He was talking now to hurt her; there was a savage desire in his heart to goad her to anger.
But he did not succeed. Her face paled a little at his brutal words, at the insult they implied, and she became a little rigid, her lips stiffening. But suddenly she smiled, mockingly, with irritating unconcern.
“If I didn’t know that you hate me as you do I should be inclined to think that you are jealous. Are you?”
He straightened in astonishment. Her manner was not that of the woman who is caught doing something dishonorable; it was the calm poise of sturdy honesty at bay. But while he was mystified, he was not convinced. She had hit the mark, he knew, but he laughed harshly.
“Jealous!” he said; “jealous of you? I reckon you’ve got a good opinion of yourself! You make me sick. I just want to put you wise a few. You don’t need to try to pull off any of that sweet innocence stuff on me any more. You’re deep an’ slick, but I’ve sized you up. You made a monkey of the old man; you made him think like you’re tryin’ to make me think, that you’re sacrificin’ yourself.
“You soft-soaped him into smearin’ a heap of mush into his letters to me. It’s likely you wrote them yourself. An’ you hoodwinked him into givin’ you the money an’ the idol so’s you an’ Taggart could divvy up after you put me out of the runnin’. Goin’ to reform me! I reckon if I was an angel I’d have to have a recommendation from the Lord before you’d agree that I’d reformed. You couldn’t be pried loose from that coin with a crow-bar!”
He turned from her, baffled, for it was apparent from the expression of mirth deep in her eyes that his attack had made no impression on her.
Calumet went to the stable and threw a bridle on Blackleg. While he was placing the saddle on the animal he hesitated and stood regarding it with indecision. He had intended to refuse to accept Betty’s orders in the future; had decided that he would do no more work on the buildings. But he was not the Calumet of old, who did things to suit himself, in defiance to the opinions and wishes of other people. Betty had thrown a spell over him; he discovered that in spite of his discovery he felt like accommodating his movements to her desires. It was a mystery that maddened him; he seemed to be losing his grip on himself, and, though he fought against it, he found that he dreaded her disapproval, her sarcasm, and her taunts.
It seemed to him puerile, ridiculous, to think of refusing to continue with the work he had started. As long as he was going to stay at the Lazy Y he might as well keep on. Betty would surely laugh at him if he refused to go on. He fought it out and took a long time to it, but he finally pulled the saddle from Blackleg and hitched the two horses to the wagon. When he drove out of the ranchhouse yard he saw Betty watching him from one of the kitchen windows. He felt like cursing her, but did not.
“I reckon,” he said as he curled the lash of the whip viciously over the shoulders of the horses, “that she’s got me locoed. Well,” he cogitated, “any woman’s liable to stampede a man, an’ I ain’t the first guy that’s had his doubts whether he’s a coyote or a lion after he’s been herd-rode by a petticoat. I’m waitin’ her out. But Taggart—” The frown on his face indicated that his intentions toward the latter were perfectly clear.
CHAPTER XV
A MEETING IN THE RED DOG
Of the good resolutions that Calumet had made since the night before, when he had re-read his father’s letter in the moonlight while standing beside the corral fence, none had survived. Black, vicious thoughts filled his mind as he drove toward Lazette. When the wagon reached the crest of a slope about a mile out of town, Calumet halted the horses and rolled a cigarette, a sullen look in his eyes, unrelieved by the prospect before him.
By no stretch of the imagination could Lazette be called attractive. It lay forlorn and dismal at the foot of the slope, its forty or more buildings dingy, unpainted, ugly, scattered along the one street as though waiting for the encompassing desolation to engulf them. Two serpentine lines of steel, glistening in the sunlight, came from some mysterious distance across the dead level of alkali, touched the edge of town where rose a little red wooden station and a water tank of the same color, and then bent away toward some barren hills, where they vanished.
Calumet proceeded down the slope, halting at the lumber yard, where he left his wagon and orders for the material he wanted. Across the street from the lumber yard was a building on which was a sign: “The Chance Saloon.” Toward this Calumet went after leaving his wagon. He hesitated for an instant on the sidewalk, and a voice, seeming to come from nowhere in particular, whispered in his ear:
“Neal Taggart’s layin’ for you!”
When Calumet wheeled, his six-shooter was in his hand. At his shoulder, having evidently followed him from across the street, stood a man. He was lean-faced, hardy-looking, with a strong, determined jaw and steady, alert eyes. He was apparently about fifty years of age. He grinned at Calumet’s belligerent motion.
“Hearin’ me?” he said to Calumet’s cold, inquiring glance.
The latter’s eyes glowed. “Layin’ for me, eh? Thanks.” He looked curiously at the other. “Who are you?” he said.
“I’m Dave Toban, the sheriff.” He threw back one side of his vest and revealed a small silver star.
“Correct,” said Calumet; “how you knowin’ me?”
“Knowed your dad,” said the sheriff. “You look a heap like him. Besides,” he added as his eyes twinkled, “there ain’t no one else in this section doin’ any buildin’ now.”
“I’m sure much obliged for your interest,” said Calumet. “An’ so Taggart’s lookin’ for me?”
“Been in town a week,” continued the sheriff. “Been makin’ his brags what he’s goin’ to do to you. Says you wheedled him into comin’ over to the Lazy Y an’ then beat him up. Got Denver Ed with him.”
Calumet’s eyes narrowed. “I know him,” he said.
“Gun-fighter, ain’t he?” questioned the sheriff.
“Yep.” Calumet’s eyelashes flickered; he smiled with straight lips. “Drinkin’?” he invited.
“Wouldn’t do,” grinned the sheriff. “Publicly, I ain’t takin’ no side. Privately, I’m feelin’ different. Knowed your dad. Taggart’s bad medicine for this section. Different with you.”
“How different?”
“Straight up. Anybody that lives around Betty Clayton’s got to be.”
Calumet looked at him with a crooked smile. “I reckon,” he said, “that you don’t know any more about women than I do. So-long,” he added. He went into the “Chance” saloon, leaving the sheriff looking after him with a queer smile.
Ten minutes later when Calumet came out of the saloon the sheriff was nowhere in sight.
Calumet went over to where his wagon stood and, concealed behind it, took a six-shooter from under his shirt at the waistband and placed it carefully in a sling under the right side of his vest. Then he removed the cartridges from the weapon in the holster at his hip, smiling mirthlessly as he replaced it in the holster and made his way up the street.
With apparent carelessness, though keeping an alert eye about him, he went the rounds of the saloons. Before he had visited half of them there was an air of suppressed excitement in the manner of Lazette’s citizens, and knowledge of his errand went before him. In the saloons that he entered men made way for him, looking at him with interest as he peered with impersonal intentness at them, or, standing in doorways, they watched him in silence as he departed, and then fell to talking in whispers. He knew what was happening—Lazette had heard what Taggart had been saying about him, and was keeping aloof, giving him a clear field.
Presently he entered the Red Dog.
There were a dozen men here, drinking, playing cards, gambling. The talk died away as he entered; men sat silently at the tables, seeming to look at their cards, but in reality watching him covertly. Other men got up from their chairs and walked, with apparent unconcern, away from the center of the room, so that when Calumet carelessly tossed a coin on the bar in p
ayment for a drink which he ordered, only three men remained at the bar with him.
He had taken quick note of these men. They were Neal Taggart; a tall, lanky, unprepossessing man with a truculent eye rimmed by lashless lids, and with a drooping mustache which almost concealed the cruel curve of his lips, whom he knew as Denver Ed—having met him several times in the Durango country; and a medium-sized stranger whom he knew as Garvey. The latter was dark-complexioned, with a hook nose and a loose-lipped mouth.
Calumet did not appear to notice them. He poured his glass full and lifted it, preparatory to drinking. Before it reached his lips he became aware of a movement among the three men—Garvey had left them and was standing beside him.
“Have that on me,” said Garvey, silkily, to Calumet.
Calumet surveyed him with a glance of mild interest. He set his glass down, and the other silently motioned to the bartender for another.
“Stranger here, I reckon?” said Garvey as he poured his whiskey. “Where’s your ranch?”
“The Lazy Y,” said Calumet.
The other filled his glass. “Here’s how,” he said, and tilted it toward his lips. Calumet did likewise. If he felt the man’s hand on the butt of the six-shooter at his hip, he gave no indication of it. Nor did he seem to exhibit any surprise or concern when, after drinking and setting the glass down, he looked around to see that Garvey had drawn the weapon out and was examining it with apparently casual interest.
This action on the part of Garvey was unethical and dangerous, and there were men among the dozen in the room who looked sneeringly at Calumet, or to one another whispered the significant words, “greenhorn” and “tenderfoot.” Others, to whom the proprietor had spoken concerning Calumet, looked at him in surprise. Still others merely stared at Garvey and Calumet, unable to account for the latter’s mild submission to this unallowed liberty. The proprietor alone, remembering a certain gleam in Calumet’s eyes on a former occasion, looked at him now and saw deep in his eyes a slumbering counterpart to it, and discreetly retired to the far end of the bar, where there was a whiskey barrel in front of him.
But Calumet seemed unconcerned.
“Some gun,” remarked Garvey. It was strange, though, that he was not looking at the weapon at all, or he might have seen the empty chambers. He was looking at Calumet, and it was apparent that his interest in the weapon was negative.
“Yes, some,” agreed Calumet. He swung around and faced the man, leaning his left arm carelessly on the bar.
At that instant Denver Ed sauntered over and joined them. He looked once at Calumet, and then his gaze went to Garvey as he spoke.
“Friend of yourn?” he questioned. There was marked deference in the manner of Garvey. He politely backed away, shifting his position so that Denver Ed faced Calumet at a distance of several feet, with no obstruction between them.
Calumet’s eyes met Denver’s, and he answered the latter’s question, Garvey having apparently withdrawn from the conversation.
“Friend of his?” sneered Calumet, grinning shallowly. “I reckon not; I’m pickin’ my company.”
Denver Ed did not answer at once. He moved a little toward Calumet and shoved his right hip forward, so that the butt of his six-shooter was invitingly near. Then, with his hands folded peacefully over his chest, he spoke:
“You do,” he said, “you mangy —!”
There was a stir among the onlookers as the vile epithet was applied. Calumet’s right hand went swiftly forward and his fingers closed around the butt of the weapon at Denver Ed’s hip. The gun came out with a jerk and lay in Calumet’s hand. Calumet began to pull the trigger. The dull, metallic impact of the hammer against empty chambers was the only result.
Denver Ed grinned malignantly as his right hand stole into his vest. There was a flash of metal as he drew the concealed gun, but before its muzzle could be trained on Calumet the latter pressed the empty weapon in his own hand against the one that Denver Ed was attempting to draw, blocking its egress; while in Calumet’s left hand the six-shooter which he had concealed under his own vest roared spitefully within a foot of Denver Ed’s chest.
Many in the room saw the expression of surprise in Denver Ed’s eye as he pitched forward in a heap at Calumet’s feet. There were others who saw Garvey raise the six-shooter which he had drawn from Calumet’s holster. All heard the hammer click impotently on the empty chambers; saw Calumet’s own weapon flash around and cover Garvey; saw the flame-spurt and watched Garvey crumple and sink.
There was a dead silence. Taggart had not moved. Calumet’s gaze went from the two fallen men and rested on his father’s enemy.
“Didn’t work,” he jeered. “They missed connections, didn’t they? You’ll get yours if you ain’t out of town by sundown. Layin’ for me for a week, eh? You sufferin’ sneak, thinkin’ I was born yesterday!” He ignored Taggart and looked coolly around at his audience, not a man of which had moved. He saw the sheriff standing near the door, and it was to him that he spoke.
“Frame-up,” he said in short, sharp accents. “Back Durango way Denver an’ the little guy pulled it off regular. Little man gets your gun. Denver gets you riled. Sticks his hip out so’s you’ll grab his gun. You do. Gun’s empty. But you don’t know it, an’ you try to perforate Denver. Then he pulls another gun an’ salivates you. Self-defense.” He looked around with a cold grin. “Planted an empty on him myself,” he said. “The little guy fell for it. So did Denver. I reckon that’s all. You wantin’ me for this?” he inquired of the sheriff. “You’ll find me at the Lazy Y. Taggart—” He hesitated and looked around. Taggart was nowhere to be seen. “Sloped,” added Calumet, with a laugh.
“I don’t reckon I’ll want you,” said Toban. “Clear case of self-defense. I reckon most everybody saw the play. Some raw.”
Several men had moved; one of them was peering at the faces of Denver and Garvey. He now looked up at the sheriff.
“Nothing botherin’ them any more,” he said.
Calumet stepped over to Denver’s confederate and took up the pistol from the floor near him, replacing it in his holster. By this time the crowd in the saloon was standing near the two gunmen, commenting gravely or humorously, according to its whim.
“Surprise party for him,” suggested one, pointing to Denver.
“Didn’t tickle him a heap, though,” said another. “Seemed plumb shocked an’ disappointed, if you noticed his face.”
“Slick,” said another, pointing to Calumet, who had turned his back and was walking toward the door; “cool as ice water.”
Sudden death had no terrors for these men; there was no inclination in their minds to blame Calumet, and so they watched with admiration for his poise as he stepped out through the door.
“Taggart’ll be gettin’ his,” said a man.
“Not tonight,” laughed another. “I seen him hittin’ the breeze out. An’ sundown’s quite a considerable distance away yet, too.”
CHAPTER XVI
THE AMBUSH
If Calumet had any regret over the outcome of his adventure in the Red Dog, it was that Neal Taggart had given him no opportunity to square the account between them. Calumet had lingered in town until dusk, for he had given his word and would not break it, and then, it being certain that his enemy had decided not to accept the challenge, he hitched his horses and just after dusk pulled out for the Lazy Y. Something had been added to the debt of hatred which he owed the Taggarts.
As he drove through the darkening land he yielded to a deep satisfaction. He had struck one blow, a sudden and decisive one, and, though it had not landed on either of the Taggarts, it had at least shown them what they might expect. He intended to deliver other blows, and he was rather glad now that he had not been so weak as to allow Betty’s dictatorial attitude to drive him from the ranch, for in that case he would never have discovered the plot to cheat him of his heritage—would not have been in a position to bring discomfiture and confusion upon them all. That was what he was determined to
do. There was no plan in his mind; he was merely going to keep his eyes open, and when opportunity came he was going to take advantage of it.
The darkness deepened as he drove. When he reached the crest of the slope from which that morning he had looked down upon Lazette, the wagon entered a stretch of broken country through which the horses made slow progress. After traversing this section he encountered a flat, dull plain of sand, hard and smooth, which the horses appreciated, for they traveled rapidly, straining willingly in the harness.
It was about nine o’clock when the moon rose, a pale yellow disk above the hills that rimmed the valley of the Lazy Y, and Calumet welcomed it with a smile, lighting a cigarette and leaning back comfortably in the seat, with the reins held between his knees.
He presently thought of his weapons, drawing them out and reloading them. They recalled the incident of the Red Dog, and for a long time his thoughts dwelt on it, straight, grim lines in his face.
He wondered what Betty would say when she heard of it. Would it affect her future relations with Taggart? His thoughts were still of Betty when the wagon careened out of the level and began to crawl up a slope that led through some hills. The trail grew hazardous, and the horses were forced to proceed slowly. It was near midnight when the wagon dipped into a little gully about a mile and a half from the ranchhouse. Calumet halted the horses at the bottom of the gully, allowing them to drink from the shallow stream that trickled on its way to meet the river which passed through the wood near the ranchhouse.
After the animals had drunk their fill he urged them on again, for he was weary of the ride and anxious to have it over with. It was a long pull, however, and the horses made hard work of it, so that when they reached the crest of the rise they halted of their own accord and stood with their legs braced, breathing heavily.
Calumet waited patiently. He was anxious to get to the Lazy Y, but his sympathy was with the horses. He rolled and lighted another cigarette, holding the match concealed in the palm of his hand so that the breeze might not extinguish it.
The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack Page 204
