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thicker as he descended. Once he startled a great flock of
prairie-chickens, or sage-hens, large gray birds, lumbering, swift
fliers, that whirred up, and soon plumped down again into the sage.
Twilight found him on a last long slope of the foothills, facing the
pasture-land of the valley, with the ranch still five miles distant, now
showing misty and dim in the gathering shadows.
Wade made camp where a brook ran near an aspen thicket. He had no desire
to hurry to meet events at White Slides Ranch, although he longed to see
this girl that belonged to Belllounds. Night settled down over the quiet
foothills. A pack of roving coyotes visited Wade, and sat in a
half-circle in the shadows back of the camp-fire. They howled and
barked. Nevertheless sleep visited Wade's tired eyelids the moment he
lay down and closed them.
* * * * *
Next morning, rather late, Wade rode down to White Slides Ranch. It
looked to him like the property of a rich rancher who held to the old
and proven customs of his generation. The corrals were new, but their
style was old. Wade reflected that it would be hard for rustlers or
horse-thieves to steal out of those corrals. A long lane led from the
pasture-land, following the brook that ran through the corrals and by
the back door of the rambling, comfortable-looking cabin. A cowboy was
leading horses across a wide square between the main ranch-house and a
cluster of cabins and sheds. He saw the visitor and waited.
"Mornin'," said Wade, as he rode up.
"Hod do," replied the cowboy.
Then these two eyed each other, not curiously nor suspiciously, but with
that steady, measuring gaze common to Western men.
"My name's Wade," said the traveler. "Come from Meeker way. I'm lookin'
for a job with Belllounds."
"I'm Lem Billings," replied the other. "Ridin' fer White Slides fer
years. Reckon the boss'll be glad to take you on."
"Is he around?"
"Sure. I jest seen him," replied Billings, as he haltered his horses to
a post. "I reckon I ought to give you a hunch."
"I'd take that as a favor."
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"Wal, we're short of hands," said the cowboy. "Jest got the round-up
over. Hudson was hurt an' Wils Moore got crippled. Then the boss's son
has been put on as foreman. Three of the boys quit. Couldn't stand him.
This hyar son of Belllounds is a son-of-a-gun! Me an' pards of mine,
Montana an' Bludsoe, are stickin' on--wal, fer reasons thet ain't
egzactly love fer the boss. But Old Bill's the best of bosses.... Now
the hunch is--thet if you git on hyar you'll hev to do two or three
men's work."
"Much obliged," replied Wade. "I don't shy at that."
"Wal, git down an' come in," added Billings, heartily.
He led the way across the square, around the corner of the ranch-house,
and up on a long porch, where the arrangement of chairs and blankets
attested to the hand of a woman. The first door was open, and from it
issued voices; first a shrill, petulant boy's complaint, and then a
man's deep, slow, patient reply.
Lem Billings knocked on the door-jamb.
"Wal, what's wanted?" called Belllounds.
"Boss, thar's a man wantin' to see you," replied Lem.
Heavy steps approached the doorway and it was filled with the large
figure of the rancher. Wade remembered Belllounds and saw only a gray
difference in years.
"Good mornin', Lem, an' good moinin' to you, stranger," was the
rancher's greeting, his bold, blue glance, honest and frank and keen,
with all his long experience of men, taking Wade in with one flash.
Lem discreetly walked to the end of the porch as another figure, that of
the son who resembled the father, filled the doorway, with eyes less
kind, bent upon the visitor.
"My name's Wade. I'm over from Meeker way, hopin' to find a job with
you," said Wade.
"Glad to meet you," replied Belllounds, extending his huge hand to shake
Wade's. "I need you, sure bad. What's your special brand of work?"
"I reckon any kind."
"Set down, stranger," replied Belllounds, pulling up a chair. He seated
himself on a bench and leaned against the log wall. "Now, when a boy
comes an' says he can do anythin', why I jest haw! haw! at him. But
you're a man, Wade, an' one as has been there. Now I'm hard put fer
hands. Jest speak out now fer yourself. No one else can speak fer you,
thet's sure. An' this is bizness."
"Any work with stock, from punchin' steers to doctorin' horses," replied
Wade, quietly. "Am fair carpenter an' mason. Good packer. Know farmin'.
Can milk cows an' make butter. I've been cook in many outfits. Read an'
write an' not bad at figures. Can do work on saddles an' harness, an-"
"Hold on!" yelled Belllounds, with a hearty laugh. "I ain't imposin' on
no man, no matter how I need help. You're sure a jack of all range
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trades. An' I wish you was a hunter."
"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."
"Wal, I'll be damned!" went on the rancher. "Wade, I've heerd of you fer
years. Some bad, but most good, an' I reckon I'm jest as glad to meet
you as if you'd been somebody else."
"You'll give me the job?"
"I should smile."
"I'm thankin' you. Reckon I was some worried. Jobs are hard for me to
get an' harder to keep."
"Thet's not onnatural, considerin' the hell which's said to camp on your
trail," replied Belllounds, dryly. "Wade, I can't say I take a hell of a
lot of stock in such talk. Fifty years I've been west of the Missouri. I
know the West an' I know men. Talk flies from camp to ranch, from
diggin's to town, an' always some one adds a little more. Now I trust my
judgment an' I trust men. No one ever betrayed me yet."
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