“Listen, Belllounds, an' I'll tell you.... No use tryin' to hatch a rotten egg! There's no good in your son. His good intentions he paraded for virtues, believin' himself that he'd changed. But a flip of the wind made him Buster Jack again.... Collie would sacrifice her life for duty to you—whom she loves as her father. Wils Moore sacrificed his honor for Collie—rather than let you learn the truth.... But they call me Hell-Bent Wade, an' I will tell you!”
The straining hulk of Belllounds crouched lower, as if to gather impetus for a leap. Both huge hands were outspread as if to ward off attack from an unseen but long-dreaded foe. The great eyes rolled. And underneath the terror and certainty and tragedy of his appearance seemed to surge the resistless and rising swell of a dammed-up, terrible rage.
“I'll tell you ...” went on the remorseless voice. “I watched your Buster Jack. I watched him gamble an' drink. I trailed him. I found the little circles an' the crooked horse tracks—made to trap Wils Moore.... A damned cunnin' trick!... Burley suspects a nigger in the wood-pile. Wils Moore knows the truth. He lied for Collie's sake an' yours. He'd have stood the trial—an' gone to jail to save Collie from what she dreaded.... Belllounds, your son was in the cabin gamblin' with the rustlers when I cornered them.... I offered to keep Jack's secret if he'd swear to give Collie up. He swore on his knees, beggin' in her name!... An' he comes back to bully her, an' worse.... Buster Jack!... He's the thorn in your heart, Belllounds. He's the rustler who stole your cattle!... Your pet son—a sneakin' thief!”
CHAPTER XIX
Jack Belllounds came riding down the valley trail. His horse was in a lather of sweat. Both hair and blood showed on the long spurs this son of a great pioneer used in his pleasure rides. He had never loved a horse.
At a point where the trail met the brook there were thick willow patches, with open, grassy spots between. As Belllounds reached this place a man stepped out of the willows and laid hold of the bridle. The horse shied and tried to plunge, but an iron arm held him.
“Get down, Buster,” ordered the man.
It was Wade.
Belllounds had given as sharp a start as his horse. He was sober, though the heated red tinge of his face gave indication of a recent use of the bottle. That color quickly receded. Events of the last month had left traces of the hardening and lowering of Jack Belllounds's nature.
“Wha-at?... Let go of that bridle!” he ejaculated.
Wade held it fast, while he gazed up into the prominent eyes, where fear shone and struggled with intolerance and arrogance and quickening gleams of thought.
“You an' I have somethin' to talk over,” said the hunter.
Belllounds shrank from the low, cold, even voice, that evidently reminded him of the last time he had heard it.
“No, we haven't,” he declared, quickly. He seemed to gather assurance with his spoken thought, and conscious fear left him. “Wade, you took advantage of me that day—when you made me swear things. I've changed my mind.... And as for that deal with the rustlers, I've got my story. It's as good as yours. I've been waiting for you to tell my father. You've got some reason for not telling him. I've a hunch it's Collie. I'm on to you, and I've got my nerve back. You can gamble I—”
He had grown excited when Wade interrupted him.
“Will you get off that horse?”
“No, I won't,” replied Belllounds, bluntly.
With swift and powerful lunge Wade pulled Belllounds down, sliding him shoulders first into the grass. The released horse shied again and moved away. Buster Jack raised himself upon his elbow, pale with rage and alarm. Wade kicked him, not with any particular violence.
“Get up!” he ordered.
The kick had brought out the rage in Belllounds at the expense of the amaze and alarm.
“Did you kick
“Buster, I was only handin' you a bunch of flowers—some columbines, as your taste runs,” replied Wade, contemptuously.
“I'll—I'll—” returned Buster Jack, wildly, bursting for expression. His hand went to his gun.
“Go ahead, Buster. Throw your gun on me. That'll save maybe a hell of a lot of talk.”
It was then Jack Belllounds's face turned livid. Comprehension had dawned upon him.
“You—you want me to fight you?” he queried, in hoarse accents.
“I reckon that's what I meant.”
No affront, no insult, no blow could have affected Buster Jack as that sudden knowledge.
“Why—why—you're crazy! Me fight you—a gunman,” he stammered. “No—no. It wouldn't be fair. Not an even break!... No, I'd have no chance on earth!”
“I'll give you first shot,” went on Wade, in his strange, monotonous voice.
“Bah! You're lying to me,” replied Belllounds, with pale grimace. “You just want me to get a gun in my hand —then you'll drop me, and claim an even break.”
“No. I'm square. You saw me play square with your rustler pard. He was a lifelong enemy of mine. An' a gun- fighter to boot!... Pull your gun an' let drive. I'll take my chances.”
Buster Jack's eyes dilated. He gasped huskily. He pulled his gun, but actually did not have strength or courage enough to raise it. His arm shook so that the gun rattled against his chaps.
“No nerve, hey? Not half a man!... Buster Jack, why don't you finish game? Make up for your low-down tricks.
