The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  “Collie, you run on home,” he said, sharply.

  “Why? You’ve complained of not seeing me. Now that I want to be with you… Ben, you see someone!”

  Columbine’s keen faculties evidently sensed the change in Wade, and the direction of his uneasy glance convinced her.

  “Oh, there’s a man!… Ben, it is—yes, it’s Jack,” she exclaimed, excitedly.

  “Reckon you’d have it better if you say Buster Jack,” replied Wade, with his tragic smile.

  “Ah!” whispered Columbine, as she gazed up at the aspen slope, with eyes lighting to battle.

  “Run home, Collie, an’ leave him to me,” said Wade.

  “Ben, you mean he—he saw us up there in the grove? Saw me in Wilson’s arms—saw me kissing him?”

  “Sure as you’re born, Collie. He watched us. He saw all your love-makin’. I can tell that by the way he walks. It’s Buster Jack again! Alas for the new an’ noble Jack! I told you, Collie. Now you run on an’ leave him to me.”

  Wade became aware that she turned at his last words and regarded him attentively. But his gaze was riveted on the striding form of Bellounds.

  “Leave him to you? For what reason, my friend?” she asked.

  “Buster Jack’s on the rampage. Can’t you see that? He’ll insult you. He’ll—”

  “I will not go,” interrupted Columbine, and, halting her pony, she deliberately dismounted.

  Wade grew concerned with the appearance of young Bellounds, and it was with a melancholy reminder of the infallibility of his presentiments. As he and Columbine halted in the trail, Bellounds’s hurried stride lengthened until he almost ran. He carried the rifle forward in a most significant manner. Black as a thunder-cloud was his face. Alas for the dignity and pain and resolve that had only recently showed there!

  Bellounds reached them. He was frothing at the mouth. He cocked the rifle and thrust it toward Wade, holding low down.

  “You—meddling sneak! If you open your trap I’ll bore you!” he shouted, almost incoherently.

  Wade knew when danger of life loomed imminent. He fixed his glance upon the glaring eyes of Bellounds.

  “Jack, seein’ I’m not packin’ a gun, it’d look sorta natural, along with your other tricks, if you bored me.”

  His gentle voice, his cool mien, his satire, were as giant’s arms to drag Bellounds back from murder. The rifle was raised, the hammer reset, the butt lowered to the ground, while Bellounds, snarling and choking, fought for speech.

  “I’ll get even—with you,” he said, huskily. “I’m on to your game now. I’ll fix you later. But—I’ll do you harm now if you mix in with this!”

  Then he wheeled to Columbine, and as if he had just recognized her, a change that was pitiful and shocking convulsed his face. He leaned toward her, pointing with shaking, accusing hand.

  “I saw you—up there. I watched—you,” he panted.

  Columbine faced him, white and mute.

  “It was you—wasn’t it?” he yelled.

  “Yes, of course it was.”

  She might have struck him, for the way he flinched.

  “What was that—a trick—a game—a play all fixed up for my benefit?”

  “I don’t understand you,” she replied.

  “Bah! You—you white-faced cat!… I saw you! Saw you in Moore’s arms! Saw him hug you—kiss you!… Then—I saw—you put up your arms—round his neck—kiss him—kiss him—kiss him!… I saw all that—didn’t I?”

  “You must have, since you say so,” she returned, with perfect composure.

  “But did you?” he almost shrieked, the blood cording and bulging red, as if about to burst the veins of temples and neck.

  “Yes, I did,” she flashed. There was primitive woman uppermost in her now, and a spirit no man might provoke with impunity.

  “You love him?” he asked, very low, incredulously, with almost insane eagerness for denial in his query.

  Then Wade saw the glory of her—saw her mother again in that proud, fierce uplift of face, that flamed red and then blazed white—saw hate and passion and love in all their primal nakedness.

  “Love him! Love Wilson Moore? Yes, you fool! I love him! Yes! Yes! Yes!”

  That voice would have pierced the heart of a wooden image, so Wade thought, as all his strung nerves quivered and thrilled.

  Bellounds uttered a low cry of realization, and all his instinctive energy seemed on the verge of collapse. He grew limp, he sagged, he tottered. His sensorial perceptions seemed momentarily blunted.

  Wade divined the tragedy, and a pang of great compassion overcame him. Whatever Jack Bellounds was in character, he had inherited his father’s power to love, and he was human. Wade felt the death in that stricken soul, and it was the last flash of pity he ever had for Jack Bellounds.

  “You—you—” muttered Bellounds, raising a hand that gathered speed and strength in the action. The moment of a great blow had passed, like a storm-blast through a leafless tree. Now the thousand devils of his nature leaped into ascendancy. “You!—” He could not articulate. Dark and terrible became his energy. It was like a resistless current forced through leaping thought and leaping muscle.

  He struck her on the mouth, a cruel blow that would have felled her but for Wade: and then he lunged away, bowed and trembling, yet with fierce, instinctive motion, as if driven to run with the spirit of his rage.

  CHAPTER XV

  Wade noticed that after her trying experience with him and Wilson and Bellounds Columbine did not ride frequently.

  He managed to get a word or two with her whenever he went to the ranch-house, and he needed only look at her to read her sensitive mind. All was well with Columbine, despite her trouble. She remained upheld in spirit, while yet she seemed to brood over an unsolvable problem. She had said, “But—let what will come!”—and she was waiting.

  Wade hunted for more than lions and wolves these days. Like an Indian scout who scented peril or heard an unknown step upon his trail, Wade rode the hills, and spent long hours hidden on the lonely slopes, watching with somber, keen eyes. They were eyes that knew what they were looking for. They had marked the strange sight of the son of Bill Bellounds, gliding along that trail where Moore had met Columbine, sneaking and stooping, at last with many a covert glance about, to kneel in the trail and compare the horse tracks there with horseshoes he took from his pocket. That alone made Bent Wade eternally vigilant. He kept his counsel. He worked more swiftly, so that he might have leisure for his peculiar seeking. He spent an hour each night with the cowboys, listening to their recounting of the day and to their homely and shrewd opinions. He haunted the vicinity of the ranch-house at night, watching and listening for that moment which was to aid him in the crisis that was impending. Many a time he had been near when Columbine passed from the living-room to her corner of the house. He had heard her sigh and could almost have touched her.

  Buster Jack had suffered a regurgitation of the old driving and insatiate temper, and there was gloom in the house of Bellounds. Trouble clouded the old man’s eyes.

  May came with the spring round-up. Wade was called to use a rope and brand calves under the order of Jack Bellounds, foreman of White Slides. That round-up showed a loss of one hundred head of stock, some branded steers, and yearlings, and many calves, in all a mixed herd. Bellounds received the amazing news with a roar. He had been ready for something to roar at. The cowboys gave as reasons winter-kill, and lions, and perhaps some head stolen since the thaw. Wade emphatically denied this. Very few cattle had fallen prey to the big cats, and none, so far as he could find, had been frozen or caught in drifts. It was the young foreman who stunned them all. “Rustled,” he said, darkly. “There’s too many loafers and homesteaders in these hills!” And he stalked out to leave his hearers food for reflection.

  Jack Bellounds drank, but no one saw him drunk, and no one could tell where he got the liquor. He rode hard and fast; he drove the cowboys one way while he went another; he had grown shif
ty, cunning, more intolerant than ever. Some nights he rode to Kremmling, or said he had been there, when next day the cowboys found another spent and broken horse to turn out. On other nights he coaxed and bullied them into playing poker. They won more of his money than they cared to count.

  Columbine confided to Wade, with mournful whisper, that Jack paid no attention to her whatever, and that the old rancher attributed this coldness, and Jack’s backsliding, to her irresponsiveness and her tardiness in setting the wedding-day that must be set. To this Wade had whispered in reply, “Don’t ever forget what I said to you an’ Wils that day!”

  So Wade upheld Columbine with his subtle dominance, and watched over her, as it were, from afar. No longer was he welcome in the big living-room. Bellounds reacted to his son’s influence.

  Twice in the early mornings Wade had surprised Jack Bellounds in the blacksmith shop. The meetings were accidental, yet Wade ever remembered how coincidence beckoned him thither and how circumstance magnified strange reflections. There was no reason why Jack should not be tinkering in the blacksmith shop early of a morning. But Wade followed an uncanny guidance. Like his hound Fox, he never split on trails. When opportunity afforded he went into the shop and looked it over with eyes as keen as the nose of his dog. And in the dust of the floor he had discovered little circles with dots in the middle, all uniform in size. Sight of them did not shock him until they recalled vividly the little circles with dots in the earthen floor of Wilson Moore’s cabin. Little marks made by the end of Moore’s crutch! Wade grinned then like a wolf showing his fangs. And the vitals of a wolf could no more strongly have felt the instinct to rend.

  For Wade, the cloud on his horizon spread and darkened, gathered sinister shape of storm, harboring lightning and havoc. It was the cloud in his mind, the foreshadowing of his soul, the prophetic sense of like to like. Where he wandered there the blight fell!

  * * * *

  Significant was the fact that Bellounds hired new men. Bludsoe had quit. Montana Jim grew surly these days and packed a gun. Lem Billings had threatened to leave. New and strange hands for Jack Bellounds to direct had a tendency to release a strain and tide things over.

  Every time the old rancher saw Wade he rolled his eyes and wagged his head, as if combating superstition with an intelligent sense of justice. Wade knew what troubled Bellounds, and it strengthened the gloomy mood that, like a poison lichen, seemed finding root.

  Every day Wade visited his friend Wilson Moore, and most of their conversation centered round that which had become a ruling passion for both. But the time came when Wade deviated from his gentleness of speech and leisure of action.

  “Bent, you’re not like you were,” said Moore, once, in surprise at the discovery. “You’re losing hope and confidence.”

  “No. I’ve only somethin’ on my mind.”

  “What?”

  “I reckon I’m not goin’ to tell you now.”

  “You’ve got hell on your mind!” flashed the cowboy, in grim inspiration.

  Wade ignored the insinuation and turned the conversation to another subject.

  “Wils, you’re buyin’ stock right along?”

  “Sure am. I saved some money, you know. And what’s the use to hoard it? I’ll buy cheap. In five years I’ll have five hundred, maybe a thousand head. Wade, my old dad will be pleased to find out I’ve made the start I have.”

  “Well, it’s a fine start, I’ll allow. Have you picked up any unbranded stock?”

  “Sure I have. Say, pard, are you worrying about this two-bit rustler work that’s been going on?”

  “Wils, it ain’t two bits any more. I reckon it’s gettin’ into the four-bit class.”

  “I’ve been careful to have my business transactions all in writing,” said Moore. “It makes these fellows sore, because some of them can’t write. And they’re not used to it. But I’m starting this game in my own way.”

  “Have you sold any stock?”

  “Not yet. But the Andrews boys are driving some thirty-odd head to Kremmling for me to be sold.”

  “Ahuh! Well, I’ll be goin’,” Wade replied, and it was significant of his state of mind that he left his young friend sorely puzzled. Not that Wade did not see Moore’s anxiety! But the drift of events at White Slides had passed beyond the stage where sympathetic and inspiring hope might serve Wade’s purpose. Besides, his mood was gradually changing as these events, like many fibers of a web, gradually closed in toward a culminating knot.

  That night Wade lounged with the cowboys and new hands in front of the little storehouse where Bellounds kept supplies for all. He had lounged there before in the expectation of seeing the rancher’s son. And this time anticipation was verified. Jack Bellounds swaggered over from the ranch-house. He met civility and obedience now where formerly he had earned but ridicule and opposition. So long as he worked hard himself the cowboys endured. The subtle change in him seemed of sterner stuff. The talk, as usual, centered round the stock subjects and the banter and gossip of ranch-hands. Wade selected an interval when there was a lull in the conversation, and with eyes that burned under the shadow of his broad-brimmed sombrero he watched the son of Bellounds.

  “Say, boys, Wils Moore has begun sellin’ cattle,” remarked Wade, casually. “The Andrews brothers are drivin’ for him.”

  “Wal, so Wils’s spread-eaglin’ into a real rancher!” ejaculated Lem Billings. “Mighty glad to hear it. Thet boy shore will git rich.”

  Wade’s remark incited no further expressions of interest. But it was Jack Bellounds’s secret mind that Wade wished to pierce. He saw the leaping of a thought that was neither interest nor indifference nor contempt, but a creative thing which lent a fleeting flash to the face, a slight shock to the body. Then Jack Bellounds bent his head, lounged there for a little while longer, lost in absorption, and presently he strolled away.

  Whatever that mounting thought of Jack Bellounds’s was it brought instant decision to Wade. He went to the ranch-house and knocked upon the living-room door. There was a light within, sending rays out through the windows into the semi-darkness. Columbine opened the door and admitted Wade. A bright fire crackled in the hearth. Wade flashed a reassuring look at Columbine.

  “Evenin’, Miss Collie. Is your dad in?”

  “Oh, it’s you, Ben!” she replied, after her start. “Yes, dad’s here.”

  The old rancher looked up from his reading. “Howdy, Wade! What can I do fer you?”

  “Bellounds, I’ve cleaned out the cats an’ most of the varmints on your range. An’ my work, lately, has been all sorts, not leavin’ me any time for little jobs of my own. An’ I want to quit.”

  “Wade, you’ve clashed with Jack!” exclaimed the rancher, jerking erect.

  “Nothin’ of the kind. Jack an’ me haven’t had words a good while. I’m not denyin’ we might, an’ probably would clash sooner or later. But that’s not my reason for quittin’.”

  Manifestly this put an entirely different complexion upon the matter. Bellounds appeared immensely relieved.

  “Wal, all right. I’ll pay you at the end of the month. Let’s see, thet’s not long now. You can lay off tomorrow.”

  Wade thanked him and waited for further remarks. Columbine had fixed big, questioning eyes upon Wade, which he found hard to endure. Again he tried to flash her a message of reassurance. But Columbine did not lose her look of blank wonder and gravity.

  “Ben! Oh, you’re not going to leave White Slides?” she asked.

  “Reckon I’ll hang around yet awhile,” he replied.

  Bellounds was wagging his head regretfully and ponderingly.

  “Wal, I remember the day when no man quit me. Wal, wal!—times change. I’m an old man now. Mebbe, mebbe I’m testy. An’ then thar’s thet boy!”

  With a shrug of his broad shoulders he dismissed what seemed an encroachment of pessimistic thought.

  “Wade, you’re packin’ off, then, on the trail? Always on the go, eh?”

  “No, I�
�m not hurryin’ off,” replied Wade.

  “Wal, might I ask what you’re figgerin’ on?”

  “Sure. I’m considerin’ a cattle deal with Moore. He’s a pretty keen boy an’ his father has big ranchin’ interests. I’ve saved a little money an’ I’m no spring chicken any more. Wils has begun to buy an’ sell stock, so I reckon I’ll go in with him.”

  “Ahuh!” Bellounds gave a grunt of comprehension. He frowned, and his big eyes set seriously upon the blazing fire. He grasped complications in this information.

  “Wal, it’s a free country,” he said at length, and evidently his personal anxieties were subjected to his sense of justice. “Owin’ to the peculiar circumstances hyar at my range, I’d prefer thet Moore an’ you began somewhar else. Thet’s natural. But you’ve my good will to start on an’ I hope I’ve yours.”

  “Bellounds, you’ve every man’s good will,” replied Wade. “I hope you won’t take offense at my leavin’. You see I’m on Wils Moore’s side in—in what you called these peculiar circumstances. He’s got nobody else. An’ I reckon you can look back an’ remember how you’ve taken sides with some poor devil an’ stuck to him. Can’t you?”

  “Wal, I reckon I can. An’ I’m not thinkin’ less of you fer speakin’ out like thet.”

  “All right. Now about the dogs. I turn the pack over to you, an’ it’s a good one. I’d like to buy Fox.”

  “Buy nothin’, man. You can have Fox, an’ welcome.”

  “Much obliged,” returned the hunter, as he turned to go. “Fox will sure be help for me. Bellounds, I’m goin’ to round up this outfit that’s rustlin’ your cattle. They’re gettin’ sort of bold.”

  “Wade, you’ll do thet on your own hook?” asked the rancher, in surprise.

  “Sure. I like huntin’ men more than other varmints. Then I’ve a personal interest. You know the hint about homesteaders hereabouts reflects some on Wils Moore.”

  “Stuff!” exploded the rancher, heartily. “Do you think any cattleman in these hills would believe Wils Moore a rustler?”

  “The hunch has been whispered,” said Wade. “An’ you know how all ranchers say they rustled a little on the start.”