Wilson Moore had grown a shade paler. He gathered up his reins, ready to drive off.
"Belllounds, I came up after my things I'd left in the bunk," he said, coolly. "Happened to meet Columbine and stopped to chat a minute."
"That's what you say," sneered Belllounds. "You were making love to Columbine. I saw that in her face. You know it--and she knows it--and I know it.... You're a liar!"
"Belllounds, I reckon I am," replied Moore, turning white. "I did tell Columbine what I thought she knew--what I ought to have told long ago."
"Ahuh! Well, I don't want to hear it. But I'm going to search that wagon."
"What!" ejaculated the cowboy, dropping his reins as if they stung him.
"You just hold on till I see what you've got in there," went on Belllounds, and he reached over into the wagon and pulled at a saddle.
"Say, do you mean anything?... This stuff's mine, every strap of it. Take your hands off."
Belllounds leaned on the wagon and looked up with insolent, dark intent.
"Moore, I wouldn't trust you. I think you'd steal anything you got your hands on."