oor, still astounded,
still pale; but as the long admonition and appeal ended he exploded
stridently. "Who the hell are _you?_... If I hadn't been so
surprised--if I'd had a chance to get a word in--I'd shut your trap! Are
you a preacher masquerading here as hunter? Let me tell you, I won't be
talked to like that--not by any man. Keep your advice an' friendship to
yourself."

"You don't want me, then?"

"No," Belllounds snapped.

"Reckon you don't need either advice or friend, hey?"

"No, you owl-eyed, soft-voiced fool!" yelled Belllounds.

It was then Wade felt a singular and familiar sensation, a cold,
creeping thing, physical and elemental, that had not visited him since
he had been at White Slides.

"I reckoned so," he said, with low and gloomy voice, and he knew, if
Belllounds did not know, that he was not acquiescing with the other's
harsh epithet, but only greeting the advent of something in himself.

Belllounds shrugged his burly shoulders and slouched away.

Wade finished his dressing of the meat. Then he rode up to spend an hour
with Moore. When he returned to his cabin he proceeded to change his
hunter garb for the best he owned. It was a proof of his unusual
preoccupation that he did this before he fed the hounds. It was sunset
when he left his cabin. Montana Jim and Lem hailed as he went by. Wade
paused to listen to their good-natured raillery.

"See hyar, Bent, this ain't Sunday," said Lem.

"You're spruced up powerful fine. What's it fer?" added Montana.

"Boss asked me down to supper.'

"Wal, you lucky son-of-a-gun! An' hyar we've no invite," returned Lem.
"Say, Wade, I heerd Buster Jack roarin' at you. I was ridin' in by the
storehouse.... 'Who the hell are you?' was what collared my attention,
an' I had to laugh. An' I listened to all he said. So you was offerin'
him advice an' friendship?"

"I reckon."

"Wal, all I say is thet you was wastin' yore breath," declared Lem.
"You're a queer fellar, Wade."

"Queer? Aw, Lem, he ain't queer," said Montana. "He's jest white. Wade,
I feel the same as you. I'd like to do somethin' fer thet locoed
Buster Jack."

"Montana, you're the locoed one," rejoined Lem. "Buster Jack knows what
he's doin'. He can play a slicker hand of poker than you."

"Wal, mebbe. Wade, do you play poker?"

"I'd hate to take your money," replied Wade.

"You needn't be so all-fired kind about thet. Come over to-night an'
take some of it. Buster Jack invited himself