When Bent Wade desired opportunities they seemed to gravitate to him.
Upon riding into the yard of White Slides Ranch he espied Jack
Belllounds sitting in idle, moping posture on the porch. Something in
his dejected appearance roused Wade's pity. No one else was in sight, so
the hunter took advantage of the moment.
"Hey, Belllounds, will you give me a lift with this meat?" called Wade.
"Sure," replied Jack, readily enough, and he got up. Wade led the
pack-horse to the door of the store-cabin, which stood back of the
kitchen and was joined to it by a roof. There, with Jack's assistance,
he unloaded the meat and hung it up on pegs. This done, Wade set to work
with knife in hand.
"I reckon a little trimmin' will improve the looks of this carcass,"
observed Wade.
"Wade, we never had any one round except dad who could cut up a steer or
elk," said Jack. "But you've got him beat."
"I'm pretty handy at most things."
"Handy!... I wish I could do just one thing as well as you. I can ride,
but that's all. No one ever taught me anything."
"You're a young fellow yet, an' you've time, if you only take kindly to
learnin'. I was past your age when I learned most I know."
The hunter's voice and his look, and that fascination which subtly hid
in his presence, for the first time seemed to find the response of
interest in young Belllounds.
"I can't stick, dad says, and he swears at me," replied Belllounds. "But
I'll bet I could learn from you."
"Reckon you could. Why can't you stick to anythin'?"
"I don't know. I've been as enthusiastic over work as over riding
mustangs. To ride came natural, but in work, when I do it wrong, then
I hate it."
"Ahuh! That's too bad. You oughtn't to hate work. Hard work makes for
what I reckon you like in a man, but don't understand. As I look back
over my life--an' let me say, young fellar, it's been a tough one--what
I remember most an' feel best over are the hardest jobs I ever did, an'
those that cost the most sweat an' blood."
As Wade warmed to his subject, hoping to sow a good seed in Belllounds's
mind, he saw that he was wasting his earnestness. Belllounds did not
keep to the train of thought. His mind wandered, and now he was
examining Wade's rifle.
"Old Henry forty-four," he said. "Dad has one. Also an old needle-gun.
Say, can I go hunting with you?"
"Glad to have you. How do you handle a rifle?"
"I used to shoot pretty well before I went to Denver," he replied.
"Haven't tried since I've been home.... Suppose you let me take a shot
at that post?" And from where he stood in the door he pointed to a big
hitching-post near the corral gate.
The corral contained horses, and in the pasture beyond were cattle, any
of which might be endangered by such a shot. Wade saw that the young man
was in earnest, that he wanted to respond to the suggestion in his mind.
Consequences of any kind did not awaken after the suggestion.
"Sure. Go ahead. Shoot low, now, a little below where you want to hit,"
said Wade.
Belllounds took aim and fired. A thundering report shook the cabin. Dust
and splinters flew from the post.
"I hit it!" he exclaimed, in delight. "I was sure I wouldn't, because I
aimed 'way under."
"Reckon you did. It was a good shot."
Then a door slammed and Old Bill Belllounds appeared, his hair
upstanding, his look and gait proclaiming him on the rampage.
"Jack! What'n hell are you doin'?" he roared, and he stamped up to the
door to see his son standing there with the rifle in his hands. "By
Heaven! If it ain't one thing it's another!"
"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.
"Young fellar, you need to be talked to, so if you've got any sense at
all it'll get a wedge in your brain," went on Wade. "I'm a stranger
here. But I happen to be a man who sees through things, an' I see how
your dad handles you wrong. You don't know who I am an' you don't care.
But if you'll listen you'll learn what might help you.... No boy can
answer to all his wild impulses without ruinin' himself. It's not
natural. There are other people--people who have wills an' desires, same
as you have. You've got to live with people. Here's your dad an' Miss
Columbine, an' the cowboys, an' me, an' all the ranchers, so down to
Kremmlin' an' other places. These are the people you've got to live
with. You can't go on as you've begun, without ruinin' yourself an' your
dad an' the--the girl.... It's never too late to begin to be better. I
know that. But it gets too late, sometimes, to save the happiness of
others. Now I see where you're headin' as clear as if I had pictures of
the future. I've got a gift that way.... An', Belllounds, you'll not
last. Unless you begin to control your temper, to forget yourself, to
kill your wild impulses, to be kind, to learn what love is--you'll never
last!... In the very nature of things, one comin' after another like
your fights with Moore, an' your scarin' of Pronto, an' your drinkin'
at Kremmlin', an' just now your r'arin' at me--it's in the very nature
of life that goin' on so you'll sooner or later meet with hell! You've
got to change, Belllounds. No half-way, spoiled-boy changin', but the
straight right-about-face of a man!... It means you must see you're no
good an' have a change of heart. Men have revolutions like that. I was
no good. I did worse than you'll ever do, because you're not big enough
to be really bad, an' yet I've turned out worth livin'.... There, I'm
through, an' I'm offerin' to be your friend an' to help you."
Belllounds stood with arms spread outside the door, still astounded,
still pale; but as the long admonition and appeal ended he exploded
stridently. "Who the hell are _you?_... If I hadn't been so
surprised--if I'd had a chance to get a word in--I'd shut your trap! Are
you a preacher masquerading here as hunter? Let me tell you, I won't be
talked to like that--not by any man. Keep your advice an' friendship to
yourself."
"You don't want me, then?"
"No," Belllounds snapped.
"Reckon you don't need either advice or friend, hey?"
"No, you owl-eyed, soft-voiced fool!" yelled Belllounds.
It was then Wade felt a singular and familiar sensation, a cold,
creeping thing, physical and elemental, that had not visited him since
he had been at White Slides.
"I reckoned so," he said, with low and gloomy voice, and he knew, if
Belllounds did not know, that he was not acquiescing with the other's
harsh epithet, but only greeting the advent of something in himself.
Belllounds shrugged his burly shoulders and slouched away.
Wade finished his dressing of the meat. Then he rode up to spend an hour
with Moore. When he returned to his cabin he proceeded to change his
hunter garb for the best he owned. It was a proof of his unusual
preoccupation that he did this before he fed the hounds. It was sunset
when he left his cabin. Montana Jim and Lem hailed as he went by. Wade
paused to listen to their good-natured raillery.
"See hyar, Bent, this ain't Sunday," said Lem.
"You're spruced up powerful fine. What's it fer?" added Montana.
"Boss asked me down to supper.'
"Wal, you lucky son-of-a-gun! An' hyar we've no invite," returned Lem.
"Say, Wade, I heerd Buster Jack roarin' at you. I was ridin' in by the
storehouse.... 'Who the hell are you?' was what collared my attention,
an' I had to laugh. An' I listened to all he said. So you was offerin'
him advice an' friendship?"
"I reckon."
"Wal, all I say is thet you was wastin' yore breath," declared Lem.
"You're a queer fellar, Wade."
"Queer? Aw, Lem, he ain't queer," said Montana. "He's jest white. Wade,
I feel the same as you. I'd like to do somethin' fer thet locoed
Buster Jack."
"Montana, you're the locoed one," rejoined Lem. "Buster Jack knows what
he's doin'. He can play a slicker hand of poker than you."
"Wal, mebbe. Wade, do you play poker?"
"I'd hate to take your money," replied Wade.
"You needn't be so all-fired kind about thet. Come over to-night an'
take some of it. Buster Jack invited himself up to our bunk. He's
itchin' fer cards. So we says shore. Blud's goin' to sit in. Now you
come an' make it five-handed."
"Wouldn't young Belllounds object to me?"
"What? Buster Jack shy at gamblin' with you? Not much. He's a born
gambler. He'd bet with his grandmother an' he'd cheat the coppers off a
dead nigger's eyes."
"Slick with cards, eh?" inquired Wade.
"Naw, Jack's not slick. But he tries to be. An' we jest go him one
slicker."
"Wouldn't Old Bill object to this card-playin'?"
"He'd be ory-eyed. But, by Golly! we're not leadin' Jack astray. An' we
ain't hankerin' to play with him. All the same a little game is
welcome enough."
"I'll come over," replied Wade, and thoughtfully turned away.
When he presented himself at the ranch-house it was Columbine who let
him in. She was prettily dressed, in a way he had never seen her before,
and his heart throbbed. Her smile, her voice added to her nameless
charm, that seemed to come from the past. Her look was eager and
longing, as if his presence might bring something welcome to her.
Then the rancher stalked in. "Hullo, Wade! Supper's 'most ready. What's
this trouble you had with Jack? He says he won't eat with you."
"I was offerin' him advice," replied Wade.
"What on?"
"Reckon on general principles."
"Humph! Wal, he told me you harangued him till you was black in the
face, an'--"
"Jack had it wrong. He got black in the face," interrupted Wade.
"Did you say he was a spoiled boy an' thet he was no good an' was
headin' plumb fer hell?"
"That was a little of what I said," returned Wade, gently.
"Ahuh! How'd thet come about?" queried Belllounds, gruffly. A slight
stiffening and darkening overcast his face.
Wade then recalled and recounted the remarks that had passed between him
and Jack; and he did not think he missed them very far. He had a great
curiosity to see how Belllounds would take them, and especially the
young man's scornful rejection of a sincerely offered friendship. All
the time Wade was talking he was aware of Columbine watching him, and
when he finished it was sweet to look at her.
"Wade, wasn't you takin' a lot on yourself?" queried the rancher,
plainly displeased.
"Reckon I was. But my conscience is beholden to no man. If Jack had met
me half-way that would have been better for him. An' for me, because I
get good out of helpin' any one."
His reply silenced Belllounds. No more was said before supper was
announced, and then the rancher seemed taciturn. Columbine did the
serving, and most all of the talking. Wade felt strangely at ease. Some
subtle difference was at work in him, transforming him, but the moment
had not yet come for him to question himself. He enjoyed the supper. And
when he ventured to look up at Columbine, to see her strong, capable
hands and her warm, blue glance, glad for his presence, sweetly
expressive of their common secret and darker with a shadow of meaning
beyond her power to guess, then Wade felt havoc within him, the strife
and pain and joy of the truth he never could reveal. For he could never
reveal his identity to her without betraying his baseness to her mother.
Otherwise, to hear her call him father would have been earning that
happiness with a lie. Besides, she loved Belllounds as her father, and
were this trouble of the present removed she would grow still closer to
the old man in his declining days. Wade accepted the inevitable, She
must never know. If she might love him it must be as the stranger who
came to her gates, it must be through the mysterious affinity between
them and through the service he meant to render.
Wade did not linger after the meal was ended despite the fact that
Belllounds recovered his cordiality. It was dark when he went out.
Columbine followed him, talking cheerfully. Once outside she squeezed
his hand and whispered, "How's Wilson?"
The hunter nodded his reply, and, pausing at the porch step, he pressed
her hand to make his assurance stronger. His reward was instant. In the
bright starlight she stood white and eloquent, staring down at him with
dark, wide eyes.
Presently she whispered: "Oh, my friend! It wants only three days till
October first!"
"Lass, it might be a thousand years for all you need worry," he replied,
his voice low and full. Then it seemed, as she flung up her arms, that
she was about to embrace him. But her gesture was an appeal to the
stars, to Heaven above, for something she did not speak.
Wade bade her good night and went his way.
* * * * *
The cowboys and the rancher's son were about to engage in a game of
poker when Wade entered the dimly lighted, smoke-hazed room. Montana Jim
was sticking tallow candles in the middle of a rude table; Lem was
searching his clothes, manifestly for money; Bludsoe shuffled a greasy
deck of cards, and Jack Belllounds was filling his pipe before a fire of
blazing logs on the hearth.
"Dog-gone it! I hed more money 'n thet," complained Lem. "Jim, you rode
to Kremmlin' last. Did you take my money?"
"Wal, come to think of it, I reckon I did," replied Jim, in surprise at
the recollection.
"An' whar's it now?"
"Pard, I 'ain't no idee. I reckon it's still in Kremmlin'. But I'll pay
you back."
"I should smile you will. Pony up now."
"Bent Wade, did you come over calkilated to git skinned?" queried
Bludsoe.
"Boys, I was playin' poker tolerable well in Missouri when you all was
nursin'," replied Wade, imperturbably.
"I heerd he was a card-sharp," said Jim. "Wal, grab a box or a chair to
set on an' let's start. Come along, Jack; you don't look as keen to play
as usual."
Belllounds stood with his back to the fire and his manner did not
compare favorably with that of the genial cowboys.
"I prefer to play four-handed," he said.
This declaration caused a little check in the conversation and put an
end to the amiability. The cowboys looked at one another, not
embarrassed, but just a little taken aback, as if they had forgotten
something that they should have remembered.
"You object to my playin'?" asked Wade, quietly.
"I certainly do," replied Belllounds.
"Why, may I ask?"
"For all I know, what Montana said about you may be true," returned
Belllounds, insolently.
Such a remark flung in the face of a Westerner was an insult. The
cowboys suddenly grew stiff, with steady eyes on Wade. He, however, did
not change in the slightest.
"I might be a card-sharp at that," he replied, coolly. "You fellows play
without me. I'm not carin' about poker any more. I'll look on."
Thus he carried over the moment that might have been dangerous. Lem
gaped at him; Montana kicked a box forward to sit upon, and his action
was expressive; Bludsoe slammed the cards down on the table and favored
Wade with a comprehending look. Belllounds pulled a chair up to
the table.
"What'll we make the limit?" asked Jim.
"Two bits," replied Lem, quickly.
Then began an argument. Belllounds was for a dollar limit. The cowboys
objected.
"Why, Jack, if the ole man got on to us playin' a dollar limit he'd fire
the outfit," protested Bludsoe.
This reasonable objection in no wise influenced the old man's son. He
overruled the good arguments, and then hinted at the cowboys' lack of
nerve. The fun faded out of their faces. Lem, in fact, grew red.
"Wal, if we're agoin' to gamble, thet's different," he said, with a cold
ring in his voice, as he straddled a box and sat down. "Wade, lemme
some money."
Wade slipped his hand into his pocket and drew forth a goodly handful of
gold, which he handed to the cowboy. Not improbably, if this large
amount had been shown earlier, before the change in the sentiment, Lem
would have looked aghast and begged for mercy. As it was, he accepted it
as if he were accustomed to borrowing that much every day. Belllounds
had rendered futile the easy-going, friendly advances of the cowboys, as
he had made it impossible to play a jolly little game for fun.
The game began, with Wade standing up, looking on. These boys did not
know what a vast store of poker knowledge lay back of Wade's inscrutable
eyes. As a boy he had learned the intricacies of poker in the country
where it originated; and as a man he had played it with piles of yellow
coins and guns on the table. His eagerness to look on here, as far as
the cowboys were concerned, was mere pretense. In Belllounds's case,
however, he had a profound interest. Rumors had drifted to him from time
to time, since his advent at White Slides, regarding Belllounds's
weakness for gambling. It might have been cowboy gossip. Wade held that
there was nothing in the West as well calculated to test a boy, to prove
his real character, as a game of poker.
Belllounds was a feverish better, an exultant winner, a poor loser. His
understanding of the game was rudimentary. With him, the strong feeling
beginning to be manifested to Wade was not the fun of matching wits and
luck with his antagonists, nor a desire to accumulate money--for his
recklessness disproved that--but the liberation of the gambling passion.
Wade recognized that when he met it. And Jack Belllounds was not in any
sense big. He was selfish and grasping in the numberless little ways
common to the game, and positive about his own rights, while doubtful of
the claims of others. His cheating was clumsy and crude. He held out
cards, hiding them in his palm; he shuffled the deck so he left aces at
the bottom, and these he would slip off to himself, and he was so blind
that he could not detect his fellow-player in tricks as transparent as
his own. Wade was amazed and disgusted. The pity he had felt for
Belllounds shifted to the old father, who believed in his son with
stubborn and unquenchable faith.
"Haven't you got something to drink?" Jack asked of his companions.
"Nope. Whar'd we git it?" replied Jim.
Belllounds evidently forgot, for presently he repeated the query. The
cowboys shook their heads. Wade knew they were lying, for they did have
liquor in the cabin. It occurred to him, then, to offer to go to his own
cabin for some, just to see what this young man would say. But he
refrained.
The luck went against Belllounds and so did the gambling. He was not a
lamb among wolves, by any means, but the fleecing he got suggested that.
According to Wade he was getting what he deserved. No cowboys, even such
good-natured and fine fellows as these, could be expected to be subjects
for Belllounds's cupidity. And they won all he had.
"I'll borrow," he said, with feverish impatience. His face was pale,
clammy, yet heated, especially round the swollen bruises; his eyes stood
out, bold, dark, rolling and glaring, full of sullen fire. But more than
anything else his mouth betrayed the weakling, the born gambler, the
self-centered, spoiled, intolerant youth. It was here his bad
blood showed.
"Wal, I ain't lendin' money," replied Lem, as he assorted his winnings.
"Wade, here's what you staked me, an' much obliged."
"I'm out, an' I can't lend you any," said Jim.
Bludsoe had a good share of the profits of that quick game, but he made
no move to lend any of it. Belllounds glared impatiently at them.
"Hell! you took my money. I'll have satisfaction," he broke out, almost
shouting.
"We won it, didn't we?" rejoined Lem, cool and easy. "An' you can have
all the satisfaction you want, right now or any time."
Wade held out a handful of money to Belllounds.
"Here," he said, with his deep eyes gleaming in the dim room. Wade had
made a gamble with himself, and it was that Belllounds would not even
hesitate to take money.
"Come on, you stingy cowpunchers," he called out, snatching the money
from Wade. His action then, violent and vivid as it was, did not reveal
any more than his face.
But the cowboys showed amaze, and something more. They fell straightway
to gambling, sharper and fiercer than before, actuated now by the
flaming spirit of this son of Belllounds. Luck, misleading and alluring,
favored Jack for a while, transforming him until he was radiant,
boastful, exultant. Then it changed, as did his expression. His face
grew dark.
"I tell you I want drink," he suddenly demanded. "I know damn well you
cowpunchers have some here, for I smelled it when I came in."
"Jack, we drank the last drop," replied Jim, who seemed less stiff than
his two bunk-mates.
"I've some very old rye," interposed Wade, looking at Jim, but
apparently addressing all. "Fine stuff, but awful strong an' hot!...
Makes a fellow's blood dance."
"Go get it!" Belllounds's utterance was thick and full, as if he had
something in his mouth.
Wade looked down into the heated face, into the burning eyes; and
through the darkness of passion that brooked no interference with its
fruition he saw this youth's stark and naked soul. Wade had seen into
the depths of many such abysses.
"See hyar, Wade," broke in Jim, with his quiet force, "never mind
fetchin' thet red-hot rye to-night. Some other time, mebbe, when Jack
wants more satisfaction. Reckon we've got a drop or so left."
"All right, boys," replied Wade, "I'll be sayin' good night."
He left them playing and strode out to return to his cabin. The night
was still, cold, starlit, and black in the shadows. A lonesome coyote
barked, to be answered by a wakeful hound. Wade halted at his porch,
and lingered there a moment, peering up at the gray old peak, bare and
star-crowned.
"I'm sorry for the old man," muttered the hunter, "but I'd see Jack
Belllounds in hell before I'd let Columbine marry him."
* * * * *
October first was a holiday at White Slides Ranch. It happened to be a
glorious autumn day, with the sunlight streaming gold and amber over the
grassy slopes. Far off the purple ranges loomed hauntingly.
Wade had come down from Wilson Moore's cabin, his ears ringing with the
crippled boy's words of poignant fear.
Fox favored his master with unusually knowing gaze. There was not going
to be any lion-chasing or elk-hunting this day. Something was in the
wind. And Fox, as a privileged dog, manifested his interest and wonder.
Before noon a buckboard with team of sweating horses halted in the yard
of the ranch-house. Besides the driver it contained two women whom
Belllounds greeted as relatives, and a stranger, a pale man whose dark
garb proclaimed him a minister.
"Come right in, folks," welcomed Belllounds, with hearty excitement.
It was Wade who showed the driver where to put the horses. Strangely,
not a cowboy was in sight, an omission of duty the rancher had noted.
Wade might have informed him where they were.
The door of the big living-room stood open, and from it came the sound
of laughter and voices. Wade, who had returned to his seat on the end of
the porch, listened to them, while his keen gaze seemed fixed down the
lane toward the cabins. How intent must he have been not to hear
Columbine's step behind him!
"Good morning, Ben," she said.
Wade wheeled as if internal violence had ordered his movement.
"Lass, good mornin'," he replied. "You sure look sweet this October
first--like the flower for which you're named."
"My friend, it _is_ October first--my marriage day!" murmured Columbine.
Wade felt her intensity, and he thrilled to the brave, sweet resignation
of her face. Hope and faith were unquenchable in her, yet she had
fortified herself to the wreck of dreams and love.
"I'd seen you before now, but I had some job with Wils, persuadin' him
that we'd not have to offer you congratulations yet awhile," replied
Wade, in his slow, gentle voice.
"_Oh!_" breathed Columbine.
Wade saw her full breast swell and the leaping blood wave over her pale
face. She bent to him to see his eyes. And for Wade, when she peered
with straining heart and soul, all at once to become transfigured, that
instant was a sweet and all-fulfilling reward for his years of pain.
"You drive me mad!" she whispered.
The heavy tread of the rancher, like the last of successive steps of
fate in Wade's tragic expectancy, sounded on the porch.
"Wal, lass, hyar you are," he said, with a gladness deep in his voice.
"Now, whar's the boy?"
"Dad--I've not--seen Jack since breakfast," replied Columbine,
tremulously.
"Sort of a laggard in love on his weddin'-day," rejoined the rancher.
His gladness and forgetfulness were as big as his heart. "Wade, have you
seen Jack?"
"No--I haven't," replied the hunter, with slow, long-drawn utterance.
"But--I see--him now."
Wade pointed to the figure of Jack Belllounds approaching from the
direction of the cabins. He was not walking straight.
Old man Belllounds shot out his gray head like a striking eagle.
"What the hell?" he muttered, as if bewildered at this strange, uneven
gait of his son. "Wade, what's the matter with Jack?"
Wade did not reply. That moment had its sorrow for him as well as
understanding of the wonder expressed by Columbine's cold little hand
trembling in his.
The rancher suddenly recoiled.
"So help me Gawd--he's drunk!" he gasped, in a distress that unmanned
him.
Then the parson and the invited relatives came out upon the porch, with
gay voices and laughter that suddenly stilled when old Belllounds cried,
brokenly: "Lass--go--in--the house."
But Columbine did not move, and Wade felt her shaking as she leaned
against him.
The bridegroom approached. Drunk indeed he was; not hilariously, as one
who celebrated his good fortune, but sullenly, tragically,
hideously drunk.
Old Belllounds leaped off the porch. His gray hair stood up like the
mane of a lion. Like a giant's were his strides. With a lunge he met his
reeling son, swinging a huge fist into the sodden red face. Limply Jack
fell to the ground.
"Lay there, you damned prodigal!" he roared, terrible in his rage. "You
disgrace me--an' you disgrace the girl who's been a daughter to me!...
if you ever have another weddin'-day it'll not be me who sets it!"