“Ahuh!” he rolled, sonorously.  “So hyar you are again?...  Wal, tell your worst, Hell-Bent Wade, an’ let’s have an end to your croakin’.”

Belllounds had fortified himself, not with convictions or with illusions, but with the last desperate courage of a man true to himself.

“I’ll tell you....” began the hunter.

And the rancher threw up his hands in a mockery that was furious, yet with outward shrinking.

“Just now, when Buster Jack fought with Collie, he meant bad by her!”

“Aw, no!...  He was jest rude—­tryin’ to be masterful....  An’ the lass’s like a wild filly.  She needs a tamin’ down.”

Wade stretched forth a lean and quivering hand that seemed the symbol of presaged and tragic truth.

“Listen, Belllounds, an’ I’ll tell you....  No use tryin’ to hatch a rotten egg!  There’s no good in your son.  His good intentions he paraded for virtues, believin’ himself that he’d changed.  But a flip of the wind made him Buster Jack again....  Collie would sacrifice her life for duty to you—­whom she loves as her father.  Wils Moore sacrificed his honor for Collie—­rather than let you learn the truth....  But they call me Hell-Bent Wade, an’ I will tell you!”

The straining hulk of Belllounds crouched lower, as if to gather impetus for a leap.  Both huge hands were outspread as if to ward off attack from an unseen but long-dreaded foe.  The great eyes rolled.  And underneath the terror and certainty and tragedy of his appearance seemed to surge the resistless and rising swell of a dammed-up, terrible rage.

“I’ll tell you ...” went on the remorseless voice.  “I watched your Buster Jack.  I watched him gamble an’ drink.  I trailed him.  I found the little circles an’ the crooked horse tracks—­made to trap Wils Moore....  A damned cunnin’ trick!...  Burley suspects a nigger in the wood-pile.  Wils Moore knows the truth.  He lied for Collie’s sake an’ yours.  He’d have stood the trial—­an’ gone to jail to save Collie from what she dreaded....  Belllounds, your son was in the cabin gamblin’ with the rustlers when I cornered them....  I offered to keep Jack’s secret if he’d swear to give Collie up.  He swore on his knees, beggin’ in her name!...  An’ he comes back to bully her, an’ worse....  Buster Jack!...  He’s the thorn in your heart, Belllounds.  He’s the rustler who stole your cattle!...  Your pet son—­a sneakin’ thief!”

CHAPTER XIX

Jack Belllounds came riding down the valley trail.  His horse was in a lather of sweat.  Both hair and blood showed on the long spurs this son of a great pioneer used in his pleasure rides.  He had never loved a horse.

At a point where the trail met the brook there were thick willow patches, with open, grassy spots between.  As Belllounds reached this place a man stepped out of the willows and laid hold of the bridle.  The horse shied and tried to plunge, but an iron arm held him.