CHAPTER XVII
Gore Peak was the highest point of the black range that extended formiles westward from Buffalo Park. It was a rounded dome, covered withtimber and visible as a landmark from the surrounding country. All alongthe eastern slope of that range an unbroken forest of spruce and pinespread down to the edge of the valley. This valley narrowed toward itssource, which was Buffalo Park. A few well-beaten trails crossed thatcountry, one following Red Brook down to Kremmling; another crossingfrom the Park to White Slides; and another going over the divide down toElgeria. The only well-known trail leading to Gore Peak was a branch-offfrom the valley, and it went round to the south and more accessible sideof the mountain.
All that immense slope of timbered ridges, benches, ravines, and swaleswest of Buffalo Park was exceedingly wild and rough country. Here thebuffalo took to cover from hunters, and were safe until they venturedforth into the parks again. Elk and deer and bear made this foresttheir home.
Bent Wade, hunter now for bigger game than wild beasts of the range,left his horse at Lewis's cabin and penetrated the dense forest alone,like a deer-stalker or an Indian in his movements. Lewis had acted asscout for Wade, and had ridden furiously down to Sage Valley with newsof the rustlers. Wade had accompanied him back to Buffalo Park thatnight, riding in the dark. There were urgent reasons for speed. JackBelllounds had ridden to Kremmling, and the hunter did not believe hewould return by the road he had taken.
Fox, Wade's favorite dog, much to his disgust, was left behind withLewis. The bloodhound, Kane, accompanied Wade. Kane had been ill-treatedand then beaten by Jack Belllounds, and he had left White Slides to takeup his home at Moore's cabin. And at last he had seemed to reconcilehimself to the hunter, not with love, but without distrust. Kane neverforgave; but he recognized his friend and master. Wade carried his rifleand a buckskin pouch containing meat and bread. His belt, heavilystudded with shells, contained two guns, both now worn in plain sight,with the one on the right side hanging low. Wade's character seemed tohave undergone some remarkable change, yet what he represented then wasnot unfamiliar.
He headed for the concealed cabin on the edge of the high valley, underthe black brow of Gore Peak. It was early morning of a July day, withsummer fresh and new to the forest. Along the park edges the birds andsquirrels were holding carnival. The grass was crisp and bediamondedwith sparkling frost. Tracks of game showed sharp in the white patches.Wade paused once, listening. Ah! That most beautiful of forest melodiesfor him--the bugle of an elk. Clear, resonant, penetrating, with thesequalities held and blended by a note of wildness, it rang thrillinglythrough all Wade's being. The hound listened, but was not interested. Hekept close beside the hunter or at his heels, a stealthily stepping,warily glancing hound, not scenting the four-footed denizens of theforest. He expected his master to put him on the trail of men.
The distance from the Park to Gore Peak, as a crow would have flown, wasnot great. But Wade progressed slowly; he kept to the dense parts ofthe forest; he avoided the open aisles, the swales, the glades, the highridges, the rocky ground. When he came to the Elgeria trail he was notdisappointed to find it smooth, untrodden by any recent travel. Half amile farther on through the forest, however, he encountered tracks ofthree horses, made early the day before. Still farther on he foundcattle and horse tracks, now growing old and dim. These tracks, pointedtoward Elgeria, were like words of a printed page to Wade.
About noon he climbed a rocky eminence that jutted out from aslow-descending ridge, and from this vantage-point he saw down thewavering black and green bosom of the mountain slope. A narrow valley,almost hidden, gleamed yellow in the sunlight. At the edge of thisvalley a faint column of blue smoke curled upward.
"Ahuh!" muttered the hunter, as he looked. The hound whined and pushed acool nose into Wade's hand.
Then Wade resumed his noiseless and stealthy course through the woods.He began a descent, leading off somewhat to the right of the point wherethe smoke had arisen. The presence of the rustlers in the cabin was ofimportance, yet not so paramount as another possibility. He expectedJack Belllounds to be with them or meet them there, and that was thething he wanted to ascertain. When he got down below the little valleyhe swung around to the left to cross the trail that came up from themain valley, some miles still farther down. He found it, and was notsurprised to see fresh horse tracks, made that morning. He recognizedthose tracks. Jack Belllounds was with the rustlers, come, no doubt, toreceive his pay.
Then the change in Wade, and the actions of a trailer of men, becamemore singularly manifest. He reverted to some former habit of mind andbody. He was as slow as a shadow, absolutely silent, and the gaze thatroved ahead and all around must have taken note of every living thing,of every moving leaf or fern or bough. The hound, with hair curling upstiff on his back, stayed close to Wade, watching, listening, andstepping with him. Certainly Wade expected the rustlers to have some oneof their number doing duty as an outlook. So he kept uphill, above thecabin, and made his careful way through the thicket coverts, which atthat place were dense and matted clumps of jack-pine and spruce. At lasthe could see the cabin and the narrow, grassy valley just beyond. To hisrelief the horses were unsaddled and grazing. No man was in sight. Butthere might be a dog. The hunter, in his slow advance, used keen andunrelaxing vigilance, and at length he decided that if there had been adog he would have been tied outside to give an alarm.
Wade had now reached his objective point. He was some eighty paces fromthe cabin, in line with an open aisle down which he could see into thecleared space before the door. On his left were thick, small spruces,with low-spreading branches, and they extended all the way to the cabinon that side, and in fact screened two walls of it. Wade knew exactlywhat he was going to do. No longer did he hesitate. Laying down hisrifle, he tied the hound to a little spruce, patting him and whisperingfor him to stay there and be still.
Then Wade's action in looking to his belt-guns was that of a man whoexpected to have recourse to them speedily and by whom the necessity wasneither regretted nor feared. Stooping low, he entered the thicket ofspruces. The soft, spruce-matted ground, devoid of brush or twig, didnot give forth the slightest sound of step, nor did the brushing of thebranches against his body. In some cases he had to bend the boughs.Thus, swiftly and silently, with the gliding steps of an Indian, heapproached the cabin till the brown-barked logs loomed before him,shutting off the clearer light.
He smelled a mingling of wood and tobacco smoke; he heard low, deepvoices of men; the shuffling and patting of cards; the musical click ofgold. Resting on his knees a moment the hunter deliberated. All wasexactly as he had expected. Luck favored him. These gamblers would beabsorbed in their game. The door of the cabin was just around thecorner, and he could glide noiselessly to it or gain it in a few leaps.Either method would serve. But which he must try depended upon theposition of the men inside and that of their weapons.
Rising silently, Wade stepped up to the wall and peeped through a chinkbetween the logs. The sunshine streamed through windows and door. JackBelllounds sat on the ground, full in its light, back to the wall. Hewas in his shirt-sleeves. The gambling fever and the grievous sorenessof a loser shone upon his pale face. Smith sat with back to Wade,opposite Belllounds. The other men completed the square. All were closeenough together to reach comfortably for the cards and gold before them.Wade's keen eyes took this in at a single glance, and then steadiedsearchingly for smaller features of the scene. Belllounds had no weapon.Smith's belt and gun lay in the sunlight on the hard, clay floor, out ofreach except by violent effort. The other two rustlers both wore theirweapons. Wade gave a long scrutiny to the faces of these comrades ofSmith, and evidently satisfied himself as to what he had to expectfrom them.
Wade hesitated; then stooping low, he softly swept aside the interveningboughs of spruce, glided out of the thicket into the open. Two noiselessbounds! Another, and he was inside the door!
"Howdy, rustlers! Don't move!" he called.
The surprise of his appe
arance, or his voice, or both, stunned the fourmen. Belllounds dropped his cards, and his jaw dropped at the sameinstant. These were absolutely the only visible movements.
"I'm in talkin' humor, an' the longer you listen the longer you'll haveto live," said Wade. "But don't move!"
"We ain't movin'," burst out Smith. "Who're you, an' what d'ye want?"
It was singular that the rustler leader had not had a look at Wade,whose movements had been swift and who now stood directly behind him.Also it was obvious that Smith was sitting very stiff-necked andstraight. Not improbably he had encountered such situations before.
"Who're you?" he shouted, hoarsely.
"You ought to know me." The voice was Wade's, gentle, cold, with depthand ring in it.
"I've heerd your voice somewhars--I'll gamble on thet."
"Sure. You ought to recognize my voice, Cap," returned Wade.
The rustler gave a violent start--a start that he controlled instantly.
"Cap! You callin' me thet?"
"Sure. We're old friends--_Cap Folsom!_"
In the silence, then, the rustler's hard breathing could be heard; hisneck bulged red; only the eyes of his two comrades moved; Bellloundsbegan to recover somewhat from his consternation. Fear had clamped himalso, but not fear of personal harm or peril. His mind had not yetawakened to that.
"You've got me pat! But who're you?" said Folsom, huskily.
Wade kept silent.
"Who'n hell is thet man?" yelled the rustler It was not a query to hiscomrades any more than to the four winds. It was a furious questioningof a memory that stirred and haunted, and as well a passionate andfearful denial.
"His name's Wade," put in Belllounds, harshly. "He's the friend of WilsMoore. He's the hunter I told you about--worked for my fatherlast winter."
"Wade?... What? _Wade!_ You never told me his name. It ain't--itain't--"
"Yes, it is, Cap," interrupted Wade. "It's the old boy that spoiled yourhandsome mug--long ago."
"_Hell-Bent Wade!_" gasped Folsom, in terrible accents. He shook allover. An ashen paleness crept into his face. Instinctively his righthand jerked toward his gun; then, as in his former motion, froze inthe very act.
"Careful, Cap!" warned Wade. "It'd be a shame not to hear me talk alittle.... Turn around now an' greet an old pard of the Gunnison days."
Folsom turned as if a resistless, heavy force was revolving his head.
"By Gawd!... Wade!" he ejaculated. The tone of his voice, the light inhis eyes, must have been a spiritual acceptance of a dreadful andirrefutable fact--perhaps the proximity of death. But he was no coward.Despite the hunter's order, given as he stood there, gun drawn andready, Folsom wheeled back again, savagely to throw the deck of cards inBelllounds's face. He cursed horribly.... "You spoiled brat of a richrancher! Why'n hell didn't you tell me thet varmint-hunter was Wade."
"I did tell you," shouted Belllounds, flaming of face.
"You're a liar! You never said Wade--W-a-d-e, right out, so I'd hear it.An' I'd never passed by Hell-Bent Wade."
"Aw, that name made me tired," replied Belllounds, contemptuously.
"Haw! Haw! Haw!" bawled the rustler. "Made you tired, hey? Think you'refunny? Wal, if you knowed how many men thet name's made tired--an' tiredfer keeps--you'd not think it so damn funny."
"Say, what're you giving me? That Sheriff Burley tried to tell me anddad a lot of rot about this Wade. Why, he's only a little, bow-legged,big-nosed meddler--a man with a woman's voice--a sneaking cook andcamp-doctor and cow-milker, and God only knows what else."
"Boy, you're correct. God only knows what else!... It's the _else_you've got to learn. An' I'll gamble you'll learn it.... Wade, have youchanged or grown old thet you let a pup like this yap such talk?"
"Well, Cap, he's very amusin' just now, an' I want you-all to enjoy him.Because, if you don't force my hand I'm goin' to tell you someinterestin' stuff about this Buster Jack.... Now, will you be quiet an'listen--an' answer for your pards?"
"Wade, I answer fer no man. But, so far as I've noticed, my pards ain'thankerin' to make any loud noise," Folsom replied, indicating hiscomrades, with sarcasm.
The red-bearded one, a man of large frame and gaunt face, wicked andwild-looking, spoke out, "Say, Smith, or whatever the hell's yore righthandle--is this hyar a game we're playin'?"
"I reckon. An' if you turn a trick you'll be damn lucky," growledFolsom.
The other rustler did not speak. He was small, swarthy-faced, withsloe-black eyes and matted hair, evidently a white man with Mexicanblood. Keen, strung, furtive, he kept motionless, awaiting events.
"Buster Jack, these new pards of yours are low-down rustlers, an' one ofthem's worse, as I could prove," said Wade, "but compared with youthey're all gentlemen."
Belllounds leered. But he was losing his bravado. Something began todawn upon his obtuse consciousness.
"What do I care for you or your gabby talk?" he flashed, 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 whenhalf-way up he slipped. The rustler on his right kicked him, and hesprawled down again, back to the wall.
"Buster, look into this!" called Wade, and he leveled the gun thatquivered momentarily, like a compass needle, and then crashed fire andsmoke. The bullet spat into a log. But it had cut the lobe ofBelllounds's ear, bringing blood. His face turned a ghastly, livid hue.All in a second terror possessed him--shuddering, primitive terrorof 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 thesituation was in control of a man not in any sense ordinary.
"Cap, did you know Buster Jack accused my friend, Wils Moore, ofstealin' these cattle you're sellin'?" asked Wade, deliberately.
"What cattle did you say?" asked the rustler, as if he had not heardaright.
"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 Iseen you.... Naw, I'd no idee Belllounds blamed thet stealin' on toany one."
"He did."
"Ahuh! Wal, who's this Wils Moore?"
"He's a cowboy, as fine a youngster as ever straddled a horse. BusterJack hates him. He licked Jack a couple of times an' won the love of agirl that Jack wants."
"Ho! Ho! Quite romantic, I declare.... Say, thar's some damn queernotions I'm gettin' about you, Buster Jack."
Belllounds lay propped against the wall, sagging there, laboring ofchest, sweating of face. The boldness of brow held, because it wasfixed, but that of his eyes had gone; and his mouth and chin showedcraven weakness. He stared in dread suspense at Wade.
"Listen. An' all of you sit tight," went on Wade, swiftly. "Jack stolethe cattle from his father. He's a thief at heart. But he had a doublemotive. He left a trail--he left tracks behind. He made a crookedhorseshoe, like that Wils Moore's horse wears, an' he put that on hisown horse. An' he made a contraption--a little iron ring with a dot init, an' he left the crooked shoe tracks, an' he left the littlering tracks--"
"By Gawd! I seen them funny tracks!" ejaculated Folsom. "At thewater-hole an' right hyar in front of the cabin. I seen them. I knowedJack made them, somehow, but I didn't think. His white hoss has acrooked left front shoe."
"Yes, he has, when Jack takes off the regular shoe an' nails on thecrooked one.... Men, I followed those tracks They lead up here to yourcabin. Belllounds made them with a purpose.... An' he went to Kremmlin'to get Sheriff Burley. An' he put him wise to the rustlin' of cattle toElgeria. An' he fetched him up to White Slides to accuse Wils Moore.An' he trailed his own tracks up here, showin' Burley the crooked horsetrack an' the little circle--that was supposed to be made by the end ofMoore's crutch--an' he led Burley with his men right to this cabin an'to the trail where you drove the cattle over the divide.... An'
then hehad Burley dig out some cakes of mud holdin' these tracks, an' theyfetched them down to White Slides. Buster Jack blamed the stealin' on toMoore. An' Burley arrested Moore. The trial comes off next week atKremmlin'."
"Damn me!" exclaimed Folsom, wonderingly. "A man's never too old tolearn! I knowed this pup was stealin' from his own father, but Ireckoned he was jest a natural-born, honest rustler, with a hunch ferdrink an' cards."
"Well, he's double-crossed you, Cap. An' if I hadn't rounded you up yourchances would have been good for swingin'."
"Ahuh! Wade, I'd sure preferred them chances of swingin' to yourover-kind interferin' in my bizness. Allus interferin', Wade, thet'syour weakness!... But gimmie a gun!"
"I reckon not, Cap."
"Gimme a gun!" roared the rustler. "Lemme sit hyar an' shoot the eyesouten this--lyin' pup of a Belllounds!... Wade, put a gun in my hand--agun with two shells--or only one. You can stand with your gun at myhead.... Let me kill this skunk!"
For all Belllounds could tell, death was indeed close. No trace of aBelllounds was apparent about him then, and his face was a horridspectacle for a man to be forced to see. A froth foamed over his hanginglower lip.
"Cap, I ain't trustin' you with a gun just this particular minute," saidWade.
Folsom then bawled his curses to his comrades.
"----! Kill him! Throw your guns an' bore him--right in them bulgin'eyes!... I'm tellin' you--we've gotta fight, anyhow. We're agoin' tocash right hyar. But kill him first!"
Neither of Folsom's lieutenants yielded to the fierce exhortation oftheir leader or to their own evilly expressed passions. It was Wade whodominated them. Then ensued a silence fraught with suspense, growingmore charged every long instant. The balance here seemed about tobe struck.
"Wade, I've been a gambler all my life, an' a damn smart one, if I dosay it myself," declared the rustler leader, his voice inharmonious withthe facetiousness of his words. "An' I'll make a last bet."
"Go ahead, Cap. What'll you bet?" answered the cold voice, still gentle,but different now in its inflection.
"By Gawd! I'll bet all the gold hyar that Hell-Bent Wade wouldn't shootany man in the back!"
"You win!"
Slowly and stiffly the rustler rose to his feet. When he reached hisheight he deliberately swung his leg to kick Belllounds in the face.
"Thar! I'd like to have a reckonin' with you, Buster Jack," he said. "Iain't dealin' the cards hyar. But somethin' tells me thet, shaky as I amin my boots, I'd liefer be in mine than yours."
With that, and expelling a heavy breath, he wrestled around to confrontthe hunter.
"Wade. I've no hunch to your game, but it's slower'n I recollect you."
"Why, Cap, I was in a talkin' humor," replied Wade.
"Hell! You're up to some dodge. What'd you care fer my learnin' thetpup had double-crossed me? You won't let me kill him."
"I reckon I wanted him to learn what real men thought of him."
"Ahuh! Wal, an' now I've onlightened him, what's the next deal?"
"You'll all go to Kremmlin' with me an' I'll turn you over to SheriffBurley."
That was the gauntlet thrown down by Wade. It was not unexpected, andacceptance seemed a relief. Folsom's eyeballs became living fire withthe desperate gleam of the reckless chances of life. Cutthroat he mighthave been, but he was brave, and he proved the significance ofWade's attitude.
"Pards, hyar's to luck!" he rang out, hoarsely, and with pantherishquickness he leaped for his gun.
A tense, surcharged instant--then all four men, as if released by somegalvanized current of rapidity, flashed into action. Guns boomed inunison. Spurts of red, clouds of smoke, ringing reports, and hoarsecries filled the cabin. Wade had fired as he leaped. There was athudding patter of lead upon the walls. The hunter flung himselfprostrate behind the bough framework that had served as bedstead. It wasmade of spruce boughs, thick and substantial. Wade had not calculatedfalsely in estimating it as a bulwark of defense. Pulling his secondgun, he peeped from behind the covert.
Smoke was lifting, and drifting out of door and windows. The atmospherecleared. Belllounds sagged against the wall, pallid, with protrudingeyes of horror on the scene before him. The dark-skinned little man laywrithing. All at once a tremor stilled his convulsions. His body relaxedlimply. As if by magic his hand loosened on the smoking gun. Folsom wason his knees, reeling and swaying, waving his gun, peering like adrunken man for some lost object. His temple appeared half shot away, abloody and horrible sight.
"Pards, I got him!" he said, in strange, half-strangled whisper. "I gothim!... Hell-Bent Wade! My respects! I'll meet you--thar!"
His reeling motion brought his gaze in line with Belllounds. Theviolence of his start sent drops of blood flying from his gory temple.
"Ahuh! The cards run--my way. Belllounds, hyar's to your--lyin' eyes!"
The gun wavered and trembled and circled. Folsom strained in lastterrible effort of will to aim it straight. He fired. The bullet torehair from Belllounds's head, but missed him. Again the rustler aimed,and the gun wavered and shook. He pulled trigger. The hammer clickedupon an empty chamber. With low and gurgling cry of baffled rage Folsomdropped the gun and sank face forward, slowly stretching out.
The red-bearded rustler had leaped behind the stone chimney that all buthid his body. The position made it difficult for him to shoot becausehis gun-hand was on the inside, and he had to press his body tight tosqueeze it behind the corner of ragged stone. Wade had the advantage. Hewas lying prone with his right hand round the corner of the framework.An overhang of the bough-ends above protected his head when he peepedout. While he watched for a chance to shoot he loaded his empty gun withhis left hand. The rustler strained and writhed his body, twisting hisneck, and suddenly darting out his head and arm, he shot. His bullettore the overhang of boughs above Wade's face. And Wade's answeringshot, just a second too late, chipped the stone corner where therustler's face had flashed out. The bullet, glancing, hummed out of thewindow. It was a close shave. The rustler let out a hissing,inarticulate cry. He was trapped. In his effort to press in closer heprojected his left elbow beyond the corner of the chimney. Wade's quickshot shattered his arm.
There was no asking or offering of quarter here. This was the old feudof the West--of the vicious and the righteous in strife--both reared inthe same stern school. The rustler gave his body such contortion that hewas twisted almost clear around, with his right hand over his leftshoulder. He punched the muzzle of his gun into a crack between twostones, and he pried to open them. The dry clay cement crumbled, thecrack widened. Sighting along the barrel he aimed it with the narrowstrip of Wades shoulder that was visible above the framework. Then heshot and hit. Wade shrank flatter and closer, hiding himself to betteradvantage. The rustler made his great blunder then, for in that momenthe might have rushed out and killed his adversary. But, instead, he shotagain--another time--a third. And his heavy bullets tore and splinteredthe boughs dangerously close to the hunter's head. Then came an awkward,almost hopeless task for the rustler, in maintaining his position whilereloading his gun. He did it, and his panting attested to the labor andpain it cost him.
So much, in fact, that he let his knee protrude. Wade fired, breakingthat knee. The rustler sagged in his tracks, his hip stuck out to afforda target for the remorseless Wade. Still the doomed man did not cry out,though it was evident that he could not now keep his body from sagginginto sight of the hunter. Then with a desperate courage worthy of abetter cause, and with a spirit great in its defeat, the rustler plungedout from his hiding-place, gun extended. His red beard, his gaunt face,fierce and baleful, his wabbling plunge that was really a fall, made asight which was terrible. He hopped out of that fall. His gun began toblaze. But it only matched the blazes of Wade's. And the rustler pitchedheadlong over the framework, falling heavily against the wall beyond.
Then there was silence for a long moment. Wade stirred, as if to lookaround. Belllounds also stirred, and gulped, as if to breathe. The threeprostrat
e rustlers lay inert, their positions singularly tragic andsettled. The smoke again began to lift, to float out of the door andwindows. In another moment the big room seemed less hazy.
Wade rose, not without effort, and he had a gun in each hand. Thosehands were bloody; there was blood on his face, and his left shoulderwas red. He approached Belllounds.
Wade was terrible then--terrible with a ruthlessness that was nopretense. To Belllounds it must have represented death--a bloody deathwhich he was not prepared to meet.
"Come out of your trance, you pup rustler!" yelled Wade.
"For God's sake, don't kill me!" implored Belllounds, stricken withterror.
"Why not? Look around! My busy day, Buster!... An' for that Cap Folsomit's been ten years comin'.... I'm goin' to shoot you in the belly an'watch you get sick to your stomach!"
Belllounds, with whisper, and hands, and face, begged for his life in anabjectness of sheer panic.
"What!" roared the hunter. "Didn't you know I come to kill you?"
"Yes--yes! I've seen--that. It's awful!... I never harmed you.... Don'tkill me! Let me live, Wade. I swear to God I'll--I'll never do itagain.... For dad's sake--for Collie's sake--don't kill me!"
"I'm Hell-Bent Wade!... You wouldn't listen to them--when they wanted totell you who I am!"
Every word of Wade's drove home to this boy the primal meaning of suddendeath. It inspired him with an unutterable fear. That was what clampedhis brow in a sweaty band and upreared his hair and rolled his eyeballs.His magnified intelligence, almost ghastly, grasped a hope in Wade'sapparent vacillation and in the utterance of the name of Columbine.Intuition, a subtle sense, inspired him to beg in that name.
"Swear you'll give up Collie!" demanded Wade, brandishing his guns withbloody hands.
"Yes--yes! My God, I'll do anything!" moaned Belllounds.
"Swear you'll tell your father you'd had a change of heart. You'll giveCollie up!... Let Moore have her!"
"I swear!... But if you tell dad--I stole his cattle--he'll do for me!"
"We won't squeal that. I'll save you if you give up the girl. Once more,Buster Jack--try an' make me believe you'll square the deal."
Belllounds had lost his voice. But his mute, fluttering lips wereinfinite proof of the vow he could not speak. The boyishness, thestunted moral force, replaced the manhood in him then. He was only afactor in the lives of others, protected even from this Nemesis by thegreatness of his father's love.
"Get up, an' take my scarf," said Wade, "an' bandage these bullet-holesI got."