"His name's Wade," put in Belllounds, harshly. "He's the friend of Wils Moore. He's the hunter I told you about--worked for my father last winter."
"Wade?... What? Wade! You never told me his name. It ain't--it ain't--"
"Yes, it is, Cap," interrupted Wade. "It's the old boy that spoiled your handsome mug--long ago."
"Hell-Bent Wade!" gasped Folsom, in terrible accents. He shook all over. An ashen paleness crept into his face. Instinctively his right hand jerked toward his gun; then, as in his former motion, froze in the very act.
"Careful, Cap!" warned Wade. "It'd be a shame not to hear me talk a little.... Turn around now an' greet an old pard of the Gunnison days."
Folsom turned as if a resistless, heavy force was revolving his head.
"By Gawd!... Wade!" he ejaculated. The tone of his voice, the light in his eyes, must have been a spiritual acceptance of a dreadful and irrefutable fact--perhaps the proximity of death. But he was no coward. Despite the hunter's order, given as he stood there, gun drawn and ready, Folsom wheeled back again, savagely to throw the deck of cards in Belllounds's face. He cursed horribly.... "You spoiled brat of a rich rancher! Why'n hell didn't you tell me thet varmint-hunter was Wade."
"I did tell you," shouted Belllounds, flaming of face.
"You're a liar! You never said Wade--W-a-d-e, right out, so I'd hear it. An' I'd never passed by Hell-Bent Wade."
"Aw, that name made me tired," replied Belllounds, contemptuously.