights. His shoulders bent to them.His breast was sunken and labored. All his muscles were cramped. Hisblood flowed sluggishly. His heart beat with slow, muffled throbs in hisears. There was a creeping cold in his veins, ice in his marrow, anddeath in his soul. The giant that had been shrouded in gray threw offhis cloak, to stand revealed, black and terrible. And it was he whospoke to Wade, in dreadful tones, like knells. Bent Wade--man ofmisery--who could find no peace on earth--whose presence unknit thetranquil lives of people and poisoned their blood and marked them fordoom! Wherever he wandered there followed the curse! Always this hadbeen so. He was the harbinger of catastrophe. He who preached wisdomand claimed to be taught by the flowers, who loved life and hatedinjustice, who mingled with his kind, ever searching for that one whoneeded him, he must become the woe and the bane and curse of those hewould only serve! Insupportable and pitiful fate! The fiends of the pastmocked him, like wicked ghouls, voiceless and dim. The faces of the menhe had killed were around him in the gray gloom, pale, drifting visagesof distortion, accusing him, claiming him. Likewise, these gleams offaces were specters of his mind, a procession eternal, mournful, andsilent, wending their way on and on through the regions of his thought.All were united, all drove him, all put him on the trail of catastrophe.They foreshadowed the future, they inclosed events, they lured him withhis endless illusions. He was in the vortex of a vast whirlpool, not ofwater or of wind, but of life. Alas! he seemed indeed the very currentof that whirlpool, a monstrous force, around which evil circled andlurked and conquered. Wade--who had the ill-omened croak of theraven--Wade--who bent his driven steps toward hell!
* * * * *
In the brilliant sunlight of the summer morning Wade bent his resistlesssteps down toward White Slides Ranch. The pendulum had swung. The hourswere propitious. Seemingly, events that already cast their shadowswaited for him. He saw Jack Belllounds going out on the fast and furiousride which had become his morning habit.
Columbine intercepted Wade. The shade of woe and tragedy in her facewere the same as he had pictured there in his gloomy vigil of the night.
"My friend, I was coming to you.... Oh, I can bear no more!"
Her hair was disheveled, her dress disordered, the hands shetremblingly held out bore discolored marks. Wade led her into theseclusion of the willow trail.
"Oh, Ben!... He fought me--like--a beast!" she panted.
"Collie, you needn't tell me more," said Wade, gently. "Go up to Wils.Tell him."
"But I must tell you. I can bear--no more.... He fought me--hurt me--andwhen dad heard us--and came--Jack lied.... Oh, the dog!... Ben, hisfather believed--when Jack swore he was only mad--only trying to shakeme--for my indifference and scorn.... But, my God!--Jack meant...."
"Collie, go up to Wils," interposed the hunter.
 
; "I want to see Wils. I need to--I must. But I'm afraid.... Oh, it willmake things worse!"
"Go!"
She turned away, actuated by more than her will.
"_Collie!_" came the call, piercingly and strangely after her.Bewildered, startled by the wildness of that cry, she wheeled. But Wadewas gone. The shaking of the willows attested to his hurry.
* * * * *
Old Belllounds braced his huge shoulders against the wall in theattitude of a man driven to his last stand.
"Ahuh!" he rolled, sonorously. "So hyar you are again?... Wal, tell yourworst, Hell-Bent Wade, an' let's have an end to your croakin'."
Belllounds had fortified himself, not with convictions or withillusions, but with the last desperate courage of a man true to himself.
"I'll tell you...." began the hunter.
And the rancher threw up his hands in a mockery that was furious, yetwith outward shrinking.
"Just now, when Buster Jack fought with Collie, he meant bad by her!"
"Aw, no!... He was jest rude--tryin' to be masterful.... An' the lass'slike a wild filly. She needs a tamin' down."
Wade stretched forth a lean and quivering hand that seemed the symbol ofpresaged and tragic truth.
"Listen, Belllounds, an' I'll tell you.... No use tryin' to hatch arotten egg! There's no good in your son. His good intentions he paradedfor virtues, believin' himself that he'd changed. But a flip of the windmade him Buster Jack again.... Collie would sacrifice her life for dutyto you--whom she loves as her father. Wils Moore sacrificed his honorfor Collie--rather than let you learn the truth.... But they call meHell-Bent Wade, an' I will tell you!"
The straining hulk of Belllounds crouched lower, as if to gather impetusfor a leap. Both huge hands were outspread as if to ward off attack froman unseen but long-dreaded foe. The great eyes rolled. And underneaththe terror and certainty and tragedy of his appearance seemed to surgethe resistless and rising swell of a dammed-up, terrible rage.
"I'll tell you ..." went on the remorseless voice. "I watched yourBuster Jack. I watched him gamble an' drink. I trailed him. I found thelittle circles an' the crooked horse tracks--made to trap Wils Moore....A damned cunnin' trick!... Burley suspects a nigger in the wood-pile.Wils Moore knows the truth. He lied for Collie's sake an' yours. He'dhave stood the trial--an' gone to jail to save Collie from what shedreaded.... Belllounds, your son was in the cabin gamblin' with therustlers when I cornered them.... I offered to keep Jack's secret ifhe'd swear to give Collie up. He swore on his knees, beggin' in hername!... An' he comes back to bully her, an' worse.... Buster Jack!...He's the thorn in your heart, Belllounds. He's the rustler who stoleyour cattle!... Your pet son--a sneakin' thief!"