When she was about to turn back she heard the thud of hoofs ahead of her.  Pronto shot up his ears.  Alarmed and anxious, Columbine swiftly gazed about her.  It would not do for her to be seen.  Yet, on the other hand, the chances were that the approaching horse carried Wade.  It was lucky that she was on Pronto, for he could be trusted to stand still and not neigh.  Columbine rode into a thick clump of spruces that had long, shelving branches, reaching down.  Here she hid, holding Pronto motionless.

Presently the sound of hoofs denoted the approach of several horses.  That augmented Columbine’s anxiety.  Peering out of her covert, she espied three horsemen trotting along the trail, and one of them was Jack Belllounds.  They appeared to be in strong argument, judging from gestures and emphatic movements of their heads.  As chance would have it they halted their horses not half a dozen rods from Columbine’s place of concealment.  The two men with Belllounds were rough-looking, one of them, evidently a leader, having a dark face disfigured by a horrible scar.

Naturally they did not talk loud, and Columbine had to strain her ears to catch anything.  But a word distinguished here and there, and accompanying actions, made transparent the meaning of their presence and argument.  The big man refused to ride any farther.  Evidently he had come so far without realizing it.  His importunities were for “more head of stock.”  His scorn was for a “measly little bunch not worth the risk.”  His anger was for Belllounds’s foolhardiness in “leavin’ a trail.”  Belllounds had little to say, and most of that was spoken in a tone too low to be heard.  His manner seemed indifferent, even reckless.  But he wanted “money.”  The scar-faced man’s name was “Smith.”  Then Columbine gathered from Smith’s dogged and forceful gestures, and his words, “no money” and “bigger bunch,” that he was unwilling to pay what had been agreed upon unless Belllounds promised to bring a larger number of cattle.  Here Belllounds roundly cursed the rustler, and apparently argued that course “next to impossible.”  Smith made a sweeping movement with his arm, pointing south, indicating some place afar, and part of his speech was “Gore Peak.”  The little man, companion of Smith, got into the argument, and, dismounting from his horse, he made marks upon the smooth earth of the trail.  He was drawing a rude map showing direction and locality.  At length, when Belllounds nodded as if convinced or now informed, this third member of the party remounted, and seemed to have no more to say.  Belllounds pondered sullenly.  He snatched a switch from off a bough overhead and flicked his boot and stirrup with it, an action that made his horse restive.  Smith leered and spoke derisively, of which speech Columbine heard, “Aw hell!” and “yellow streak,” and “no one’d ever,” and “son of Bill Belllounds,” and “rustlin’ stock.”  Then this scar-faced man drew out a buckskin bag.  Either the contempt or the gold, or both, overbalanced vacillation in the weak mind of Jack Belllounds, for he lifted his head, showing his face pale and malignant, and without trace of shame or compunction he snatched the bag of gold, shouted a hoarse, “All right, damn you!” and, wheeling the white mustang, he spurred away, quickly disappearing.