The hunter pondered a moment.

“Reckon it’s just as well that you tell him somethin’....  You can say the rustlers are done for an’ that he’ll get his stock back.  I’d like you to tell him that the rustlers were more to blame than Wils Moore.  Just say that an’ nothin’ else about Wils.  Don’t mention about your suspectin’ there was another man around when the fight come off....  Tell the cowboys that I’ll be down in a few days.  An’ if you happen to get a chance for a word alone with Miss Collie, just say I’m not bad hurt an’ that all will be well.”

“Ahuh!” Burley grunted out the familiar exclamation.  He did not say any more then, but he gazed thoughtfully down upon the pale hunter, as if that strange individual was one infinitely to respect, but never to comprehend.

* * * * *

Wade’s wounds healed quickly; nevertheless, it was more than several days before he felt spirit enough to undertake the ride.  He had to return to White Slides, but he was reluctant to do so.  Memory of Jack Belllounds dragged at him, and when he drove it away it continually returned.  This feeling was almost equivalent to an augmentation of his gloomy foreboding, which ever hovered on the fringe of his consciousness.  But one morning he started early, and, riding very slowly, with many rests, he reached the Sage Valley cabin before sunset.  Moore saw him coming, yelled his delight and concern, and almost lifted him off the horse.  Wade was too tired to talk much, but he allowed himself to be fed and put to bed and worked over.

“Boot’s on the other foot now, pard,” said Moore, with delight at the prospect of returning service.  “Say, you’re all shot up!  And it’s I who’ll be nurse!”

“Wils, I’ll be around to-morrow,” replied the hunter.  “Have you heard any news from down below?”

“Sure.  I’ve met Lem every night.”

Then he related Burley’s version of Wade’s fight with the rustlers in the cabin.  From the sheriff’s lips the story gained much.  Old Bill Belllounds had received the news in a singular mood; he offered no encomiums to the victor; contrary to his usual custom of lauding every achievement of labor or endurance, he now seemed almost to regret the affray.  Jack Belllounds had returned from Kremmling and he was present when Burley brought news of the rustlers.  What he thought none of the cowboys vouchsafed to say, but he was drunk the next day, and he lost a handful of gold to them.  Never had he gambled so recklessly.  Indeed, it was as if he hated the gold he lost.  Little had been seen of Columbine, but little was sufficient to make the cowboys feel concern.

Wade made scarcely any comment upon this news from the ranch; next day, however, he was up, and caring for himself, and he told Moore about the fight and how he had terrorized Belllounds and exhorted the promises from him.

“Never in God’s world will Buster Jack live up to those promises!” cried Moore, with absolute conviction.  “I know him, Ben.  He meant them when he made them.  He’d swear his soul away—­then next day he’d lie or forget or betray.”