The mirth had died out of her eyes; she was deeply in earnest. Calumet could see that, and the knowledge kept him silent, hushed the half-formed sarcastic replies that were on his lips, made his suspicions seem brutal, preposterous, ridiculous. There was much feeling in her voice; he was astonished and awed at the change in her; he had not seen her like this before. Her reserve was gone, the disdain with it; there was naked sincerity in her glowing eyes, in her words, in her manner. He watched her, fascinated, as she continued:
“I think you can see now that if I had wanted to be dishonest you could not have stopped me. My honesty proven, what must have been my motive in staying here to take your insults, to submit to your boorishness? I will tell you; you may believe me or not, as you please. I was grateful to your father. I gave him my promise. He wanted me to make a man of you.
“When you first came here, and I saw what a burden I had assumed, I was afraid. But I saw that you did not intend to take advantage of me; that you weren’t like a good many men—brutes who prey on unprotected women; that only your temper was wanton. And instead of fearing you I began to pity you. I saw promise in you; you had manly impulses, but you hadn’t had your chance. I had faith in you. To a certain extent you have justified that faith. You have shown flashes of goodness of heart; you have exhibited generous, manly sympathies—to everybody but me. But I do not care [there was a suspicious moisture in her eyes and a queer tightening of the lips that gave the lie to this declaration] how you treat me. I intend to keep my promise to your father, no matter what you do. But I want to make you understand that I am not the kind of woman you take me to be—that I am not being made a fool of by Neal Taggart—or by any man!”
Calumet did not reply; the effect of this passionate defense of herself on him was deep and poignant, and words would not come to his lips. Truth had spoken to him—he knew it. At a stroke she had subdued him, humbled him. It was as though a light had suddenly been turned on him, showing him the mean, despicable side of him, contrasting it with the little good which had come into being—good which had been placed there, fostered, and cultivated into promise. Then the light had been as suddenly turned off, leaving him with a gnawing, impotent longing to be what she wanted him to be. Involuntarily, he took his hat off to her and bowed respectfully. Then he reached a swift hand into an inner pocket of his vest and withdrew it, holding out a paper to her. She took it and looked wonderingly at it. It was the diagram of the clearing in the timber clump showing where the idol was buried.
Her face paled, for she knew that his action in restoring the diagram to her was his tribute to her honesty, an evidence of his trust in her, despite his uttered suspicions. Also, it was his surrender.
She looked up, intending to thank him. He was walking away, and did not look around at her call.
CHAPTER XXI
HIS FATHER’S FRIEND
Betty did not see Calumet again that day, and only at mealtime on the day following. He had nothing to say to her at these times, though it was plain from the expression on his face when she covertly looked at him that he was thinking deeply. She hoped this were true; it was a good sign. On the morning of the third day he saddled the black horse and rode away, telling Bob, who happened to be near him when he departed, that he was going to Lazette.
It was fully two hours after supper when he returned. Malcolm, Dade, and Bob had gone to bed. In the kitchen, sitting beside the table, on which was a spotlessly clean tablecloth, with dishes set for one—she had saved Calumet’s supper, and it was steaming in the warming-closet of the stove—Betty sat. She was mending Bob’s stockings, and thinking of her life during the past few months—and Calumet. And when she heard the black come into the ranchhouse yard—she knew the black’s gait already—she trembled a little, put aside her mending, and went to the window.
The moon threw a white light in the yard, and she saw Calumet dismount. When he did not turn the black into the corral, hitching him, instead, to one of the rails, without even removing the saddle, she suspected that something unusual had happened.
She was certain of it when she heard Calumet cross the porch with a rapid step, and if in her certainty there had been the slightest doubt, it disappeared when he opened the kitchen door.
He looked tired; he had evidently ridden hard, for the alkali dust was thick on his clothing; he was breathing fast, his eyes were burning with some deep emotion, his lips were grim and hard.
He closed the door and stood with his back against it, looking at her. Something had wrought a wonderful change in him. He was not the Calumet she had known—brutal, vicious, domineering, sneering; though he was laboring under some great excitement, suppressing it, so that to an eye less keen than hers it might have seemed that he had been undergoing some great physical exertion and was just recovering from it. It seemed to her that he had found himself; that that regeneration for which she had hoped had come—had taken place between the time he had left that morning and now.
She did not know that it had been a mighty struggle of three days’ duration; that the transformation had been a slow, tortuous thing to him. She only knew that a great change had come over him; that, in spite of the evident strain which was upon him, there was something gentle, respectful, considerate, in his face, back of Its exterior hardness—a slumbering, triumphant something that made an instant appeal to her, lighting her eyes, coloring her face, making her heart beat with an unaccountable gladness.
“Oh,” she said; “what has happened to you?”
“Nothin’,” he answered, with a grave smile. “That is, nothin’—yet. Except that I’ve found out what a fool I’ve been. But I’ve found it out too late.”
“No,” she said, reaching the quick conclusion that he meant it was too late for him to complete his reformation; “it is never too late.”
“I think I know what you mean,” he answered. “But you’ve got it wrong. It’s somethin’ else. I’ve got to get out of here—got to hit the breeze out of the country. The sheriff is after me.”
She took a step backward. “What for?” she asked breathlessly.
“For killin’ Al Sharp.”
“Al Sharp!” she exclaimed, staring at him in amazement. “Why, you told me that an Indian named Telza killed him!”
“That’s what Sharp told me. The Taggarts claim I done it. They’ve swore out a warrant. I got wind of it an’ I’m gettin’ out. There’s no use tryin’ to fight the law in a case like this.”
“But you didn’t kill him!” she cried, stiffening defiantly. “You said you didn’t, and I know you wouldn’t lie. They can’t prove that you did it!”
He laughed. “You’re the only one that would believe me. Do you reckon I could prove that I didn’t do it? There’s two against one. The evidence is against me. The Taggarts found me in the clearing with Sharp. I had the knife. No one else was around. I buried Sharp. The Taggarts will swear against me. Where’s my chance?”
She was silent, and he laughed again. “They’ve got me, I reckon—the Taggarts have. I fancied I was secure. I didn’t think they’d try to pull off anything like this. Shows how much dependence a man can put in anything. They don’t look like they had sense enough to think of such a thing.”
He stepped away from the door and went to the table, looking down at the dishes she had set out for him, then at her, with a regretful smile which brought a quick pang to her.
“Shucks,” he said, more to himself than to her; “if this had happened three months ago I’d have been plumb amused, an’ I’d have had a heap of fun with somebody before it could be got over with. Somehow, it don’t seem to be so damned funny now.
“It’s your fault, too,” he went on, regarding her with a direct, level gaze. “Not that you got me into this mix-up, you understand—you’re not to blame for a thing—but it’s your fault that it don’t seem funny to me. You’ve made me see things different.”
“I am so sorry,” she said, standing pale and rigid before him.
“Sorry tha
t I’m seein’ things different?” he said. “No?” at her quick, reproachful negative. “Well, then, sorry that this had to happen. Well, I’m sorry, too. You see,” he added, the color reaching his face, “it struck me while I was ridin’ over here that I wasn’t goin’ to be exactly tickled over leavin’. It’s been seemin’ like home to me for—well, for a longer time than I would have admitted three days ago, when I had that talk with you. Or, rather,” he corrected, with a smile, “when you had that talk with me. There’s a difference, ain’t there? Anyways, there’s a lot of things that I wouldn’t have admitted three days ago. But I’ve got sense now—I’ve got a new viewpoint. An’ somehow, what I’m goin’ to tell you don’t seem to come hard. Because it’s the truth, I reckon. I’ve knowed it right along, but kept holdin’ it back.
“Dade had me sized up right. He said I was a false alarm; that I’d been thinkin’ of myself too much; that I’d forgot that there was other people in the world. He was right; I’d forgot that other people had feelings. But if he hadn’t told me that them was your views I’d have salivated him. But I couldn’t blame him for repeatin’ things you’d said, because about that time I’d begun to do some thinkin’ myself.
“In the first place, I found that I wasn’t a whole lot proud of myself for guzzlin’ your grandad, but I’d made a mistake an’ I wasn’t goin’ to give you a chance to crow over me. I expect there’s a lot of people do that, but they’re on the wrong trail—it don’t bring no peace to a man’s mind. Then, I thought you was like all the rest of the women I’d known, an’ when I found out that you wasn’t, I thought you had the swelled head an’ I figgered to take you down a peg. When I couldn’t do that it made me sore. It made me feel some cheap when you showed me you trusted me, with me treatin’ you like I did; but if it’s any satisfaction to you, I’m tellin’ you that all the time I was treatin’ you mean I felt like kickin’ myself.
“I reckon that’s all. Don’t get the idea that I’m doin’ any mushin’. It’s just the plain truth, an’ I’ve had to tell you. That’s why I came over here—I wanted to square things with you before I leave. I reckon if I’d stay here you’d never know how I feel about it.”
She was staring at the floor, her face crimson, an emotion of deep gratitude and satisfaction filling her, though mingled with it was a queer sensation of regret. Her judgment of him had been vindicated; she had known all along that this moment would come, but, now that it had come, it was not as she had pictured it—there was discord where there should be harmony; something was lacking to make the situation perfect—he was going away.
She stood nervously tapping the floor with the toe of her shoe, hardly hearing his last words, almost forgetting that he was in the room until she saw his hand extended toward her. Then she looked up at him. There was a grave smile on his face.
“I reckon you’ll shake hands with me,” he said, “just to show that you ain’t holdin’ much against me. Well, that right,” he said when she hesitated; “I don’t deserve it.”
Her hand went out; he looked at it, with a start, and then seized it quickly in both of his, squeezed it hard, his eyes aflame. He dropped it as quickly, and turned to the door, saying: “You’re a brave little girl.”
She stood silent until his hands were on the fastenings of the door.
“Wait!” she said. She attempted to smile, but some emotion stiffened her lips, stifling it. “You haven’t had your supper,” she said; “won’t you eat if I get it ready?”
“No time,” he said. “The law don’t advertise its movements, as a usual thing, an’ Toban’s liable to be here any minute. An’,” he added, a glint of the old hardness in his eyes, “I ain’t lettin’ him take me. It’s only twenty miles to the line, an’ the way I’m intendin’ to travel I’ll be over it before Toban can ketch me. I don’t want him to ketch me—he was a friend of my dad’s, an’ puttin’ him out of business wouldn’t help me none.”
“Will you be safe, then?” she asked fearfully.
“I reckon. But I won’t be stoppin’ at the line. I’m through here; there’s nothin’ here to hold me. I reckon I’ll never come back this way. Shucks!” he added, leaving the door and coming back a little way into the room; “I expect I’m excited. I come near forgettin’. It’s about the idol an’ the money an’ the ranch. I don’t want any of them. They’re yours. You’ve earned them an’ you deserve them. Go to Las Vegas an’ petition the court to turn the property over to you; tell the judge I flunked on the specifications.”
“I don’t want your property,” she said in a strange voice.
“You’ve got to take it,” he returned, with a quick look at her. “Here”—he drew a piece of paper and a short pencil from an inside pocket of his vest, and, walking to the table, wrote quickly, giving her the paper.
“I herewith renounce all claim to my father’s property,” it read; “I refuse the conditions of the will.”
It was signed with his name. While he stood watching her, she tore the paper to small bits, scattering them on the floor.
“I think,” she said, regarding him fixedly, “that you are not exactly chivalrous in leaving me this way; that you are more concerned over your own safety than over mine. What do you suppose will happen when the Taggarts discover that you have gone and that I am here alone?”
His eyes glinted with hatred. “The Taggarts,” he laughed. “Did you think I was going to let them off so easy? I’m charged with one murder, ain’t I? Well, after tonight there won’t be any Taggarts to bother anybody.”
“You mean to—” Her eyes widened with horror.
“I reckon,” he said. “Did you think I was runnin’ away without squarin’ things with them?” There was a threat of death in his cold laugh.
While she stood with clenched hands, evidently moved by the threat in his manner and words, he said “So-long,” shortly, and swung the door open.
She followed three or four steps, again calling upon him to “wait.” He turned in the doorway and went slowly back to her. She was nervous, breathless, and he looked wonderingly at her.
“Wait just a minute,” she said; “I have something to give you.”
She darted into the sitting-room; he could hear her running up the stairs. She was gone a long time, so long a time that he grew impatient and paced the floor with long, hasty strides. He was certain that it was fully five minutes before she reappeared, and then her manner was more nervous than ever.
“You act,” he said suspiciously, “as though you wanted to keep me here.”
“No, no,” she denied breathlessly, her eyes bright and her cheeks aflame. “How can you think that? I have brought you some money; you will need it.” She had a leather bag in her hands, and she seized it by the bottom and turned out its contents—a score or more of twenty-dollar gold pieces.
“Take them,” she said as he hesitated. And, not waiting for him to act, she began to gather them up. She was nervous, though, and dropped many of them several times, so that he felt that time would have been gained if she had not touched them. He returned them to the bag, with her help, and placed the bag in a pocket of his trousers. Then once more he said good-by to her.
This time, however, she stood between him and the door, and when he tried to step around her she changed her position so as to be always in front of him.
“Tell me where you are going?” she said.
“What do you want to know for?” he demanded.
“Just because,” she said; “because I want to know.”
His eyes lighted with a deep fire as he looked at her. She was very close to him; he felt her warm breath; saw her bosom heave rapidly, and a strange intoxication seized him.
“Shall I tell you?” he said, with sudden hoarseness, as though asking himself the question. He grasped her by the shoulders and looked closely at her, his eyes boring, probing, as though searching for some evidence of duplicity in hers. For an instant his gaze held. Then he laughed, softly, self-accusingly.
“I tho
ught you was stringin’ me—just for a minute,” he said. “But you’re true blue, an’ I’ll tell you. I’m goin’ first to the Arrow to hand the Taggarts their pass-out checks. Then I’m hittin’ the breeze to Durango. If you ever want me, send for me there, an’ I’ll come back to you, sheriff or no sheriff.”
She put out a hand to detain him, but he seized it and pressed it to her side, the other with it. Then his arms went around her shoulders, she was crushed against him, and his lips met hers.
Then she was suddenly released, and he was at the door.
“Good-by,” he said as he stood in the opening, the glare of light from the lamp showing his face, pale, the eyes illumined with a fire that she had never seen in them; “I’m sorry it has to end this way—I was hopin’ for somethin’ different. You’ve made me almost a man.”
Then the door closed and he was gone. She stood by the table for a few minutes, holding tightly to it for support, her eyes wide from excitement.
“Oh,” she said, “if I could only have kept him here a few minutes longer!”
She walked to the door and stood in the opening, shading her eyes with her hands. He had not been gone long, but already he was riding the river trail; she saw him outlined in the moonlight, leaning a little forward in the saddle, the black running with a long, swift, sure stride. She watched them until a bend in the trail shut them from view, and then with a sob she bowed her head in her arms.
CHAPTER XXII
NEAL TAGGART VISITS
When a little later Betty heard hoof-beats in the ranchhouse yard—the sounds of a horseman making a leisurely approach—she left the door and went out upon the porch.
She knew who the horseman was; she had seen him from the window of her room when she had gone upstairs to get the money for Calumet. More than once she had seen the sheriff coming over the hill—the same hill upon which Calumet and Neal Taggart had fought their duel—and she recognized the familiar figure. On his previous visits to the ranchhouse, however, Toban had left his horse in the timber clump near the house. She was not surprised, though, to hear him coming into the ranchhouse yard tonight, for his errand now was different.
The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack Page 210
