by Zane Grey
“I’m not believin’ that till I know,” replied the hunter, gloomily. “But I’m afraid of him.… I’ve known bad men to change. There’s a grain of good in all men—somethin’ divine. An’ it comes out now an’ then. Men rise on steppin’-stones of their dead selves to higher things!… This is Bellounds’s chance for the good in him. If it’s not there he will do as you say. If it is—that scare he had will be the turnin’-point in his life. I’m hopin’, but I’m afraid.”
“Ben, you wait and see,” said Moore, earnestly. “Heaven knows I’m not one to lose hope for my fellowmen—hope for the higher things you’ve taught me.… But human nature is human nature. Jack can’t give Collie up, just the same as I can’t. That’s self-preservation as well as love.”
* * * *
The day came when Wade walked down to White Slides. There seemed to be a fever in his blood, which he tried to convince himself was a result of his wounds instead of the condition of his mind. It was Sunday, a day of sunshine and squall, of azure-blue sky, and great, sailing, purple clouds. The sage of the hills glistened and there was a sweetness in the air.
The cowboys made much of Wade. But the old rancher, seeing him from the porch, abruptly went into the house. No one but Wade noticed this omission of courtesy. Directly, Columbine appeared, waving her hand, and running to meet him.
“Dad saw you. He told me to come out and excuse him.… Oh, Ben, I’m so happy to see you! You don’t look hurt at all. What a fight you had!… Oh, I was sick! But let me forget that.… How are you? And how’s Wils?”
Thus she babbled until out of breath.
“Collie, it’s sure good to see you,” said Wade, feeling the old, rich thrill at her presence. “I’m comin’ on tolerable well. I wasn’t bad hurt, but I bled a lot. An’ I reckon I’m older ’n I was when packin’ gun-shot holes was nothin’. Every year tells. Only a man doesn’t know till after.… An’ how are you, Collie?”
Her blue eyes clouded, and a tremor changed the expression of her sweet lips.
“I am unhappy, Ben,” she said. “But what could we expect? It might be worse. For instance, you might have been killed. I’ve much to be thankful for.”
“I reckon so. We all have.… I fetched a message from Wils, but I oughtn’t tell it.”
“Please do,” she begged, wistfully.
“Well, Wils says, tell Collie I love her every day more an’ more, an’ that my love keeps up my courage an’ my belief in God, an’ if she ever marries Jack Bellounds she can come up to visit my grave among the columbines on the hill.”
Strange how Wade experienced comfort in thus torturing her! She was rosy at the beginning of his speech and white at its close. “Oh, it’s true! it’s true!” she whispered. “It’ll kill him, as it will me!”
“Cheer up, Columbine,” said Wade. “It’s a long time till August thirteenth.… An’ now tell me, why did Old Bill run when he saw me comin’?”
“Ben, I suspect dad has the queerest notion you want to tell him some awful bloody story about the rustlers.”
“Ahuh! Well, not yet.… An’ how’s Jack Bellounds actin’ these days?”
Wade felt the momentousness of that query, but it seemed her face had been telltale enough, without confirmation of words.
“My friend, somehow I hate to tell you. You’re always so hopeful, so ready to think good instead of evil.… But Jack has been rough with me, almost brutal. He was drunk once. Every day he drinks, sometimes a little, sometimes more. But drink changes him. And it’s dragging dad down. Dad doesn’t say so, yet I feel he’s afraid of what will come next.… Jack has nagged me to marry him right off. He wanted to the day he came back from Kremmling. He’s eager to leave White Slides. Dad knows that, also, and it worries him. But of course I refused.”
The presence of Columbine, so vivid and sweet and stirring, and all about her the sunlight, the golden gleams on the sage hills, and Wade’s heart and brain and spirit sustained a subtle transformation. It was as if what had been beautiful with light had suddenly, strangely darkened. Then Wade imagined he stood alone in a gloomy house, which was his own heart, and he was listening to the arrival of a tragic messenger whose foot sounded heavy on the stairs, whose hand turned slowly upon the knob, whose gray presence opened the door and crossed the threshold.
“Buster Jack didn’t break off with you, Collie?” asked the hunter.
“Break off with me!… No, indeed! Whatever possessed you to say that?”
“An’ he didn’t offer to give you up to Wils Moore?”
“Ben, are you crazy?” cried Columbine.
“Collie; listen. I’ll tell you.” The old urge knocked at Wade’s mind. “Buster Jack was in the cabin, gamblin’ with the rustlers, when I cornered them. You remember I meant to scare Buster Jack within an inch of his life? Well, I made use of my opportunity. I worked up the rustlers. Then I told Jack I’d give away his secret. He made to jump an’ run, I reckon. But he hadn’t the nerve. I shot a piece out of his ear, just to begin the fun. An’ then I told the rustlers how Jack had double-crossed them. Folsom, the boss rustler, roared like a mad steer. He was wild to kill Jack. He begged for a gun to shoot out Jack’s eyes. An’ so were the other rustlers burnin’ to kill him. Bad outfit. There was a fight, which, I’m bound to confess, was not short an’ sweet. There was a lot of shootin’. An’ in a cabin gun-shots almost lift the roof. Folsom was on his knees, dyin’, wavin’ his gun, whisperin’ in fiendish glee that he had done for me. When he saw Jack an’ remembered he shook so with fury that he scattered blood all over. An’ he took long aim at Jack, tryin’ to steady his gun. He couldn’t, an’ he missed, an’ then fell over dead with his head on Jack’s knees. That left the red-bearded rustler, who had hid behind the chimney. Jack watched the rest of that fight, an’ for a youngster it must have been nerve-rackin’. I broke the rustler’s arm, an’ then his knee, an’ then I got him in the hip two more times before he hobbled out to his finish. He’d shot me up considerable, so that when I braced Jack I must have been a hair-raisin’ sight. I made Jack believe I meant to murder him. He begged an’ cried, an’ he got to prayin’ for his life for your sake. It was sickenin’, but it was what I wanted. So then I made him swear he’d free you an’ give you up to Moore.”
“Oh! Oh, Ben, how awful!” whispered Columbine, shuddering. “How could you tell me such a horrible story?”
“Reckon I wanted you to know how Jack come to make the promises an’ what they were.”
“Promises! What are promises or oaths to Jack Bellounds?” she cried, in passionate contempt. “You wasted your breath. Coward—liar that he is!”
“Ahuh!” Wade looked straight ahead of him as if he saw some expected and unpleasant thing far in the distance. Then with irresistible steps, neither swift nor slow, but ponderous, he strode to the porch and mounted the steps.
“Why, Ben, where are you going?” called Columbine, in surprise, as she followed him.
He did not answer. He approached the closed door of the living-room.
“Ben!” cried Columbine, in alarm.
But he had no reply for her—indeed, no thought of her. Without knocking, he opened the door with rude and powerful hand, and, striding in, closed it after him.
Bill Bellounds was standing, back against the great stone chimney, arms folded, a stolid and grim figure, apparently fortified against an intrusion he had expected.
“Wal, what do you want?” he asked, gruffly. He had sensed catastrophe in the first sight of the hunter.
“Bellounds, I reckon I want a hell of a lot,” replied Wade. “An’ I’m askin’ you to see we’re not disturbed.”
“Bar the door.”
Wade dropped the bar in place, and then, removing his sombrero, he wiped his moist brow.
“Do you see an enemy in me?” he asked, curiously.
“Speakin’ out fair, Wade, there ain’t any reason I can see that you’re an enemy to me,” replied Bellounds. “But I feel somethin’. It ain’t because I’m tak
in’ my son’s side. It’s more than that. A queer feelin’, an’ one I never had before. I got it first when you told the story of the Gunnison feud.”
“Bellounds, we can’t escape our fates. An’ it was written long ago I was to tell you a worse an’ harder story than that.”
“Wal, mebbe I’ll listen an’ mebbe I won’t. I ain’t promisin’, these days.”
“Are you goin’ to make Collie marry Jack?” demanded the hunter.
“She’s willin’.”
“You know that’s not true. Collie’s willin’ to sacrifice love, honor, an’ life itself, to square her debt to you.”
The old rancher flushed a burning red, and in his eyes flared a spirit of earlier years.
“Wade, you can go too far,” he warned. “I’m appreciatin’ your good-heartedness. It sort of warms me toward you.… But this is my business. You’ve no call to interfere. You’ve done that too much already. An’ I’m reckonin’ Collie would be married to Jack now if it hadn’t been for you.”
“Ahuh!… That’s why I’m thankin’ God I happened along to White Slides. Bellounds, your big mistake is thinkin’ your son is good enough for this girl. An’ you’re makin’ mistakes about me. I’ve interfered here, an’ you may take my word for it I had the right.”
“Strange talk, Wade, but I’ll make allowances.”
“You needn’t. I’ll back my talk.… But, first, I’m askin’ you—an’ if this talk hurts, I’m sorry—why don’t you give some of your love for your no-good Buster Jack to Collie?”
Bellounds clenched his huge fists and glared. Anger leaped within him. He recognized in Wade an outspoken, bitter adversary to his cherished hopes for his son and his stubborn, precious pride.
“By Heaven! Wade, I’ll—”
“Bellounds, I can make you swallow that kind of talk,” interrupted Wade. “It’s man to man now. An’ I’m a match for you any day. Savvy?… Do you think I’m damn fool enough to come here an’ brace you unless I knew that. Talk to me as you’d talk about some other man’s son.”
“It ain’t possible,” rejoined the rancher, stridently.
“Then listen to me first.… Your son Jack, to say the least, will ruin Collie. Do you see that?”
“By Gawd! I’m afraid so,” groaned Bellounds, big in his humiliation. “But it’s my one last bet, an’ I’m goin’ to play it.”
“Do you know marryin’ him will kill her?”
“What!… You’re overdoin’ your fears, Wade. Women don’t die so easy.”
“Some of them die, an’ Collie’s one that will, if she ever marries Jack.”
“If!… Wal, she’s goin’ to.”
“We don’t agree,” said Wade, curtly.
“Are you runnin’ my family?”
“No. But I’m runnin’ a large-sized if in this game. You’ll admit that presently.… Bellounds, you make me mad. You don’t meet me man to man. You’re not the Bill Bellounds of old. Why, all over this state of Colorado you’re known as the whitest of the white. Your name’s a byword for all that’s square an’ big an’ splendid. But you’re so blinded by your worship of that wild boy that you’re another man in all pertainin’ to him. I don’t want to harp on his short-comm’s. I’m for the girl. She doesn’t love him. She can’t. She will only drag herself down an’ die of a broken heart.… Now, I’m askin’ you, before it’s too late—give up this marriage.”
“Wade! I’ve shot men for less than you’ve said!” thundered the rancher, beside himself with rage and shame.
“Ahuh! I reckon you have. But not men like me.… I tell you, straight to your face, it’s a fool deal you’re workin’—a damn selfish one—a dirty job, to put on an innocent, sweet girl—an’ as sure as you stand there, if you do it, you’ll ruin four lives!”
“Four!” exclaimed Bellounds. But any word would have expressed his humiliation.
“I should have said three, leavin’ Jack out. I meant Collie’s an’ yours an’ Wils Moore’s.”
“Moore’s is about ruined already, I’ve a hunch.”
“You can get hunches you never dreamed of, Bellounds, old as you are. An’ I’ll give you one presently.… But we drift off. Can’t you keep cool?”
“Cool! With you rantin’ hell-bent for election? Haw! Raw!… Wade, you’re locoed. You always struck me queer.… An’ if you’ll excuse me, I’m gettin’ tired of this talk. We’re as far apart as the poles. An’ to save what good feelin’s we both have, let’s quit.”
“You don’t love Collie, then?” queried Wade, imperturbably.
“Yes, I do. That’s a fool idee of yours. It puts me out of patience.”
“Bellounds, you’re not her real father.”
The rancher gave a start, and he stared as he had stared before, fixedly and perplexedly at Wade.
“No, I’m not.”
“If she were your real daughter—your own flesh an’ blood—an’ Jack Bellounds was my son, would you let her marry him?”
“Wal, Wade, I reckon I wouldn’t.”
“Then how can you expect my consent to her marriage with your son?”
“What!” Bellounds lunged over to Wade, leaned down, shaken by overwhelming amaze.
“Collie is my daughter!”
A loud expulsion of breath escaped Bellounds. Lower he leaned, and looked with piercing gaze into the face and eyes that in this moment bore strange resemblance to Columbine.
“So help me Gawd!… That’s the secret?… Hell-Bent Wade! An’ you’ve been on my trail!”
He staggered to his big chair and fell into it. No trace of doubt showed in his face. The revelation had struck home because of its very greatness.
Wade took the chair opposite. His likeness to Columbine had faded now. It had been love, a spirit, a radiance, a glory. It was gone. And Wade’s face became the emblem of tragedy.
“Listen, Bellounds. I’ll tell you!… The ways of God are inscrutable. I’ve been twenty years tryin’ to atone for the wrong I did Collie’s mother. I’ve been a prospector for the trouble of others. I’ve been a bearer of their burdens. An’ if I can save Collie’s happiness an’ her soul, I reckon I won’t be denied the peace of meetin’ her mother in the other world.… I recognized Collie the moment I laid eyes on her. She favors her mother in looks, an’ she has her mother’s sensitiveness, her fire an’ pride, an’ she even has her voice. It’s low an’ sweet—alto, they used to call it.… But I’d recognized Collie as my own if I’d been blind an’ deaf.… It’s over eighteen years ago that we had the trouble. I was no boy, but I was terribly in love with Lucy. An’ she loved me with a passion I never learned till too late. We came West from Missouri. She was born in Texas. I had a rovin’ disposition an’ didn’t stick long at any kind of work. But I was lookin’ for a ranch. My wife had some money an’ I had high hopes. We spent our first year of married life travelin’ through Kansas. At Dodge I got tied up for a while. You know, in them days Dodge was about the wildest camp on the plains. My wife’s brother run a place there. He wasn’t much good. But she thought he was perfect. Strange how blood-relations can’t see the truth about their own people! Anyway, her brother Spencer had no use for me, because I could tell how slick he was with the cards an’ beat him at his own game. Spencer had a gamblin’ pard, a cowboy run out of Texas, one Cap Fol—But no matter about his name. One night they were fleecin’ a stranger an’ I broke into the game, winnin’ all they had. The game ended in a fight, with bloodshed, but nobody killed. That set Spencer an’ his pard Cap against me. The stranger was a planter from Louisiana. He’d been an officer in the rebel army. A high-strung, handsome Southerner, fond of wine an’ cards an’ women. Well, he got to payin’ my wife a good deal of attention when I was away, which happened to be often. She never told me. I was jealous those days.
“My little girl you call Columbine was born there durin’ a long absence of mine. When I got home Lucy an’ the baby were gone. Also the Southerner!… Spencer an’ his pard Cap, an’ others they had in the deal, proved t
o me, so it seemed, that the little girl was not really mine!… An’ so I set out on a hunt for my wife an’ her lover. I found them. An’ I killed him before her eyes. But she was innocent, an’ so was he, as came out too late. He’d been, indeed, her friend. She scorned me. She told me how her brother Spencer an’ his friends had established guilt of mine that had driven her from me.
“I went back to Dodge to have a little quiet smoke with these men who had ruined me. They were gone. The trail led to Colorado. Nearly a year later I rounded them all up in a big wagon-train post north of Denver. Another brother of my wife’s, an’ her father, had come West, an’ by accident or fate we all met there. We had a family quarrel. My wife would not forgive me—would not speak to me, an’ her people backed her up. I made the great mistake to take her father an’ other brothers to belong to the same brand as Spencer. In this I wronged them an’ her.
“What I did to them, Bellounds, is one story I’ll never tell to any man who might live to repeat it. But it drove my wife near crazy. An’ it made me Hell-Bent Wade!… She ran off from me there, an’ I trailed her all over Colorado. An’ the end of that trail was not a hundred miles from where we stand now. The last trace I had was of the burnin’ of a prairie-schooner by Arapahoes as they were goin’ home from a foray on the Utes.… The little girl might have toddled off the trail. But I reckon she was hidden or dropped by her mother, or someone fleein’ for life. Your men found her in the columbines.”
Bellounds drew a long, deep breath.
“What a man never expects always comes true.… Wade, the lass is yours. I can see it in the way you look at me. I can feel it.… She’s been like my own. I’ve done my best, accordin’ to my conscience. An’ I’ve loved her, for all they say I couldn’t see aught but Jack.… You’ll take her away from me?”
“No. Never,” was the melancholy reply.
“What! Why not?”
