most an' feel best over are the hardest jobs I ever did, an' those that cost the most sweat an' blood.”
As Wade warmed to his subject, hoping to sow a good seed in Belllounds's mind, he saw that he was wasting his earnestness. Belllounds did not keep to the train of thought. His mind wandered, and now he was examining Wade's rifle.
“Old Henry forty-four,” he said. “Dad has one. Also an old needle-gun. Say, can I go hunting with you?”
“Glad to have you. How do you handle a rifle?”
“I used to shoot pretty well before I went to Denver,” he replied. “Haven't tried since I've been home.... Suppose you let me take a shot at that post?” And from where he stood in the door he pointed to a big hitching- post near the corral gate.
The corral contained horses, and in the pasture beyond were cattle, any of which might be endangered by such a shot. Wade saw that the young man was in earnest, that he wanted to respond to the suggestion in his mind. Consequences of any kind did not awaken after the suggestion.
“Sure. Go ahead. Shoot low, now, a little below where you want to hit,” said Wade.
Belllounds took aim and fired. A thundering report shook the cabin. Dust and splinters flew from the post.
“I hit it!” he exclaimed, in delight. “I was sure I wouldn't, because I aimed 'way under.”
“Reckon you did. It was a good shot.”
Then a door slammed and Old Bill Belllounds appeared, his hair upstanding, his look and gait proclaiming him on the rampage.
“Jack! What'n hell are you doin'?” he roared, and he stamped up to the door to see his son standing there with the rifle in his hands. “By Heaven! If it ain't one thing it's another!”
“Boss, don't jump over the traces,” said Wade. “I'll allow if I'd known the gun would let out a bellar like that I'd not have told Jack to shoot. Reckon it's because we're under the open roof that it made the racket. I'm wantin' to clean the gun while it's hot.”
“Ahuh! Wal, I was scared fust, harkin' back to Indian days, an' then I was mad because I figgered Jack was up to mischief.... Did you fetch in the meat?”
“You bet. An' I'd like a piece for myself,” replied Wade.
“Help yourself, man. An' say, come down an' eat with us fer supper.”
“Much obliged, boss. I sure will.”
Then the old rancher trudged back to the house.
“Wade, it was bully of you!” exclaimed Jack, gratefully. “You see how quick dad's ready to jump me? I'll bet he thought I'd picked a shooting-scrape with one of the cowboys.”
“Well, he's gettin' old an' testy,” replied Wade. “You ought to humor him. He'll not be here always.”
Belllounds answered to that suggestion with a shadowing of eyes and look of realization, affection, remorse. Feelings seemed to have a quick rise and play in him, but were not lasting. Wade casually studied him, weighing his impressions, holding them in abeyance for a sum of judgment.
“Belllounds, has anybody told you about Wils Moore bein' bad hurt?” abruptly asked the hunter.
“He is, is he?” replied Jack, and to his voice and face came sudden change. “How bad?”
“I reckon he'll be a cripple for life,” answered Wade, seriously, and now he stopped in his work to peer at Belllounds. The next moment might be critical for that young man.
“Club-footed!... He won't lord it over the cowboys any more—or ride that white mustang!” The softer, weaker expression of his face, that which gave him some title to good looks, changed to an ugliness hard for Wade to define, since it was neither glee, nor joy, nor gratification over his rival's misfortune. It was rush of blood to eyes and skin, a heated change that somehow to Wade suggested an anxious, selfish hunger. Belllounds lacked something, that seemed certain. But it remained to be proved how deserving he was of Wade's pity.
“Belllounds, it was a dirty trick—your jumpin' Moore,” declared Wade, with deliberation.
“The hell you say!” Belllounds flared up, with scarlet in his face, with sneer of amaze, with promise of bursting rage. He slammed down the gun.
“Yes, the hell I say,” returned the hunter. “They call me Hell-Bent Wade!”
“Are you friends with Moore?” asked Belllounds, beginning to shake.
“Yes, I'm that with every one. I'd like to be friends with you.”
“I don't want you. 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. Wade's swift words, like the ring of bells, had not been menacing, but prophetic.
“Young fellar, you need to be talked to, so if you've got any sense at all it'll get a wedge in your brain,” went on Wade. “I'm a stranger here. But I happen to be a man who sees through things, an' I see how your dad handles you wrong. You don't know who I am an' you don't care. But if you'll listen you'll learn what might help you.... No boy can answer to all his wild impulses without ruinin' himself. It's not natural. There are other people—people who have wills an' desires, same as you have. You've got to live with people. Here's your dad an' Miss Columbine, an' the cowboys, an' me, an' all the ranchers, so down to Kremmlin' an' other places. These are the people you've got to live with. You can't go on as you've begun, without ruinin' yourself an' your dad an' the—the girl.... It's never too late to begin to be better. I know that. But it gets too late, sometimes, to save the happiness of others. Now I see where you're headin' as clear as if I had pictures of the future. I've got a gift that way.... An', Belllounds, you'll not last. Unless you begin to control your temper, to forget yourself, to kill your wild impulses, to be kind, to learn what
