“That was a little of what I said,” returned Wade, gently.
“Ahuh! How'd thet come about?” queried Belllounds, gruffly. A slight stiffening and darkening overcast his face.
Wade then recalled and recounted the remarks that had passed between him and Jack; and he did not think he missed them very far. He had a great curiosity to see how Belllounds would take them, and especially the young man's scornful rejection of a sincerely offered friendship. All the time Wade was talking he was aware of Columbine watching him, and when he finished it was sweet to look at her.
“Wade, wasn't you takin' a lot on yourself?” queried the rancher, plainly displeased.
“Reckon I was. But my conscience is beholden to no man. If Jack had met me half-way that would have been better for him. An' for me, because I get good out of helpin' any one.”
His reply silenced Belllounds. No more was said before supper was announced, and then the rancher seemed taciturn. Columbine did the serving, and most all of the talking. Wade felt strangely at ease. Some subtle difference was at work in him, transforming him, but the moment had not yet come for him to question himself. He enjoyed the supper. And when he ventured to look up at Columbine, to see her strong, capable hands and her warm, blue glance, glad for his presence, sweetly expressive of their common secret and darker with a shadow of meaning beyond her power to guess, then Wade felt havoc within him, the strife and pain and joy of the truth he never could reveal. For he could never reveal his identity to her without betraying his baseness to her mother. Otherwise, to hear her call him father would have been earning that happiness with a lie. Besides, she loved Belllounds as her father, and were this trouble of the present removed she would grow still closer to the old man in his declining days. Wade accepted the inevitable, She must never know. If she might love him it must be as the stranger who came to her gates, it must be through the mysterious affinity between them and through the service he meant to render.
Wade did not linger after the meal was ended despite the fact that Belllounds recovered his cordiality. It was dark when he went out. Columbine followed him, talking cheerfully. Once outside she squeezed his hand and whispered, “How's Wilson?”
The hunter nodded his reply, and, pausing at the porch step, he pressed her hand to make his assurance stronger. His reward was instant. In the bright starlight she stood white and eloquent, staring down at him with dark, wide eyes.
Presently she whispered: “Oh, my friend! It wants only three days till October first!”
“Lass, it might be a thousand years for all you need worry,” he replied, his voice low and full. Then it seemed, as she flung up her arms, that she was about to embrace him. But her gesture was an appeal to the stars, to Heaven above, for something she did not speak.
Wade bade her good night and went his way.
* * * * *
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! I hed more money 'n thet,” complained Lem. “Jim, you rode to Kremmlin' last. Did you take my money?”
“Wal, come to think of it, I reckon I did,” replied Jim, in surprise at the recollection.
“An' whar's it now?”
“Pard, I 'ain't no idee. I reckon it's still in Kremmlin'. But I'll pay you back.”
“I should smile you will. Pony up now.”
“Bent Wade, did you come over calkilated to git skinned?” queried Bludsoe.
“Boys, I was playin' poker tolerable well in Missouri when you all was nursin',” replied Wade, imperturbably.
“I heerd he was a card-sharp,” said Jim. “Wal, grab a box or a chair to set on an' let's start. Come along, Jack; you don't look as keen to play as usual.”
Belllounds stood with his back to the fire and his manner did not compare favorably with that of the genial cowboys.
“I prefer to play four-handed,” he said.
This declaration caused a little check in the conversation and put an end to the amiability. The cowboys looked at one another, not embarrassed, but just a little taken aback, as if they had forgotten something that they should have remembered.
“You object to my playin'?” asked Wade, quietly.
“I certainly do,” replied Belllounds.
“Why, may I ask?”
“For all I know, what Montana said about you may be true,” returned Belllounds, insolently.
Such a remark flung in the face of a Westerner was an insult. The cowboys suddenly grew stiff, with steady eyes on Wade. He, however, did not change in the slightest.
“I might be a card-sharp at that,” he replied, coolly. “You fellows play without me. I'm not carin' about poker any more. I'll look on.”
Thus he carried over the moment that might have been dangerous. Lem gaped at him; Montana kicked a box forward to sit upon, and his action was expressive; Bludsoe slammed the cards down on the table and favored Wade with a comprehending look. Belllounds pulled a chair up to the table.
“What'll we make the limit?” asked Jim.
