The Mysterious Rider

noother tracks, Miss Columbine!”

“Who put you on that trail?” she asked, piercingly.

“Jack, hyar. He found it fust, an' rode to Kremmlin' fer me.”

“Jack! Jack Belllounds!” she cried, bursting into wild and furious laughter. Like a tigress she leaped at Jack as if to tear him to pieces. “You put the sheriff on that trail! You accuse Wilson Moore of stealing dad's cattle!”

“Yes, and I proved it,” replied Jack, hoarsely.

“You!You proved it? So that's your revenge?... But you're to reckon with me, Jack Belllounds! You villain! You devil! You—“ Suddenly she shrank back with a strong shudder. She gasped. Her face grew ghastly white. “ Oh, my God!... horrible—unspeakable!”... She covered her face with her hands, and every muscle of her seemed to contract until she was stiff. Then her hands shot out to Moore.

“Wilson Moore, what haveyou to say—to this sheriff—to Jack Belllounds—to me? “

Moore bent upon her a gaze that must have pierced her soul, so like it was to a lightning flash of love and meaning and eloquence.

“Collie, they've got the proof. I'll take my medicine.... Your dad is good. He'll be easy on me!'

“You lie!” she whispered. “And I will tell why you lie!”

Moore did not show the shame and guilt that should have been natural with his confession. But he showed an agony of distress. His hand sought Wade and dragged at him.

It did not need this mute appeal to tell Wade that in another moment Columbine would have flung the shameful truth into the face of Jack Belllounds. She was rising to that. She was terrible and beautiful to see.

“Collie,” said Wade, with that voice he knew had strange power over her, with a clasp of her outflung hand, “no more! This is a man's game. It's not for a woman to judge. Not here! It's Wils's game—an' it'smine . I'm his friend. Whatever his trouble or guilt, I take it on my shoulders. An' it will be as if it were not!”

Moaning and wringing her hands, Columbine staggered with the burden of the struggle in her.

“I'm quite—quite mad—or dreaming. Oh, Ben!” she cried.

“Brace up, Collie. It's sure hard. Wils, your friend and playmate so many years—it's hard to believe! We all understand, Collie. Now you go in, an' don't listen to any more or look any more.”

He led her down the porch to the door of her room, and as he pushed it open he whispered, “I will save you, Collie, an' Wils, an' the old man you call dad!”

Then he returned to the silent group in the yard.

“Jim, if I answer fer Wils Moore bein' in Kremmlin' the day you say, will you leave him with me?”

“Wal, I shore will, Wade,” replied Burley, heartily.

“I object to that,” interposed Jack Belllounds, stridently. “He confessed. He's got to go to jail.”

“Wal, my hot-tempered young fellar, thar ain't any jail nearer 'n Denver. Did you know that?” returned Burley, with his dry, grim humor. “Moore's under arrest. An' he'll be as well off hyar with Wade as with me in Kremmlin', an' a damn sight happier.”

The cowboy had mounted, and Wade walked beside him as he started homeward. They had not progressed far when Wade's keen ears caught the words, “Say, Belllounds, I got it figgered thet you an' your son don't savvy this fellar Wade.”

“Wal, I reckon not,” replied the old rancher.

And his son let out a peal of laughter, bitter and scornful and unsatisfied.

CHAPTER XVII

Gore Peak was the highest point of the black range that extended for miles westward from Buffalo Park. It was a rounded dome, covered with timber and visible as a landmark from the surrounding country. All along the eastern slope of that range an unbroken forest of spruce and pine spread down to the edge of the valley. This valley narrowed toward its source, which was Buffalo Park. A few well-beaten trails crossed that country, one following Red Brook down to Kremmling; another crossing from the Park to White Slides; and another going over the divide down to Elgeria. The only well-known trail leading to Gore Peak was a branch-off from the valley, and it went round to the south and more accessible side of the mountain.

All that immense slope of timbered ridges, benches, ravines, and swales west of Buffalo Park was exceedingly wild and rough country. Here the buffalo took to cover from hunters, and were safe until they ventured forth into the parks again. Elk and deer and bear made this forest their home.

Bent Wade, hunter now for bigger game than wild beasts of the range, left his horse at Lewis's cabin and penetrated the dense forest alone, like a deer-stalker or an Indian in his movements. Lewis had acted as scout for Wade, and had ridden furiously down to Sage Valley with news of the rustlers. Wade had accompanied him back to Buffalo Park that night, riding in the dark. There were urgent reasons for speed. Jack Belllounds had ridden to Kremmling, and the hunter did not believe he would return by the road he had taken.

Fox, Wade's favorite dog, much to his disgust, was left behind with Lewis. The bloodhound, Kane, accompanied Wade. Kane had been ill-treated and then beaten by Jack Belllounds, and he had left White Slides to take up his home at Moore's cabin. And at last he had seemed to reconcile himself to the hunter, not with love, but without distrust. Kane never forgave; but he recognized his friend and master. Wade carried his rifle and a buckskin pouch containing meat and bread. His belt, heavily studded with shells, contained two guns, both now worn in plain sight, with the one on the right side hanging low. Wade's character seemed to have undergone some remarkable change, yet what he represented then was not unfamiliar.

He headed for the concealed cabin on the edge of the high valley, under the black brow of Gore Peak. It was early morning of a July day, with summer fresh and new to the forest. Along the park edges the birds and squirrels were holding carnival. The grass was crisp and bediamonded with sparkling frost. Tracks of game showed sharp in