“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.”

“Have you sold any stock?”

“Not yet.  But the Andrews boys are driving some thirty-odd head to Kremmling for me to be sold.”

“Ahuh!  Well, I’ll be goin’,” Wade replied, and it was significant of his state of mind that he left his young friend sorely puzzled.  Not that Wade did not see Moore’s anxiety!  But the drift of events at White Slides had passed beyond the stage where sympathetic and inspiring hope might serve Wade’s purpose.  Besides, his mood was gradually changing as these events, like many fibers of a web, gradually closed in toward a culminating knot.

That night Wade lounged with the cowboys and new hands in front of the little storehouse where Belllounds kept supplies for all.  He had lounged there before in the expectation of seeing the rancher’s son.  And this time anticipation was verified.  Jack Belllounds swaggered over from the ranch-house.  He met civility and obedience now where formerly he had earned but ridicule and opposition.  So long as he worked hard himself the cowboys endured.  The subtle change in him seemed of sterner stuff.  The talk, as usual, centered round the stock subjects and the banter and gossip of ranch-hands.  Wade selected an interval when there was a lull in the conversation, and with eyes that burned under the shadow of his broad-brimmed sombrero he watched the son of Belllounds.

“Say, boys, Wils Moore has begun sellin’ cattle,” remarked Wade, casually.  “The Andrews brothers are drivin’ for him.”

“Wal, so Wils’s spread-eaglin’ into a real rancher!” ejaculated Lem Billings.  “Mighty glad to hear it.  Thet boy shore will git rich.”

Wade’s remark incited no further expressions of interest.  But it was Jack Belllounds’s secret mind that Wade wished to pierce.  He saw the leaping of a thought that was neither interest nor indifference nor contempt, but a creative thing which lent a fleeting flash to the face, a slight shock to the body.  Then Jack Belllounds bent his head, lounged there for a little while longer, lost in absorption, and presently he strolled away.