The horse shied and tried to plunge, but an iron arm held him.
"Get down, Buster," ordered the man.
It was Wade.
Belllounds had given as sharp a start as his horse.

He was sober, though the heated red tinge of his face gave indication of a recent use of the bottle.

That color quickly receded.

Events of the last month had left traces of the hardening and lowering of Jack Belllounds's nature.
"Wha-at ?...

Let go of that bridle!" he ejaculated.
Wade held it fast, while he gazed up into the prominent eyes, where fear shone and struggled with intolerance and arrogance and quickening gleams of thought.
"You an' I have somethin' to talk over," said the hunter.
Belllounds shrank from the low, cold, even voice, that evidently reminded him of the last time he had heard it.
"No, we haven't," he declared, quickly.