sullenly.

"You'll care when I tell these rustlers how you double-crossed them."

Belllounds made a spring, like that of a wolf in a trap; but when
half-way up he slipped. The rustler on his right kicked him, and he
sprawled down again, back to the wall.

"Buster, look into this!" called Wade, and he leveled the gun that
quivered momentarily, like a compass needle, and then crashed fire and
smoke. The bullet spat into a log. But it had cut the lobe of
Belllounds's ear, bringing blood. His face turned a ghastly, livid hue.
All in a second terror possessed him--shuddering, primitive terror
of death.

Folsom haw-hawed derisively and in crude delight. "Say, Buster Jack,
don't get any idee thet my ole pard Wade was shootin' at your head.
Aw, no!"

The other rustlers understood then, if Belllounds had not, that the
situation was in control of a man not in any sense ordinary.

"Cap, did you know Buster Jack accused my friend, Wils Moore, of
stealin' these cattle you're sellin'?" asked Wade, deliberately.

"What cattle did you say?" asked the rustler, as if he had not heard
aright.

"The cattle Buster Jack stole from his father an' sold to you."

"Wal, now! Bent Wade at his old tricks! I might have knowed it, once I
seen you.... Naw, I'd no idee Belllounds blamed thet stealin' on to
any one."

"He did."

"Ahuh! Wal, who's this Wils Moore?"

"He's a cowboy, as fine a youngster as ever straddled a horse. Buster
Jack hates him. He licked Jack a couple of times an' won the love of a
girl that Jack wants."

"Ho! Ho! Quite romantic, I declare.... Say, thar's some damn queer
notions I'm gettin' about you, Buster Jack."

Belllounds lay propped against the wall, sagging there, laboring of
chest, sweating of face. The boldness of brow held, because it was
fixed, but that of his eyes had gone; and his mouth and chin showed
craven weakness. He stared in dread suspense at Wade.

"Listen. An' all of you sit tight," went on Wade, swiftly. "Jack stole
the cattle from his father. He's a thief at heart. But he had a double
motive. He left a trail--he left tracks behind. He made a crooked
horseshoe, like that Wils Moore's horse wears, an' he put that on his
own horse. An' he made a contraption--a little iron ring with a dot in
it, an' he left the crooked shoe tracks, an' he left the little
ring tracks--"

"By Gawd! I seen them funny tracks!" ejaculated Folsom. "At the
water-hole an' right hyar in front of the cabin. I seen t