Here was a complication of circumstances.  What would Jack Belllounds insist upon?  How would Columbine take this plot against the honor and liberty of Wilson Moore?  How would Moore himself react to it?  Wade confessed that he was helpless to solve these queries, and there seemed to be a further one, insistent and gathering—­what was to be his own attitude here?  That could not be answered, either, because only a future moment, over which he had no control, and which must decide events, held that secret.  Worry beset Wade, but he still found himself proof against the insidious gloom ever hovering near, like his shadow.

He waited near the trail to intercept Billings and Moore on their way to the ranch-house; and to his surprise they appeared sooner than it would have been reasonable to expect them.  Wade stepped out of the willows and held up his hand.  He did not see anything unusual in Moore’s appearance.

“Wils, I reckon we’d do well to talk this over,” said Wade.

“Talk what over?” queried the cowboy, sharply.

[Illustration:  “Jack Belllounds!” she cried.  “You put the sheriff on that trail!”]

“Why, Old Bill’s sendin’ for you, an’ the fact of Sheriff Burley bein’ here.”

“Talk nothing.  Let’s see what they want, and then talk.  Pard, you remember the agreement we made not long ago?”

“Sure.  But I’m sort of worried, an’ maybe—­”

“You needn’t worry about me.  Come on,” interrupted Moore.  “I’d like you to be there.  And, Lem, fetch the boys.”

“I shore will, an’ if you need any backin’ you’ll git it.”

When they reached the open Lem turned off toward the corrals, and Wade walked beside Moore’s horse up to the house.

Belllounds appeared at the door, evidently having heard the sound of hoofs.

“Hello, Moore!  Get down an’ come in,” he said, gruffly.

“Belllounds, if it’s all the same to you I’ll take mine in the open,” replied the cowboy, coolly.

The rancher looked troubled.  He did not have the ease and force habitual to him in big moments.

“Come out hyar, you men,” he called in the door.

Voices, heavy footsteps, the clinking of spurs, preceded the appearance of the three strangers, followed by Jack Belllounds.  The foremost was a tall man in black, sandy-haired and freckled, with clear gray eyes, and a drooping mustache that did not hide stern lips and rugged chin.  He wore a silver star on his vest, packed a gun in a greasy holster worn low down on his right side, and under his left arm he carried a package.

It suited Wade, then, to step forward; and if he expected surprise and pleasure to break across the sheriff’s stern face he certainly had not reckoned in vain.

“Wal, I’m a son-of-a-gun!” ejaculated Burley, bending low, with quick movement, to peer at Wade.

“Howdy, Jim.  How’s tricks?” said Wade, extending his hand, and the smile that came so seldom illumined his sallow face.