The Lone Star Ranger and the Mysterious Rider (65 page)

“Oh, Wilson, I promise—I swear!” she cried. “Never! I'm yours. It would be a sin. I've been mad to—to blind myself.”

“You love me! You love me!” he cried, in a sudden transport.

“Oh, yes, yes! I do.”

“Say it then! Say it—so I'll never doubt—never suffer again!”

“I love you, Wilson! I—I love you—unutterably,” she whispered. “I love you—so—I'm broken-hearted now. I'll never live without you. I'll die—I love you so!”

“You—you flower—you angel!” he whispered in return. “You woman! You precious creature! I've been crazed at loss of you!”

Wade paced out of earshot, and this time he remained way for a considerable time. He lived again moments of his own past, unforgettable and sad. When at length he returned toward the young couple they were sitting apart, composed once more, talking earnestly. As he neared them Columbine rose to greet him with wonderful eyes, in which reproach blended with affection.

“Ben, so this is what you've done!” she exclaimed.

“Lass, I'm only a humble instrument, an' I believe God guides me right,” replied the hunter.

“I love you more, it seems, for what you make me suffer,” she said, and she kissed him with a serious sweetness. “I'm only a leaf in the storm. But—let what will come.… Take me home.”

They said good-by to Wilson, who sat with head bowed upon his hands. His voice trembled as he answered them. Wade found the trail while Columbine mounted. As they went slowly down the gentle slope, stepping over the numerous logs fallen across the way, Wade caught out the tail of his eye a moving object along the outer edge the aspen grove above them. It was the figure of a man, skulking behind the trees. He disappeared. Wade usually remarked to Columbine that now she could spur the pony and hurry on home. But Columbine refused. When they got a little farther on, out of sight of Moore and somewhat around to the left, Wade espied the man again. He carried a rifle. Wade grew somewhat perturbed.

“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 some one!”

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 Belllounds.

“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 Belllounds, and it was with a melancholy reminder of the infallibility of his presentiments. As he and Columbine halted in the trail, Belllounds'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!

Belllounds 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 Belllounds.

“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 Belllounds back from murder. The rifle was raised, the hammer reset, the butt lowered to the ground, while Belllounds, 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.

Belllounds 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 Belllounds 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 Belllounds.

“You—you—” muttered Belllounds, 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 15

Wade noticed that after her trying experience with him and Wilson and Belllounds 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 Belllounds, 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 Belllounds. 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 Belllounds, 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. Belllounds 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 Belllounds 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 shifty, 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. Belllounds reacted to his son's influence.

Twice in the early mornings Wade had surprised Jack Belllounds 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 dog 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 Belllounds 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 Belllounds 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 Belllounds, 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.”