by Zane Grey
“I’m that way, too,” replied Wade. “But it doesn’t pay, an’ yet I still kept on bein’ that way.... Belllounds, my name’s as bad as good all over western Colorado. But as man to man I tell you — I never did a low-down trick in my life.... Never but once.”
“An’ what was thet?” queried the rancher, gruffly.
“I killed a man who was innocent,” replied Wade, with quivering lips, “an’ — an’ drove the woman I loved to her death.”
“Aw! we all make mistakes some time in our lives,” said Belllounds, hurriedly. “I made ‘most as big a one as yours — so help me God!...”
“I’ll tell you—” interrupted Wade.
“You needn’t tell me anythin’,” said Belllounds, interrupting in his turn. “But at thet some time I’d like to hear about the Lascelles outfit over on the Gunnison. I knowed Lascelles. An’ a pardner of mine down in Middle Park came back from the Gunnison with the dog-gondest story I ever heerd. Thet was five years ago this summer. Of course I knowed your name long before, but this time I heerd it powerful strong. You got in thet mix-up to your neck.... Wal, what consarns me now is this. Is there any sense in the talk thet wherever you land there’s hell to pay?”
“Belllounds, there’s no sense in it, but a lot of truth,” confessed Wade, gloomily.
“Ahuh!... Wal, Hell-Bent Wade, I’ll take a chance on you,” boomed the rancher’s deep voice, rich with the intent of his big heart. “I’ve gambled all my life. An’ the best friends I ever made were men I’d helped.... What wages do you ask?”
“I’ll take what you offer.”
“I’m payin’ the boys forty a month, but thet’s not enough fer you.”
“Yes, that’ll do.”
“Good, it’s settled,” concluded Belllounds, rising. Then he saw his son standing inside the door. “Say, Jack, shake hands with Bent Wade, hunter an’ all-around man. Wade, this’s my boy. I’ve jest put him on as foreman of the outfit, an’ while I’m at it I’ll say thet you’ll take orders from me an’ not from him.”
Wade looked up into the face of Jack Belllounds, returned his brief greeting, and shook his limp hand. The contact sent a strange chill over Wade. Young Belllounds’s face was marred by a bruise and shaded by a sullen light.
“Get Billin’s to take you out to thet new cabin an’ sheds I jest had put up,” said the rancher. “You’ll bunk in the cabin.... Aw, I know. Men like you sleep in the open. But you can’t do thet under Old White Slides in winter. Not much! Make yourself to home, an’ I’ll walk out after a bit an’ we’ll look over the dog outfit. When you see thet outfit you’ll holler fer help.”
Wade bowed his thanks, and, putting on his sombrero, he turned away. As he did so he caught a sound of light, quick footsteps on the far end of the porch.
“Hello, you-all!” cried a girl’s voice, with melody in it that vibrated piercingly upon Wade’s sensitive ears.
“Mornin’, Columbine,” replied the rancher.
Bent Wade’s heart leaped up. This girlish voice rang upon the chord of memory. Wade had not the strength to look at her then. It was not that he could not bear to look, but that he could not bear the disillusion sure to follow his first glimpse of this adopted daughter of Belllounds. Sweet to delude himself! Ah! the years were bearing sterner upon his head! The old dreams persisted, sadder now for the fact that from long use they had become half-realities! Wade shuffled slowly across the green square to where the cowboy waited for him. His eyes were dim, and a sickness attended the sinking of his heart.
“Wade, I ain’t a bettin’ fellar, but I’ll bet Old Bill took you up,” vouchsafed Billings, with interest.
“Glad to say he did,” replied Wade. “You’re to show me the new cabin where I’m to bunk.”
“Come along,” said Lem, leading off. “Air you agoin’ to handle stock or chase coyotes?”
“My job’s huntin’.”
“Wal, it may be thet from sunup to sundown, but between times you’ll be sure busy otherwise, I opine,” went on Lem. “Did you meet the boss’s son?”
“Yes, he was there. An’ Belllounds made it plain I was to take orders from him an’ not from his son.”
“Thet’ll make your job a million times easier,” declared Lem, as if to make up for former hasty pessimism. He led the way past some log cabins, and sheds with dirt roofs, and low, flat-topped barns, out across another brook where willow-trees were turning yellow. Then the new cabin came into view. It was small, with one door and one window, and a porch across the front. It stood on a small elevation, near the swift brook, and overlooking the ranch-house perhaps a quarter of a mile below. Above it, and across the brook, had been built a high fence constructed of aspen poles laced closely together. The sounds therefrom proclaimed this stockade to be the dog-pen.
Lem helped Wade unpack and carry his outfit into the cabin. It contained one room, the corner of which was filled with blocks and slabs of pine, evidently left there after the construction of the cabin, and meant for fire-wood. The ample size of the stone fireplace attested to the severity of the winters.
“Real sawed boards on the floor!” exclaimed Lem, meaning to impress the new-comer. “I call this a plumb good bunk.”
“Much too good for me,” replied Wade.
“Wal, I’ll look after your hosses,” said Lem. “I reckon you’ll fix up your bunk. Take my hunch an’ ask Miss Collie to find you some furniture an’ sich like. She’s Ole Bill’s daughter, an’ she makes up fer — fer — wal, fer a lot we hev to stand. I’ll fetch the boys over later.”
“Do you smoke?” asked Wade. “I’ve somethin’ fine I fetched up from Leadville.”
“Smoke! Me? I’ll give you a hoss right now for a cigar. I git one onct a year, mebbe.”
“Here’s a box I’ve been packin’ for long,” replied Wade, as he handed it up to Billings. “They’re Spanish, all right. Too rich for my blood!”
A box of gold could not have made that cowboy’s eyes shine any brighter.
“Whoop-ee!” he yelled. “Why, man, you’re like the fairy in the kid’s story! Won’t I make the outfit wild? Aw, I forgot. Thar’s only Jim an’ Blud left. Wal, I’ll divvy with them. Sure, Wade, you hit me right. I was dyin’ fer a real smoke. An’ I reckon what’s mine is yours.”
Then he strode out of the cabin, whistling a merry cowboy tune.
Wade was left sitting in the middle of the room on his roll of bedding, and for a long time he remained there motionless, with his head bent, his worn hands idly clasped. A heavy footfall outside aroused him from his meditation.
“Hey, Wade!” called the cheery voice of Belllounds. Then the rancher appeared at the door. “How’s this bunk suit you?”
“Much too fine for an old-timer like me,” replied Wade.
“Old-timer! Say, you’re young yet. Look at me. Sixty-eight last birthday! Wal, every dog has his day.... What’re you needin’ to fix this bunk comfortable like?”
“Reckon I don’t need much.”
“Wal, you’ve beddin’ an’ cook outfit. Go get a table, an’ a chair an’ a bench from thet first cabin. The boys thet had it are gone. Somethin’ with a back to it, a rockin’-chair, if there’s one. You’ll find tools, an’ boxes, an’ stuff in the workshop, if you want to make a cupboard or anythin’.”
“How about a lookin’-glass?” asked Wade. “I had a piece, but I broke it.”
“Haw! Haw! Mebbe we can rustle thet, too. My girl’s good on helpin’ the boys fix up. Woman-like, you know. An’ she’ll fetch you some decorations on her own hook. Now let’s take a look at the hounds.”
Belllounds led the way out toward the crude dog-corral, and the way he leaped the brook bore witness to the fact that he was still vigorous and spry. The door of the pen was made of boards hung on wire. As Belllounds opened it there came a pattering rush of many padded feet, and a chorus of barks and whines. Wade’s surprised gaze took in forty or fifty dogs, mostly hounds, browns and blacks and yellows, all sizes — a motley, mangy, hun
gry pack, if he had ever seen one.
“I swore I’d buy every hound fetched to me, till I’d cleaned up the varmints around White Slides. An’ sure I was imposed on,” explained the rancher.
“Some good-lookin’ hounds in the bunch,” replied Wade. “An’ there’s hardly too many. I’ll train two packs, so I can rest one when the other’s huntin’.”
“Wal, I’ll be dog-goned!” ejaculated Belllounds, with relief. “I sure thought you’d roar. All this rabble to take care of!”
“No trouble after I’ve got acquainted,” said Wade. “Have they been hunted any?”
“Some of the boys took out a bunch. But they split on deer tracks an’ elk tracks an’ Lord knows what all. Never put up a lion! Then again Billings took some out after a pack of coyotes, an’ gol darn me if the coyotes didn’t lick the hounds. An’ wuss! Jack, my son, got it into his head thet he was a hunter. The other mornin’ he found a fresh lion track back of the corral. An’ he ups an’ puts the whole pack of hounds on the trail. I had a good many more hounds in the pack than you see now. Wal, anyway, it was great to hear the noise thet pack made. Jack lost every blamed hound of them. Thet night an’ next day an’ the followin’ they straggled in. But twenty some never did come back.”
Wade laughed. “They may come yet. I reckon, though, they’ve gone home where they came from. Are any of these hounds recommended?”
“Every consarned one of them,” declared Belllounds.
“That’s funny. But I guess it’s natural. Do you know for sure whether you bought any good dogs?”
“Yes, I gave fifty dollars for two hounds. Got them of a friend in Middle Park whose pack killed off the lions there. They’re good dogs, trained on lion, wolf, an’ bear.”
“Pick ’em out,” said Wade.
With a throng of canines crowding and fawning round him, and snapping at one another, it was difficult for the rancher to draw the two particular ones apart so they could be looked over. At length he succeeded, and Wade drove back the rest of the pack.
“The big fellar’s Sampson an’ the other’s Jim,” said Belllounds.
Sampson was a huge hound, gray and yellow, with mottled black marks, very long ears, and big, solemn eyes. Jim, a good-sized dog, but small in comparison with the other, was black all over, except around the nose and eyes. Jim had many scars. He was old, yet not past a vigorous age, and he seemed a quiet, dignified, wise hound, quite out of his element in that mongrel pack.
“If they’re as good as they look we’re lucky,” said Wade, as he tied the ends of his rope round their necks. “Now are there any more you know are good?”
“Denver, come hyar!” yelled Belllounds. A white, yellow-spotted hound came wagging his tail. “I’ll swear by Denver. An’ there’s one more — Kane. He’s half bloodhound, a queer, wicked kind of dog. He keeps to himself.... Kane! Come hyar!”
Belllounds tramped around the corral, and finally found the hound in question, asleep in a dusty hole. Kane was the only beautiful dog in the lot. If half of him was bloodhound the other half was shepherd, for his black and brown hair was inclined to curl, and his head had the fine thoroughbred contour of the shepherd. His ears, long and drooping and thin, betrayed the hound in him. Kane showed no disposition to be friendly. His dark eyes, sad and mournful, burned with the fires of doubt.
Wade haltered Kane, Jim, and Sampson, which act almost precipitated a fight, and led them out of the corral. Denver, friendly and glad, followed at the rancher’s heels.
“I’ll keep them with me an’ make lead dogs out of them,” said Wade. “Belllounds, that bunch hasn’t had enough to eat. They’re half starved.”
“Wal, thet’s worried me more’n you’ll guess,” declared Belllounds, with irritation. “What do a lot of cow-punchin’ fellars know about dogs? Why, they nearly ate Bludsoe up. He wouldn’t feed ‘em. An’ Wils, who seemed good with dogs, was taken off bad hurt the other day. Lem’s been tryin’ to rustle feed fer them. Now we’ll give back the dogs you don’t want to keep, an’ thet way thin out the pack.”
“Yes, we won’t need `em all. An’ I reckon I’ll take the worry of this dog-pack off your mind.”
“Thet’s your job, Wade. My orders are fer you to kill off the varmints. Lions, wolves, coyotes. An’ every fall some ole silvertip gits bad, an’ now an’ then other bears. Whatever you need in the way of supplies jest ask fer. We send regular to Kremmlin’. You can hunt fer two months yet, barrin’ an onusual early winter.... I’m askin’ you — if my son tramps on your toes — I’d take it as a favor fer you to be patient. He’s only a boy yet, an’ coltish.”
Wade divined that was a favor difficult for Belllounds to ask. The old rancher, dominant and forceful and self-sufficient all his days, had begun to feel an encroachment of opposition beyond his control. If he but realized it, the favor he asked of Wade was an appeal.
“Belllounds, I get along with everybody,” Wade assured him. “An’ maybe I can help your son. Before I’d reached here I’d heard he was wild, an’ so I’m prepared.”
“If you’d do thet — wal, I’d never forgit it,” replied the rancher, slowly. “Jack’s been away fer three years. Only got back a week or so ago. I calkilated he’d be sobered, steadied, by — thet — thet work I put him to. But I’m not sure. He’s changed. When he gits his own way he’s all I could ask. But thet way he wants ain’t always what it ought to be. An’ so thar’s been clashes. But Jack’s a fine young man. An’ he’ll outgrow his temper an’ crazy notions. Work’ll do it.”
“Boys will be boys,” replied Wade, philosophically. “I’ve not forgotten when I was a boy.”
“Neither hev I. Wal, I’ll be goin’, Wade. I reckon Columbine will be up to call on you. Bein’ the only woman-folk in my house, she sort of runs it. An’ she’s sure interested in thet pack of hounds.”
Belllounds trudged away, his fine old head erect, his gray hair shining in the sun.
Wade sat down upon the step of his cabin, pondering over the rancher’s remarks about his son. Recalling the young man’s physiognomy, Wade began to feel that it was familiar to him. He had seen Jack Belllounds before. Wade never made mistakes in faces, though he often had a task to recall names. And he began to go over the recent past, recalling all that he could remember of Meeker, and Cripple Creek, where he had worked for several months, and so on, until he had gone back as far as his last trip to Denver.
“Must have been there,” mused Wade, thoughtfully, and he tried to recall all the faces he had seen. This was impossible, of course, yet he remembered many. Then he visualized the places in Denver that for one reason or another had struck him particularly. Suddenly into one of these flashed the pale, sullen, bold face of Jack Belllounds.
“It was there!” he exclaimed, incredulously. “Well!... If thet’s not the strangest yet! Could I be mistaken? No. I saw him.... Belllounds must have known it — must have let him stay there.... Maybe put him there! He’s just the kind of a man to go to extremes to reform his son.”
Singular as was this circumstance, Wade dwelt only momentarily on it. He dismissed it with the conviction that it was another strange happening in the string of events that had turned his steps toward White Slides Ranch. Wade’s mind stirred to the probability of an early sight of Columbine Belllounds. He would welcome it, both as interesting and pleasurable, and surely as a relief. The sooner a meeting with her was over the better. His life had been one long succession of shocks, so that it seemed nothing the future held could thrill him, amaze him, torment him. And yet how well he knew that his heart was only the more responsive for all it had withstood! Perhaps here at White Slides he might meet with an experience dwarfing all others. It was possible; it was in the nature of events. And though he repudiated such a possibility, he fortified himself against a subtle divination that he might at last have reached the end of his long trail, where anything might happen.
Three of the hounds lay down at Wade’s feet. Kane, the bloodhound, stood watching this new master, after
the manner of a dog who was a judge of men. He sniffed at Wade. He grew a little less surly.
Wade’s gaze, however, was on the path that led down along the border of the brook to disappear in the willows. Above this clump of yellowing trees could be seen the ranch-house. A girl with fair hair stepped off the porch. She appeared to be carrying something in her arms, and shortly disappeared behind the willows. Wade saw her and surmised that she was coming to his cabin. He did not expect any more or think any more. His faculties condensed to the objective one of sight.
The girl, when she reappeared, was perhaps a hundred yards distant. Wade bent on her one keen, clear glance. Then his brain and his blood beat wildly. He saw a slender girl in riding-costume, lithe and strong, with the free step of one used to the open. It was this form, this step that struck Wade. “My — God! how like Lucy!” he whispered, and he tried to pierce the distance to see her face. It gleamed in the sunshine. Her fair hair waved in the wind. She was coming, but so slowly! All of Wade that was physical and emotional seemed to wait — clamped. The moment was age-long, with nothing beyond it. While she was still at a distance her face became distinct. And Wade sustained a terrible shock.... Then, as one in a dream, as in a blur of strained peering into a maze, he saw the face of his sweetheart, his wife, the Lucy of his early manhood. It moved him out of the past. Closer! Pang on pang quivered in his heart. Was this only a nightmare? Or had he at last gone mad! This girl raised her head. She was looking — she saw him. Terror mounted upon Wade’s consciousness.
“That’s Lucy’s face!” he gasped. “So help — me, God!... It’s for this — I wandered here! She’s my flesh an’ blood — my Lucy’s child — my own!”
Fear and presentiment and blank amaze and stricken consciousness left him in the lightning-flash of divination that was recognition as well. A shuddering cataclysm enveloped him, a passion so stupendous that it almost brought oblivion.