Old Belllounds braced his huge shoulders against the wall in the attitude of a man driven to his last stand.
"Ahuh!" he rolled, sonorously. "So hyar you are again?... Wal, tell your worst, Hell-Bent Wade, an' let's have an end to your croakin'."
Belllounds had fortified himself, not with convictions or with illusions, but with the last desperate courage of a man true to himself.
"I'll tell you...." began the hunter.
And the rancher threw up his hands in a mockery that was furious, yet with outward shrinking.
"Just now, when Buster Jack fought with Collie, he meant bad by her!"
"Aw, no!... He was jest rude--tryin' to be masterful.... An' the lass's like a wild filly. She needs a tamin' down."
Wade stretched forth a lean and quivering hand that seemed the symbol of presaged and tragic truth.
"Listen, Belllounds, an' I'll tell you.... No use tryin' to hatch a rotten egg! There's no good in your son. His good intentions he paraded for virtues, believin' himself that he'd changed. But a flip of the wind made him Buster Jack again.... Collie would sacrifice her life for duty to you--whom she loves as her father. Wils Moore sacrificed his honor for Collie--rather than let you learn the truth.... But they call me Hell-Bent Wade, an' I will tell you!"
The straining hulk of Belllounds crouched lower, as if to gather impetus for a leap. Both huge hands were outspread as if to ward off attack from an unseen but long-dreaded foe. The great eyes rolled. And underneath the terror and certainty and tragedy of his appearance seemed to surge the resistless and rising swell of a dammed-up, terrible rage.