If Calumet had any regret over the outcome of his adventure in the Red Dog, it was that Neal Taggart had given him no opportunity to square the account between them. Calumet had lingered in town until dusk, for he had given his word and would not break it, and then, it being certain that his enemy had decided not to accept the challenge, he hitched his horses and just after dusk pulled out for the Lazy Y. Something had been added to the debt of hatred which he owed the Taggarts.
As he drove through the darkening land he yielded to a deep satisfaction. He had struck one blow, a sudden and decisive one, and, though it had not landed on either of the Taggarts, it had at least shown them what they might expect. He intended to deliver other blows, and he was rather glad now that he had not been so weak as to allow Betty's dictatorial attitude to drive him from the ranch, for in that case he would never have discovered the plot to cheat him of his heritage—would not have been in a position to bring discomfiture and confusion upon them all. That was what he was determined to do. There was no plan in his mind; he was merely going to keep his eyes open, and when opportunity came he was going to take advantage of it.
The darkness deepened as he drove. When he reached the crest of the slope from which that morning he had looked down upon Lazette, the wagon entered a stretch of broken country through which the horses made slow progress. After traversing this section he encountered a flat, dull plain of sand, hard and smooth, which the horses appreciated, for they traveled rapidly, straining willingly in the harness.
It was about nine o'clock when the moon rose, a pale yellow disk above the hills that rimmed the valley of the Lazy Y, and Calumet welcomed it with a smile, lighting a cigarette and leaning back comfortably in the seat, with the reins held between his knees.
He presently thought of his weapons, drawing them out and reloading them. They recalled the incident of the Red Dog, and for a long time his thoughts dwelt on it, straight, grim lines in his face.
He wondered what Betty would say when she heard of it. Would it affect her future relations with Taggart? His thoughts were still of Betty when the wagon careened out of the level and began to crawl up a slope that led through some hills. The trail grew hazardous, and the horses were forced to proceed slowly. It was near midnight when the wagon dipped into a little gully about a mile and a half from the ranchhouse. Calumet halted the horses at the bottom of the gully, allowing them to drink from the shallow stream that trickled on its way to meet the river which passed through the wood near the ranchhouse.
After the animals had drunk their fill he urged them on again, for he was weary of the ride and anxious to have it over with. It was a long pull, however, and the horses made hard work of it, so that when they reached the crest of the rise they halted of their own accord and stood with their legs braced, breathing heavily.
Calumet waited patiently. He was anxious to get to the Lazy Y, but his sympathy was with the horses. He rolled and lighted another cigarette, holding the match concealed in the palm of his hand so that the breeze might not extinguish it.
Sitting thus, a premonition of danger oppressed him with such force and suddenness that it caused him to throw himself quickly backward. At the exact instant that his back struck the lumber piled behind him he heard the sharp, vicious crack of a rifle, and a bullet thudded dully into one of the wooden stanchions of the wagon frame at the edge of the seat. Another report followed it quickly, and Calumet flung himself headlong toward the rear of the wagon, where he lay for a brief instant, alert, rigid, too full of rage for utterance.
But he was not too angry to think. The shots, he knew, had come from the left of the wagon. They had been too close for comfort, and whoever had shot at him was a good enough marksman, although, he thought, with a bitter grin, a trifle too slow of movement to do any damage to him.
His present position was precarious and he did not stay long in it. Close to the side of the wagon—the side opposite that from which the shots had come—was a shallow gully, deep enough to conceal himself in and fringed at the rear by several big boulders. It was an ideal position and Calumet did not hesitate to take advantage of it. Dropping from the rear of the wagon, he made a leap for the gully, landing in its bottom upon all fours. He heard a crash, and a bullet flattened itself against one of the rocks above his head.
"He ain't so slow, after all," he admitted grudgingly, referring to the concealed marksman.
He kneeled in the gully and looked cautiously over its edge. The wagon was directly in front of him; part of one of the rear wheels was in his line of vision. The horses were standing quietly, undisturbed by the shots. He resolved to keep them where they were, and, exercising the greatest care, he found a good-sized rock and stuck it under the front of the rear wheel nearest him, thus blocking the wagon against them should they become restless.
The moon was at his back, and he grinned with satisfaction as he noted that the rocks behind him threw a deep shadow into the gully. He could not help thinking that his enemy, whoever he was, had not made a happy selection of a spot for an ambuscade, for the moonlight's glare revealed every rock on the other side of the wagon, and the few trees in the wood behind the rocks were far too slender to provide shelter for a man of ordinary size. Calumet chuckled grimly as, with his head slightly above the edge of the gully and concealed behind the felloes of the wagon wheel, he made an examination of the rocks beyond the wagon.
There were four of the rocks which were of sufficient size to afford concealment for a man. They varied in size and were ranged along the side of the trail in an irregular line. All were about a hundred feet distant.
The smaller one, he decided, was not to be considered, though he looked suspiciously at it before making his decision. Its neighbor was larger, though he reasoned that if he were to make a selection for an ambuscade he would not choose that one either. The other two rocks were almost the same size and he watched them warily. To the right and left of these rocks was a clear space, flat and open, with not a tree or a bush large enough to conceal danger such as he was in search of. The slope up which he had just driven the horses was likewise free from obstruction, so that if his enemy was behind any of the rocks he was doomed to stay there or offer himself as a target for Calumet's pistol.
"Wise, I reckon," he sneered. "Figgered to plug me while the horses was restin', knowin' I'd have to breathe them about here. Thought one shot would get me. Missed his reckonin'. Must be a mite peeved by this time."
His gaze became intent again, but this time it was directed to some underbrush about two hundred yards distant, back of the rocks. With some difficulty he could make out the shape of a horse standing well back in the brush, and again he grinned.
"That's why he took that side," he said. "There's no place on this side where he could hide his horse. It's plumb simple."
From where he kneeled began another slope that descended to the Lazy Y valley. It dipped gently down into the wood in front of the house, where he had hitched his horse on the night of his home-coming, and between the trees he could see a light flickering. The light came from the kitchen window of the ranch-house; Betty had left it burning for him, expecting him to return shortly after dusk. The house was not more than a mile distant and he wondered at the hardihood of his enemy in planning to ambush him so close to his home. He reflected, though, that it was not likely that the shots could be heard from the house, for the spot on which the wagon stood was several hundred feet above the level of the valley, and then there was the intervening wood, which would dull whatever sound might float in that direction.
Who could his assailant be? Why, it was Taggart, of course. Taggart had left town hours before him, he was a coward, and shooting from ambush is a coward's game.
Calumet's blood leaped a little faster in his veins. He would settle for good with Neal Taggart. But he did not move except to draw one of his six-shooters and push its muzzle over the edge of the gully. He shoved his arm slowly forward so that it lay extended along the ground the barrel of the pistol resting on the felloes of the wheel.
In this position he remained for half an hour. No sound broke the strained stillness of the place. The horses had sagged forward, their heads hanging, their legs braced. There was no cloud in the sky and the clear light of the moon poured down in a yellow flood. Calumet's task would have been easier if he could have told which of the four rocks concealed his enemy. As it was he was compelled to watch them all.
But presently, at the edge of one of the two larger rocks, the one nearest the slope, he detected movement. A round object a foot in diameter, came slowly into view from behind the rock, propelled by an unseen force. It was shoved out about three quarters of its width, so that it overlapped the big rock beside it, leaving an aperture between the two of perhaps three or four inches. While Calumet watched a rifle barrel was stuck into this aperture. Calumet waited until the muzzle of the rifle became steady and then he took quick aim at the spot and pulled the trigger of his six-shooter, ducking his head below the edge of the gully as his weapon crashed.
He heard a laugh, mocking, discordant, followed by a voice—Taggart's voice.
"Clean miss," it said. "You're nervous."
"Like you was in town today," jeered Calumet.
"Then you know me?" returned Taggart. "I ain't admittin' that I was any nervous."
"Scared of the dark, then," said Calumet. "You left town a whole lot punctual."
"Well," sneered Taggart; "mebbe I ain't much on the shoot. I don't play any man's game but my own."
"You're right," mocked Calumet; "you don't play no man's game. A man's game—"
He raised his head a trifle and a bullet sang past it, flattened itself against the rock behind him, cutting short his speech and his humor at the same instant. The gully was fully fifty feet long and he dropped on his hands and knees and crawled to the upper end of it, away from the slope. He saw one of Taggart's feet projecting from behind the rock and he brought his six-shooter to a poise. The foot moved and disappeared. Catching a glimpse of the rifle barrel coming into view around the edge of the rock, Calumet sank back into the gully. Fifteen minutes later when he again cautiously raised his head above the level there was no sign of Taggart. He dropped down into the gully again and scrambled to the other end of it, raising his head again. He saw Taggart, twenty-five feet behind the rock, backing away toward the wood where his horse stood, crouching, watchful, endeavoring to keep the rock between him and Calumet while he retreated. Altogether, he was fully a hundred and twenty-five feet away at the moment Calumet caught sight of him, and he was looking toward the end of the gully that Calumet had just vacated. Calumet stood erect and snapped a shot at him, though the distance was so great that he had little expectation of doing any damage.
But Taggart staggered, dropped his rifle and dove headlong toward the rock. In an instant he had resumed his position behind it, and Calumet could tell from the rapidity of his movements that he had not been hit. He saw the rifle lying where it had fallen, and he was meditating a quick rush toward the rock when he saw Taggart's hand come out and grasp the stock of the weapon, dragging it back to him. Calumet whipped a bullet at the hand, but the only result was a small dust cloud beside it.
"In a hurry, Taggart?" he jeered. "Aw, don't be. This is the most fun I've had since I've been back in the valley. An' you want to spoil it by hittin' the breeze. Hang around a while till I get my hand in. I reckon you ain't hurt?" he added, putting a little anxiety into his voice.
"Hurt nothin'," growled Taggart. "You hit the stock of the rifle."
"I reckon that wouldn't be accounted bad shootin' at a hundred an' twenty-five feet," said Calumet. "If you hadn't had the rifle in the way you'd have got it plumb in your bread-basket. But don't be down-hearted; that ain't nothin' to what I can do when I get my hand in. I ain't had no practice."
He had an immense advantage over Taggart. The latter was compelled to remain concealed behind his rock, while Calumet had the freedom of the gully. He did not anticipate that Taggart would again attempt to retreat in the same way, nor did he think that he would risk charging him, for he would not be certain at what point in the gully he would be likely to find his enemy and thus a charge would probably result disastrously for him.
Taggart was apparently satisfied of the watchfulness of Calumet, for he stayed discreetly behind his rock. Twice during the next hour his rifle cracked when he caught a glimpse of Calumet's head, and each time he knew he had missed, for Calumet's laugh followed the reports. Once, after a long interval of silence, thinking that Calumet was at the other end of the gully, he moved the small rock which he had pushed beyond the edge of the large one, using his rifle barrel as a prod. A bullet from Calumet's pistol struck the rock, glanced from it and seared the back of his hand, bringing a curse to his lips.
"Told you so," came Calumet's voice. "I hope it ain't nothin' serious. But I'm gettin' my hand in."
This odd duel continued with long lapses of silence while the moon grew to a disk of pale, liquid silver in the west, enduring through the bleak, chill time preceding the end of night, finally fading and disappearing as the far eastern distance began to glow with the gray light of dawn.
Calumet's cold humor had not survived the night. He patrolled the gully during the slow-dragging hours of the early morning with a growing caution and determination, his lips setting always into harder lines, his eyes beginning to blaze with a ferocity that promised ill for Taggart.
Shortly after dawn, kneeling in the gully at the end toward the ranchhouse, he heard the wagon move. He looked up to see that the horses had started, evidently with the intention of completing their delayed journey to the stable, where they would find the food and water which they no doubt craved. As the wagon bumped over the obstruction which Calumet had placed in front of the rear wheel, he was on the verge of shouting to the horses to halt, but thought better of it, watching them in silence as they made their way slowly down the slope.
It took them a long time to reach the level of the valley, and then they passed slowly through the wood, going as steadily as though there was a driver on the seat behind them, and finally they turned into the ranchhouse yard and came to a halt near the kitchen door.
Calumet watched them until they came to a stop and then he went to the opposite end of the gully, peeping above it in order to learn of the whereabouts of Taggart. He saw no signs of him and returned to the other end of the gully.
Taggart, he suspected, could not see where the wagon had gone and no doubt was filled with curiosity. Neither could Taggart see the ranchhouse, for there were intervening hills and the slope itself was a ridge which effectually shut off Taggart's view. But neither hills or ridge were in Calumet's line of vision. Kneeling in the gully he watched the wagon. Presently he saw Betty come out and stand on the porch. She looked at the wagon for a moment and then went toward it—Calumet could see her peer around the canvas side at the seat. After a moment she left the wagon and walked to the stable, looking within. Then she took a turn around the ranchhouse yard, stopping at the bunkhouse and looking over the corral fence. She returned to the wagon and stood beside it as though pondering. Calumet grinned in amusement. She was wondering what had become of him. His grin was cut short by the crash of Taggart's rifle and he dodged down, realizing that in his curiosity to see what Betty was doing he had inadvertently exposed himself. A hole in his shirt sleeve near the shoulder testified to his narrow escape.
His rage against Taggart was furious and with a grimace at him he turned again to the ranchhouse. Betty had left the wagon and had walked several steps toward him, standing rigid, shading her eyes with her hands. Apparently she had heard the report of the rifle and was wondering what it meant. At that instant Calumet looked over the edge of the gully to see Taggart shoving the muzzle of his rifle around the side of the rock. Its report mingled with the roar of Calumet's pistol.
Taggart yelled with pain and rage and flopped back out of sight, while Calumet laid an investigating hand on his left shoulder, which felt as though it had been seared by a red-hot iron.
He kneeled in the gully and tore the cloth away. The wound was a slight one and he sneered at it. He made his way to the other end of the gully, expecting that Taggart, if injured only slightly, might again attempt a retreat, but he did not see him and came back to the end nearest the ranchhouse. Then he saw Betty running toward him, carrying a rifle.
At this evidence of meditated interference in his affairs a new rage afflicted Calumet. He motioned violently for her to keep away, and when he saw Dade run out of the house after her, also with a rifle in hand, he motioned again. But it was evident that they took his motions to mean that they were not to approach him in that direction, for they changed their course and swung around toward the rocks at his rear.
Furious at their obstinacy, or lack of perception, Calumet watched their approach with glowering glances. When they came near enough for him to make himself heard he yelled savagely at them.
"Get out of here, you damned fools!" he said; "do you want to get hurt?"
They continued to come on in spite of this warning, but when they reached the foot of the little slope that led to the ridge at the edge of which was Calumet's gully, they halted, looking up at Calumet inquiringly. The ridge towered above their heads, and so they were in no danger, but Betty halted only for a moment and then continued to approach until she stood on the ridge, exposed to Taggart's fire. But, of course, Taggart would not fire at her.
"What's wrong?" she demanded of Calumet; "what were you shooting at?"
"Friend of yours," he said brusquely.
"Who?"
"Neal Taggart. We've been picnicin' all night."
Her face flooded with color, but paled instantly. Calumet thought there was reproach in the glance she threw at him, but he did not have time to make certain, for at the instant she looked at him she darted toward a rock about ten feet distant, no doubt intending to conceal herself behind it.
Calumet watched her. When she gained the shelter of the rock she was about to kneel in some fringing mesquite at its base when she heard Calumet yell at her. She turned, hesitating in the act of kneeling, and looked at Calumet. His face was ashen. His heavy pistol pointed in her direction; it seemed that its muzzle menaced her. She straightened, anger in her eyes, as the weapon crashed.
Her knees shook, she covered her face with her hands to shut out the reeling world, for she thought that in his rage he was shooting at her. But in the next instant she felt his arms around her; she was squeezed until she thought her bones were being crushed, and in the same instant she was lifted, swung clear of the ground and set suddenly down again. She opened her eyes, her whole body trembling with wrath, to look at Calumet, within a foot of her. But he was not looking at her; his gaze was fixed with sardonic satisfaction upon a huge rattler which was writhing in the throes of death at the base of the rock where she had been about to kneel. Its head had been partly severed from its body and while she looked Calumet's pistol roared again and its destruction was completed.
She was suddenly faint; the world reeled again. But the sensation passed quickly and she saw Calumet standing close to her, looking at her with grim disapprobation. Apparently he had forgotten his danger in his excitement over hers.
"I told you not to come here," he said.
But a startled light leaped into her eyes at the words. Calumet swung around as he saw her rifle swing to her shoulder. He saw Taggart near the edge of the wood, two hundred yards away, kneeling, his rifle leveled at them. He yelled to Betty but she did not heed him. Taggart's bullet sang over his head as the gun in Betty's hands crashed. Taggart stood quickly erect, his rifle dropped from his hands as he ran, staggering from side to side, to his horse. He mounted and fled, his pony running desperately, accompanied by the music of a rifle that suddenly began popping on the other side of Calumet—Dade's. But the distance was great, the target elusive, and Dade's bullets sang futilely.
They watched Taggart until he vanished, his pony running steadily along a far level, and then Betty turned to see Calumet looking at her with a twisted, puzzled smile.
"You plugged him, I reckon," he said, nodding toward the vast distance into which his enemy was disappearing. "Why, it's plumb ridiculous. If my girl would plug me that way, I'd sure feel—"
His meaning was plain, though he did not finish. She looked at him straight in the eyes though her face was crimson and her lips trembled a little.
"You are a brute!" she said. Turning swiftly she began to descend the slope toward the ranchhouse.
Calumet stood looking after her for a moment, his face working with various emotions that struggled for expression. Then, ignoring Dade, who stood near him, plainly puzzled over this enigma, he walked over to the edge of the wood where Taggart's rifle lay, picked it up and made his way to the ranchhouse.
A strange thing was happening to Calumet. His character was in the process of remaking. Slowly and surely Betty's good influence was making itself felt. This in spite of his knowledge of her secret meeting with Neal Taggart. To be sure, so far as his actions were concerned, he was the Calumet of old, a man of violent temper and vicious impulses, but there were growing governors that were continually slowing his passions, strange, new thoughts that were thrusting themselves insistently before him. He was strangely uncertain of his attitude toward Betty, disturbed over his feelings toward her. Despite his knowledge of her secret meeting with Taggart, with a full consciousness of all the rage against her which that knowledge aroused in him, he liked her. At the same time, he despised her. She was not honest. He had no respect for any woman who would sneak as she had sneaked. She was two-faced; she was trying to cheat him out of his heritage. She had deceived his father, she was trying to deceive him. She was unworthy of any admiration whatever, but whenever he looked at her, whenever she was near him, he was conscious of a longing that he could not fight down.
And there was Dade. He often watched Dade while they were working together on the bunkhouse in the days following the incident of the ambush by Taggart. The feeling that came over him at these times was indescribable and disquieting, as was his emotion whenever Dade smiled at him. He had never experienced the deep, stirring spirit of comradeship, the unselfish affection which sometimes unites the hearts of men; he had had no "chum" during his youth. But this feeling that came over him whenever he looked at Dade was strangely like that which he had for his horse, Blackleg. It was deeper, perhaps, and disturbed him more, yet it was the same. At the same time, it was different. But he could not tell why. He liked to have Dade around him, and one day when the latter went to Lazette on some errand for Betty he felt queerly depressed and lonesome. That same night when Dade drove into the ranchhouse yard Calumet had smiled at him, and a little later when Dade had told Betty about it he had added:
"When I seen him grin at me that cordial, I come near fallin' off my horse. I was that flustered! Why, Betty, he's comin' around! The durn cuss likes me!"
"Do you like him?" inquired Betty.
"Sure. Why, shucks! There ain't nothin' wrong with him exceptin' his grouch. When he works that off so's it won't come back any more he'll be plumb man, an' don't you forget it!"
There was no mistaking Calumet's feeling toward Bob. He pitied the youngster. He allowed him to ride Blackleg. He braided him a half-sized lariat. He carried him long distances on his back and waited upon him at the table. Bob became his champion; the boy worshiped him.
Betty was not unaware of all this, and yet she continued to hold herself aloof from Calumet. She did not treat him indifferently, she merely kept him at a distance. Several times when he spoke to her about Neal Taggart she left him without answering, and so he knew that she resented the implication that he had expressed on the morning following the night on which he had discovered her talking in the office.
It was nearly three weeks after the killing of Denver and his confederate that the details of the story reached Betty's ears, and Calumet was as indifferent to her expressions of horror—though it was a horror not unmixed with a queer note of satisfaction, over which he wondered—as he was to Dade's words of congratulation: "You're sure livin' up to your reputation of bein' a slick man with the six!"
Nor did Calumet inquire who had brought the news. But when one day a roaming puncher brought word from the Arrow that "young Taggart is around ag'in after monkeyin' with the wrong end of a gun," he showed interest. He was anxious to settle the question which had been in his mind since the morning of the shooting. It was this: had Betty meant to hit Taggart when she had shot at him? He thought not; she had pretended hostility in order to mislead him. But if that had been her plan she had failed to fool him, for he watched unceasingly, and many nights when Betty thought him asleep he was secreted in the wood near the ranchhouse. He increased his vigilance after receiving word that Taggart had not been badly injured. More, he rarely allowed Betty to get out of his sight, for he was determined to defeat the plan to rob him.
However, the days passed and Taggart did not put in an appearance. Time removes the sting from many hurts and even jealousy's pangs are assuaged by the flight of days. And so after a while Calumet's vigilance relaxed, and he began to think that he had scared Taggart away. He noted with satisfaction that Betty seemed to treat him less coldly, and he felt a pulse of delight over the thought that perhaps she had repented and had really tried to hit Taggart that morning.
Once he seized upon this idea he could not dispel it. More, it grew on him, became a foundation upon which he built a structure of defense for Betty. Taggart had been trying to deceive her. She had discovered his intentions and had broken with him. Perhaps she had seen the injustice of her actions. He began to wish he had treated her a little less cruelly, a little more civilly, began to wish that he had yielded to those good impulses which he had felt occasionally of late. His attitude toward Betty became almost gentle, and there were times when she watched him with wondering curiosity, as though not quite understanding the change that had come in him.
But Dade understood. He had "sized" Calumet "up" in those first days and his judgment had been unerring, as it was now when Betty asked his opinion.
"He's beginnin' to use his brain box," he told her. "He's been a little shy an' backward, not knowin' what to expect, an' makin' friend's bein' a little new to him. But he's the goods at bottom, an' he's sighted a goal which he's thinkin' to make one of these days."
"A goal?" said she, puzzled.
"Aw, you female critters is deep ones," grinned Dade, "an' all smeared over with honey an' innocence. You're the goal he's after. An' I'm bettin' he'll get you."
Her face reddened, and she looked at him plainly indignant.
"He is a brute," she said.
"Most all men is brutes if you scratch them deep enough," drawled Dade. "The trouble with Calumet is that he's never had a chance to spread on the soft stuff. He's the plain, unvarnished, dyed-in-the-wool, original man. There's a word fits him, if I could think of it." He looked at her inquiringly.
"Primitive, I think you mean," she said.
"That's it—primitive. That's him. He's the rough material; nobody's ever helped him to get into shape. A lot of folks pride themselves on what they call culture, forgettin' that it wasn't in them when they came into the world, that it growed on them after they got here, was put there by trainin' an' example. Not that I'm ag'in culture; it's a mighty fine thing to have hangin' around a man. But if a man ain't got it an' still measures up to man's size, he's goin' to be a humdinger when he gets all the culture that's comin' to him. Mebbe Calumet'll never get it. But he's losin' his grouch, an' if you—"
"When do you think you will finish repairing the corral?" interrupted Betty.
Dade grinned. "Tomorrow, I reckon," he said.
Dade's prediction that the corral would be completed the next day was fulfilled. It was a large enclosure, covering several acres, for in the Lazy Y's prosperous days there had been a great many cattle to care for, and a roomy corral is a convenience always arranged for by an experienced cattleman. But it yawned emptily for more than a week following its completion.
During that time there had been little to do. Dade and Malcolm had passed several days tinkering at the stable and the bunkhouse; Bob, at Calumet's suggestion, was engaged in the humane task of erecting a kennel for the new dog—which had grown large and ungainly, though still retaining the admiration of his owner; and Calumet spent much of his time roaming around the country on Blackleg.
"Killin' time," he told Dade.
But it was plain to Dade, as it was to Betty, who had spoken but little to him in a week, that Calumet was filled with speculation and impatience over the temporary inaction. The work of repairing the buildings was all done. There was nothing now to do except to await the appearance of some cattle. The repair work had all been done to that end, and it was inevitable that Betty must be considering some arrangement for the procuring of cattle, but for a week she had said nothing and Calumet did not question her.
But on the Monday morning following the period of inaction, Calumet noted at the breakfast table that Betty seemed unusually eager to have the meal over. As he was leaving the table she told him she wanted to speak to him after her housework was done, and he went outside, where he lingered, watching Dade and Malcolm and Bob.
About an hour or so later Betty came out. Calumet was standing at the corral fence near the stable when she stepped down from the porch, and he gave a gasp of astonishment and then stood perfectly still, looking at her.
For the Betty that he saw was not the Betty he had grown accustomed to seeing. Not once during the time he had been at the Lazy Y had he seen her except in a house dress and her appearance now was in the nature of a transformation.
Her appearance now was in the nature of a transformation.[Illustration: Her appearance now was in the nature of a transformation.]
Her appearance now was in the nature of a transformation.[Illustration: Her appearance now was in the nature of a transformation.]
She was arrayed in a riding habit of brown corduroy which consisted of a divided skirt—a "doubled-barreled" one in the sarcastic phraseology of the male cowpuncher, who affects to despise such an article of feminine apparel—a brown woolen blouse with a low collar, above which she had sensibly tied a neckerchief to keep the sun and sand from blistering her neck; and a black felt hat with a wide brim. On her hands were a pair of silver-spangled leather gauntlets; encasing her feet were a pair of high-topped, high-heeled riding boots, ornamented with a pair of long-roweled Mexican spurs, mounted with silver. She was carrying a saddle which was also bedecked and bespangled with silver.
Illumination came instantly to Calumet. These things—the saddle, the riding habit, the spurs—were material possessions that connected her with the past. They were her personal belongings, kept and treasured from the more prosperous days of her earlier life.
At the first look he had felt a mean impulse to ridicule her because of them, but this impulse was succeeded instantly by a queer feeling of pity for her, and he kept silent.
But even had he ridiculed her, his ridicule would have been merely a mask behind which he could have hidden his surprise and admiration, for though her riding habit suggested things effete and eastern, which are always to be condemned on general principles, it certainly did fit her well, was becoming, neat, and in it she made a figure whose attractions were not to be denied.
She knew how to wear her clothes, too, he noted that instantly. She was at home in them; she graced them, gave them a subtle hint of quality that carried far and sank deep. As she came toward him he observed that her cheeks were a trifle flushed, her eyes a little brighter than usual, but for all that she was at ease and natural.
She stopped in front of him and smiled.
"Do you mind going over to the Diamond K with me this morning?" she asked.
"What for?" he said gruffly, reddening as he thought she might see the admiration which was slumbering in his eyes.
"To buy some cattle," she returned. "Kelton, of the Diamond K, hasn't been fortunate this season. Little Darby has been dry nearly all of the time and there has been little good grass on his range. In the first place, he had too much stock, even if conditions were right. I have heard that Kelton offered to pay the Taggarts for the use of part of their grass, but they have never been friends and the Taggarts wanted to charge him an outrageous price for the privilege. Therefore, Kelton is anxious to get rid of some of his stock. We need cattle and we can get them from him at a reasonable figure. He has some white Herefords that I would like to get."
He cleared his throat and hesitated, frowning.
"Why don't you take Dade—or Malcolm?" he suggested.
She looked straight at him. "Don't be priggish," she said. "Dade and Malcolm have nothing to do with the running of this ranch. I want you to go with me, because I am going to buy some cattle and I want you to confirm the deal."
He laughed. "Do you reckon you need to go at all?" he said. "I figure to know cattle some myself, an' I wouldn't let Kelton hornswoggle me."
She straightened, her chin lifting a little. "Well," she said slowly, "if that is the way you feel, I presume I shall have to go alone. I had thought, though, that the prospective owner of the Lazy Y might have enough interest in his property to put aside his likes and dislikes long enough to care for his own interests. Also," she added, "where I came from, no man would be ungentlemanly enough to refuse to accompany a lady anywhere she might ask him to go."
The flush on his face grew. But he refused to become disconcerted. "I reckon to be as much of a gentleman as any Texas guy," he said. "But I expect, though," he added; "to prove that to you I'll have to trail along after you."
"Of course," she said, the corners of her mouth dimpling a little.
He went down to the corral, roped the most gentle and best appearing one of the two horses he had bought in Lazette, caught up his own horse, Blackleg, and brought them to the stable, where he saddled and bridled them. Before putting the bridle on her horse, however, he found an opportunity to work off part of the resentment which had accumulated in him over her reference to his conduct.
After adjusting the saddle, paying particular attention to the cinches, he straightened and looked at her.
"Do you reckon to have a bridle that belongs to that right pretty saddle an' suit of yourn?" he asked.
She cast a swift glance about her and blushed. "Oh," she said; "I have forgotten it! It is in my room!"
"I reckon I'd get it if I was thinkin' of goin' ridin'," he said. "Some folks seem to think that when you're ridin' a horse a bridle is right handy."
"Well," she said, smiling at him as she went out the stable door; "it has been a long time since I have had these things on, and perhaps I was a little nervous."
At this reference to her past the pulse of pity which he had felt for her before again shot over him. He had seen a quick sadness in her eyes, lurking behind the smile.
"I reckon you've been stayin' in the house too much," he said gruffly.
She hesitated, going out of the door, to look back at him, astonishment and something more subtle glinting her eyes. He saw it and frowned.
"It's twelve miles to the Diamond K," he suggested; "an' twelve back. If you're figgerin' on ridin' that distance an' takin' time between to look at any cattle mebbe you'd better get a move on."
She was out of the door before he had ceased speaking and in an incredibly short time was back, a little breathless, her face flushed as though she had been running.
He put the bridle on her horse, led it out, and condescended to hold the stirrup for her, a service which she acknowledged with a flashing smile that brought a reluctant grin to his face.
Then, swinging into his own saddle, he urged Blackleg after her, for she had not waited for him, riding down past the ranchhouse and out into the little stretch of plain that reached to the river.
They rode steadily, talking little, for Calumet deliberately kept a considerable distance between them, thus showing her that though courtesy had forced him to accompany her it could not demand that he should also become a mark at which she could direct conversation.
It was noon when they came in sight of the Diamond K ranch buildings. They were on a wide plain near the river and what grass there was was sun-scorched and rustled dryly under the tread of their horses' hoofs. Then Calumet added a word to the few that he had already spoken during the ride.
"I reckon Kelton must have been loco to try to raise cattle in a God-forsaken hole like this," he said with a sneer.
"That he was foolish enough to do so will result to our advantage," she replied.
"Meanin' what?"
"That we will be able to buy what cattle we want more cheaply than we would were Kelton's range what it should be," she returned, watching his face.
He looked at her vindictively. "You're one of them kind of humans that like to take advantage of a man's misfortune," he said.
"That is all in the viewpoint," she defended. "I didn't bring misfortune to Kelton. And I consider that in buying his cattle I am doing him a favor. I am not gloating over the opportunity—it is merely business."
"Why didn't you offer Kelton the Lazy Y range?" he said with a twisting grin.
She could not keep the triumph out of her voice. "I did," she answered. "He wouldn't take it because he didn't like you—doesn't like you. He told me that he knew you when you were a boy and you weren't exactly his style."
Thus eliminated as a conversationalist, and defeated in his effort to cast discredit upon her, Calumet maintained a sneering silence.
But when they rode up to the Diamond K ranchhouse, he flung a parting word at her.
"I reckon you can go an' talk cattle to your man, Kelton," he said. "I'm afraid that if he goes gassin' to me I'll smash his face in."
He rode back to the horse corral, which they had passed, to look again at a horse inside which had attracted his attention.
The animal was glossy black except for a little patch of white above the right fore-fetlock; he was tall, rangy, clean-limbed, high-spirited, and as Calumet sat in the saddle near the corral gate watching him he trotted impudently up to the bars and looked him over. Then, after a moment, satisfying his curiosity, he wheeled, slashed at the gate with both hoofs, and with a snort, that in the horse language might have meant contempt or derision, cavorted away.
Calumet's admiring glance followed him. He sat in the saddle for half an hour, eyeing the horse critically, and at the end of that time, noting that Betty had returned to the ranchhouse with Kelton, probably having looked at some of the stock she had come to see—Calumet had observed on his approach that the cattle corral was well filled with white Herefords—he wheeled Blackleg and rode over to them.
"Mr. Kelton has offered me four hundred head of cattle at a reasonable figure," Betty told him on his approach. "All that remains is for you to confirm it."
"I reckon you're the boss," said Calumet. He looked at Kelton, and evidently his fear that he would "smash" the tatter's face had vanished—perhaps in a desire to possess the black horse, which had seized him.
"I reckon you ain't sellin' that black horse?" he said.
"Cheap," said Kelton quickly.
"How cheap?"
"Fifty dollars."
"I reckon he's my horse," said Calumet. "The boss of the Lazy Y will pay for him when she hands you the coin for your cattle." He scrutinized Kelton's face closely, having caught a note in his voice which had interested him. "Why you wantin' to get rid of the black?" he questioned.
"He ain't been rode," said Kelton; "he won't be rode. You can back out of that sale now, if you like. But I'm tellin' you the gospel truth. There ain't no man in the Territory can ride him. Miskell, my regular bronc-buster, is the slickest man that ever forked a horse, an' he's layin' down in the bunkhouse right now, nursin' a leg which that black devil busted last week. An' men is worth more to me than horses right now. I reckon," he finished, eyeing Calumet with a certain vindictiveness, which had undoubtedly lasted over from his acquaintance with the latter in the old days; "that you ain't a heap smart at breakin' broncs, an' you won't want the black now."
"I'm reckonin' on ridin' him back to the Lazy Y," said Calumet.
Kelton grinned incredulously, and Betty looked swiftly at Calumet. For an instant she had half feared that this declaration had been made in a spirit of bravado, and she was prepared to be disagreeably disappointed in Calumet. She told herself when she saw his face, however, that she ought to have known better, for whatever his other shortcomings she had never heard him boast.
And that he was not boasting now was plainly evident, both to her and Kelton. His declaration had been merely a calm announcement of a deliberate purpose. He was as natural now as he had been all along. She saw Kelton's expression change—saw the incredulity go out of it, observed his face whiten a little.
But his former vindictiveness remained. "I reckon if you want to be a damn fool I ain't interferin'. But I've warned you, an' it's your funeral."
Calumet did not reply, contenting himself with grinning. He swung down from Blackleg, removed the saddle and bridle from the animal, and holding the latter by the forelock turned to Betty.
"I'd like you to ride Blackleg home. He's your horse now. Kelton will lend you a halter to lead that skate you're on. While he's gettin' the halter I'll put your saddle on Blackleg—if you'll get off."
Betty dismounted and the change was made. She had admired Blackleg—she was in love with him now that he belonged to her, but she was afflicted with a sudden speechlessness over the abruptness with which he had made the gift. She wanted to thank him, but she felt it was not time. Besides, he had not waited for her thanks. He had placed the halter on the horse she had ridden to the Diamond K, had looked on saturninely while Kelton had helped her into the saddle, and had then carried his own saddle to a point near the outside of the corral fence, laying the bridle beside it. Then he uncoiled the braided hair lariat that hung at the pommel of the saddle and walked to the corral gate.
With a little pulse of joy over her possession of the splendid animal under her, and an impulse of curiosity, she urged him to the corral fence and sat in the saddle, a little white of face, watching Calumet.
The black horse was alone in the corral and as Calumet entered and closed the gate behind him, not fastening it, the black came toward him with mincing steps, its ears laid back.
Calumet continued to approach him. The black backed away slowly until Calumet was within fifty feet of him—it seemed to Betty that the horse knew from previous experience the length of a rope—and then with a snort of defiance it wheeled and raced to the opposite end of the corral.
"Watch the gate!" called Calumet to Kelton.
He continued to approach the black. The beast retreated along the fence, stepping high, watching Calumet over its shoulder. Plainly, it divined Calumet's intention—which was to crowd it into a corner—and when almost there it halted suddenly, made a feint to pass to Calumet's left, wheeled just as suddenly and plunged back to his right.
The ruse did not work. Calumet had been holding his rope low, with seeming carelessness, but as the black whipped past he gave the rope a quick flirt. Like a sudden snake it darted sinuously out, the loop opened, rose, settled around the black's neck, tightened; the end in Calumet's hand was flipped in a half hitch around a snubbing post nearby, and the black tumbled headlong into the dust of the corral, striking with a force that brought a grunt from him.
For an instant he lay still. And in that instant Calumet was at his side. While advancing toward the black, he had taken off his neckerchief, and now he deftly knotted it around the black's head, covering its eyes. A moment later he was leading it, unprotesting, out of the corral gate.
He halted near the fence and looked at Betty, who was watching critically, though with a tenseness in her attitude that brought a fugitive smile to Calumet's lips.
"I reckon you'd better move a way an' give this here animal plenty of room," he said. "If he's as much horse as Kelton says he is he'll want a heap of it."
He waited until in obedience to his suggestion Betty had withdrawn to a safe distance toward the ranchhouse. Then with Kelton holding the black's head he placed the saddle on, then the bridle, working with a sure swiftness that brought an admiring glint into Betty's eyes. Then he deliberately coiled his rope and fastened it to the pommel of the saddle, taking extra care with it. This done he turned with a cold grin to Kelton, nodding his head shortly.
Kelton pulled the neckerchief from the black's eyes, let go of its head, and scurried to the top of the corral fence. Before he could reach it Calumet had vaulted into the saddle, and before the black could realize what had happened, his feet were in the stirrups.
For an instant the Black stood, its legs trembling, the muscles under its glossy coat quivering, its ears laid flat, its nostrils distended, its mouth open, its eyes wild and bloodshot. Then, tensed for movement, but uncertain, waiting a brief instant before yielding to the thousand impulses that flashed over him, he felt the rowels of Calumet's spurs as they were driven viciously into his sides.
He sprang wildly upward, screaming with the sudden pain, and came down, his legs asprawl, surprised, enraged, outraged. Alighting, he instantly lunged—forward, sideways, with an eccentric movement which he felt must dislodge the tormentor on his back. It was futile, attended with punishment, for again the sharp spurs sank in, were jammed into his sides, held there—rolling, biting points of steel that hurt him terribly.
He halted for a moment, to gather his wits and his strength, for his former experiences with this strange type of creature who clung so tenaciously to his back had taught him that he must use all his craft, all his strength, to dislodge him. To his relief, the spurs ceased to bite. But he was not misled. There was that moment near the corral fence when he had not moved, but still the spurs had sunk in anyway. He would make certain this time that the creature with the spurs would not have another opportunity to use them. And, gathering himself for a supreme effort, he lunged again, shunting himself off toward a stretch of plain back of the ranchhouse, bounding like a ball, his back arched, his head between his forelegs, coming down from each rise with his hoofs bunched so that they might have all landed in a dinner plate.
It was fruitless. Calumet remained unshaken, tenacious as ever. The black caught his breath again, and for the next five minutes practiced his whole category of tricks, and in addition some that he invented in the stress of the time.
To Betty, watching from her distance, it seemed that he must certainly unseat Calumet. She had watched bucking horses before, but never had her interest in the antics of one been so intense; never had she been so desperately eager for a rider's victory; never had she felt so breathlessly fearful of one's defeat. For, glancing from the corners of her eyes at Kelton, she saw a scornful, mocking smile on his face. He was wishing, hoping, that the black would throw Calumet.
At the risk of danger from the black's hoofs she urged Blackleg forward to a more advantageous position. As she brought him to a halt, she heard Kelton beside her.
"Some sunfisher, that black," he remarked.
She turned on him fiercely. "Keep still, can't you!" she said.
Kelton reddened; she did not see his face though, for she was watching Calumet and the black.
The outlaw had not ceased his efforts. On the contrary, it appeared that he was just beginning to warm to his work. Screaming with rage and hate he sprang forward at a dead run, propelling himself with the speed of a bullet for a hundred yards, only to come to a dizzying, terrifying stop; standing on his hind legs; pawing furiously at the air with his forehoofs; tearing impotently at the bit with his teeth, slashing with terrific force in the fury of his endeavor.
Calumet's hat had come off during the first series of bucks. The grin that had been on his face when he had got into the saddle back near the corral fence was gone, had been superseded by a grimness that Betty could see even from the distance from which she watched. He was a rider though, she saw that—had seen it from the first. She had seen many cowboy breakers of wild horses; she knew the confident bearing of them; the quickness with which they adjusted their muscles to the eccentric movements of the horse under them, anticipating their every action, so far as anyone was able to anticipate the actions of a rage-maddened demon who has only one desire, to kill or maim its rider, and she knew that Calumet was an expert. He was cool, first of all, in spite of his grimness; he kept his temper, he was absolutely without fear; he was implacable, inexorable in his determination to conquer. Somehow the battle between horse and man, as it raged up and down before her, sometimes shifting to the far end of the level, sometimes coming so near that she could see the expression of Calumet's face plainly, seemed to be a contest between kindred spirits. The analogy, perhaps, might not have been perceived by anyone less intimately acquainted with Calumet, or by anyone who understood a horse less, but she saw it, and knowing Calumet's innate savagery, his primal stubbornness, his passions, the naked soul of the man, she began to feel that the black was waging a hopeless struggle. He could never win unless some accident happened.
And they were very near her when it seemed that an accident did happen.
The black, his tongue now hanging out, the foam that issued from his mouth flecked with blood; his sides in a lather; his flanks moist and torn from the cruel spur-points: seemed to be losing his cunning and to be trusting entirely to his strength and yielding to his rage. She could hear his breath coming shrilly as he tore past her; the whites of his eyes white no longer, but red with the murder lust. It seemed to her that he must divine that defeat was imminent, and in a transport of despair he was determined to stake all on a last reckless move.
As he flashed past her she looked at Calumet also. His face was pale; there was a splotch of blood on his lips which told of an internal hemorrhage brought on by the terrific jarring that he had received, but in his eyes was an expression of unalterable resolve; the grim, cold, immutable calm of purpose. Oh, he would win, she knew. Nothing but death could defeat him. That was his nature—his character. There was no alternative. He saw none, would admit none. He found time, as he went past her, to grin at her, and the grin, though a trifle wan, contained much of its old mockery and contempt of her judgment of him.
The black raced on for a hundred yards, and what ensued might have been an accident, or it might have been the deliberate result of the black's latest trick. He came to a sudden stop, rose on his hind legs and threw himself backward, toppling, rigid, upon his back to the ground.
As he rose for the fall Calumet slipped out of the saddle and leaped sideways to escape being crushed. He succeeded in this effort, but as he leaped the spur on his right heel caught in the hollow of the black's hip near the flank, the foot refused to come free, it caught, jammed, and Calumet fell heavily beside the horse, luckily a little to one side, so that the black lay prone beside him.
Betty's scream was sharp and shrill. But no one heard it—at least Kelton seemed not to hear, for he was watching Calumet, his eyes wide, his face white; nor did Calumet seem to hear, for he was sitting on the ground, trying to work his foot out of the stirrup. Twice, as he worked with the foot, Betty saw the black strike at him with its hoofs, and once a hoof missed his head by the narrowest of margins.
But the foot was free at last, and Calumet rose. He still held the reins in his hands, and now, as he got to his feet, he jerked out the quirt that he wore at his waist and lashed the black, vigorously, savagely.
The beast rose, snorting with rage and pain, still unsubdued. His hind legs had not yet straightened when Calumet was again in the saddle. The black screamed, with a voice almost human in its shrillness, and leaped despairingly forward, shaking its head from side to side as Calumet drove the spurs deep into its sides. It ran another hundred yards, half-heartedly, the spring gone out of its stride; then wheeled and came back, bucking doggedly, clumsily, to a point within fifty feet of where Betty sat on Blackleg. Then, as it bucked again, it came down with its forelegs unjointed, and rolled over on its side, with Calumet's right leg beneath it.
The black was tired and lay with its neck outstretched on the ground, breathing heavily, its sides heaving. Calumet also, was not averse to a rest and had straightened and lay, an arm under his head, waiting.
Betty smiled, for though he appeared to be in a position which might result in a crushed leg or foot, she knew that he was in no danger, because the heavy ox-bow stirrup afforded protection for his foot, while the wide seat of the saddle kept the upper part of his leg from injury. She had seen the cowboys roll under their horses in this manner many times, deliberately—it saved them the strenuous work of alighting and remounting. They had done it, too, for the opportunity it afforded them to rest and to hurl impolite verbiage at their horses.
But Calumet was silent. She rode a little closer to him, to look at him, and when his eyes met hers; she saw that his spirit was in no way touched; that his job of subduing the black was not yet finished and that he purposed to finish it.
"We're goin' in a minute," he said to her, his voice a little husky. "I'd thank you to bring my hat. I don't reckon you'll be able to keep up with us, but I reckon you'll excuse me for runnin' away from you."
He had scarcely finished speaking before the black struggled to rise. Calumet helped him by keeping a loose rein and lifting his own body. And when the black swung over and got to its feet, Calumet settled firmly into the saddle and instantly jammed his spurs home into its flanks. The black reared, snorted, came down and began to run desperately across the level, desiring nothing so much now as to do the bidding of the will which he had discovered to be superior to his own.
Betty watched in silence as horse and rider went over the level, traveling in a dust cloud, and when they began to fade she turned to Kelton. The latter was crestfallen, glum.
"Shucks," he said; "if I'd have thought he'd break the black devil he wouldn't have got him for twice fifty dollars. He's sure a slick, don't-give-a-damn buster."
Betty smiled mysteriously and went to look for Calumet's hat. Then, riding Blackleg and leading the other horse, she went toward the Lazy Y.
It was dusk when she arrived, to be greeted by Dade and Bob. She saw the black horse in the corral and she knew that Calumet had won the victory, for the black's head dropped dejectedly and she had never seen an animal that seemed less spirited. It did not surprise her to find that Calumet looked tired, and when she came down stairs from changing her dress and got supper for them all, she did not mention the incident of the breaking of the black. Nor would he talk, though she was intensely curious as to the motive which had prompted him to make her a present of Blackleg. Was it an indication that he was feeling more friendly to her, or had he merely grown tired of Blackleg?
The answer came to her late that night, after Calumet had retired. Betty and Dade were in the kitchen; Malcolm and Bob were in the sitting-room. Betty had taken Dade into her confidence and had related to him the happenings of the day—so far as she could without acquainting him with the state of her feelings toward Calumet.
"So he can ride some?" commented Dade, after she had told him about the black. "I reckon he'd bust that horse or break his neck. But he was in bad shape when he rode in—almost fell out of the saddle, an' staggered scandalous when he walked. All in. Didn't make a whimper, though. Clear grit. He grinned at me when he turned the black into the corral.
"'Does that cayuse look busted?' he said.
"I allowed he had that appearance, an' he laughed.
"'I've give Betty Blackleg,' he said. 'I've got tired of him.'"
Betty's disappointment showed in her eyes; she had suspected that Calumet had had another reason. She had hoped—
"I reckon, though, that that wasn't his real reason," continued Dade; "he wasn't showin' all of his hand there."
"What makes you think that?" asked Betty, trying not to blush.
"Well," said Dade, "I was walkin' round the stable a while ago, just nosin' around without any purpose, an' walkin' slow. When I got to the corner, not makin' any noise, I saw Calumet standin' in front of the stable door, talkin'. There was nobody around him—nothin' but Blackleg, an' so I reckon he was talkin' to Blackleg. Sure enough he was. He puts his head up against Blackleg's head, an' he said, soft an' low, kinda:
"'Blackleg,' he said; 'I've give you away. I hated like poison to do it, but I reckon Betty'll look a heap better on you than she does on that skate she rode today. Damn that black devil!' he said, 'I wouldn't have took the job of breakin' him for any other woman in the world.'
"I come away then," concluded Dade; "for somehow I didn't want him to know there was anybody around to hear him."
Betty got up quickly and went out on the porch. She stood there, looking out into the darkness for a long, long time, and presently Dade grew tired of waiting for her and went to his room.