“I tell you I want drink,” he suddenly demanded. “I know damn well you cowpunchers have some here, for I smelled it when I came in.”
“Jack, we drank the last drop,” replied Jim, who seemed less stiff than his two bunk-mates.
“I've some very old rye,” interposed Wade, looking at Jim, but apparently addressing all. “Fine stuff, but awful strong an' hot!... Makes a fellow's blood dance.”
“Go get it!” Belllounds's utterance was thick and full, as if he had something in his mouth.
Wade looked down into the heated face, into the burning eyes; and through the darkness of passion that brooked no interference with its fruition he saw this youth's stark and naked soul. Wade had seen into the depths of many such abysses.
“See hyar, Wade,” broke in Jim, with his quiet force, “never mind fetchin' thet red-hot rye to-night. Some other time, mebbe, when Jack wants more satisfaction. Reckon we've got a drop or so left.”
“All right, boys,” replied Wade, “I'll be sayin' good night.”
He left them playing and strode out to return to his cabin. The night was still, cold, starlit, and black in the shadows. A lonesome coyote barked, to be answered by a wakeful hound. Wade halted at his porch, and lingered there a moment, peering up at the gray old peak, bare and star-crowned.
“I'm sorry for the old man,” muttered the hunter, “but I'd see Jack Belllounds in hell before I'd let Columbine marry him.”
* * * * *
October first was a holiday at White Slides Ranch. It happened to be a glorious autumn day, with the sunlight streaming gold and amber over the grassy slopes. Far off the purple ranges loomed hauntingly.
Wade had come down from Wilson Moore's cabin, his ears ringing with the crippled boy's words of poignant fear.
Fox favored his master with unusually knowing gaze. There was not going to be any lion-chasing or elk-hunting this day. Something was in the wind. And Fox, as a privileged dog, manifested his interest and wonder.
Before noon a buckboard with team of sweating horses halted in the yard of the ranch-house. Besides the driver it contained two women whom Belllounds greeted as relatives, and a stranger, a pale man whose dark garb proclaimed him a minister.
“Come right in, folks,” welcomed Belllounds, with hearty excitement.
It was Wade who showed the driver where to put the horses. Strangely, not a cowboy was in sight, an omission of duty the rancher had noted. Wade might have informed him where they were.
The door of the big living-room stood open, and from it came the sound of laughter and voices. Wade, who had returned to his seat on the end of the porch, listened to them, while his keen gaze seemed fixed down the lane toward the cabins. How intent must he have been not to hear Columbine's step behind him!
“Good morning, Ben,” she said.
Wade wheeled as if internal violence had ordered his movement.
“Lass, good mornin',” he replied. “You sure look sweet this October first—like the flower for which you're named.”
“My friend, itis October first—my marriage day!” murmured Columbine.
Wade felt her intensity, and he thrilled to the brave, sweet resignation of her face. Hope and faith were unquenchable in her, yet she had fortified herself to the wreck of dreams and love.
“I'd seen you before now, but I had some job with Wils, persuadin' him that we'd not have to offer you congratulations yet awhile,” replied Wade, in his slow, gentle voice.
“Oh!” breathed Columbine.
Wade saw her full breast swell and the leaping blood wave over her pale face. She bent to him to see his eyes. And for Wade, when she peered with straining heart and soul, all at once to become transfigured, that instant was a sweet and all-fulfilling reward for his years of pain.
“You drive me mad!” she whispered.
The heavy tread of the rancher, like the last of successive steps of fate in Wade's tragic expectancy, sounded on the porch.
“Wal, lass, hyar you are,” he said, with a gladness deep in his voice. “Now, whar's the boy?”
“Dad—I've not—seen Jack since breakfast,” replied Columbine, tremulously.
“Sort of a laggard in love on his weddin'-day,” rejoined the rancher. His gladness and forgetfulness were as big as his heart. “Wade, have you seen Jack?”
“No—I haven't,” replied the hunter, with slow, long-drawn utterance. “But—I see—him now.”
Wade pointed to the figure of Jack Belllounds approaching from the direction of the cabins. He was not walking straight.
Old man Belllounds shot out his gray head like a striking eagle.
“What the hell?” he muttered, as if bewildered at this strange, uneven gait of his son. “Wade, what's the matter with Jack?”
Wade did not reply. That moment had its sorrow for him as well as understanding of the wonder expressed by Columbine's cold little hand trembling in his.
The rancher suddenly recoiled.
“So help me Gawd—he's drunk!” he gasped, in a distress that unmanned him.
Then the parson and the invited relatives came out upon the porch, with gay voices and laughter that suddenly stilled when old Belllounds cried, brokenly: “Lass—go—in—the house.”
But Columbine did not move, and Wade felt her shaking as she leaned against him.
The bridegroom approached. Drunk indeed he was; not hilariously, as one who celebrated his good fortune, but sullenly, tragically, hideously drunk.
Old Belllounds leaped off the porch. His gray hair stood up like the mane of a lion. Like a giant's were his strides. With a lunge he met his reeling son, swinging a huge fist into the sodden red face. Limply Jack fell to the ground.
“Lay there, you damned prodigal!” he roared, terrible in his rage. “You disgrace me—an' you disgrace the girl who's been a daughter to me!... if you ever have another weddin'-day it'll not be me who sets it!”
CHAPTER XII
November was well advanced before there came indications that winter was near at hand.
One morning, when Wade rode up to Moore's cabin, the whole world seemed obscured in a dense gray fog, through which he could not see a rod ahead of him. Later, as he left, the fog had lifted shoulder-high to the mountains, and was breaking to let the blue sky show. Another morning it was worse, and apparently thicker and grayer. As Wade climbed the trail up toward the mountain-basin, where he hunted most these days, he expected the fog to lift. But it did not. The trail under the hoofs of the horse was scarcely perceptible to him, and he seemed lost in a dense, gray, soundless obscurity.
Suddenly Wade emerged from out the fog into brilliant sunshine. In amaze he halted. This phenomenon was new to him. He was high up on the mountain-side, the summit of which rose clear-cut and bold into the sky. Below him spread what resembled a white sea. It was an immense cloud-bank, filling all the valleys as if with creamy foam or snow, soft, thick, motionless, contrasting vividly with the blue sky above. Old White Slides stood out, gray and bleak and brilliant, as if it were an island rock in a rolling sea of fleece. Far across this strange, level cloud-floor rose the black line of the range. Wade watched the scene with a kind of rapture. He was alone on the heights. There was not a sound. The winds were stilled. But there seemed a mighty being awake all around him, in the presence of which Wade felt how little were his sorrows and hopes.