"I was comin' to that. You didn't give me time."
"Say, do you know hounds?" queried Belllounds, eagerly.
"Yes. Was raised where everybody had packs. I'm from Kentucky. An' I've run hounds off an' on for years. I'll tell you--"
Belllounds interrupted Wade.
"By all that's lucky! An' last, can you handle guns? We 'ain't had a good shot on this range fer Lord knows how long. I used to hit plumb center with a rifle. My eyes are pore now. An' my son can't hit a flock of haystacks. An' the cowpunchers are 'most as bad. Sometimes right hyar where you could hit elk with a club we're out of fresh meat."
"Yes, I can handle guns," replied Wade, with a quiet smile and a lowering of his head. "Reckon you didn't catch my name."
"Wal--no, I didn't," slowly replied Belllounds, and his pause, with the keener look he bestowed upon Wade, told how the latter's query had struck home.
"Wade--Bent Wade," said Wade, with quiet distinctness.
"Not Hell-Bent Wade!" ejaculated Belllounds.
"The same.... I ain't proud of the handle, but I never sail under false colors."