neck.... Wal, what consarns me now is this. Is there any 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,” confessed Wade, gloomily.
“Ahuh!... Wal, Hell-Bent Wade, I'll take a chance on you,” boomed the rancher's deep voice, rich with the intent of his big heart. “I've gambled all my life. An' the best friends I ever made were men I'd helped.... 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 son standing inside the door. “Say, Jack, shake hands with Bent Wade, hunter an' all-around man. Wade, this's my boy. I've jest put him on as foreman of the outfit, an' while I'm at it I'll say thet you'll take orders from me an' not from him.”
Wade looked up into the face of Jack Belllounds, returned his brief greeting, and shook his limp hand. The contact sent a strange chill over Wade. Young Belllounds's face was marred by a bruise and shaded by a sullen light.
“Get Billin's to take you out to thet new cabin an' sheds I jest had put up,” said the rancher. “You'll bunk in the cabin.... Aw, I know. Men like you sleep in the open. But you can't do thet under Old White Slides in winter. Not much! Make yourself to home, an' I'll walk out after a bit an' we'll look over the dog outfit. When you see thet outfit you'll holler fer help.”
Wade bowed his thanks, and, putting on his sombrero, he turned away. As he did so he caught a sound of light, quick footsteps on the far end of the porch.
“Hello, you-all!” cried a girl's voice, with melody in it that vibrated piercingly upon Wade's sensitive ears.
“Mornin', Columbine,” replied the rancher.
Bent Wade's heart leaped up. This girlish voice rang upon the chord of memory. Wade had not the strength to look at her then. It was not that he could not bear to look, but that he could not bear the disillusion sure to follow his first glimpse of this adopted daughter of Belllounds. Sweet to delude himself! Ah! the years were bearing sterner upon his head! The old dreams persisted, sadder now for the fact that from long use they had become half-realities! Wade shuffled slowly across the green square to where the cowboy waited for him. His eyes were dim, and a 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 cabin where I'm to bunk.”
“Come along,” said Lem, leading off. “Air you agoin' to handle stock or chase coyotes?”
“My job's huntin'.”
“Wal, it may be thet from sunup to sundown, but between times you'll be sure busy otherwise, I opine,” went on Lem. “Did you meet the boss's son?”
“Yes, he was there. An' Belllounds made it plain I was to take orders from him an' not from his son.”
“Thet'll make your job a million times easier,” declared Lem, as if to make up for former hasty pessimism. He led the way past some log cabins, and sheds with dirt roofs, and low, flat-topped barns, out across another brook where willow-trees were turning yellow. Then the new cabin came into view. It was small, with one door and one window, and a porch across the front. It stood on a small elevation, near the swift brook, and overlooking the ranch-house perhaps a quarter of a mile below. Above it, and across the brook, had been built a high fence constructed of aspen poles laced closely together. The sounds therefrom proclaimed this stockade to be the dog- pen.
Lem helped Wade unpack and carry his outfit into the cabin. It contained one room, the corner of which was filled with blocks and slabs of pine, evidently left there after the construction of the cabin, and meant for fire-wood. The ample size of the stone fireplace attested to the severity of the winters.
“Real sawed boards on the floor!” exclaimed Lem, meaning to impress the new-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 up your bunk. Take my hunch an' ask Miss Collie to find you some furniture an' sich like. She's Ole Bill's daughter, an' she makes up fer—fer—wal, fer a lot we hev to stand. I'll fetch the boys over later.”
“Do you smoke?” asked Wade. “I've somethin' fine I fetched up from Leadville.”
“Smoke! Me? I'll give you a hoss right now for a cigar. I git one onct a year, mebbe.”
“Here's a box I've been packin' for long,” replied Wade, as he handed it up 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.
“
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 from his meditation.
“Hey, Wade!” called the cheery voice of Belllounds. Then the rancher appeared at the door. “How's this bunk suit you?”
“Much too fine for an old-timer like me,” replied Wade.
