Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: Calumet remained unshaken.]
THE BOSS OF THE LAZY Y
BY
CHARLES ALDEN SELTZER
AUTHOR OF
THE COMING OF THE LAW, THE TWO-GUN MAN, ETC.
ILLUSTRATIONS BY
J. ALLEN ST. JOHN
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
Copyright
A. C. McClurg & Co.
1915
Published April, 1915
Copyrighted in Great Britain
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. The Home-Coming of Calumet Marston II. Betty Meets the Heir III. Calumet's Guardian IV. Calumet Plays Betty's Game V. The First Lesson VI. "Bob" VII. A Page from the Past VIII. The Toltec Idol IX. Responsibility X. New Acquaintances XI. Progress XII. A Peace Offering XIII. Suspicion XIV. Jealousy XV. A Meeting in the Red Dog XVI. The Ambush XVII. More Progress XVIII. Another Peace Offering XIX. A Tragedy in the Timber Grove XX. Betty Talks Frankly XXI. His Father's Friend XXII. Neal Taggart Visits XXIII. For the Altars of His Tribe
ILLUSTRATIONS
Calumet remained unshaken . . . . . . _Frontispiece_
"Get up, or I will shoot you like a dog!" she said.
Her appearance was now in the nature of a transformation.
Calumet stepped in.
THE BOSS OF THE LAZY Y
CHAPTER I
THE HOME-COMING OF CALUMET MARSTON
Shuffling down the long slope, its tired legs moving automatically, thedrooping pony swerved a little and then came to a halt, trembling withfright. Startled out of his unpleasant ruminations, his lips tensingover his teeth in a savage snarl, Calumet Marston swayed uncertainly inthe saddle, caught himself, crouched, and swung a heavy pistol to amenacing poise.
For an instant he hesitated, searching the immediate vicinity withrapid, intolerant glances. When his gaze finally focused on the objectwhich had frightened his pony, he showed no surprise. Many timesduring the past two days had this incident occurred, and at no time hadCalumet allowed the pony to follow its inclination to bolt or swervefrom the trail. He held it steady now, pulling with a vicious hand onthe reins.
Ten feet in front of the pony and squarely in the center of the trail agigantic diamond-back rattler swayed and warned, its venomous, lidlesseyes gleaming with hate. Calumet's snarl deepened, he dug a spur intothe pony's left flank, and pulled sharply on the left rein. The ponylunged, swerved, and presented its right shoulder to the swayingreptile, its flesh quivering from excitement. Then the heavy revolverin Calumet's hand roared spitefully, there was a sudden threshing inthe dust of the trail, and the huge rattler shuddered into a sinuous,twisting heap. For an instant Calumet watched it, and then, seeingthat the wound he had inflicted was not mortal, he urged the ponyforward and, leaning over a little, sent two more bullets into the bodyof the snake, severing its head from its body.
"Man's size," declared Calumet, his snarl relaxing. He sat erect andspoke to the pony:
"Get along, you damned fool! Scared of a side-winder!"
Relieved, deflating its lungs with a tremulous heave, and unmindful ofCalumet's scorn, the pony gingerly returned to the trail. In thirtyseconds it had resumed its drooping shuffle, in thirty seconds Calumethad returned to his unpleasant ruminations.
A mile up in the shimmering white of the desert sky an eagle swam onslow wing, shaping his winding course toward the timber clump thatfringed a river. Besides the eagle, the pony, and Calumet, no livingthing stirred in the desert or above it. In the shade of a rock,perhaps, lurked a lizard, in the filmy mesquite that drooped and curledin the stifling heat slid a rattler, in the shelter of the sagebrushthe sage hen might have nestled her eggs in the hot sand. But thesewere fixtures. Calumet, his pony, and the eagle, were not. The eaglewas Mexican; it had swung its mile-wide circles many times to reach thepoint above the timber clump; it was migratory and alert with thehunger lust.
Calumet watched it with eyes that glowed bitterly and balefully. Halfan hour later, when he reached the river and the pony clattered downthe rocky slope, plunged its head deeply into the stream and drank witheager, silent draughts, Calumet swung himself crossways in the saddle,fumbled for a moment at his slicker, and drew out a battered tin cup.Leaning over, he filled the cup with water, tilted his head back anddrank. The blur in the white sky caught his gaze and held it. Hiseyes mocked, his lips snarled.
"You damned greaser sneak!" he said. "Followed me fifty miles!" Aflash of race hatred glinted his eyes. "I wouldn't let no damnedgreaser eagle get me, anyway!"
The pony had drunk its fill. Calumet returned the tin cup to theslicker and swung back into the saddle. Refreshed, the pony took theopposite slope with a rush, emerging from the river upon a high plateaustudded with fir balsam and pine. Bringing the pony to a halt, Calumetturned in the saddle and looked somberly behind him.
For two days he had been fighting the desert, and now it lay in hisrear, a mystic, dun-colored land of hot sandy waste and silence;brooding, menacing, holding out its threat of death--a vast naturalbasin breathing and pulsing with mystery, rimmed by remote mountainsthat seemed tenuous and thin behind the ever-changing misty films thatspread from horizon to horizon.
The expression of Calumet's face was as hard and inscrutable as thedesert itself; the latter's filmy haze did not more surely shut out themysteries behind it than did Calumet's expression veil the emotions ofhis heart. He turned from the desert to face the plateau, from whoseedge dropped a wide, tawny valley, luxuriant with bunch grass--a goldenbrown sweep that nestled between some hills, inviting, alluring. Sosharp was the contrast between the desert and the valley, and so potentwas its appeal to him, that the hard calm of his face threatened tosoften. It was as though he had ridden out of a desolate, ages-oldworld where death mocked at life, into a new one in which life reignedsupreme.
There was no change in Calumet's expression, however, though below him,spreading and dipping away into the interminable distance, slumberingin the glare of the afternoon sun, lay the land of his youth. Heremembered it well and he sat for a long time looking at it, searchingout familiar spots, reviving incidents with which those spots had beenconnected. During the days of his exile he had forgotten, but now itall came back to him; his brain was illumined and memories moved in itin orderly array--like a vast army passing in review. And he sat thereon his pony, singling out the more important personages of thearmy--the officers, the guiding spirits of the invisible columns.
Five miles into the distance, at a point where the river doubledsharply, rose the roofs of several ranch buildings--his father's ranch,the Lazy Y. Upon the buildings Calumet's army of memories descendedand he forgot the desert, the long ride, the bleak days of his exile,as he yielded to solemn introspection.
Yet, even now, the expression of his face did not change. A littlelonger he scanned the valley and then the army of memories marched outof his vision and he took up the reins and sent the pony forward. Thelittle animal tossed its head impatiently, perhaps scenting food andcompanionship, but Calumet's heavy hand on the reins discouraged haste.
For Calumet was in no hurry. He had not yet worked out an explanationfor the strange whim that had sent him home after an absence ofthirteen years and he wanted time to study over it. His lips took on asatiric curl as he meditated, riding slowly down into the valley. Itwas inexplicable, mysterious, this notion of his to return to a fatherwho had never taken any interest in him. He could not account for it.He had not been sent for, he had not sent word; he did not know why hehad come. He had been in the Durango country when the mood had struckhim, a
nd without waiting to debate the wisdom of the move he had riddenin to headquarters, secured his time, and--well, here he was. He hadpondered much in an effort to account for the whim, carefullyconsidering all its phases, and he was still uncertain.
He knew he would receive no welcome; he knew he was not wanted. Had hefelt a longing to revisit the old place? Perhaps it had been that.And yet, perhaps not, for he was here now, looking at it, living overthe life of his youth, riding again through the long bunch grass, overthe barren alkali flats, roaming again in the timber that fringed theriver--going over it all again and nothing stirred in his heart--nopleasure, no joy, no satisfaction, no emotion whatever. If he felt anycuriosity he was entirely unconscious of it; it was dormant if itexisted at all. As he was able to consider her dispassionately he knewthat he had not come to look at his mother's grave. She had beennothing to him, his heart did not beat a bit faster when he thought ofher.
Then, why had he come? He did not know or care. Had he been apsychologist he might have attempted to frame reasons, building themfrom foundations of high-sounding phrases, but he was a materialist,and the science of mental phenomena had no place in his brain.Something had impelled him to come and here he was, and that was reasonenough for him. And because he had no motive in coming he was takinghis time. He figured on reaching the Lazy Y about dusk. He would seehis father, perhaps quarrel with him, and then he would ride away, toreturn no more. Strange as it may seem, the prospect of a quarrel withhis father brought him a thrill of joy, the first emotion he had feltsince beginning his homeward journey.
When he reached the bottom of the valley he urged his pony on a littleway, pulling it to a halt on the flat, rock-strewn top of an isolatedexcrescence of earth surrounded by a sea of sagebrush, dried bunchgrass, and sand. Dismounting he stretched his legs to disperse thesaddle weariness. He stifled a yawn, lazily plunged a hand into apocket of his trousers, produced tobacco and paper and rolled acigarette. Lighting it he puffed slowly and deeply at it, exhaling thesmoke lingeringly through his nostrils. Then he sat down on a rock,leaned an elbow in the sand, pulled his hat brim well down over hiseyes and with the cigarette held loosely between his lips, gave himselfover to retrospection.
It all came to him, as he sat there on the rock, his gaze on thebasking valley, his thoughts centered on that youth which had been anabiding nightmare. The question was: What influence had made him ahardened, embittered, merciless demon of a man whose passionsthreatened always to wash away the dam of his self-control? A manwhose evil nature caused other men to shun him; a man who scoffed atvirtue; who saw no good in anything?
Not once during his voluntary exile had he applied his mind to thesubject in the hope of stumbling on a solution. To be sure, he had hada slight glimmering of the truth; he had realized in a sort of vague,general way that he had not been treated fairly at home, but he had notbeen able to provide a definite and final explanation, perhaps becausehe had never considered it necessary. But his return home, the reviewof the army of memories, had brought him a solution--the solution. Andhe saw its ruthless logic.
He was what his parents had made him. Without being able to think itout in scientific terms he was able to expound the why of like. It wasone of the inexorable rules of heredity. To his parents he owedeverything and nothing. He reflected on this paradox until it becameperfectly clear to him. They--his parents--had given him life, andthat was all. He owed them thanks for that, or he would have owed themthanks if he considered his life to be worth anything. But he owedthem nothing because they had spoiled the life they had given him, hadspoiled it by depriving him of everything he had a right to expect fromthem--love, sympathy, decent treatment. They had given him instead,blows, kicks, curses, hatred. Hatred!
Yes, they had hated him; they had told him that; he was convinced ofit. The reason for their hatred had always been a mystery to him and,for all he cared, would remain a mystery.
When he was fifteen his mother died. On the day when the neighborslaid her away in a quiet spot at the edge of the wood near the far endof the corral fence, he stood beside her body as it lay in the roughpine box which some of them had knocked together, looking at her forthe last time. He was neither glad or sorry; he felt no emotionwhatever. When one of the neighbors spoke to him, asking him if hefelt no grief, he cursed and stormed out of the house. Later, afterthe neighbors departed, his father came upon him in the stable and beathim unmercifully. He came, dry-eyed, through the ordeal, raginginwardly, but silent. And that night, after his father had gone tobed, he stole stealthily out of the house, threw a saddle and bridle onhis favorite pony and rode away. Such had been his youth.
That had been thirteen years ago. He was twenty-eight now and hadchanged a little--for the worse. During the days of his exile he hadmade no friends. He had found much experience, he had becomeself-reliant, sophisticated. There was about him an atmosphere of coldpreparedness that discouraged encroachment on his privacy. Men did nottrifle with him, because they feared him. Around Durango, where he hadridden for the Bar S outfit, it was known that he possessed Sataniccleverness with a six-shooter.
But if he was rapid with his weapons he made no boast of it. He wasquiet in manner, unobtrusive. He was taciturn also, for he had beentaught the value of silence by his parents, though in his narrowedglances men had been made to see a suggestion of action that was moreeloquent than speech. He was a slumbering volcano of passion thatmight at any time become active and destroying.
Gazing now from under the brim of his hat at the desolate, silent worldthat swept away from the base of the hill on whose crest he sat, hislips curved with a slow, bitter sneer. During the time he had been onthe hill he had lived over his life and he saw its bleakness, itsemptiness, its mystery. This was his country. He had been born here;he had passed days, months, years, in this valley. He knew it, andhated it. He sneered as his gaze went out of the valley and sought thevast stretches of the flaming desert. He knew the desert, too; it hadnot changed. Riding through it yesterday and the day before he hadbeen impressed with the somber grimness of it all, as he had beenimpressed many times before when watching it from this very hill. Butit was no more somber than his own life had been; its brooding silencewas no deeper than that which dwelt in his own heart; he reflected itsspirit, its mystery was his. His life had been like--like thestretching waste of sky that yawned above the desert, as cold, hard,and unsympathetic.
He saw a shadow; looked upward to see the Mexican eagle winging itsslow way overhead, and the sneer on his lips grew. It was a prophecy,perhaps. At least the sight of the bird gave him an opportunity todraw a swift and bitter comparison. He was like the eagle. Both heand the bird he detested were beset with a constitutionalpredisposition to rend and destroy. There was this difference betweenthem: The bird feasted on carrion, while he spent his life stiflinggenerous impulses and tearing from his heart the noble ideals which hislatent manhood persisted in erecting.
For two hours he sat on the hill, watching. He saw the sun sink slowlytoward the remote mountains, saw it hang a golden rim on a barren peak;watched the shadows steal out over the foothills and stretch swiftlyover the valley toward him. Mystery seemed to awaken and fill theworld. The sky blazed with color--orange and gold and violet; a veilof rose and amethyst descended and stretched to the horizons,enveloping the mountains in a misty haze; purple shafts shot fromdistant canyons, mingling with the brighter colors--gleaming,shimmering, ever-changing. Over the desert the colors were even morewonderful, the mystery deeper, the lure more appealing. But Calumetmade a grimace at it all, it seemed to mock him.
He rose from the rock, mounted his pony, and rode slowly down into thevalley toward the Lazy Y ranch buildings.
He had been so busy with his thoughts that he had not noticed theabsence of cattle in the valley--the valley had been a grazing groundfor the Lazy Y stock during the days of his youth--and now, with astart, he noted it and halted his pony after reaching the level to lookabout him.
There was no sign of any cattle. But he reflected that perhaps a newrange had been opened. Thirteen years is a long time, and many changescould have come during his absence.
He was about to urge his pony on again, when some impulse moved him toturn in the saddle and glance at the hill he had just vacated. Atabout the spot where he had sat--perhaps two hundred yards distant--hesaw a man on a horse, sitting motionless in the saddle, looking at him.
Calumet wheeled his own pony and faced the man. The vari-colored glowfrom the distant mountains fell full upon the horseman, and with theinstinct for attention to detail which had become habitual withCalumet, he noted that the rider was a big man; that he wore acream-colored Stetson and a scarlet neckerchief. Even at thatdistance, so clear was the light, Calumet caught a vague impression ofhis features--his nose, especially, which was big, hawk-like.
Calumet yielded to a sudden wonder over the rider's appearance on thehill. He had not seen him; had not heard him before. Still, that wasnot strange, for he had become so absorbed in his thoughts while on thehill that he had paid very little attention to his surroundings exceptto associate them with his past.
The man, evidently, was a cowpuncher in the employ of his father; hadprobably seen him from the level of the valley and had ridden to thecrest of the hill out of curiosity.
Another impulse moved Calumet. He decided to have a talk with the manin order to learn, if possible, something of the life his father hadled during his absence. He kicked his pony in the ribs and rode towardthe man, the animal traveling at a slow chop-trot.
For a moment the man watched him, still motionless. Then, as Calumetcontinued to approach him the man wheeled his horse and sent itclattering down the opposite side of the hill.
Calumet sneered, surprised, for the instant, at the man's action.
"Shy cuss," he said, grinning contemptuously. In the next instant,however, he yielded to a quick rage and sent his pony scurrying up theslope toward the crest of the hill.
When he reached the top the man was on the level, racing across abarren alkali flat at a speed which indicated that he was afflictedwith something more than shyness.
Calumet halted on the crest of the hill and waved a hand derisively atthe man, who was looking back over his shoulder as he rode.
"Slope, you locoed son-of-a-gun!" he yelled; "I didn't want to talk toyou, anyway!"
The rider's answer was a strange one. He brought his horse to adizzying stop, wheeled, drew a rifle from his saddle holster, raised itto his shoulder and took a snap shot at Calumet.
The latter, however, had observed the hostile movement, and had thrownhimself out of the saddle. He struck the hard sand of the hill on allfours and stretched out flat, his face to the ground. He heard thebullet sing futilely past him; heard the sharp crack of the rifle, andpeered down to see the man again running his horse across the level.
Calumet drew his pistol, but saw that the distance was too great foreffective shooting, and savagely jammed the weapon back into theholster. He was in a black rage, but was aware of the absurdity ofattempting to wage a battle in which the advantage lay entirely withthe rifle, and so, with a grim smile on his face, he watched theprogress of the man as he rode through the long grass and across thebarren stretches of the level toward the hills that rimmed the southernhorizon.
Promising himself that he would make a special effort to return theshot, Calumet finally wheeled his pony and rode down the hill towardthe Lazy Y.
The Boss of the Lazy Y Page 1
