“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 certain
ly 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 chang
ing 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:
The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack Page 207