“Ahuh!... That's why I'm thankin' God I happened along to White Slides. Belllounds, 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?”
Belllounds 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—”
“Belllounds, 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 Belllounds, big in his humiliation. “But it's my one last bet, an' I'm goin' to play it.”
“Do you know marryin' him willkill 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-sizedif in this game. You'll admit that presently.... Belllounds, you make me mad. You don't meet me man to man. You're not the Bill Belllounds 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 Belllounds. 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, Belllounds, 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.”
“Belllounds, 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 shewere your real daughter—your own flesh an' blood—an' Jack Belllounds 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!” Belllounds lunged over to Wade, leaned down, shaken by overwhelming amaze.
“Collie is my daughter!”
A loud expulsion of breath escaped Belllounds. 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, Belllounds. 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 to 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.