The Mysterious Rider

“Promises! What are promises or oaths to Jack Belllounds?” she cried, in passionate contempt. “You wasted your breath. Coward—liar that he is!”

“Ahuh!” Wade looked straight ahead of him as if he saw some expected and unpleasant thing far in the distance. Then with irresistible steps, neither swift nor slow, but ponderous, he strode to the porch and mounted the steps.

“Why, Ben, where are you going?” called Columbine, in surprise, as she followed him.

He did not answer. He approached the closed door of the living-room.

“Ben!” cried Columbine, in alarm.

But he had no reply for her—indeed, no thought of her. Without knocking, he opened the door with rude and powerful hand, and, striding in, closed it after him.

Bill Belllounds was standing, back against the great stone chimney, arms folded, a stolid and grim figure, apparently fortified against an intrusion he had expected.

“Wal, what do you want?” he asked, gruffly. He had sensed catastrophe in the first sight of the hunter.

“Belllounds, I reckon I want a hell of a lot,” replied Wade. “An' I'm askin' you to see we're not disturbed.”

“Bar the door.”

Wade dropped the bar in place, and then, removing his sombrero, he wiped his moist brow.

“Do you see an enemy in me?” he asked, curiously.

“Speakin' out fair, Wade, there ain't any reason I can see that you're an enemy to me,” replied Belllounds. “But I feel somethin'. It ain't because I'm takin' my son's side. It's more than that. A queer feelin', an' one I never had before. I got it first when you told the story of the Gunnison feud.”

“Belllounds, we can't escape our fates. An' it was written long ago I was to tell you a worse an' harder story than that.”

“Wal, mebbe I'll listen an' mebbe I won't. I ain't promisin', these days.”

“Are you goin' to make Collie marry Jack?” demanded the hunter.

“She's willin'.”

“You know that's not true. Collie's willin' to sacrifice love, honor, an' life itself, to square her debt to you.”

The old rancher flushed a burning red, and in his eyes flared a spirit of earlier years.

“Wade, you can go too far,” he warned. “I'm appreciatin' your good-heartedness. It sort of warms me toward you.... But this is my business. You've no call to interfere. You've done that too much already. An' I'm reckonin' Collie would be married to Jack now if it hadn't been for you.”

“Ahuh!... That's why I'm thankin' God I happened along to White Slides. Belllounds, your big mistake is thinkin' your son is good enough for this girl. An' you're makin' mistakes about me. I've interfered here, an' you may take my word for it I had the right.”

“Strange talk, Wade, but I'll make allowances.”

“You needn't. I'll back my talk.... But, first, I'm askin' you—an' if this talk hurts, I'm sorry—why don't you give some of your love for your no-good Buster Jack to Collie?”

Belllounds clenched his huge fists and glared. Anger leaped within him. He recognized in Wade an outspoken, bitter adversary to his cherished hopes for his son and his stubborn, precious pride.

“By Heaven! Wade, I'll—”

“Belllounds, I can make you swallow that kind of talk,” interrupted Wade. “It's man to man now. An' I'm a match for you any day. Savvy?... Do you think I'm damn fool enough to come here an' brace you unless I knew that. Talk to me as you'd talk about some other man's son.”

“It ain't possible,” rejoined the rancher, stridently.

“Then listen to me first.... Your son Jack, to say the least, will ruin Collie. Do you see that?”

“By Gawd! I'm afraid so,” groaned Belllounds, big in his humiliation. “But it's my one last bet, an' I'm goin' to play it.”

“Do you know marryin' him willkill her?”

“What!... You're overdoin' your fears, Wade. Women don't die so easy.”

“Some of them die, an' Collie's one that will,if she ever marries Jack.”

“If!... Wal, she's goin' to.”

“We don't agree,” said Wade, curtly.

“Are you runnin' my family?”

“No. But I'm runnin' a large-sizedif in this game. You'll admit that presently.... Belllounds, you make me mad. You don't meet me man to man. You're not the Bill Belllounds of old. Why, all over this state of Colorado you're known as the whitest of the white. Your name's a byword for all that's square an' big an' splendid. But you're so blinded by your worship of that wild boy that you're another man in all pertainin' to him. I don't want to harp on his short-comm's. I'm for the girl. She doesn't love him. She can't. She will only drag herself down an' die of a broken heart.... Now, I'm askin' you, before it's too late—give up this marriage.”

“Wade! I've shot men for less than you've said!” thundered the rancher, beside himself with rage and shame.