"I believe that margin was left purposely to take care of a possible advance in prices over those with which your father was familiar at the time he made out the list," she answered, smiling in appreciation of his perturbation.
"That's keepin' cases pretty close, ain't it?" he said. "Suppose I'd blow the whole business?"
"That would show that you could not be trusted. Your father left instructions which provide for that contingency."
"What are they?"
"I am not to tell."
"Clever, ain't it?" he said, looking at her with displeased, hostile eyes. She met his gaze with a calm half-smile which had in it that irritating quality of advantage that he had noticed before.
"I am glad you think it clever," she returned.
"It was your idea, I reckon?"
"I believe I did suggest it to your father. He was somewhat at a loss to know how to deal with you. He told me that he had some doubts about the scheme working; he said you would take it and 'blow' it in, as you said you might, but I disagreed with him. I was convinced that you would do the right thing."
"You had a lot of faith in me, didn't you?" he said, incredulously. "You believed in a man you'd never seen."
"Your father had a picture of you," she said, looking straight at him. "It was taken when you were fifteen, just before you left the ranch. It showed a boy with a cynical face and brooding, challenging eyes. But in spite of all that I thought I detected signs of promise in the face. I was certain that if you were managed right you could be reformed."
"You were certain," he said significantly. "What do you think now?"
"I haven't altered my opinion." Her gaze was steady and challenging. "Of course," she added, blushing faintly; "I believe I was a little surprised when you came and I saw that you had grown to be a man. You see, I had looked at your picture so often that I rather expected to see a boy when you came. I had forgotten those thirteen years. But it has been said that a man is merely a grown-up boy and there is much truth in that. Despite your gruff ways, your big voice, and your contemptible way of treating people, you are very much a boy. But I am still convinced that you are all right at heart. I think everybody is, and the good could be brought forward if someone would take enough interest in the subject."
"Then you take an interest in me?" said Calumet, grinning scornfully.
"Yes," she said frankly; "to the extent of wondering whether or not time will vindicate my judgment."
"Then you think I won't blow this coin?" he said, tapping the bills.
"I think you will spend it for the articles on the list I have given you."
He looked at her and she was certain there was indecision in the glance.
"Well," he said abruptly, turning from her; "mebbe I will an' mebbe I won't. But whatever I do with it will be done to suit myself. It won't be done to please you."
He mounted his pony and rode to the far end of the ranchhouse yard. When he turned in the saddle it was with the conviction that Betty would be standing there watching him. Somehow, he wished she would. But she was walking toward the ranchhouse, her back to him, and he made a grimace of disappointment as he urged his pony out into the valley.
CHAPTER X
NEW ACQUAINTANCES
Calumet had been in no hurry, though maintaining its steady chop-trot for most of the distance, Blackleg had set him down in Lazette in a little over two hours.
Something had happened to Calumet. He had carefully considered the phenomenon all the way over from the Lazy Y; he considered it now as he sat sideways in the saddle before the rough board front of the Red Dog Saloon. Betty had faith in him. That was the phenomenon—the unheard of miracle. No one else had ever had faith in him, and so it was a new experience and one that must be thoroughly pondered if he was to enjoy it. And that he was enjoying it was apparent. Though he faced the Red Dog Saloon he did not see it. He kept seeing Betty as she looked after she had given him the money. "I know you will do the right thing," she had said, or something very like that. It made no difference what her words had been. What she meant was that she had faith in him. And her eyes had said that she expected him to justify that faith.
But would he? He didn't know. For the first time in his life he was afflicted with indecision over the possession of money. In the old days—the Durango days—which now seemed to be far behind him, the thousand dollars in his pocket would have served to finance a brief holiday of license and drinking and reckless play with gambling devices. But now it was different—something within him had called—or was calling—a halt. He told himself that it was because he had a curiosity to follow this strange, freakish plan of Betty's to the end.
Some other emotion was calling just as strongly for him to do with the money as he had always done with money. And so indecision afflicted him. Humor likewise. He rarely felt in this mood. Not for years had he felt like laughing. Was he the Calumet Marston who, a week before, had set out on his homeward journey filled with bitterness—looking for trouble? Had he been at the Lazy Y a day or a year? It was a day—two days—but it seemed more like the longer time. At least the time had wrought a change in him. It was ludicrous, farcical. In spite of his treatment of Betty she had faith in him! Wasn't that just like a woman? There was nothing logical in her. She had taken him on trust. The whole business was in the nature of a comedy and suddenly yielding to his feelings he straightened in the saddle and laughed uproariously.
He did not laugh long, and when he sobered down and with an effort brought his mind back to the present, he became aware of the Red Dog, saw a young cowpuncher seated on the board sidewalk in front of the building, his back resting against it, laughing in sympathy with him.
Calumet was disconcerted for a moment. His eyes narrowed truculently. But then, as the oddness of the situation struck him he laughed again. But this time as he laughed he took stock of the young cowpuncher, who was again laughing with him.
The puncher was young—very young; not more than twenty-one or two. There was a week's growth of beard on his face. A saddle reposed by his side. In spite of his laughter something about him spoke eloquently of trouble. Calumet felt a sudden interest in him. Any man who could laugh when the world was not doing well with him must be made of good stuff. But Calumet's interest was cynical and it brought a sneer to his lips as he ceased laughing and sat loosely in the saddle regarding the puncher.
"I reckon you ain't got no objections to tellin' me what you're laughin' at?" he said coldly.
"Mebbe you'd put me wise to the same thing," said the other. "I'm settin' here, puttin' in a heap of my time tryin' to figger out who got the most of the six months' wages which I had with me when I struck town yesterday—an' not makin' a hell of a lot of progress—when you mosey up here an' begin to laugh your fool head off. At nothin', so far's I can see. Well, that's what I was laughin' at. Ketch my drift?"
"Meanin' that I'm nothin', I reckon?"
"Meanin' that you was laughin' at it," said the puncher with a deprecatory smile. "I ain't lookin' for trouble—I'm it!"
Calumet's eyes twinkled. This was a very discerning young man. "Cleaned out, I reckon," he said. "You look old enough to sabe that playin' with a buzz saw is mild amusement compared with buckin' a gambler's game."
"Got singed yourself, I reckon," said the puncher wearily. "You know the signs. Well, you've hit it. They'd have got my saddle, too, only—only they didn't seem to want it. There's still charity in the world, after all—some guys don't want everything. So I'm considerin' the saddle a gift. It's likely, though, that they thought that if they left me the saddle I'd go right out an' rustle me another job an' earn some more coin an' come back an' hand that over, too. But they've got me wrong. Your little Dade Hallowell has swore off. He ain't never goin' to get the idea again that he's a simon-pure, dyed-in-the-wool card sharp."
"Another job? Then you're disconnected at present?"
"I'm free as the water. Ugh!" he shivered. "I couldn't even wash my face in it this mornin'. Water's a we
ak sister after last night." His expression changed. "I reckon you're in clover, though. Any man which can laugh to hisself as you was laughin', certainly ain't botherin' his head about much."
This quick turn of the conversation brought Calumet's thoughts back to Betty. "Looks is deceivin'," he said. "I've got a heap of burden on my mind. I've got a thousand dollars which is botherin' me considerable."
The puncher sat erect, his eyes bulging.
"You've got a thousand!" he said "Oh, Lordy! An' you're botherin' about it?"
"It ain't none of your business, of course," said Calumet. "An' I reckon I'm tellin' you about it so's you'll feel mean about losin' your own. But mebbe not. Mebbe I'm tellin' you about it because I've got somethin' else in mind. When I first seen you I was filled clear to the top with doubt. If you had my thousand what would you do with it?"
"Meanin' that if I had your thousand an' was in your place?"
"I reckon."
"That would depend," said the puncher, cautiously. "If I'd robbed a man, or held up a stage coach, or busted a bank, I'd be burnin' the breeze out of the country. But if I'd earned it honest I'd blow myself proper, beginnin' by settin' 'em up to a fool guy which had give all his coin to some card sharps yesterday."
"None of them things fill the bill," said Calumet. "This thousand was give to me by a woman. I'm to buy things with it—horses, wagon, lumber, hardware, an' such truck."
"Shucks," said the puncher, disappointedly. Over his face settled a glum expression. "Then you ain't got no right to spend it—for anything but what she told you about. You'd be worse'n a thief to squander that money."
Calumet looked keenly at him. "I reckon you're more'n half right. You've settled a thing in my mind. If you're hangin' around here when I get through buyin' them things I'll be settin' them up to you. If I've got anything left." He abruptly broke off and urged his pony about, leaving the puncher to look after him speculatively.
Two hours later he returned, driving two horses which were hitched to a wagon of the "prairie-schooner" variety. The wagon was loaded with lumber and sundry kegs, boxes and packages. Calumet's pony trailed it.
The puncher was still where Calumet had left him—apparently he had not moved. But when he saw Calumet halt the horses in front of him and jump out of the wagon he got to his feet. He met Calumet's gaze with a sober, interested smile.
"That wagon of yours is speakin' mighty loud of work," he said. "Back in Texas I used to be counted uncommon clever with a saw an' hammer. If you can rassle them two statements around to look them in the face you can see what I'm drivin' at."
"What do you think you are worth to a man who ain't got no authority to do any hirin'?" said Calumet.
"Ain't you the boss?" said Dade, disappointedly.
"The boss is a woman. If you're wantin' to work you can come along. You'll have to take your chance. Otherwise—"
"I'll go you," said the puncher. He threw his saddle into the wagon. "You said somethin' about a drink," he added, "if you had anything left. I'm hopin'—"
Calumet hesitated.
"Just one," said Dade. "Mebbe two. Not more than three—or four. If your ranch is far—"
"Twenty miles."
"About two, then," suggested Dade. "You wouldn't feel satisfied to know that it was here an' you left it."
"Well, then, get a move on you," growled Calumet. He followed Dade into the Red Dog.
It was quiet in the barroom. Three men sat at a table near the center of the room, laughing and talking. They looked up with casual interest as Dade and Calumet entered, favored them with quick, appraising glances, and then resumed their talk and laughter. Behind the bar the proprietor waited, indolently watching.
"I'll take red-eye," said Dade; "the same that made me think I was a sure enough gambler last night. Did you ever notice," he added, turning to Calumet, who was filling his glass, "what a heap of confidence whisky will give a man? Take me, last night. Things was lookin' rosy. Them gamblers looked like plumb easy pickin'. The more whisky I drank the easier they looked, until—"
"Have another drink," invited the proprietor, for it was at one of his tables that Dade had played. His smile was bland and his manner suave and smooth. He shoved a bottle toward Dade. At the same time he looked with interest upon Calumet.
"Stranger here, I reckon?" he said. "I seen you loadin' a heap of stuff into your wagon. What's your ranch?"
"The Lazy Y."
The proprietor started and peered closer at Calumet. "That's old Marston's place, ain't it?" To Calumet's slow nod, he continued: "Betty Clayton's runnin' it now. They say old Marston was the meanest old coyote that ever—"
Calumet's gaze was level and direct, and the proprietor shrank under its cold malignance. Calumet leaned forward. "You're talkin' to the old coyote's son right now," he said. "An' you can speak right out loud in meetin' an' say that you was gassin' through your hat!"
The proprietor paled, then reddened. "I'm beggin' your pardon," he said. "I reckon—you see—there's been talk—"
"Sure," said Calumet. He smiled. It was the smile of reluctant tolerance. "Just talk," he added. "But it won't be healthy talk—hereafter."
"Have another drink," invited the proprietor, and he pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped the sudden perspiration from his forehead. Then he retreated to the far end of the bar, from whence he tried to appear unconcerned.
Dade finished his drink and set the glass down. But he was visibly excited.
"Betty Clayton," he said, looking sharply at Calumet. "Has she got a granddad named Malcolm Clayton, an' a brother Bob?"
"That's her." Calumet returned Dade's sharp glance. "What's eatin' you? Know her? Know Bob? Know Malcolm?"
"Know them!" said Dade. "Why, man, they was neighbors of mine in Texas!"
Calumet's eyes narrowed. A pulse of some strong emotion was revealed in his face, but it was instantly subdued. "That's joyful news—for you. So you know her? It's likely she'll be glad to see you."
Dade was mystified by his tone. "I reckon I ain't gettin' this thing just right," he said. "You told me Betty was runnin' the ranch, an' you tell this man that you're the son of the man that owns it. I don't see—"
Calumet smiled saturninely. "Take another drink," he advised. He shoved the bottle toward Dade. "This is your fourth. Then we'll be hittin' the breeze to the Lazy Y. Betty'll be lonesome without me." He laughed raucously, filled his glass and drank its contents. Then he turned from the bar and walked toward the door. Half way to it, Dade following him, he halted, for the voice of a man who sat at a table reached him.
"Aw, Taggart," it said loudly, "you're crowdin' the ante a little, ain't you?" The speaker laughed. "They tell me that Betty Clayton ain't no man's fool. An' here you say—" The rest of it was drowned in a laugh that followed, the other two men joining the speaker.
"Stuck on me, I tell you!" said another voice, and Calumet, half turned toward the table, saw the speaker's face. It was the face of an egotist—the vain, sensuous visage of a man in whom the animal instincts predominated—the face of the rider that Calumet had seen on the hill in the valley on the day of his return—the face of the man who had shot at him. The man was good-looking in a coarse, vulgar way, and dissipated, gross, self-sufficient. Calumet's eyes narrowed with dislike as he looked at him. There was interest in his glance, too, for this was his father's enemy—his enemy. But after the first look his face became inscrutable. He turned to see Dade standing beside him. Dade was rigid, pale; his body was in a half-crouch and there was an expression of cold malignance on his face. Quickly Calumet placed both hands on the young man's shoulders and shoved him back against the bar, thrusting his own body between him and Taggart.
"Easy there," he warned in a whisper. "He's my meat."
Dade caught the mirthless smile on his lips and looked at him curiously, his attitude still belligerent.
"He's talkin' about Betty, the damned skunk!" he objected. His voice was a low, throaty whisper and it did not carry to
the table where the three men sat.
"He was sure talkin' about her," said Calumet inexpressively. "An' I'll admit that any man who talks that way about a woman is what you've called him. But it's my funeral," he added, his voice suddenly cold and hard, "an' you ain't buttin' in, whatever happens. Buy yourself another drink," he suggested; "you look flustered. I'm havin' a talk with Taggart."
He left Dade standing at the bar looking at him wonderingly, and made his way slowly to the table where Taggart sat. Taggart was drinking when Calumet reached his side, and Dade stood tense, awaiting the expected clash.
But none came. Calumet's grin as he nodded to Taggart was almost friendly, and his voice was soft, even—almost gentle.
"I heard one of these man call you Taggart," he said. "I reckon you're from the Arrow?"
Taggart leaned back in his chair and insolently surveyed his questioner. What he saw in Calumet's face made his own pale a little.
"I'm Taggart," he said shortly—"Neal Taggart. What you wantin' of me?"
Calumet smiled. "Nothin' much," he said. "I thought mebbe you'd like to know me. We're neighbors, you know. I'm Marston—Calumet Marston, of the Lazy Y."
The color receded entirely from Taggart's face, leaving it with a queer pallor. He abruptly shoved back his chair and stood, his eyes alert and fearful as his right hand stole slowly toward the butt of the pistol at his hip. Calumet's right hand did not seem to move, but before Taggart could get his weapon free of its holster he saw the sombre muzzle of a forty-five frowning at him from Calumet's hip and he quickly drew his own hand away—empty.
"Shucks," Calumet's voice came slowly into the silence that had fallen—slowly and softly and with apparently genuine deprecation. "If I'd known that you was goin' to get that excited I'd have broke the news different. I don't know what you're gettin' at, trying to drag your gun out that way. I was hopin' we'd be friends. We ought to, you know, bein' neighbors."
The Boss of the Lazy Y Page 8