“Listen.  An’ all of you sit tight,” went on Wade, swiftly.  “Jack stole the cattle from his father.  He’s a thief at heart.  But he had a double motive.  He left a trail—­he left tracks behind.  He made a crooked horseshoe, like that Wils Moore’s horse wears, an’ he put that on his own horse.  An’ he made a contraption—­a little iron ring with a dot in it, an’ he left the crooked shoe tracks, an’ he left the little ring tracks—­”

“By Gawd!  I seen them funny tracks!” ejaculated Folsom.  “At the water-hole an’ right hyar in front of the cabin.  I seen them.  I knowed Jack made them, somehow, but I didn’t think.  His white hoss has a crooked left front shoe.”

“Yes, he has, when Jack takes off the regular shoe an’ nails on the crooked one....  Men, I followed those tracks They lead up here to your cabin.  Belllounds made them with a purpose....  An’ he went to Kremmlin’ to get Sheriff Burley.  An’ he put him wise to the rustlin’ of cattle to Elgeria.  An’ he fetched him up to White Slides to accuse Wils Moore.  An’ he trailed his own tracks up here, showin’ Burley the crooked horse track an’ the little circle—­that was supposed to be made by the end of Moore’s crutch—­an’ he led Burley with his men right to this cabin an’ to the trail where you drove the cattle over the divide....  An’ then he had Burley dig out some cakes of mud holdin’ these tracks, an’ they fetched them down to White Slides.  Buster Jack blamed the stealin’ on to Moore.  An’ Burley arrested Moore.  The trial comes off next week at Kremmlin’.”

“Damn me!” exclaimed Folsom, wonderingly.  “A man’s never too old to learn!  I knowed this pup was stealin’ from his own father, but I reckoned he was jest a natural-born, honest rustler, with a hunch fer drink an’ cards.”

“Well, he’s double-crossed you, Cap.  An’ if I hadn’t rounded you up your chances would have been good for swingin’.”

“Ahuh!  Wade, I’d sure preferred them chances of swingin’ to your over-kind interferin’ in my bizness.  Allus interferin’, Wade, thet’s your weakness!...  But gimmie a gun!”

“I reckon not, Cap.”

“Gimme a gun!” roared the rustler.  “Lemme sit hyar an’ shoot the eyes outen this—­lyin’ pup of a Belllounds!...  Wade, put a gun in my hand—­a gun with two shells—­or only one.  You can stand with your gun at my head....  Let me kill this skunk!”

For all Belllounds could tell, death was indeed close.  No trace of a Belllounds was apparent about him then, and his face was a horrid spectacle for a man to be forced to see.  A froth foamed over his hanging lower lip.

“Cap, I ain’t trustin’ you with a gun just this particular minute,” said Wade.

Folsom then bawled his curses to his comrades.

“——!  Kill him!  Throw your guns an’ bore him—­right in them bulgin’ eyes!...  I’m tellin’ you—­we’ve gotta fight, anyhow.  We’re agoin’ to cash right hyar.  But kill him first!”

Neither of Folsom’s lieutenants yielded to the fierce exhortation of their leader or to their own evilly expressed passions.  It was Wade who dominated them.  Then ensued a silence fraught with suspense, growing more charged every long instant.  The balance here seemed about to be struck.