“Get up, an' take my scarf,” said Wade, “an' bandage these bullet-holes I got.”
CHAPTER XVIII
Wade's wounds were not in any way serious, and with Belllounds's assistance he got to the cabin of Lewis, where weakness from loss of blood made it necessary that he remain. Belllounds went home.
The next day Wade sent Lewis with pack-horse down to the rustler's cabin, to bury the dead men and fetch back their effects. Lewis returned that night, accompanied by Sheriff Burley and two deputies, who had been busy on their own account. They had followed horse tracks from the water-hole under Gore Peak to the scene of the fight, and had arrived to find Lewis there. Burley had appropriated the considerable amount of gold, which he said could be identified by cattlemen who had bought the stolen cattle.
When opportunity afforded Burley took advantage of it to speak to Wade when the others were out of earshot.
“Thar was another man in thet cabin when the fight come off,” announced the sheriff. “An' he come up hyar with you.”
“Jim, you're locoed,” replied Wade.
The sheriff laughed, and his shrewd eyes had a kindly, curious gleam.
“Next you'll be givin' me a hunch thet you're in a fever an' out of your head.”
“Jim, I'm not as clear-headed as I might be.”
“Wal, tell me or not, jest as you like. I seen his tracks—follered them. An' Wade, old pard, I've reckoned long ago thar's a nigger in the wood-pile.”
“Sure. An' you know me. I'd take it friendly of you to put Moore's trial off fer a while—till I'm able to ride to Krernmlin'. Maybe then I can tell you a story.”
Burley threw up his hands in genuine apprehension. “Not much! You ain't agoin' to tellme no story!... But I'll wait on you, an' welcome. Reckon I owe you a good deal on this rustler round-up. Wade, thet must have been a man-sized fight, even fer you. I picked up twenty-six empty shells. An' the little half-breed had one empty shell an' five loaded ones in his gun. You must have got him quick. Hey?”
“Jim, I'm observin' you're a heap more curious than ever, an' you always was an inquisitive cuss,” complained Wade. “I don't recollect what happened.”
“Wal, wal, have it your own way,” replied Burley, with good nature. “Now, Wade, I'll pitch camp hyar in the park to-night, an' to-morrer I'll ride down to White Slides on my way to Kremmlin'. What're you wantin' me to tell Belllounds?”
The hunter pondered a moment.
“Reckon it's just as well that you tell him somethin'.... You can say the rustlers are done for an' that he'll get his stock back. I'd like you to tell him that the rustlers were more to blame than Wils Moore. Just say that an' nothin' else about Wils. Don't mention about your suspectin' there was another man around when the fight come off.... Tell the cowboys that I'll be down in a few days. An' if you happen to get a chance for a word alone with Miss Collie, just say I'm not bad hurt an' that all will be well.”
“Ahuh!” Burley grunted out the familiar exclamation. He did not say any more then, but he gazed thoughtfully down upon the pale hunter, as if that strange individual was one infinitely to respect, but never to comprehend.
* * * * *
Wade's wounds healed quickly; nevertheless, it was more than several days before he felt spirit enough to undertake the ride. He had to return to White Slides, but he was reluctant to do so. Memory of Jack Belllounds dragged at him, and when he drove it away it continually returned. This feeling was almost equivalent to an augmentation of his gloomy foreboding, which ever hovered on the fringe of his consciousness. But one morning he started early, and, riding very slowly, with many rests, he reached the Sage Valley cabin before sunset. Moore saw him coming, yelled his delight and concern, and almost lifted him off the horse. Wade was too tired to talk much, but he allowed himself to be fed and put to bed and worked over.
“Boot's on the other foot now, pard,” said Moore, with delight at the prospect of returning service. “Say, you're all shot up! And it's I who'll be nurse!”
“Wils, I'll be around to-morrow,” replied the hunter. “Have you heard any news from down below?”
“Sure. I've met Lem every night.”
Then he related Burley's version of Wade's fight with the rustlers in the cabin. From the sheriff's lips the story gained much. Old Bill Belllounds had received the news in a singular mood; he offered no encomiums to the victor; contrary to his usual custom of lauding every achievement of labor or endurance, he now seemed almost to regret the affray. Jack Belllounds had returned from Kremmling and he was present when Burley brought news of the rustlers. What he thought none of the cowboys vouchsafed to say, but he was drunk the next day, and he lost a handful of gold to them. Never had he gambled so recklessly. Indeed, it was as if he hated the gold he lost. Little had been seen of Columbine, but little was sufficient to make the cowboys feel concern.
Wade made scarcely any comment upon this news from the ranch; next day, however, he was up, and caring for himself, and he told Moore about the fight and how he had terrorized Belllounds and exhorted the promises from him.
“Never in God's world will Buster Jack live up to those promises!” cried Moore, with absolute conviction. “I know him, Ben. He meant them when he made them. He'd swear his soul away—then next day he'd lie or forget or betray.”
“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 Belllounds'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. Jackcan'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?”