“Get down, Buster,” ordered the man.

It was Wade.

Belllounds had given as sharp a start as his horse.  He was sober, though the heated red tinge of his face gave indication of a recent use of the bottle.  That color quickly receded.  Events of the last month had left traces of the hardening and lowering of Jack Belllounds’s nature.

“Wha-at?...  Let go of that bridle!” he ejaculated.

Wade held it fast, while he gazed up into the prominent eyes, where fear shone and struggled with intolerance and arrogance and quickening gleams of thought.

“You an’ I have somethin’ to talk over,” said the hunter.

Belllounds shrank from the low, cold, even voice, that evidently reminded him of the last time he had heard it.

“No, we haven’t,” he declared, quickly.  He seemed to gather assurance with his spoken thought, and conscious fear left him.  “Wade, you took advantage of me that day—­when you made me swear things.  I’ve changed my mind....  And as for that deal with the rustlers, I’ve got my story.  It’s as good as yours.  I’ve been waiting for you to tell my father.  You’ve got some reason for not telling him.  I’ve a hunch it’s Collie.  I’m on to you, and I’ve got my nerve back.  You can gamble I—­”

He had grown excited when Wade interrupted him.

“Will you get off that horse?”

“No, I won’t,” replied Belllounds, bluntly.

With swift and powerful lunge Wade pulled Belllounds down, sliding him shoulders first into the grass.  The released horse shied again and moved away.  Buster Jack raised himself upon his elbow, pale with rage and alarm.  Wade kicked him, not with any particular violence.

“Get up!” he ordered.

The kick had brought out the rage in Belllounds at the expense of the amaze and alarm.

“Did you kick me?” he shouted.

“Buster, I was only handin’ you a bunch of flowers—­some columbines, as your taste runs,” replied Wade, contemptuously.

“I’ll—­I’ll—­” returned Buster Jack, wildly, bursting for expression.  His hand went to his gun.

“Go ahead, Buster.  Throw your gun on me.  That’ll save maybe a hell of a lot of talk.”

It was then Jack Belllounds’s face turned livid.  Comprehension had dawned upon him.

“You—­you want me to fight you?” he queried, in hoarse accents.

“I reckon that’s what I meant.”

No affront, no insult, no blow could have affected Buster Jack as that sudden knowledge.

“Why—­why—­you’re crazy!  Me fight you—­a gunman,” he stammered.  “No—­no.  It wouldn’t be fair.  Not an even break!...  No, I’d have no chance on earth!”

“I’ll give you first shot,” went on Wade, in his strange, monotonous voice.

“Bah!  You’re lying to me,” replied Belllounds, with pale grimace.  “You just want me to get a gun in my hand—­then you’ll drop me, and claim an even break.”