The next moment might be critical for that young man.
"Club-footed!...

He won't lord it over the cowboys any more--or ride that white mustang!" The softer, weaker expression of his face, that which gave him some title to good looks, changed to an ugliness hard for Wade to define, since it was neither glee, nor joy, nor gratification over his rival's misfortune.

It was rush of blood to eyes and skin, a heated change that somehow to Wade suggested an anxious, selfish hunger.
Belllounds lacked something, that seemed certain.

But it remained to be proved how deserving he was of Wade's pity.
"Belllounds, it was a dirty trick--your jumpin' Moore," declared Wade, with deliberation.
"The hell you say!" Belllounds flared up, with scarlet in his face, with sneer of amaze, with promise of bursting rage.

He slammed down the gun.
"Yes, the hell I say," returned the hunter.