“Boss, don’t jump over the traces,” said Wade.  “I’ll allow if I’d known the gun would let out a bellar like that I’d not have told Jack to shoot.  Reckon it’s because we’re under the open roof that it made the racket.  I’m wantin’ to clean the gun while it’s hot.”

“Ahuh!  Wal, I was scared fust, harkin’ back to Indian days, an’ then I was mad because I figgered Jack was up to mischief....  Did you fetch in the meat?”

“You bet.  An’ I’d like a piece for myself,” replied Wade.

“Help yourself, man.  An’ say, come down an’ eat with us fer supper.”

“Much obliged, boss.  I sure will.”

Then the old rancher trudged back to the house.

“Wade, it was bully of you!” exclaimed Jack, gratefully.  “You see how quick dad’s ready to jump me?  I’ll bet he thought I’d picked a shooting-scrape with one of the cowboys.”

“Well, he’s gettin’ old an’ testy,” replied Wade.  “You ought to humor him.  He’ll not be here always.”

Belllounds answered to that suggestion with a shadowing of eyes and look of realization, affection, remorse.  Feelings seemed to have a quick rise and play in him, but were not lasting.  Wade casually studied him, weighing his impressions, holding them in abeyance for a sum of judgment.

“Belllounds, has anybody told you about Wils Moore bein’ bad hurt?” abruptly asked the hunter.

“He is, is he?” replied Jack, and to his voice and face came sudden change.  “How bad?”

“I reckon he’ll be a cripple for life,” answered Wade, seriously, and now he stopped in his work to peer at Belllounds.  The next moment might be critical for that young man.

“Club-footed!...  He won’t lord it over the cowboys any more—­or ride that white mustang!” The softer, weaker expression of his face, that which gave him some title to good looks, changed to an ugliness hard for Wade to define, since it was neither glee, nor joy, nor gratification over his rival’s misfortune.  It was rush of blood to eyes and skin, a heated change that somehow to Wade suggested an anxious, selfish hunger.  Belllounds lacked something, that seemed certain.  But it remained to be proved how deserving he was of Wade’s pity.

“Belllounds, it was a dirty trick—­your jumpin’ Moore,” declared Wade, with deliberation.

“The hell you say!” Belllounds flared up, with scarlet in his face, with sneer of amaze, with promise of bursting rage.  He slammed down the gun.

“Yes, the hell I say,” returned the hunter.  “They call me Hell-Bent Wade!”

“Are you friends with Moore?” asked Belllounds, beginning to shake.

“Yes, I’m that with every one.  I’d like to be friends with you.”

“I don’t want you.  And I’m giving you notice—­you won’t last long at White Slides.”

“Neither will you!”

Belllounds turned dead white, not apparently from fury or fear, but from a shock that had its birth within the deep, mysterious, emotional reachings of his mind.  He was utterly astounded, as if confronting a vague, terrible premonition of the future.  Wade’s swift words, like the ring of bells, had not been menacing, but prophetic.