by Zane Grey
“Ah! so you admit it? Well, then, what of Collie?”
“If she marries him—she’ll have to die, I suppose,” replied Wade.
Then Wilson Moore leaped at his friend and with ungentle hands lifted him, pushed him erect.
“Damn you, Wade! You’re not square with me! You don’t tell me all!” he cried, hoarsely.
“Now, Wils, you’re set up. I’ve told you all I know. I swear that.”
“But you couldn’t stand the thought of Collie dying for that brute! You couldn’t! Oh, I know. I can feel some things that are hard to tell. So, you’re either out of your head or you’ve something up your sleeve. It’s hard to explain how you affect me. One minute I’m ready to choke you for that damned strangeness—whatever it is. The next minute I feel it—I trust it, myself.… Wade, you’re not—you can’t be infallible!”
“I’m only a man, Wils, an’ your friend. I reckon you do find me queer. But that’s no matter. Now let’s look at this deal—each from his own side of the fence. An’ each actin’ up to his own lights! You do what your conscience dictates, always thinkin’ of Collie—not of yourself! An’ I’ll live up to my principles. Can we do more?”
“No, indeed, Wade, we can’t,” replied Moore, eloquently.
“Well, then, here’s my hand. I’ve talked too much, I reckon. An’ the time for talkin’ is past.”
In silence Moore gripped the hand held out to him, trying to read Wade’s mind, apparently once more uplifted and strengthened by that which he could not divine.
* * * *
Wade’s observations during the following week brought forth the fact that Jack Bellounds was not letting any grass grow under his feet. He endeavored to fulfil his agreement with Smith, and drove a number of cattle by moonlight. These were part of the stock that the rancher had sold to buyers at Kremmling, and which had been collected and held in the big, fenced pasture down the valley next to the Andrews ranch. The loss was not discovered until the cattle had been counted at Kremmling. Then they were credited to loss by straying. In driving a considerable herd of half-wild steers, with an inadequate force of cowboys, it was no unusual thing to lose a number.
Wade, however, was in possession of the facts not later than the day after this midnight steal in the moonlight. He was forced to acknowledge that no one would have believed it possible for Jack Bellounds to perform a feat which might well have been difficult for the best of cowboys. But Jack accomplished it and got back home before daylight. And Wade was bound to admit that circumstantial evidence against Wilson Moore, which, of course, Jack Bellounds would soon present, would be damning and apparently irrefutable.
Waiting for further developments, Wade closely watched the ranch-house, which duty interfered with his attention to the outlying trails. What he did not want to miss was being present when Jack Bellounds accused Wilson Moore of rustling cattle.
So it chanced that Wade was chatting with the cowboys one Sunday afternoon when Jack, accompanied by three strangers, all mounted on dusty, tired horses, rode up to the porch and dismounted.
Lem Billings manifested unusual excitement.
“Montana, ain’t thet Sheriff Burley from Kremmlin’?” he queried.
“Shore looks like him.… Yep, thet’s him. Now, what’s doin’?”
The cowboys exchanged curious glances, and then turned to Wade.
“Bent, what do you make of thet?” asked Lem, as he waved his hand toward the house. “Buster Jack ridin’ up with Sheriff Burley.”
The rancher, Bellounds, who was on the porch, greeted the visitors, and then they all went into the house.
“Boys, it’s what I’ve been lookin’ for,” replied Wade.
“Shore. Reckon we all have idees. An’ if my idee is correct I’m agoin’ to git pretty damn sore pronto,” declared Lem.
They were all silent for a few moments, meditating over this singular occurrence, and watching the house. Presently Old Bill Bellounds strode out upon the porch, and, walking out into the court, he peered around as if looking for someone. Then he espied the little group of cowboys.
“Hey!” he yelled. “One of you boys ride up an’ fetch Wils Moore down hyar!”
“All right, boss,” called Lem, in reply, as he got up and gave a hitch to his belt.
The rancher hurried back, head down, as if burdened.
“Wade, I reckon you want to go fetch Wils?” queried Lem.
“If it’s all the same to you. I’d rather not,” replied Wade.
“By Golly! I don’t blame you. Boys, shore’n hell, Burley’s after Wils.”
“Wal, suppos’n’ he is,” said Montana. “You can gamble Wils ain’t agoin’ to run. I’d jest like to see him face thet outfit. Burley’s a pretty square fellar. An’ he’s no fool.”
“It’s as plain as your nose, Montana, an’ thet’s shore big enough,” returned Lem, with a hard light in his eyes. “Buster Jack’s busted out, an’ he’s figgered Wils in some deal thet’s rung in the sheriff. Wal, I’ll fetch Wils.” And, growling to himself, the cowboy slouched off after his horse.
Wade got up, deliberate and thoughtful, and started away.
“Say, Bent, you’re shore goin’ to see what’s up?” asked Montana, in surprise.
“I’ll be around, Jim,” replied Wade, and he strolled off to be alone. He wanted to think over this startling procedure of Jack Bellounds’s. Wade was astonished. He had expected that an accusation would be made against Moore by Jack, and an exploitation of such proofs as had been craftily prepared, but he had never imagined Jack would be bold enough to carry matters so far. Sheriff Burley was a man of wide experience, keen, practical, shrewd. He was also one of the countless men Wade had rubbed elbows with in the eventful past. It had been Wade’s idea that Jack would be satisfied to face his father with the accusation of Moore, and thus cover his tracks. Whatever Old Bellounds might have felt over the loss of a few cattle, he would never have hounded and arrested a cowboy who had done well by him. Burley, however, was a sheriff, and a conscientious one, and he happened to be particularly set against rustlers.
Here was a complication of circumstances. What would Jack Bellounds insist upon? How would Columbine take this plot against the honor and liberty of Wilson Moore? How would Moore himself react to it? Wade confessed that he was helpless to solve these queries, and there seemed to be a further one, insistent and gathering—what was to be his own attitude here? That could not be answered, either, because only a future moment, over which he had no control, and which must decide events, held that secret. Worry beset Wade, but he still found himself proof against the insidious gloom ever hovering near, like his shadow.
He waited near the trail to intercept Billings and Moore on their way to the ranch-house; and to his surprise they appeared sooner than it would have been reasonable to expect them. Wade stepped out of the willows and held up his hand. He did not see anything unusual in Moore’s appearance.
“Wils, I reckon we’d do well to talk this over,” said Wade.
“Talk what over?” queried the cowboy, sharply.
“Why, Old Bill’s sendin’ for you, an’ the fact of Sheriff Burley bein’ here.”
“Talk nothing. Let’s see what they want, and then talk. Pard, you remember the agreement we made not long ago?”
“Sure. But I’m sort of worried, an’ maybe—”
“You needn’t worry about me. Come on,” interrupted Moore. “I’d like you to be there. And, Lem, fetch the boys.”
“I shore will, an’ if you need any backin’ you’ll git it.”
When they reached the open Lem turned off toward the corrals, and Wade walked beside Moore’s horse up to the house.
Bellounds appeared at the door, evidently having heard the sound of hoofs.
“Hello, Moore! Get down an’ come in,” he said, gruffly.
“Bellounds, if it’s all the same to you I’ll take mine in the open,” replied the cowboy, coolly.
The rancher looked troubled. He did not have the ease and force h
abitual to him in big moments.
“Come out hyar, you men,” he called in the door.
Voices, heavy footsteps, the clinking of spurs, preceded the appearance of the three strangers, followed by Jack Bellounds. The foremost was a tall man in black, sandy-haired and freckled, with clear gray eyes, and a drooping mustache that did not hide stern lips and rugged chin. He wore a silver star on his vest, packed a gun in a greasy holster worn low down on his right side, and under his left arm he carried a package.
It suited Wade, then, to step forward; and if he expected surprise and pleasure to break across the sheriff’s stern face he certainly had not reckoned in vain.
“Wal, I’m a son-of-a-gun!” ejaculated Burley, bending low, with quick movement, to peer at Wade.
“Howdy, Jim. How’s tricks?” said Wade, extending his hand, and the smile that came so seldom illumined his sallow face.
“Hell-Bent Wade, as I’m a born sinner!” shouted the sheriff, and his hand leaped out to grasp Wade’s and grip it and wring it. His face worked. “My Gawd! I’m glad to see you, old-timer! Wal, you haven’t changed at all!… Ten years! How time flies! An’ it’s shore you?”
“Same, Jim, an’ powerful glad to meet you,” replied Wade.
“Shake hands with Bridges an’ Lindsay,” said Burley, indicating his two comrades. “Stockmen from Grand Lake.… Boys, you’ve heerd me talk about him. Wade an’ I was both in the old fight at Blair’s ranch on the Gunnison. An’ I’ve shore reason to recollect him!… Wade, what’re you doin’ up in these diggin’s?”
“Drifted over last fall, Jim, an’ have been huntin’ varmints for Bellounds,” replied Wade. “Cleaned the range up fair to middlin’. An’ since I quit Bellounds I’ve been hangin’ round with my young pard here, Wils Moore, an’ interestin’ myself in lookin’ up cattle tracks.”
Burley’s back was toward Bellounds and his son, so it was impossible for them to see the sudden little curious light that gleamed in his eyes as he looked hard at Wade, and then at Moore.
“Wils Moore. How d’ye do? I reckon I remember you, though I don’t ride up this way much of late years.”
The cowboy returned the greeting civilly enough, but with brevity.
Bellounds cleared his throat and stepped forward. His manner showed he had a distasteful business at hand.
“Moore, I sent for you on a serious matter, I’m sorry to say.”
“Well, here I am. What is it?” returned the cowboy, with clear, hazel eyes, full of fire, steady on the old rancher’s.
“Jack, you know, is foreman of White Slides now. An’ he’s made a charge against you.”
“Then let him face me with it,” snapped Moore.
Jack Bellounds came forward, hands in his pockets, self-possessed, even a little swaggering, and his pale face and bold eyes showed the gravity of the situation and his mastery over it.
Wade watched this meeting of the rivals and enemies with an attention powerfully stimulated by the penetrating scrutiny Burley laid upon them. Jack did not speak quickly. He looked hard into the tense face of Moore. Wade detected a vibration of Jack’s frame and a gleam of eye that showed him not wholly in control of exultation and revenge. Fear had not struck him yet.
“Well, Buster Jack, what’s the charge?” demanded Moore, impatiently.
The old name, sharply flung at Jack by this cowboy, seemed to sting and reveal and inflame. But he restrained himself as with roving glance he searched Moore’s person for sight of a weapon. The cowboy was unarmed.
“I accuse you of stealing my father’s cattle,” declared Jack, in low, husky accents. After he got the speech out he swallowed hard.
Moore’s face turned a dead white. For a fleeting instant a red and savage gleam flamed in his steady glance. Then it vanished.
The cowboys, who had come up, moved restlessly. Lem Billings dropped his head, muttering. Montana Jim froze in his tracks.
Moore’s dark eyes, scornful and piercing, never moved from Jack’s face. It seemed as if the cowboy would never speak again.
“You call me thief! You?” at length he exclaimed.
“Yes, I do,” replied Bellounds, loudly.
“Before this sheriff and your father you accuse me of stealing cattle?”
“Yes.”
“And you accuse me before this man who saved my life, who knows me—before Hell-Bent Wade?” demanded Moore, as he pointed to the hunter.
Mention of Wade in that significant tone of passion and wonder was not without effect upon Jack Bellounds.
“What in hell do I care for Wade?” he burst out, with the old intolerance. “Yes, I accuse you. Thief, rustler!… And for all I know your precious Hell-Bent Wade may be—”
He was interrupted by Burley’s quick and authoritative interference.
“Hyar, young man, I’m allowin’ for your natural feelin’s,” he said, dryly, “but I advise you to bite your tongue. I ain’t acquainted with Mister Moore, but I happen to know Wade. Do you savvy?… Wal, then, if you’ve any more to say to Moore get it over.”
“I’ve had my say,” replied Bellounds, sullenly.
“On what grounds do you accuse me?” demanded Moore.
“I trailed you. I’ve got my proofs.”
Burley stepped off the porch and carefully laid down his package.
“Moore, will you get off your hoss?” he asked. And when the cowboy had dismounted and limped aside the sheriff continued, “Is this the hoss you ride most?”
“He’s the only one I have.”
Burley sat down upon the edge of the porch and, carefully unwrapping the package, he disclosed some pieces of hard-baked yellow mud. The smaller ones bore the imprint of a circle with a dot in the center, very clearly defined. The larger piece bore the imperfect but reasonably clear track of a curiously shaped horseshoe, somewhat triangular. The sheriff placed these pieces upon the ground. Then he laid hold of Moore’s crutch, which was carried like a rifle in a sheath hanging from the saddle, and, drawing it forth, he carefully studied the round cap on the end. Next he inserted this end into both the little circles on the pieces of mud. They fitted perfectly. The cowboys bent over to get a closer view, and Billings was wagging his head. Old Bellounds had an earnest eye for them, also. Burley’s next move was to lift the left front foot of Moore’s horse and expose the bottom to view. Evidently the white mustang did not like these proceedings, but he behaved himself. The iron shoe on this hoof was somewhat triangular in shape. When Burley held the larger piece of mud, with its imprint, close to the hoof, it was not possible to believe that this iron shoe had not made the triangular-shaped track.
Burley let go of the hoof and laid the pieces of mud down. Slowly the other men straightened up. Some one breathed hard.
“Moore, what do them tracks look like to you?” asked the sheriff.
“They look like mine,” replied the cowboy.
“They are yours.”
“I’m not denying that.”
“I cut them pieces of mud from beside a water-hole over hyar under Gore Peak. We’d trailed the cattle Bellounds lost, an’ then we kept on trailin’ them, clear to the road that goes over the ridge to Elgeria.… Now Bridges an’ Lindsay hyar bought stock lately from strange cattlemen who didn’t give no clear idee of their range. Jest buyin’ an’ sellin’, they claimed.… I reckon the extra hoss tracks we run across at Gore Peak connects up them buyers an’ sellers with whoever drove Bellounds’s cattle up thar.… Have you anythin’ more to say?”
“No. Not here,” replied Moore, quietly.
“Then I’ll have to arrest you an’ take you to Kremmlin’ fer trial.”
“All right. I’ll go.”
The old rancher seemed genuinely shocked. Red tinged his cheek and a flame flared in his eyes.
“Wils, you done me dirt,” he said, wrathfully. “An’ I always swore by you.… Make a clean breast of the whole damn bizness, if you want me to treat you white. You must have been locoed or drunk, to double-cross me thet way. Co
me on, out with it.”
“I’ve nothing to say,” replied Moore.
“You act amazin’ strange fer a cowboy I’ve knowed to lean toward fightin’ at the drop of a hat. I tell you, speak out an’ I’ll do right by you.… I ain’t forgettin’ thet White Slides gave you a hard knock. An’ I was young once an’ had hot blood.”
The old rancher’s wrathful pathos stirred the cowboy to a straining-point of his unnatural, almost haughty composure. He seemed about to break into violent utterance. Grief and horror and anger seemed at the back of his trembling lips. The look he gave Bellounds was assuredly a strange one, to come from a cowboy who was supposed to have stolen his former employer’s cattle. Whatever he might have replied was cut off by the sudden appearance of Columbine.
“Dad, I heard you!” she cried, as she swept upon them, fearful and wide-eyed. “What has Wilson Moore done—that you’ll do right by him?”
“Collie, go back in the house,” he ordered.
“No. There’s something wrong here,” she said, with mounting dread in the swift glance she shot from man to man. “Oh! You’re—Sheriff Burley!” she gasped.
“I reckon I am, miss, an’ if young Moore’s a friend of yours I’m sorry I came,” replied Burley.
Wade himself reacted subtly and thrillingly to the presence of the girl. She was alive, keen, strung, growing white, with darkening eyes of blue fire, beginning to grasp intuitively the meaning here.
“My friend! He was more than that—not long ago.… What has he done? Why are you here?”
“Miss, I’m arrestin’ him.”
“Oh!… For what?”
“Rustlin’ your father’s cattle.”
For a moment Columbine was speechless. Then she burst out, “Oh, there’s a terrible mistake!”
“Miss Columbine, I shore hope so,” replied Burley, much embarrassed and distressed. Like most men of his kind, he could not bear to hurt a woman. “But it looks bad fer Moore.… See hyar! There! Look at the tracks of his hoss—left front foot-shoe all crooked. Thet’s his hoss’s. He acknowledges thet. An’, see hyar. Look at the little circles an’ dots.… I found these ’way over at Gore Peak, with the tracks of the stolen cattle. An’ no other tracks, Miss Columbine!”
