there, and
accompanying actions, made transparent the meaning of their presence and
argument. The big man refused to ride any farther. Evidently he had
come so far without realizing it. His importunities were for "more head
of stock." His scorn was for a "measly little bunch not worth the risk."
His anger was for Belllounds's foolhardiness in "leavin' a trail."
Belllounds had little to say, and most of that was spoken in a tone too
low to be heard. His manner seemed indifferent, even reckless. But he
wanted "money." The scar-faced man's name was "Smith." Then Columbine
gathered from Smith's dogged and forceful gestures, and his words, "no
money" and "bigger bunch," that he was unwilling to pay what had been
agreed upon unless Belllounds promised to bring a larger number of
cattle. Here Belllounds roundly cursed the rustler, and apparently
argued that course "next to impossible." Smith made a sweeping movement
with his arm, pointing south, indicating some place afar, and part of
his speech was "Gore Peak." The little man, companion of Smith, got into
the argument, and, dismounting from his horse, he made marks upon the
smooth earth of the trail. He was drawing a rude map showing direction
and locality. At length, when Belllounds nodded as if convinced or now
informed, this third member of the party remounted, and seemed to have
no more to say. Belllounds pondered sullenly. He snatched a switch from
off a bough overhead and flicked his boot and stirrup with it, an action
that made his horse restive. Smith leered and spoke derisively, of which
speech Columbine heard, "Aw hell!" and "yellow streak," and "no one'd
ever," and "son of Bill Belllounds," and "rustlin' stock." Then this
scar-faced man drew out a buckskin bag. Either the contempt or the gold,
or both, overbalanced vacillation in the weak mind of Jack Belllounds,
for he lifted his head, showing his face pale and malignant, and without
trace of shame or compunction he snatched the bag of gold, shouted a
hoarse, "All right, damn you!" and, wheeling the white mustang, he
spurred away, quickly disappearing.

The rustlers sat their horses, gazing down the trail, and Smith wagged
his dark head doubtfully. Then he spoke quite distinctly, "I ain't
a-trustin' thet Belllounds pup!" and his comrade replied, "Boss, we
ain't stealin' the stock, so what th' hell!" Then they turned their
horses and trotted out of sight and hearing up the timbered slope.

Columbine was so stunne