CHAPTER II
BETTY MEETS THE HEIR
An emotion which he did not trouble himself to define impelled Calumetto wheel his pony when he reached the far end of the corral fence andride into the cottonwood where, thirteen years before, he had seen thelast of his mother. No emotion moved him as he rode toward it, butwhen he came upon the grave he experienced a savage satisfactionbecause it had been sadly neglected. There was no headboard to markthe spot, no familiar mound of earth; only a sunken stretch, a pitifullittle patch of sand, with a few weeds thrusting up out of it, noddingto the slight breeze and casting grotesque shadows in the sombertwilight.
Calumet was not surprised. It was all as he had pictured it duringthose brief moments when he had allowed his mind to dwell on his past;its condition vindicated his previous conviction that his father wouldneglect it. Therefore, his satisfaction was not in finding the graveas it was, but in the knowledge that he had not misjudged his father.And though he had not loved his mother, the condition of the graveserved to infuse him with a newer and more bitter hatred for thesurviving parent. A deep rage and contempt slumbered within him as heurged his pony out of the wood toward the ranchhouse.
He was still in no hurry, and soon after leaving the edge of the woodhe halted his pony and sat loosely in the saddle, gazing about him.When he observed that he might be seen from the ranchhouse he moveddeep into the cottonwood and there, screened behind some nondescriptbrush, continued his examination.
The place was in a state of dilapidation, of approaching ruin.Desolation had set a heavy hand over it all. The buildings no moreresembled those he had known than daylight resembles darkness. Thestable, wherein he had received his last thrashing from his father, hadsagged to one side, its roof seeming to bow to him in derision; thecorral fence was down in several places, its rails in a state of decay,and within, two gaunt ponies drooped, seeming to lack the energynecessary to move them to take advantage of the opportunity for freedomso close at hand. They appeared to watch Calumet incuriously,apathetically.
Calumet felt strangely jubilant. A vindictive satisfaction and delightforced the blood through his veins a little faster, for, judging fromthe appearance of the buildings, misfortune must have descended uponhis father. The thought brought a great peace to his soul; he evensmiled when he saw that the bunkhouse, which had sheltered the manycowboys whom he had hated, seemed ready to topple to destruction. Thesmile grew when his gaze went to the windmill, to see its long armsmotionless in the breeze, indicating its uselessness.
When he had concluded his examination he did not ride boldly toward theranchhouse, but made a wide circuit through the wood, for he wanted tocome upon his father in his own way and in his own time; wanted tosurprise him. There was no use of turning his pony into the corral,for the animal had more life in him than the two forlorn beasts thatwere already there and would not stay in the corral when a breach inthe fence offered freedom. Therefore, when Calumet reached the edge ofthe wood near the front of the house he dismounted and tied his pony toa tree.
A moment later he stood at the front door, filled with satisfaction tofind it unbarred. Swinging it slowly open he entered, silently closingit behind him. He stood, a hand on the fastenings, gazing about him.He was in the room which his father had always used as an office. Ashe peered about in the gray dusk that had fallen, distinguishingfamiliar articles of furniture--a roll-top desk, several chairs, asofa, some cheap prints on the wall--a nameless emotion smote him andhis face paled a little, his jaws locked, his hands clenched. Foragain the army of memories was passing in review.
For a long time he stood at the door. Then he left it and walked tothe desk, placing a hand on its top and hesitating. Doubtless hisfather was in another part of the house, possibly eating supper. Hedecided not to bother him at this moment and seated himself in a chairbefore the desk. There was plenty of time. His father would be asdisagreeably surprised to meet him five minutes from now as he wouldwere he to stalk into his presence at this moment.
Once in the chair, Calumet realized that he was tired, and he leanedback luxuriously, stretching his legs. The five minutes to which hehad limited himself grew to ten and he still sat motionless, lookingout of the window at the deepening dusk. The shadows in the wood nearthe house grew darker, and to Calumet's ears came the long-drawn,plaintive whine of a coyote, the croaking of frogs from the river, thehoot of an owl nearby. Other noises of the night reached him, but hedid not hear them, for he had become lost in meditation.
What a home-coming!
Bitterness settled into the marrow of his bones. Here was ruin,desolation, darkness, for the returning prodigal. These were thethings his father had given him. A murderous rage seized him, a lustto rend and destroy, and he sat erect in his chair, his muscles tensed,his blood rioting, his brain reeling. Had his father appeared beforehim at this minute it would have gone hard with him. He fought down animpulse to go in search of him and presently the mood passed, hismuscles relaxed, and he stretched out again in the chair.
Producing tobacco and paper he rolled a cigarette, noting with asatisfied smile the steadiness of his hand. Once he had overheard aman telling another man that Calumet Marston had no nerves. He knewthat; had known it. He knew also that this faculty of control made hispassions more dangerous. But he reveled in his passions, thepossession of them filled him with an ironic satisfaction--they werehis heritage.
While he sat in the chair the blackness of the night enveloped him. Heheard no sound from the other part of the house and he finally decidedto find and confront his father. He stood erect, lit the cigarette andthrew the match from him, accidentally striking his hand against theback of the chair on which he had been sitting. Yielding to a sudden,vicious anger, he kicked the chair out of the way, so that it slidalong the rough floor a little distance and overturned with a crash.Calumet cursed. He was minded to take the chair up and hurl it downagain, so vengeful was the temper he was in, but his second sober senseurged upon him the futility of attacking inanimate things and hecontented himself with snarling at it. He stood silent for a moment, ahope in his heart that his father, alarmed over the sudden commotion,would come to investigate, and a wave of sardonic satisfaction sweptover him when he finally heard a faint sound--a footstep in thedistance.
His father had heard and was coming!
Calumet stood near the center of the room, undecided whether to makehis presence known at once or to secrete himself and allow his fatherto search for him. He finally decided to stand where he was and lethis father come upon him there, and he stood erect, puffing rapidly atthe cigarette, which glowed like a firefly in the darkness.
The steps came nearer and Calumet heard a slight creak--the sound madeby the dining-room door as it swung slowly open. A faint light filledthe opening thus made in the doorway, and Calumet knew that his fatherhad come without a light--that the faint glow came from a distance,possibly from the kitchen, just beyond the dining-room. The lightedspace in the doorway grew wider until it extended to the full width ofthe doorway. And a man stood in it, rigid, erect, motionless.
Calumet stood in silent appreciation of the oddness of thesituation--he had come like a thief in the night--until he rememberedthe cigarette in his mouth; that its light was betraying his position.He reached up, withdrew the cigarette, and held it concealed in thepalm of his hand.
But he was the fraction of a second too late. His father had seen thelight; was aware of his presence. Calumet saw a pistol glitter in hishand, heard his voice, a little hoarse, possibly from fear, give thefaltering command:
"Hands up!"
Until now, Calumet had been filled with a savage enjoyment of thepossibilities. He had counted on making his presence known at thisjuncture, anticipating much pleasure in the revelation of his father'ssurprise when he should discover that the intruder was his hated son.But in his eagerness to conceal the fire from the cigarette he burnedthe palm of the hand holding it. Instantly he succumbed to a furiousrage. With
a snarl he flung himself forward, grasping the man's pistolwith his left hand and depressing the muzzle, at just the instant thatit was discharged.
Calumet felt the sting of the powder in his face, and in a fury ofresentment he brought his right hand up and clutched his father'sthroat. He had taken much pride in his ability to control hispassions, but at this moment they were unleashed. When his fathershowed resistence, Calumet swung him free of the door, dragged him tothe center of the room, where he threw him heavily to the floor,falling on top of him and jamming a knee savagely into the pit of hisstomach. Perhaps he had desisted then had not the man struggled andfought back. His resistence made Calumet more furious. He pulled onehand free and attempted to secure the pistol, forcing the hand holdingit viciously against the floor. The weapon was again discharged andCalumet became a raging demon. Twice he lifted the man's head andknocked it furiously against the floor, and each time he spoke, hisvoice a hoarse, throaty whisper:
"So, this is the way you greet your son, you damned maverick!" he said.
So engrossed was Calumet with his work of subduing the still strugglingparent that he did not hear a slight sound behind him. But aflickering light came over his shoulder and shone fairly into the faceof the man beneath him, and he saw that the man was not his father butan entire stranger!
He was not given time in which to express his surprise, for he heard avoice behind him and turned to see a young woman standing in thedoorway, a candle in one hand, a forty-five Colt clutched in the other,its muzzle gaping at him. The young woman's face was white, her eyeswide and brilliant, she swayed, but there was determination in hermanner that could not be mistaken.
"Get up, or I will shoot you like a dog!" she said, in a queer,breathless voice.
"Get up, or I will shoot you like a dog!" she said.]
Releasing his grip on the man's throat, Calumet swung around sidewaysand glared malevolently at the young woman. His anger was gone; therewas no reason for it, now that he had discovered that the man was nothis father. But the demon in him was not yet subdued, and he got tohis feet, not because the young woman had ordered him to do so, butbecause he saw no reason to stay down. A cold, mocking smile replacedthe malevolence on his face when, after reaching an erect position, hesaw that the weapon in the young woman's hand had drooped until itsmuzzle was directed toward the floor at his feet. A forty-five caliberrevolver, loaded, weighs about forty ounces, and this one looked sounwieldy and cumbersome, so entirely harmless in the young woman'sslender hand, that her threat seemed absurd, even farcical. Anironical humor over the picture she made standing there moved Calumet.
"I reckon you ought to use two hands if you want to hold that gunproper, ma'am," he said.
The muzzle of the weapon wavered uncertainly; the young woman gasped.Apparently the lack of fear exhibited by the intruder shocked her. Butshe did not follow Calumet's suggestion, she merely stood and watchedhim warily, as the man whom he had attacked struggled dizzily to hisfeet, staggered weakly to a chair and half fell, half slipped into it,swaying oddly back and forth, gasping for breath, a grotesque figure.
The demon in Calumet slumbered--this situation was to his liking. Hestepped back a pace, and when the young woman saw that he meditated nofurther mischief she lowered the pistol to her side. Then, movingcautiously, watching Calumet closely, she placed the candle on thefloor in front of her. Again she stood erect, though she did not raisethe pistol. Evidently she was regaining her composure, though Calumetobserved that her free hand came up and grasped the dress over herbosom so tightly that the fabric was in danger of ripping. Her face,in the flickering light from the candle on the floor, was slightly inin the shadow, but Calumet could see that the color was coming back toher cheeks, and he took note of her, watching her with insolentintentness.
Of the expression in Calumet's eyes she apparently took no notice, butshe was watching the man he had attacked, plainly concerned over hiscondition. And when at last she saw that he was suffering more fromshock than from real injury she breathed a sigh of relief. Then sheturned to Calumet.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded. She was breathing moreeasily, but her voice still quivered, and the hand over her bosom movedwith a quick, nervous motion.
"I reckon that's my business," returned Calumet. He had made amistake, certainly, he knew that. It was apparent that his father hadleft the Lazy Y. At least, if he were anywhere about he was not ableto come to investigate the commotion caused by the arrival of his son.Either he was sick or had disposed of the ranch, possibly, if thelatter were the case, to the girl and the man. In the event of hisfather having sold the ranch it was plain that Calumet had no businesshere. He was an intruder--more, his attack on the man must convinceboth him and the girl that there had been a deeper significance to hisvisit. However, the explanation of the presence of the presentoccupants of the house did not bother Calumet, and he did not intend toset them right, for he was enjoying himself. Strife, danger, werehere. Moreover, he had brought them, and he was in his element. Hisblood pulsed swiftly through his veins and he felt a strangeexhilaration as he stepped slightly aside and rested a hand on the desktop, leering at the girl.
She returned his gaze and evidently divined something of what was inhis mind, for her chin lifted a little in defiance. The flickeringlight from the candle fell on her hair, brown and wavy, and in a tumbleof graceful disorder, and threw into bold relief the firm lines of herchin and throat. She was not beautiful, but she certainly merited theterm "pretty," which formed on Calumet's lips as he gazed at her,though it remained unspoken. He gave her this tribute grudgingly,conscious of the deep impression she was making upon him. He had neverseen a woman like her--for the reason, perhaps, that he had studiouslyavoided the good ones. Mere facial beauty would not have made thisimpression on him--it was something deeper, something more substantialand abiding. And, watching her, he suddenly knew what it was. Therewas in her eyes, back of the defiance that was in them now, anexpression that told of sturdy honesty and virtue. These gave to herfeatures a repose and calm that could not be disturbed, an unconsciousdignity of character that excitement could not efface, and her gaze wasunwavering as her eyes met his in a sharp, brief struggle. Brief, forCalumet's drooped. He felt the dominant personality of the girl andtried to escape its effect; looked at her with a snarl, writhing underher steady gaze, a slow red coming into his cheeks.
The silence between them lasted long. The man on the chair, swayingback and forth, began to recover his wits and his breath. He struggledto an erect position and gazed about him with blood-shot eyes, feelinghis throat where Calumet's iron fingers had gripped it. Twice his lipsmoved in an effort to speak, but no, sound came from between them.
Under the girl's uncomfortable scrutiny, Calumet's thoughts becamestrangely incoherent, and he shifted uneasily, for he felt that she wasmeasuring him, appraising him, valuing him. He saw slow-changingexpressions in her eyes--defiance, scorn, and, finally, amusedcontempt. With the last expression he knew she had reached a decision,not flattering to him. He tried to show her by looking at her that hedid not care what her opinion was, but his recreant eyes refused theissue and he knew that he was being worsted in a spiritual battle withthe first strong feminine character he had met; that her personalitywas overpowering his in the first clash. With a last effort he forcedhis eyes to steadiness and succeeded in sneering at her, though he feltthat somehow the sneer was ineffectual, puerile. And then she smiledat him, deliberately, with a disdain that maddened him and brought adark flush to his face that reached to his temples. And then her voicetaunted him:
"What a big, brave man you are?"
Twice her gaze roved over him from head to foot before her voice cameagain, and in the total stoppage of his thoughts he found it impossibleto choose a word suitable to interrupt her.
"For you _think_ you are a man, I suppose?" she added, her voice filledwith a lashing scorn. "You wear a gun, you ride a horse, and you_look_ like a man. But there th
e likeness ends. I suppose I ought tokill you--a beast like you has no business living. Fortunately, youhaven't hurt grandpa very much. You may go now--go and tell TomTaggart that he will have to try again!"
The sound of her voice broke the spell which her eyes had woven aboutCalumet's senses, and he stood erect, hooking his thumbs in hiscartridge belt, unaffected by her tirade, his voice insolent.
"Why, ma'am," he said, mockingly, his voice an irritating drawl, "youcert'nly are some on the talk, for sure! Your folks sorta handed youthe tongue for the family when you butted into this here world, didn'tthey? An' so that's your grandpa? I come pretty near hurtin' him an'you're some het up over it? But I reckon that if he has to set aroundan' listen to your palaver he'd be right glad to cash in. Shucks. Ibeg your pardon, ma'am. If it'll do you any good to know, I thoughtyour poor grandpap was some one else. I was thinkin' it was a familyaffair, an' that I had a right to guzzle him. You see, I thought theol' maverick was my father."
The girl started, the color slowly faded from her cheeks and she drew along, tremulous breath.
"Then you," she said; "you are----" She hesitated and stared at himintensely, her free hand tightly clenched.
He bowed, derisively, discerning the sudden confusion that hadovertaken her and making the most of his opportunity to increase it.
"I'm Calumet Marston," he said, grinning.
The girl gasped. "Oh!" she said, weakly; "Oh!"
The huge pistol slipped out of her hand and thudded dully to the floorand she stood, holding tightly to the door jambs, her eyes fixed onCalumet with an expression that he could not analyze.
The Boss of the Lazy Y Page 2