"You ought to know me." The voice was Wade's, gentle, cold, with depth and ring in it.
"I've heerd your voice somewhars--I'll gamble on thet."
"Sure. You ought to recognize my voice, Cap," returned Wade.
The rustler gave a violent start--a start that he controlled instantly.
"Cap! You callin' me thet?"
"Sure. We're old friends--Cap Folsom!"
In the silence, then, the rustler's hard breathing could be heard; his neck bulged red; only the eyes of his two comrades moved; Belllounds began to recover somewhat from his consternation. Fear had clamped him also, but not fear of personal harm or peril. His mind had not yet awakened to that.
"You've got me pat! But who're you?" said Folsom, huskily.
Wade kept silent.
"Who'n hell is thet man?" yelled the rustler It was not a query to his comrades any more than to the four winds. It was a furious questioning of a memory that stirred and haunted, and as well a passionate and fearful denial.