avail were Wade's good offices, his spiritual teaching, his eternal hope in the order of circumstances working out to good? These beautiful characteristics of virtue were not so strong as the unchangeable passion of old Belllounds and the vicious depravity of his son. Wade could not imagine himself a god, proving that the wages of sin was death. Yet in his life he had often been an impassive destiny, meting out terrible consequences. Here he was incalculably involved. This was the cumulative end of years of mounting plots, tangled and woven into the web of his pain and his remorse and his ideal. But hope was dying. That was his strife-realization against the morbid clairvoyance of his mind. He could not help Jack Belllounds to be a better man. He could not inspire the old rancher to a forgetfulness of selfish and blinded aims. He could not prove to Moore the truth of the reward that came from unflagging hope and unassailable virtue. He could not save Columbine with his ideals.
The night wore on, and Wade plodded under the rustling aspens. The insects ceased to hum, the owls to hoot, the wolves to mourn. The shadows of the long spruces gradually merged into the darkness of night. Above, infinitely high, burned the pale stars, wise and cold, aloof and indifferent, eyes of other worlds of mystery.
In those night hours something in Wade died, but his idealism, unquenchable and inexplicable, the very soul of the man, saw its justification and fulfilment in the distant future.
The gray of the dawn stole over the eastern range, and before its opaque gloom the blackness of night retreated, until valley and slope and grove were shrouded in spectral light, where all seemed unreal.
And with it the gray-gloomed giant of Wade's mind, the morbid and brooding spell, had gained its long- encroaching ascendancy. He had again found the man to whom he must tell his story. Tragic and irrevocable decree! It was his life that forced him, his crime, his remorse, his agony, his endless striving. How true had been his steps! They had led, by devious and tortuous paths, to the home of his daughter.
Wade crouched under the aspens, accepting this burden as a man being physically loaded with tremendous weights. His shoulders bent to them. His breast was sunken and labored. All his muscles were cramped. His blood flowed sluggishly. His heart beat with slow, muffled throbs in his ears. There was a creeping cold in his veins, ice in his marrow, and death in his soul. The giant that had been shrouded in gray threw off his cloak, to stand revealed, black and terrible. And it was he who spoke to Wade, in dreadful tones, like knells. Bent Wade—man of misery— who could find no peace on earth—whose presence unknit the tranquil lives of people and poisoned their blood and marked them for doom! Wherever he wandered there followed the curse! Always this had been so. He was the harbinger of catastrophe. He who preached wisdom and claimed to be taught by the flowers, who loved life and hated injustice, who mingled with his kind, ever searching for that one who needed him, he must become the woe and the bane and curse of those he would only serve! Insupportable and pitiful fate! The fiends of the past mocked him, like wicked ghouls, voiceless and dim. The faces of the men he had killed were around him in the gray gloom, pale, drifting visages of distortion, accusing him, claiming him. Likewise, these gleams of faces were specters of his mind, a procession eternal, mournful, and silent, wending their way on and on through the regions of his thought. All were united, all drove him, all put him on the trail of catastrophe. They foreshadowed the future, they inclosed events, they lured him with his endless illusions. He was in the vortex of a vast whirlpool, not of water or of wind, but of life. Alas! he seemed indeed the very current of that whirlpool, a monstrous force, around which evil circled and lurked and conquered. Wade—who had the ill-omened croak of the raven—Wade—who bent his driven steps toward hell!
* * * * *
In the brilliant sunlight of the summer morning Wade bent his resistless steps down toward White Slides Ranch. The pendulum had swung. The hours were propitious. Seemingly, events that already cast their shadows waited for him. He saw Jack Belllounds going out on the fast and furious ride which had become his morning habit.
Columbine intercepted Wade. The shade of woe and tragedy in her face were the same as he had pictured there in his gloomy vigil of the night.
“My friend, I was coming to you.... Oh, I can bear no more!”
Her hair was disheveled, her dress disordered, the hands she tremblingly held out bore discolored marks. Wade led her into the seclusion of the willow trail.
“Oh, Ben!... He fought me—like—a beast!” she panted.
“Collie, you needn't tell me more,” said Wade, gently. “Go up to Wils. Tell him.”
“But I must tell you. I can bear—no more.... He fought me—hurt me—and when dad heard us—and came— Jack lied.... Oh, the dog!... Ben, his father believed—when Jack swore he was only mad—only trying to shake me— for my indifference and scorn.... But, my God!—Jack meant....”
“Collie, go up to Wils,” interposed the hunter.
“I want to see Wils. I need to—I must. But I'm afraid.... Oh, it will make things worse!”
“Go!”
She turned away, actuated by more than her will.
“
* * * * *
Old Belllounds braced his huge shoulders against the wall in the attitude of a man driven to his last stand.
“Ahuh!” he rolled, sonorously. “So hyar you are again?... Wal, tell your worst, Hell-Bent Wade, an' let's have an end to your croakin'.”
Belllounds had fortified himself, not with convictions or with illusions, but with the last desperate courage of a man true to himself.
“I'll tell you....” began the hunter.
And the rancher threw up his hands in a mockery that was furious, yet with outward shrinking.
“Just now, when Buster Jack fought with Collie, he meant bad by her!”
“Aw, no!... He was jest rude—tryin' to be masterful.... An' the lass's like a wild filly. She needs a tamin' down.”
Wade stretched forth a lean and quivering hand that seemed the symbol of presaged and tragic truth.
