CHAPTER XIX
Jack Belllounds came riding down the valley trail. His horse was in a lather of sweat. Both hair and blood showed on the long spurs this son of a great pioneer used in his pleasure rides. He had never loved a horse.
At a point where the trail met the brook there were thick willow patches, with open, grassy spots between. As Belllounds reached this place a man stepped out of the willows and laid hold of the bridle. The horse shied and tried to plunge, but an iron arm held him.
“Get down, Buster,” ordered the man.
It was Wade.
Belllounds had given as sharp a start as his horse. He was sober, though the heated red tinge of his face gave indication of a recent use of the bottle. That color quickly receded. Events of the last month had left traces of the hardening and lowering of Jack Belllounds's nature.
“Wha-at?... Let go of that bridle!” he ejaculated.
Wade held it fast, while he gazed up into the prominent eyes, where fear shone and struggled with intolerance and arrogance and quickening gleams of thought.
“You an' I have somethin' to talk over,” said the hunter.
Belllounds shrank from the low, cold, even voice, that evidently reminded him of the last time he had heard it.
“No, we haven't,” he declared, quickly. He seemed to gather assurance with his spoken thought, and conscious fear left him. “Wade, you took advantage of me that day—when you made me swear things. I've changed my mind.... And as for that deal with the rustlers, I've got my story. It's as good as yours. I've been waiting for you to tell my father. You've got some reason for not telling him. I've a hunch it's Collie. I'm on to you, and I've got my nerve back. You can gamble I—”
He had grown excited when Wade interrupted him.
“Will you get off that horse?”
“No, I won't,” replied Belllounds, bluntly.
With swift and powerful lunge Wade pulled Belllounds down, sliding him shoulders first into the grass. The released horse shied again and moved away. Buster Jack raised himself upon his elbow, pale with rage and alarm. Wade kicked him, not with any particular violence.
“Get up!” he ordered.
The kick had brought out the rage in Belllounds at the expense of the amaze and alarm.
“Did you kickme? ” he shouted.
“Buster, I was only handin' you a bunch of flowers—some columbines, as your taste runs,” replied Wade, contemptuously.
“I'll—I'll—” returned Buster Jack, wildly, bursting for expression. His hand went to his gun.
“Go ahead, Buster. Throw your gun on me. That'll save maybe a hell of a lot of talk.”
It was then Jack Belllounds's face turned livid. Comprehension had dawned upon him.
“You—you want me to fight you?” he queried, in hoarse accents.
“I reckon that's what I meant.”
No affront, no insult, no blow could have affected Buster Jack as that sudden knowledge.
“Why—why—you're crazy! Me fight you—a gunman,” he stammered. “No—no. It wouldn't be fair. Not an even break!... No, I'd have no chance on earth!”
“I'll give you first shot,” went on Wade, in his strange, monotonous voice.
“Bah! You're lying to me,” replied Belllounds, with pale grimace. “You just want me to get a gun in my hand—then you'll drop me, and claim an even break.”
“No. I'm square. You saw me play square with your rustler pard. He was a lifelong enemy of mine. An' a gun-fighter to boot!... Pull your gun an' let drive. I'll take my chances.”
Buster Jack's eyes dilated. He gasped huskily. He pulled his gun, but actually did not have strength or courage enough to raise it. His arm shook so that the gun rattled against his chaps.
“No nerve, hey? Not half a man!... Buster Jack, why don't you finish game? Make up for your low-down tricks. At the last try to be worthy of your dad. In his day he was a real man.... Let him have the consolation that you faced Hell-Bent Wade an' died in your boots!”
“I—can't—fight you!” panted Belllounds. “I know now!... I saw you throw a gun! It wouldn't be fair!”
“But I'll make you fight me,” returned Wade, in steely tones. “I'm givin' you a chance to dig up a little manhood. Askin' you to meet me man to man! Handin' you a little the best of it to make the odds even!... Once more, will you be game?”
“Wade, I'll not fight—I'm going—” replied Belllounds, and he moved as if to turn.
“Halt!...” Wade leaped at the white Belllounds. “If you run I'll break a leg for you—an' then I'll beat your miserable brains out!... Have you no sense? Can't you recognize what's comin'?...I'm goin' to kill you, Buster Jack! “
“My God!” whispered the other, understanding fully at last.
“Here's where you pay for your dirty work. The time comes to every man. You've a choice, not to live—for you'll never get away from Hell-Bent Wade—but to rise above yourself at last.”
“But what for? Why do you want to kill me? I never harmed you.”
“Columbine is my daughter!” replied the hunter.
“Ah!” breathed Belllounds.
“She loves Wils Moore, who's as white a man as you are black.”
Across the pallid, convulsed face of Belllounds spread a slow, dull crimson.
“Aha, Buster Jack! I struck home there,” flashed Wade, his voice rising. “That gives your eyes the ugly look.... I hate them lyin', bulgin' eyes of yours. An' when my time comes to shoot I'm goin' to put them both out.”
“By Heaven! Wade, you'll have to kill me if you ever expect that club-foot Moore to get Collie!”
“He'll get her,” replied Wade, triumphantly. “Collie's with him now. I sent her. I told her to tell Wils how you tried to force her—”
Belllounds began to shake all over. A torture of jealous hate and deadly terror convulsed him.
“Buster, did you ever think you'd get her kisses—as Wils's gettin' right now?” queried the hunter. “Good Lord! the conceit of some men!... Why, you poor, weak-minded, cowardly pet of a blinded old man—you conceited ass—you selfish an' spoiled boy!... Collie never had any use for you. An' now she hates you.”
“It was you who made her!” yelled Belllounds, foaming at the mouth.
“Sure,” went on the deliberate voice, ringing with scorn. “An' only a little while ago she called you a dog.... I reckon she meant a different kind of a dog than the hounds over there. For to say they were like you would be an insult to them.... Sure she hates you, an' I'll gamble right now she's got her arms around Wils's neck!”
“——!” hissed Belllounds.
“Well, you've got a gun in your hand,” went on the taunting voice. “Ahuh!... Have it your way. I'm warmin' up now, an' I'd like to tell you ...”