Wade told a terrible tale of gold and blood and death.  It seemed to relieve him.  His face changed, and lost what might have been called its tragic light, its driven intensity.

His listeners shook their heads in awe.  Hard tales were common in Colorado, but this one was exceptional.  Two of the group left without comment.  Old Kemp stared with narrow, half-recognizing eyes at the new-comer.

“Wal!  Wal!” ejaculated the innkeeper.  “It do beat hell what can happen!...  Stranger, will you put up your hosses an’ stay?”

“I’m lookin’ for work,” replied Wade.

It was then that mention was made of Belllounds sending to Meeker for hands.

“Old Bill Belllounds thet settled Middle Park an’ made friends with the Utes,” said Wade, as if certain of his facts.

“Yep, you have Bill to rights.  Do you know him?”

“I seen him once twenty years ago.”

“Ever been to Middle Park?  Belllounds owns ranches there,” said the innkeeper.

“He ain’t livin’ in the Park now,” interposed Kemp.  “He’s at White Slides, I reckon, these last eight or ten years.  Thet’s over the Gore Range.”

“Prospected all through that country,” said Wade.

“Wal, it’s a fine part of Colorado.  Hay an’ stock country—­too high fer grain.  Did you mean you’d been through the Park?”

“Once—­long ago,” replied Wade, staring with his great, cavernous eyes into space.  Some memory of Middle Park haunted him.

“Wal, then, I won’t be steerin’ you wrong,” said the innkeeper.  “I like thet country.  Some people don’t.  An’ I say if you can cook or pack or punch cows or ‘most anythin’ you’ll find a bunk with Old Bill.  I understand he was needin’ a hunter most of all.  Lions an’ wolves bad!  Can you hunt?”

“Hey?” queried Wade, absently, as he inclined his ear.  “I’m deaf on one side.”

“Are you a good man with dogs an’ guns?” shouted his questioner.

“Tolerable,” replied Wade.

“Then you’re sure of a job.”

“I’ll go.  Much obliged to you.”

“Not a-tall.  I’m doin’ Belllounds a favor.  Reckon you’ll put up here to-night?”

“I always sleep out.  But I’ll buy feed an’ supplies,” replied Wade, as he turned to his horses.

Old Kemp trudged down the road, wagging his gray head as if he was contending with a memory sadly failing him.  An hour later when Bent Wade rode out of town he passed Kemp, and hailed him.  The old-timer suddenly slapped his leg:  “By Golly!  I knowed I’d met him before!”

Later, he said with a show of gossipy excitement to his friend the innkeeper, “Thet fellar was Bent Wade!”

“So he told me,” returned the other.

“But didn’t you never hear of him? Bent Wade?”

“Now you tax me, thet name do ’pear familiar.  But dash take it, I can’t remember.  I knowed he was somebody, though.  Hope I didn’t wish a gun-fighter or outlaw on Old Bill.  Who was he, anyhow?”