, once more, old man, choose
between generosity an' selfishness. Between blood tie an' noble loyalty
to your good deed in its beginnin'.... Will you give up this marriage
for your son--so that Collie can have the man she loves?"

"You mean your young pard an' two-bit of a rustler--Wils Moore?"

"Wils Moore, yes. My friend, an' a man, Belllounds, such as you or I
never was."

"No!" thundered the rancher, purple in the face.

With bowed head and dragging step Wade left the room.

* * * * *

By slow degrees of plodding steps, and periods of abstracted lagging,
the hunter made his way back to Moore's cabin. At his entrance the
cowboy leaped up with a startled cry.

"Oh, Wade!... Is Collie dead?" he cried.

Such was the extent of calamity he imagined from the somber face of
Wade.

"No. Collie's well."

"Then, man, what on earth's happened?"

"Nothin' yet.... But somethin' is goin' on in my mind.... Moore, I'd
like you to let me alone."

At sunset Wade was pacing the aspen grove on the hill. There was
sunlight and shade under the trees, a rosy gold on the sage slopes, a
purple-and-violet veil between the black ranges and the sinking sun.

Twilight fell. The stars came out white and clear. Night cloaked the
valley with dark shadows and the hills with its obscurity. The blue
vault overhead deepened and darkened. The hunter patrolled his beat, and
hours were moments to him. He heard the low hum of the insects, the
murmur of running water, the rustle of the wind. A coyote cut the keen
air with high-keyed, staccato cry. The owls hooted, with dismal and
weird plaint, one to the other. Then a wolf mourned. But these sounds
only accentuated the loneliness and wildness of the silent night.

Wade listened to them, to the silence. He felt the wildness and
loneliness of the place, the breathing of nature; he peered aloft at the
velvet blue of the mysterious sky with its deceiving stars. All that had
been of help to him through days of trial was now as if it had never
been. When he lifted his eyes to the great, dark peak, so bold and
clear-cut against the sky, it was not to receive strength again. Nature
in its cruelty mocked him. His struggle had to do with the most perfect
of nature's works--man.

Wade was now in passionate strife with the encroaching mood that was a
mocker of his idealism. Many times during the strange, long martyrdom of
his penance had he faced this crisis, only to go