The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack

by Charles Alden Seltzer

  “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 weak 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.”

  “Friends?” Taggart stepped back a pace and looked at Calumet incredulously, his eyes searching for signs of insincerity. He saw no such signs, for if Calumet had emotion at this minute it was too deep to be uncovered with a glance. But he knew from Taggart’s perturbation that the latter knew him to be the man he had shot at that day in the valley.

  Obviously, he had not then had any suspicion as to his identity—his surprise showed that he had not. And his half-fearful, puzzled looks at Calumet indicated to the latter that he was wondering whether Calumet recognized him as the man who had done the shooting.

  Calumet’s smile was cordial, inviting, even slightly ingratiating, and watching him closely Taggart was convinced that he was not recognized. Also he was certain that Calumet could not have learned anything of the trouble between their parents. Yet Betty knew, and if Betty hadn’t told him there must be something between them—dislike or greed on Betty’s part—and a smile appeared on his face as he remembered that he had heard his father say that Calumet had been vicious and unmanageable in his youth. He must be at odds with Betty.

  And Betty—well, a shyster lawyer in Las Vegas had told Taggart something about a will which old Marston had made, in which Betty had been named as beneficiary of the property in case Calumet failed to agree to certain specifications, and Taggart was ready to believe that Betty would not hesitate to bring about an open clash with Calumet in order to gain control of the ranch. This thought filled Taggart with a savage exultation. He and his father had made very little progress in their past attacks on the Lazy Y, and if it were possible to set Calumet against Betty there might come an opportunity to drive a wedge which would make an opening—the opening they had long sought for. At all events he would have considered himself a fool if he failed to take advantage of this opportunity to ingratiate himself into the good nature of this man.

  “Well, that’s right, I reckon,” he said. “There ain’t no reason that I know of why we shouldn’t be friends. I’m right glad to see you.” He stuck out his right hand, but it appeared that Calumet did not notice it, for he laughed as he replaced the pistol in its holster.

  “Same here,” he said. “If you’re passin’ the Lazy Y any time, drop in an’ visit. I’m fixin’ her up a few—enough so’s I can live in the old shack.”

  Taggart had noted with a lowering frown Calumet’s omission of the proffered handshake, but the cordial good nature of the smile on the latter’s face was unmistakable, and he grinned in reply.

  “I’ll sure do that,” he said.

  “I’ll be right glad to have you,” said Calumet. “Come tomorrow—in the afternoon—any time.”

  “You reckonin’ on bein’ the boss now?” questioned Taggart.

  Some emotion flickered Calumet’s eyelashes. “You’ve said somethin’,” he returned; “nobody’s runnin’ me.” He turned and walked to Dade, who had been watching him with wrath and astonishment.

  “Drinkin’?” suggested Taggart. “Have a drink, old man,” he said, with celluloid good fellowship.

  Calumet turned with a grin. “Me an’ my friend has got to the end of our capacity,” he said. “He’s workin’ for me an I ain’t settin’ him a bad example. The next time, if you’re in the humor, I’ll be glad to drink all you can buy.” He waved a hand behind him, with the other he was pushing Dade before him toward the door. “So-long,” he said, as he and Dade went out.

  Taggart laughed as he turned to his companions, who had said nothing during the conversation.

  “Friends!” he said; “he’s green an’ due for a shock!”

  Either Taggart or the proprietor had made a mistake in their estimate of Calumet. For at the instant Taggart had sneered at Calumet to his friends, the bartender, who had come in while Taggart and Calumet had been talking, leaned over to listen to the proprietor.

  “In Taggart’s place,” said the proprietor, “I’d be mighty careful of that man. Friend, eh? Well, mebbe. But you noticed that he didn’t offer to shake hands with Taggart. An’ he wouldn’t drink. Reached his capacity! He had four in here. Sober as a judge! Did you notice his eyes? They fair made me shiver when he looked at me when I was talkin’ about his old man. I’m goin’ to be damn careful about my palaver after this. Friend! Well, if I wasn’t his friend I’d be damn
careful not to rile him!”

  Outside Dade halted, white hot with rage.

  “I reckon I ain’t got no job with you, you white-livered—”

  The muzzle of Calumet’s forty-five, magically produced, it seemed, so quickly did it show in his hand, was making an icy ring against Dade’s throat, and the words, the epithet for which he had hesitated, remained unspoken. Metallic, venomous and filled with a threat of death came Calumet’s voice.

  “You sufferin’ fool!” he said, the words writhing through his lips, his eyes blazing. “It’s my game, do you hear? An’ if you gas another word about it I’ll tear you apart!”

  “He was blackguardin’ Betty,” objected Dade, his face ashen, but his spirit still undaunted. “He was blackguardin’ her an’ you made friends with him. I’d have salivated him if I’d thought you wasn’t goin’ to. I’m goin’ back there now an’—”

  Calumet stepped back a pace and cocked his six-shooter. “I reckon I can’t make you understand that it’s my game,” he said coldly. “Walk backwards when you go in,” he directed; “I don’t want to plug you in the back.”

  Dade started and looked intently at Calumet. “You mean that it ain’t ended between you an’ him?” he demanded.

  “Some people would have tumbled to that long ago,” jeered Calumet. “But kids—kids take longer to sabe a thing. I’m glad you’re over it,” he added. He sheathed his pistol. “I reckon we’ll be goin’,” he said. “Betty’ll begin to believe I’m lost.”

  Dade followed him to the wagon, meekly enough now that he had received unmistakable proof that Taggart was Calumet’s “game,” and shortly afterward the wagon pulled out of Lazette and struck the trail toward the Lazy Y.

  CHAPTER XI