Montana Jim grew surly these days and packed a gun.

Lem Billings had threatened to leave.

New and strange hands for Jack Belllounds to direct had a tendency to release a strain and tide things over.
Every time the old rancher saw Wade he rolled his eyes and wagged his head, as if combating superstition with an intelligent sense of justice.
Wade knew what troubled Belllounds, and it strengthened the gloomy mood that, like a poison lichen, seemed finding root.
Every day Wade visited his friend Wilson Moore, and most of their conversation centered round that which had become a ruling passion for both.

But the time came when Wade deviated from his gentleness of speech and leisure of action.
"Bent, you're not like you were," said Moore, once, in surprise at the discovery.

"You're losing hope and confidence." "No.