CHAPTER V
Bent Wade rode out of the forest to look down upon the White Slidescountry at the hour when it was most beautiful.
"Never seen the beat of that!" he exclaimed, as he halted.
The hour was sunset, with the golden rays and shadows streaking ahead ofhim down the rolling sage hills, all rosy and gray with rich, strangesoftness. Groves of aspens stood isolated from one another--herecrowning a hill with blazing yellow, and there fringing the brow ofanother with gleaming gold, and lower down reflecting the sunlight withbrilliant red and purple. The valley seemed filled with a delicate haze,almost like smoke. White Slides Ranch was hidden from sight, as it layin the bottomland. The gray old peak towered proud and aloof, clear-cutand sunset-flushed against the blue. The eastern slope of the valley wasa vast sweep of sage and hill and grassy bench and aspen bench, on firewith the colors of autumn made molten by the last flashing of the sun.Great black slopes of forest gave sharp contrast, and led up to thered-walled ramparts of the mountain range.
Wade watched the scene until the fire faded, the golden shafts paled anddied, the rosy glow on sage changed to cold steel gray. Then he rode outupon the foothills. The trail led up and down slopes of sage. Grass grewthicker as he descended. Once he startled a great flock ofprairie-chickens, or sage-hens, large gray birds, lumbering, swiftfliers, that whirred up, and soon plumped down again into the sage.Twilight found him on a last long slope of the foothills, facing thepasture-land of the valley, with the ranch still five miles distant, nowshowing misty and dim in the gathering shadows.
Wade made camp where a brook ran near an aspen thicket. He had no desireto hurry to meet events at White Slides Ranch, although he longed to seethis girl that belonged to Belllounds. Night settled down over the quietfoothills. A pack of roving coyotes visited Wade, and sat in ahalf-circle in the shadows back of the camp-fire. They howled andbarked. Nevertheless sleep visited Wade's tired eyelids the moment helay down and closed them.
* * * * *
Next morning, rather late, Wade rode down to White Slides Ranch. Itlooked to him like the property of a rich rancher who held to the oldand proven customs of his generation. The corrals were new, but theirstyle was old. Wade reflected that it would be hard for rustlers orhorse-thieves to steal out of those corrals. A long lane led from thepasture-land, following the brook that ran through the corrals and bythe back door of the rambling, comfortable-looking cabin. A cowboy wasleading horses across a wide square between the main ranch-house and acluster of cabins and sheds. He saw the visitor and waited.
"Mornin'," said Wade, as he rode up.
"Hod do," replied the cowboy.
Then these two eyed each other, not curiously nor suspiciously, but withthat steady, measuring gaze common to Western men.
"My name's Wade," said the traveler. "Come from Meeker way. I'm lookin'for a job with Belllounds."
"I'm Lem Billings," replied the other. "Ridin' fer White Slides feryears. Reckon the boss'll be glad to take you on."
"Is he around?"
"Sure. I jest seen him," replied Billings, as he haltered his horses toa post. "I reckon I ought to give you a hunch."
"I'd take that as a favor."
"Wal, we're short of hands," said the cowboy. "Jest got the round-upover. Hudson was hurt an' Wils Moore got crippled. Then the boss's sonhas been put on as foreman. Three of the boys quit. Couldn't stand him.This hyar son of Belllounds is a son-of-a-gun! Me an' pards of mine,Montana an' Bludsoe, are stickin' on--wal, fer reasons thet ain'tegzactly love fer the boss. But Old Bill's the best of bosses.... Nowthe hunch is--thet if you git on hyar you'll hev to do two or threemen's work."
"Much obliged," replied Wade. "I don't shy at that."
"Wal, git down an' come in," added Billings, heartily.
He led the way across the square, around the corner of the ranch-house,and up on a long porch, where the arrangement of chairs and blanketsattested to the hand of a woman. The first door was open, and from itissued voices; first a shrill, petulant boy's complaint, and then aman's deep, slow, patient reply.
Lem Billings knocked on the door-jamb.
"Wal, what's wanted?" called Belllounds.
"Boss, thar's a man wantin' to see you," replied Lem.
Heavy steps approached the doorway and it was filled with the largefigure of the rancher. Wade remembered Belllounds and saw only a graydifference in years.
"Good mornin', Lem, an' good moinin' to you, stranger," was therancher's greeting, his bold, blue glance, honest and frank and keen,with all his long experience of men, taking Wade in with one flash.
Lem discreetly walked to the end of the porch as another figure, that ofthe son who resembled the father, filled the doorway, with eyes lesskind, bent upon the visitor.
"My name's Wade. I'm over from Meeker way, hopin' to find a job withyou," said Wade.
"Glad to meet you," replied Belllounds, extending his huge hand to shakeWade's. "I need you, sure bad. What's your special brand of work?"
"I reckon any kind."
"Set down, stranger," replied Belllounds, pulling up a chair. He seatedhimself on a bench and leaned against the log wall. "Now, when a boycomes an' says he can do anythin', why I jest haw! haw! at him. Butyou're a man, Wade, an' one as has been there. Now I'm hard put ferhands. Jest speak out now fer yourself. No one else can speak fer you,thet's sure. An' this is bizness."
"Any work with stock, from punchin' steers to doctorin' horses," repliedWade, quietly. "Am fair carpenter an' mason. Good packer. Know farmin'.Can milk cows an' make butter. I've been cook in many outfits. Read an'write an' not bad at figures. Can do work on saddles an' harness, an-"
"Hold on!" yelled Belllounds, with a hearty laugh. "I ain't imposin' onno man, no matter how I need help. You're sure a jack of all rangetrades. An' I wish you was a hunter."
"I was comin' to that. You didn't give me time."
"Say, do you know hounds?" queried Belllounds, eagerly.
"Yes. Was raised where everybody had packs. I'm from Kentucky. An' I'verun hounds off an' on for years. I'll tell you--"
Belllounds interrupted Wade.
"By all that's lucky! An' last, can you handle guns? We 'ain't had agood shot on this range fer Lord knows how long. I used to hit plumbcenter with a rifle. My eyes are pore now. An' my son can't hit a flockof haystacks. An' the cowpunchers are 'most as bad. Sometimes right hyarwhere you could hit elk with a club we're out of fresh meat."
"Yes, I can handle guns," replied Wade, with a quiet smile and alowering of his head. "Reckon you didn't catch my name."
"Wal--no, I didn't," slowly replied Belllounds, and his pause, with thekeener look he bestowed upon Wade, told how the latter's query hadstruck home.
"Wade--Bent Wade," said Wade, with quiet distinctness.
"_Not Hell-Bent Wade!_" ejaculated Belllounds.
"The same.... I ain't proud of the handle, but I never sail under falsecolors."
"Wal, I'll be damned!" went on the rancher. "Wade, I've heerd of you feryears. Some bad, but most good, an' I reckon I'm jest as glad to meetyou as if you'd been somebody else."
"You'll give me the job?"
"I should smile."
"I'm thankin' you. Reckon I was some worried. Jobs are hard for me toget an' harder to keep."
"Thet's not onnatural, considerin' the hell which's said to camp on yourtrail," replied Belllounds, dryly. "Wade, I can't say I take a hell of alot of stock in such talk. Fifty years I've been west of the Missouri. Iknow the West an' I know men. Talk flies from camp to ranch, fromdiggin's to town, an' always some one adds a little more. Now I trust myjudgment an' I trust men. No one ever betrayed me yet."
"I'm that way, too," replied Wade. "But it doesn't pay, an' yet I stillkept on bein' that way.... Belllounds, my name's as bad as good all overwestern Colorado. But as man to man I tell you--I never did a low-downtrick in my life.... Never but once."
"An' what was thet?" queried the rancher, gruffly.
"I kil
led a man who was innocent," replied Wade, with quivering lips,"an'--an' drove the woman I loved to her death."
"Aw! we all make mistakes some time in our lives," said Belllounds,hurriedly. "I made 'most as big a one as yours--so help me God!..."
"I'll tell you--" interrupted Wade.
"You needn't tell me anythin'," said Belllounds, interrupting in histurn. "But at thet some time I'd like to hear about the Lascelles outfitover on the Gunnison. I knowed Lascelles. An' a pardner of mine down inMiddle Park came back from the Gunnison with the dog-gondest story Iever heerd. Thet was five years ago this summer. Of course I knowed yourname long before, but this time I heerd it powerful strong. You got inthet mix-up to your neck.... Wal, what consarns me now is this. Is thereany sense in the talk thet wherever you land there's hell to pay?"
"Belllounds, there's no sense in it, but a lot of truth," confessedWade, gloomily.
"Ahuh!... Wal, Hell-Bent Wade, I'll take a chance on you," boomed therancher's deep voice, rich with the intent of his big heart. "I'vegambled all my life. An' the best friends I ever made were men I'dhelped.... What wages do you ask?"
"I'll take what you offer."
"I'm payin' the boys forty a month, but thet's not enough fer you."
"Yes, that'll do."
"Good, it's settled," concluded Belllounds, rising. Then he saw his sonstanding inside the door. "Say, Jack, shake hands with Bent Wade, hunteran' all-around man. Wade, this's my boy. I've jest put him on as foremanof the outfit, an' while I'm at it I'll say thet you'll take orders fromme an' not from him."
Wade looked up into the face of Jack Belllounds, returned his briefgreeting, and shook his limp hand. The contact sent a strange chill overWade. Young Belllounds's face was marred by a bruise and shaded by asullen light.
"Get Billin's to take you out to thet new cabin an' sheds I jest had putup," said the rancher. "You'll bunk in the cabin.... Aw, I know. Menlike you sleep in the open. But you can't do thet under Old White Slidesin winter. Not much! Make yourself to home, an' I'll walk out after abit an' we'll look over the dog outfit. When you see thet outfit you'llholler fer help."
Wade bowed his thanks, and, putting on his sombrero, he turned away. Ashe did so he caught a sound of light, quick footsteps on the far end ofthe porch.
"Hello, you-all!" cried a girl's voice, with melody in it that vibratedpiercingly upon Wade's sensitive ears.
"Mornin', Columbine," replied the rancher.
Bent Wade's heart leaped up. This girlish voice rang upon the chord ofmemory. Wade had not the strength to look at her then. It was not thathe could not bear to look, but that he could not bear the disillusionsure to follow his first glimpse of this adopted daughter of Belllounds.Sweet to delude himself! Ah! the years were bearing sterner upon hishead! The old dreams persisted, sadder now for the fact that from longuse they had become half-realities! Wade shuffled slowly across thegreen square to where the cowboy waited for him. His eyes were dim, anda sickness attended the sinking of his heart.
"Wade, I ain't a bettin' fellar, but I'll bet Old Bill took you up,"vouchsafed Billings, with interest.
"Glad to say he did," replied Wade. "You're to show me the new cabinwhere I'm to bunk."
"Come along," said Lem, leading off. "Air you agoin' to handle stock orchase coyotes?"
"My job's huntin'."
"Wal, it may be thet from sunup to sundown, but between times you'll besure busy otherwise, I opine," went on Lem. "Did you meet theboss's son?"
"Yes, he was there. An' Belllounds made it plain I was to take ordersfrom him an' not from his son."
"Thet'll make your job a million times easier," declared Lem, as if tomake up for former hasty pessimism. He led the way past some log cabins,and sheds with dirt roofs, and low, flat-topped barns, out acrossanother brook where willow-trees were turning yellow. Then the new cabincame into view. It was small, with one door and one window, and a porchacross the front. It stood on a small elevation, near the swift brook,and overlooking the ranch-house perhaps a quarter of a mile below. Aboveit, and across the brook, had been built a high fence constructed ofaspen poles laced closely together. The sounds therefrom proclaimed thisstockade to be the dog-pen.
Lem helped Wade unpack and carry his outfit into the cabin. It containedone room, the corner of which was filled with blocks and slabs of pine,evidently left there after the construction of the cabin, and meant forfire-wood. The ample size of the stone fireplace attested to theseverity of the winters.
"Real sawed boards on the floor!" exclaimed Lem, meaning to impress thenew-comer. "I call this a plumb good bunk."
"Much too good for me," replied Wade.
"Wal, I'll look after your hosses," said Lem. "I reckon you'll fix upyour bunk. Take my hunch an' ask Miss Collie to find you some furniturean' sich like. She's Ole Bill's daughter, an' she makes upfer--fer--wal, fer a lot we hev to stand. I'll fetch the boysover later."
"Do you smoke?" asked Wade. "I've somethin' fine I fetched up fromLeadville."
"Smoke! Me? I'll give you a hoss right now for a cigar. I git one onct ayear, mebbe."
"Here's a box I've been packin' for long," replied Wade, as he handed itup to Billings. "They're Spanish, all right. Too rich for my blood!"
A box of gold could not have made that cowboy's eyes shine any brighter.
"_Whoop-ee!_" he yelled. "Why, man, you're like the fairy in the kid'sstory! Won't I make the outfit wild? Aw, I forgot. Thar's only Jim an'Blud left. Wal, I'll divvy with them. Sure, Wade, you hit me right. Iwas dyin' fer a real smoke. An' I reckon what's mine is yours."
Then he strode out of the cabin, whistling a merry cowboy tune.
Wade was left sitting in the middle of the room on his roll of bedding,and for a long time he remained there motionless, with his head bent,his worn hands idly clasped. A heavy footfall outside aroused him fromhis meditation.
"Hey, Wade!" called the cheery voice of Belllounds. Then the rancherappeared at the door. "How's this bunk suit you?"
"Much too fine for an old-timer like me," replied Wade.
"Old-timer! Say, you're young yet. Look at me. Sixty-eight lastbirthday! Wal, every dog has his day.... What're you needin' to fix thisbunk comfortable like?"
"Reckon I don't need much."
"Wal, you've beddin' an' cook outfit. Go get a table, an' a chair an' abench from thet first cabin. The boys thet had it are gone. Somethin'with a back to it, a rockin'-chair, if there's one. You'll find tools,an' boxes, an' stuff in the workshop, if you want to make a cupboard oranythin'."
"How about a lookin'-glass?" asked Wade. "I had a piece, but I brokeit."
"Haw! Haw! Mebbe we can rustle thet, too. My girl's good on helpin' theboys fix up. Woman-like, you know. An' she'll fetch you some decorationson her own hook. Now let's take a look at the hounds."
Belllounds led the way out toward the crude dog-corral, and the way heleaped the brook bore witness to the fact that he was still vigorous andspry. The door of the pen was made of boards hung on wire. As Bellloundsopened it there came a pattering rush of many padded feet, and a chorusof barks and whines. Wade's surprised gaze took in forty or fifty dogs,mostly hounds, browns and blacks and yellows, all sizes--a motley,mangy, hungry pack, if he had ever seen one.
"I swore I'd buy every hound fetched to me, till I'd cleaned up thevarmints around White Slides. An' sure I was imposed on," explainedthe rancher.
"Some good-lookin' hounds in the bunch," replied Wade. "An' there'shardly too many. I'll train two packs, so I can rest one when theother's huntin'."
"Wal, I'll be dog-goned!" ejaculated Belllounds, with relief. "I surethought you'd roar. All this rabble to take care of!"
"No trouble after I've got acquainted," said Wade. "Have they beenhunted any?"
"Some of the boys took out a bunch. But they split on deer tracks an'elk tracks an' Lord knows what all. Never put up a lion! Then againBillings took some out after a pack of coyotes, an' gol darn me if thecoyotes didn't lick the hounds. An' wuss! Jack, my son, got it into hi
shead thet he was a hunter. The other mornin' he found a fresh lion trackback of the corral. An' he ups an' puts the whole pack of hounds on thetrail. I had a good many more hounds in the pack than you see now. Wal,anyway, it was great to hear the noise thet pack made. Jack lost everyblamed hound of them. Thet night an' next day an' the followin' theystraggled in. But twenty some never did come back."
Wade laughed. "They may come yet. I reckon, though, they've gone homewhere they came from. Are any of these hounds recommended?"
"Every consarned one of them," declared Belllounds.
"That's funny. But I guess it's natural. Do you know for sure whetheryou bought any good dogs?"
"Yes, I gave fifty dollars for two hounds. Got them of a friend inMiddle Park whose pack killed off the lions there. They're good dogs,trained on lion, wolf, an' bear."
"Pick 'em out," said Wade.
With a throng of canines crowding and fawning round him, and snapping atone another, it was difficult for the rancher to draw the two particularones apart so they could be looked over. At length he succeeded, andWade drove back the rest of the pack.
"The big fellar's Sampson an' the other's Jim," said Belllounds.
Sampson was a huge hound, gray and yellow, with mottled black marks,very long ears, and big, solemn eyes. Jim, a good-sized dog, but smallin comparison with the other, was black all over, except around the noseand eyes. Jim had many scars. He was old, yet not past a vigorous age,and he seemed a quiet, dignified, wise hound, quite out of his elementin that mongrel pack.
"If they're as good as they look we're lucky," said Wade, as he tied theends of his rope round their necks. "Now are there any more you knoware good?"
"Denver, come hyar!" yelled Belllounds. A white, yellow-spotted houndcame wagging his tail. "I'll swear by Denver. An' there's onemore--Kane. He's half bloodhound, a queer, wicked kind of dog. He keepsto himself.... Kane! Come hyar!"
Belllounds tramped around the corral, and finally found the hound inquestion, asleep in a dusty hole. Kane was the only beautiful dog in thelot. If half of him was bloodhound the other half was shepherd, for hisblack and brown hair was inclined to curl, and his head had the finethoroughbred contour of the shepherd. His ears, long and drooping andthin, betrayed the hound in him. Kane showed no disposition to befriendly. His dark eyes, sad and mournful, burned with the firesof doubt.
Wade haltered Kane, Jim, and Sampson, which act almost precipitated afight, and led them out of the corral. Denver, friendly and glad,followed at the rancher's heels.
"I'll keep them with me an' make lead dogs out of them," said Wade."Belllounds, that bunch hasn't had enough to eat. They're half starved."
"Wal, thet's worried me more'n you'll guess," declared Belllounds, withirritation. "What do a lot of cow-punchin' fellars know about dogs? Why,they nearly ate Bludsoe up. He wouldn't feed 'em. An' Wils, who seemedgood with dogs, was taken off bad hurt the other day. Lem's been tryin'to rustle feed fer them. Now we'll give back the dogs you don't want tokeep, an' thet way thin out the pack."
"Yes, we won't need `em all. An' I reckon I'll take the worry of thisdog-pack off your mind."
"Thet's your job, Wade. My orders are fer you to kill off the varmints.Lions, wolves, coyotes. An' every fall some ole silvertip gits bad, an'now an' then other bears. Whatever you need in the way of supplies jestask fer. We send regular to Kremmlin'. You can hunt fer two months yet,barrin' an onusual early winter.... I'm askin' you--if my son tramps onyour toes--I'd take it as a favor fer you to be patient. He's only a boyyet, an' coltish."
Wade divined that was a favor difficult for Belllounds to ask. The oldrancher, dominant and forceful and self-sufficient all his days, hadbegun to feel an encroachment of opposition beyond his control. If hebut realized it, the favor he asked of Wade was an appeal.
"Belllounds, I get along with everybody," Wade assured him. "An' maybe Ican help your son. Before I'd reached here I'd heard he was wild, an' soI'm prepared."
"If you'd do thet--wal, I'd never forgit it," replied the rancher,slowly. "Jack's been away fer three years. Only got back a week or soago. I calkilated he'd be sobered, steadied, by--thet--thet work I puthim to. But I'm not sure. He's changed. When he gits his own way he'sall I could ask. But thet way he wants ain't always what it ought to be.An' so thar's been clashes. But Jack's a fine young man. An' he'lloutgrow his temper an' crazy notions. Work'll do it."
"Boys will be boys," replied Wade, philosophically. "I've not forgottenwhen I was a boy."
"Neither hev I. Wal, I'll be goin', Wade. I reckon Columbine will be upto call on you. Bein' the only woman-folk in my house, she sort of runsit. An' she's sure interested in thet pack of hounds."
Belllounds trudged away, his fine old head erect, his gray hair shiningin the sun.
Wade sat down upon the step of his cabin, pondering over the rancher'sremarks about his son. Recalling the young man's physiognomy, Wade beganto feel that it was familiar to him. He had seen Jack Belllounds before.Wade never made mistakes in faces, though he often had a task to recallnames. And he began to go over the recent past, recalling all that hecould remember of Meeker, and Cripple Creek, where he had worked forseveral months, and so on, until he had gone back as far as his lasttrip to Denver.
"Must have been there," mused Wade, thoughtfully, and he tried to recallall the faces he had seen. This was impossible, of course, yet heremembered many. Then he visualized the places in Denver that for onereason or another had struck him particularly. Suddenly into one ofthese flashed the pale, sullen, bold face of Jack Belllounds.
"It was _there!_" he exclaimed, incredulously. "Well!... If thet's notthe strangest yet! Could I be mistaken? No. I saw him.... Bellloundsmust have known it--must have let him stay there.... Maybe put himthere! He's just the kind of a man to go to extremes to reform his son."
Singular as was this circumstance, Wade dwelt only momentarily on it. Hedismissed it with the conviction that it was another strange happeningin the string of events that had turned his steps toward White SlidesRanch. Wade's mind stirred to the probability of an early sight ofColumbine Belllounds. He would welcome it, both as interesting andpleasurable, and surely as a relief. The sooner a meeting with her wasover the better. His life had been one long succession of shocks, sothat it seemed nothing the future held could thrill him, amaze him,torment him. And yet how well he knew that his heart was only the moreresponsive for all it had withstood! Perhaps here at White Slides hemight meet with an experience dwarfing all others. It was possible; itwas in the nature of events. And though he repudiated such apossibility, he fortified himself against a subtle divination that hemight at last have reached the end of his long trail, where anythingmight happen.
Three of the hounds lay down at Wade's feet. Kane, the bloodhound, stoodwatching this new master, after the manner of a dog who was a judge ofmen. He sniffed at Wade. He grew a little less surly.
Wade's gaze, however, was on the path that led down along the border ofthe brook to disappear in the willows. Above this clump of yellowingtrees could be seen the ranch-house. A girl with fair hair stepped offthe porch. She appeared to be carrying something in her arms, andshortly disappeared behind the willows. Wade saw her and surmised thatshe was coming to his cabin. He did not expect any more or think anymore. His faculties condensed to the objective one of sight.
The girl, when she reappeared, was perhaps a hundred yards distant. Wadebent on her one keen, clear glance. Then his brain and his blood beatwildly. He saw a slender girl in riding-costume, lithe and strong, withthe free step of one used to the open. It was this form, this step thatstruck Wade. "My--God! how like Lucy!" he whispered, and he tried topierce the distance to see her face. It gleamed in the sunshine. Herfair hair waved in the wind. She was coming, but so slowly! All of Wadethat was physical and emotional seemed to wait--clamped. The moment wasage-long, with nothing beyond it. While she was still at a distance herface became distinct. And Wade sustained a terrible shock.... Then, asone in a dream, as in a blur of strained peering into
a maze, he saw theface of his sweetheart, his wife, the Lucy of his early manhood. Itmoved him out of the past. Closer! Pang on pang quivered in his heart.Was this only a nightmare? Or had he at last gone mad! This girl raisedher head. She was looking--she saw him. Terror mounted upon Wade'sconsciousness.
"That's Lucy's face!" he gasped. "So help--me, God!... It's for this--Iwandered here! She's my flesh an' blood--my Lucy's child--my own!"
Fear and presentiment and blank amaze and stricken consciousness lefthim in the lightning-flash of divination that was recognition as well. Ashuddering cataclysm enveloped him, a passion so stupendous that italmost brought oblivion.
The three hounds leaped up with barks and wagging tails. They welcomedthis visitor. Kane lost still more of his canine aloofness.
Wade's breast heaved. The blue sky, the gray hills, the green willows,all blurred in his sight, that seemed to hold clear only the facefloating closer.
"I'm Columbine Belllounds," said a voice.
It stilled the storm in Wade. It was real. It was a voice of twentyyears ago. The burden on his breast lifted. Then flashed the spirit, theold self-control of a man whose life had held many terrible moments.
"Mornin', miss. I'm glad to meet you," he replied, and there was nobreak, no tone unnatural in his greeting.
So they gazed at each other, she with that instinctive look peculiar towomen in its intuitive powers, but common to all persons who had livedfar from crowds and to whom a new-comer was an event. Wade's gaze,intense and all-embracing, found that face now closer in resemblance tothe imagined Lucy's--a pretty face, rather than beautiful, but strongand sweet--its striking qualities being a colorless fairness of skinthat yet held a rose and golden tint, and the eyes of a rare andexquisite shade of blue.
"Oh! Are you feeling ill?" she asked. "You look so--so pale."
"No. I'm only tuckered out," replied Wade, easily, as he wiped theclammy drops from his brow. "It was a long ride to get here."
"I'm the lady of the house," she said, with a smile. "I'm glad towelcome you to White Slides, and hope you'll like it."
"Well, Miss Columbine, I reckon I will," he replied, returning thesmile. "Now if I was younger I'd like it powerful much."
She laughed at that. "Men are all alike, young or old."
"Don't ever think so," said Wade, earnestly.
"No? I guess you're right about that. I've fetched you up some thingsfor your cabin. May I peep in?"
"Come in," replied Wade, rising. "You must excuse my manners. It's longindeed since I had a lady caller."
She went in, and Wade, standing on the threshold, saw her survey theroom with a woman's sweeping glance.
"I told dad to put some--"
"Miss, your dad told me to go get them, an' I've not done it yet. But Iwill presently."
"Very well. I'll leave these things and come back later," she replied,depositing a bundle upon the floor. "You won't mind if I try to--to makeyou a little comfortable. It's dreadful the way outdoor men live whenthey do get indoors."
"I reckon I'll be slow in lettin' you see what a good housekeeper I am,"he replied. "Because then, maybe, I'll see more of you."
"Weren't you a sad flatterer in your day?" she queried, archly.
Her intonation, the tilt of her head, gave Wade such a pang that hecould not answer. And to hide his momentary restraint he turned back tothe hounds. Then she came out upon the porch.
"I love hounds," she said, patting Denver, which caress immediately madeJim and Sampson jealous. "I've gotten on pretty well with these, butthat Kane won't make up. Isn't he splendid? But he's afraid--no, notafraid of me, but he doesn't like me."
"It's mistrust. He's been hurt. I reckon he'll get over that after awhile."
"You don't beat dogs?" she asked, eagerly.
"No, miss. That's not the way to get on with hounds or horses."
Her glance was a blue flash of pleasure.
"How glad that makes me! Why, I quit coming here to see and feed thedogs because somebody was always kicking them around."
Wade handed the rope to her. "You hold them, so when I come out withsome meat they won't pile over me." He went inside, took all that wasleft of the deer haunch out of his pack, and, picking up his knife,returned to the porch. The hounds saw the meat and yelped. They pulledon the rope.
"You hounds behave," ordered Wade, as he sat down on the step and beganto cut the meat. "Jim, you're the oldest an' hungriest. Here.... Nowyou, Sampson. Here!"... The big hound snapped at the meat. WhereuponWade slapped him. "Are you a pup or a wolf that you grab for it? Here."Sampson was slower to act, but he snapped again. Whereupon Wade hit himagain, with open hand, not with violence or rancor, but a blow thatmeant Sampson must obey.
Next time the hound did not snap. Denver had to be cuffed several timesbefore he showed deference to this new master. But the bloodhound Kanerefused to take any meat out of Wade's hand. He growled and showed histeeth, and sniffed hungrily.
"Kane will have to be handled carefully," observed Wade. "He'd bitepretty quick."
"But, he's so splendid," said the girl. "I don't like to think he'smean. You'll be good to him--try to win him?"
"I'll do my best with him."
"Dad's full of glee that he has a real hunter at White Slides at last.Now I'm glad, and sorry, too. I hate to think of little calves beingtorn and killed by lions and wolves. And it's dreadful to know bears eatgrown-up cattle. But I love the mourn of a wolf and the yelp of acoyote. I can't help hoping you don't kill them all--quite."
"It's not likely, miss," he replied. "I'll be pretty sure to clean outthe lions an' drive off the bears. But the wolf family can't beexterminated. No animal so cunnin' as a wolf!... I'll tell you.... Someyears ago I went to cook on a ranch north of Denver, on the edge of theplains. An' right off I began to hear stories about a big lobo--a wolfthat was an old residenter. He'd been known for long, an' he got meaneran' wiser as he was hunted. His specialty got to be yearlings, an' theranchers all over rose up in arms against him. They hired all the oldhunters an' trappers in the country to kill him. No good! Old Lobo wentright on pullin' down yearlings. Every night he'd get one or more. An'he was so cute an' so swift that he'd work on different ranches ondifferent nights. Finally he killed eleven yearlings for my boss on onenight. Eleven! Think of that. An' then I said to my boss, 'I reckonyou'd better let me go kill that gray butcher.' An' my boss laughed atme. But he let me go. He'd have tried anythin'. I took a hunk of meat, ablanket, my gun, an' a pair of snow-shoes, an' I set out on old Lobo'stracks.... An', Miss Columbine, I _walked_ old Lobo to death inthe snow!"
"Why, how wonderful!" exclaimed the girl, breathless and glowing withinterest. "Oh, it seems a pity such a splendid brute should be killed.Wild animals are cruel. I wish it were different."
"Life is cruel, miss, an' I echo your wish," replied Wade, sadly.
"You have had great experiences. Dad said to me, 'Collie, here at lastis a man who can tell you enough stories!'... But I don't believe youever could."
"You like stories?" asked Wade, curiously.
"Love them. All kinds, but I like adventure best. _I_ should have been aboy. Isn't it strange, I can't hurt anything myself or bear to see evena steer slaughtered? But you can't tell too bloody and terrible storiesfor me. Except I hate Indian stories. The very thought of Indians makesme shudder.... Some day I'll tell you a story."
Wade could not find his tongue readily.
"I must go now," she continued, and moved off the porch. Then shehesitated, and turned with a smile that was wistful and impulsive. "I--Ibelieve we'll be good friends."
"Miss Columbine, we sure will, if I can live up to my part," repliedWade.
Her smile deepened, even while her gaze grew unconsciously penetrating.Wade felt how subtly they were drawn to each other. But she had noinkling of that.
"It takes two to make a bargain," she replied, seriously. "I've my part.Good-by."
Wade watched her lithe stride, and as she drew away the restraint he hadput upon him
self loosened. When she disappeared his feeling burst allbounds. Dragging the dogs inside, he closed the door. Then, like onebroken and spent, he fell face against the wall, with the hoarselywhispered words, "I'm thankin' God!"