BETTY MEETS THE HEIR
An emotion which he did not trouble himself to define impelled Calumet
to wheel his pony when he reached the far end of the corral fence and
ride into the cottonwood where, thirteen years before, he had seen the
last of his mother. No emotion moved him as he rode toward it, but
when he came upon the grave he experienced a savage satisfaction
because it had been sadly neglected. There was no headboard to mark
the spot, no familiar mound of earth; only a sunken stretch, a pitiful
little patch of sand, with a few weeds thrusting up out of it, nodding
to the slight breeze and casting grotesque shadows in the somber
twilight.
Calumet was not surprised. It was all as he had pictured it during
those brief moments when he had allowed his mind to dwell on his past;
its condition vindicated his previous conviction that his father would
neglect it. Therefore, his satisfaction was not in finding the grave
as it was, but in the knowledge that he had not misjudged his father.
And though he had not loved his mother, the condition of the grave
served to infuse him with a newer and more bitter hatred for the
surviving parent. A deep rage and contempt slumbered within him as he
urged his pony out of the wood toward the ranchhouse.
He was still in no hurry, and soon after leaving the edge of the wood
he halted his pony and sat loosely in the saddle, gazing about him.
When he observed that he might be seen from the ranchhouse he moved
deep into the cottonwood and there, screened behind some nondescript
brush, continued his examination.
The place was in a state of dilapidation, of approaching ruin.
Desolation had set a heavy hand over it all. The buildings no more
resembled those he had known than daylight resembles darkness. The
stable, wherein he had received his last thrashing from his father, had
sagged to one side, its roof seeming to bow to him in derision; the
corral fence was down in several places, its rails in a state of decay,
and within, two gaunt ponies drooped, seeming to lack the energy
necessary to move them to take advantage of the opportunity for freedom
so close at hand. They appeared to watch Calumet incuriously,
apathetically.
Calumet felt strangely jubilant. A vindictive satisfaction and delight
forced the blood through his veins a little faster, for, judging from
the appearance of the buildings, misfortune must have descended upon
his father. The thought brought a great peace to his soul; he even
smiled when he saw that the bunkhouse, which had sheltered the many
cowboys whom he had hated, seemed ready to topple to destruction. The
smile grew when his gaze went to the windmill, to see its long arms
motionless in the breeze, indicating its uselessness.
When he had concluded his examination he did not ride boldly toward the
ranchhouse, but made a wide circuit through the wood, for he wanted to
come upon his father in his own way and in his own time; wanted to
surprise him. There was no use of turning his pony into the corral,
for the animal had more life in him than the two forlorn beasts that
were already there and would not stay in the corral when a breach in
the fence offered freedom. Therefore, when Calumet reached the edge of
the wood near the front of the house he dismounted and tied his pony to
a tree.
A moment later he stood at the front door, filled with satisfaction to
find it unbarred. Swinging it slowly open he entered, silently closing
it behind him. He stood, a hand on the fastenings, gazing about him.
He was in the room which his father had always used as an office. As
he peered about in the gray dusk that had fallen, distinguishing
familiar articles of furniture--a roll-top desk, several chairs, a
sofa, some cheap prints on the wall--a nameless emotion smote him and
his face paled a little, his jaws locked, his hands clenched. For
again the army of memories was passing in review.
For a long time he stood at the door. Then he left it and walked to
the desk, placing a hand on its top and hesitating. Doubtless his
father was in another part of the house, possibly eating supper. He
decided not to bother him at this moment and seated himself in a chair
before the desk. There was plenty of time. His father would be as
disagreeably surprised to meet him five minutes from now as he would
were he to stalk into his presence at this moment.
Once in the chair, Calumet realized that he was tired, and he leaned
back luxuriously, stretching his legs. The five minutes to which he
had limited himself grew to ten and he still sat motionless, looking
out of the window at the deepening dusk. The shadows in the wood near
the house grew darker, and to Calumet's ears came the long-drawn,
plaintive whine of a coyote, the croaking of frogs from the river, the
hoot of an owl nearby. Other noises of the night reached him, but he
did not hear them, for he had become lost in meditation.
What a home-coming!
Bitterness settled into the marrow of his bones. Here was ruin,
desolation, darkness, for the returning prodigal. These were the
things his father had given him. A murderous rage seized him, a lust
to rend and destroy, and he sat erect in his chair, his muscles tensed,
his blood rioting, his brain reeling. Had his father appeared before
him at this minute it would have gone hard with him. He fought down an
impulse to go in search of him and presently the mood passed, his
muscles relaxed, and he stretched out again in the chair.
Producing tobacco and paper he rolled a cigarette, noting with a
satisfied smile the steadiness of his hand. Once he had overheard a
man telling another man that Calumet Marston had no nerves. He knew
that; had known it. He knew also that this faculty of control made his
passions more dangerous. But he reveled in his passions, the
possession of them filled him with an ironic satisfaction--they were
his heritage.
While he sat in the chair the blackness of the night enveloped him. He
heard no sound from the other part of the house and he finally decided
to find and confront his father. He stood erect, lit the cigarette and
threw the match from him, accidentally striking his hand against the
back of the chair on which he had been sitting. Yielding to a sudden,
vicious anger, he kicked the chair out of the way, so that it slid
along the rough floor a little distance and overturned with a crash.
Calumet cursed. He was minded to take the chair up and hurl it down
again, so vengeful was the temper he was in, but his second sober sense
urged upon him the futility of attacking inanimate things and he
contented himself with snarling at it. He stood silent for a moment, a
hope in his heart that his father, alarmed over the sudden commotion,
would come to investigate, and a wave of sardonic satisfaction swept
over him when he finally heard a faint sound--a footstep in the
distance.
His father had heard and was coming!
Calumet stood near the center of the room, undecided whether to make
his presence known at once or to secrete himself and allow his father
to search for him. He finally decided to stand where he was and let
his father come upon him there, and he stood erect, puffing rapidly at
the cigarette, which glowed like a firefly in the darkness.
The steps came nearer and Calumet heard a slight creak--the sound made
by the dining-room door as it swung slowly open. A faint light filled
the opening thus made in the doorway, and Calumet knew that his father
had come without a light--that the faint glow came from a distance,
possibly from the kitchen, just beyond the dining-room. The lighted
space in the doorway grew wider until it extended to the full width of
the doorway. And a man stood in it, rigid, erect, motionless.
Calumet stood in silent appreciation of the oddness of the
situation--he had come like a thief in the night--until he remembered
the cigarette in his mouth; that its light was betraying his position.
He reached up, withdrew the cigarette, and held it concealed in the
palm of his hand.
But he was the fraction of a second too late. His father had seen the
light; was aware of his presence. Calumet saw a pistol glitter in his
hand, heard his voice, a little hoarse, possibly from fear, give the
faltering command:
"Hands up!"
Until now, Calumet had been filled with a savage enjoyment of the
possibilities. He had counted on making his presence known at this
juncture, anticipating much pleasure in the revelation of his father's
surprise when he should discover that the intruder was his hated son.
But in his eagerness to conceal the fire from the cigarette he burned
the palm of the hand holding it. Instantly he succumbed to a furious
rage. With a snarl he flung himself forward, grasping the man's pistol
with his left hand and depressing the muzzle, at just the instant that
it was discharged.
Calumet felt the sting of the powder in his face, and in a fury of
resentment he brought his right hand up and clutched his father's
throat. He had taken much pride in his ability to control his
passions, but at this moment they were unleashed. When his father
showed resistence, Calumet swung him free of the door, dragged him to
the center of the room, where he threw him heavily to the floor,
falling on top of him and jamming a knee savagely into the pit of his
stomach. Perhaps he had desisted then had not the man struggled and
fought back. His resistence made Calumet more furious. He pulled one
hand free and attempted to secure the pistol, forcing the hand holding
it viciously against the floor. The weapon was again discharged and
Calumet became a raging demon. Twice he lifted the man's head and
knocked it furiously against the floor, and each time he spoke, his
voice a hoarse, throaty whisper:
"So, this is the way you greet your son, you damned maverick!" he said.
So engrossed was Calumet with his work of subduing the still struggling
parent that he did not hear a slight sound behind him. But a
flickering light came over his shoulder and shone fairly into the face
of the man beneath him, and he saw that the man was not his father but
an entire stranger!
He was not given time in which to express his surprise, for he heard a
voice behind him and turned to see a young woman standing in the
doorway, a candle in one hand, a forty-five Colt clutched in the other,
its muzzle gaping at him. The young woman's face was white, her eyes
wide and brilliant, she swayed, but there was determination in her
manner that could not be mistaken.
"Get up, or I will shoot you like a dog!" she said, in a queer,
breathless voice.
[Illustration: "Get up, or I will shoot you like a dog!" she said.]
Releasing his grip on the man's throat, Calumet swung around sideways
and glared malevolently at the young woman. His anger was gone; there
was no reason for it, now that he had discovered that the man was not
his father. But the demon in him was not yet subdued, and he got to
his feet, not because the young woman had ordered him to do so, but
because he saw no reason to stay down. A cold, mocking smile replaced
the malevolence on his face when, after reaching an erect position, he
saw that the weapon in the young woman's hand had drooped until its
muzzle was directed toward the floor at his feet. A forty-five caliber
revolver, loaded, weighs about forty ounces, and this one looked so
unwieldy and cumbersome, so entirely harmless in the young woman's
slender hand, that her threat seemed absurd, even farcical. An
ironical humor over the picture she made standing there moved Calumet.
"I reckon you ought to use two hands if you want to hold that gun
proper, ma'am," he said.
The muzzle of the weapon wavered uncertainly; the young woman gasped.
Apparently the lack of fear exhibited by the intruder shocked her. But
she did not follow Calumet's suggestion, she merely stood and watched
him warily, as the man whom he had attacked struggled dizzily to his
feet, staggered weakly to a chair and half fell, half slipped into it,
swaying oddly back and forth, gasping for breath, a grotesque figure.
The demon in Calumet slumbered--this situation was to his liking. He
stepped back a pace, and when the young woman saw that he meditated no
further mischief she lowered the pistol to her side. Then, moving
cautiously, watching Calumet closely, she placed the candle on the
floor in front of her. Again she stood erect, though she did not raise
the pistol. Evidently she was regaining her composure, though Calumet
observed that her free hand came up and grasped the dress over her
bosom so tightly that the fabric was in danger of ripping. Her face,
in the flickering light from the candle on the floor, was slightly in
in the shadow, but Calumet could see that the color was coming back to
her cheeks, and he took note of her, watching her with insolent
intentness.
Of the expression in Calumet's eyes she apparently took no notice, but
she was watching the man he had attacked, plainly concerned over his
condition. And when at last she saw that he was suffering more from
shock than from real injury she breathed a sigh of relief. Then she
turned to Calumet.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded. She was breathing more
easily, but her voice still quivered, and the hand over her bosom moved
with a quick, nervous motion.
"I reckon that's my business," returned Calumet. He had made a
mistake, certainly, he knew that. It was apparent that his father had
left the Lazy Y. At least, if he were anywhere about he was not able
to come to investigate the commotion caused by the arrival of his son.
Either he was sick or had disposed of the ranch, possibly, if the
latter were the case, to the girl and the man. In the event of his
father having sold the ranch it was plain that Calumet had no business
here. He was an intruder--more, his attack on the man must convince
both him and the girl that there had been a deeper significance to his
visit. However, the explanation of the presence of the present
occupants of the house did not bother Calumet, and he did not intend to
set them right, for he was enjoying himself. Strife, danger, were
here. Moreover, he had brought them, and he was in his element. His
blood pulsed swiftly through his veins and he felt a strange
exhilaration as he stepped slightly aside and rested a hand on the desk
top, leering at the girl.
She returned his gaze and evidently divined something of what was in
his mind, for her chin lifted a little in defiance. The flickering
light from the candle fell on her hair, brown and wavy, and in a tumble
of graceful disorder, and threw into bold relief the firm lines of her
chin and throat. She was not beautiful, but she certainly merited the
term "pretty," which formed on Calumet's lips as he gazed at her,
though it remained unspoken. He gave her this tribute grudgingly,
conscious of the deep impression she was making upon him. He had never
seen a woman like her--for the reason, perhaps, that he had studiously
avoided the good ones. Mere facial beauty would not have made this
impression on him--it was something deeper, something more substantial
and abiding. And, watching her, he suddenly knew what it was. There
was in her eyes, back of the defiance that was in them now, an
expression that told of sturdy honesty and virtue. These gave to her
features a repose and calm that could not be disturbed, an unconscious
dignity of character that excitement could not efface, and her gaze was
unwavering as her eyes met his in a sharp, brief struggle. Brief, for
Calumet's drooped. He felt the dominant personality of the girl and
tried to escape its effect; looked at her with a snarl, writhing under
her steady gaze, a slow red coming into his cheeks.
The silence between them lasted long. The man on the chair, swaying
back and forth, began to recover his wits and his breath. He struggled
to an erect position and gazed about him with blood-shot eyes, feeling
his throat where Calumet's iron fingers had gripped it. Twice his lips
moved in an effort to speak, but no, sound came from between them.
Under the girl's uncomfortable scrutiny, Calumet's thoughts became
strangely incoherent, and he shifted uneasily, for he felt that she was
measuring him, appraising him, valuing him. He saw slow-changing
expressions in her eyes--defiance, scorn, and, finally, amused
contempt. With the last expression he knew she had reached a decision,
not flattering to him. He tried to show her by looking at her that he
did not care what her opinion was, but his recreant eyes refused the
issue and he knew that he was being worsted in a spiritual battle with
the first strong feminine character he had met; that her personality
was overpowering his in the first clash. With a last effort he forced
his eyes to steadiness and succeeded in sneering at her, though he felt
that somehow the sneer was ineffectual, puerile. And then she smiled
at him, deliberately, with a disdain that maddened him and brought a
dark flush to his face that reached to his temples. And then her voice
taunted him:
"What a big, brave man you are?"
Twice her gaze roved over him from head to foot before her voice came
again, and in the total stoppage of his thoughts he found it impossible
to choose a word suitable to interrupt her.
"For you _think_ you are a man, I suppose?" she added, her voice filled
with a lashing scorn. "You wear a gun, you ride a horse, and you
_look_ like a man. But there the likeness ends. I suppose I ought to
kill you--a beast like you has no business living. Fortunately, you
haven't hurt grandpa very much. You may go now--go and tell Tom
Taggart that he will have to try again!"
The sound of her voice broke the spell which her eyes had woven about
Calumet's senses, and he stood erect, hooking his thumbs in his
cartridge belt, unaffected by her tirade, his voice insolent.
"Why, ma'am," he said, mockingly, his voice an irritating drawl, "you
cert'nly are some on the talk, for sure! Your folks sorta handed you
the tongue for the family when you butted into this here world, didn't
they? An' so that's your grandpa? I come pretty near hurtin' him an'
you're some het up over it? But I reckon that if he has to set around
an' listen to your palaver he'd be right glad to cash in. Shucks. I
beg your pardon, ma'am. If it'll do you any good to know, I thought
your poor grandpap was some one else. I was thinkin' it was a family
affair, an' that I had a right to guzzle him. You see, I thought the
ol' maverick was my father."
The girl started, the color slowly faded from her cheeks and she drew a
long, tremulous breath.
"Then you," she said; "you are----" She hesitated and stared at him
intensely, her free hand tightly clenched.
He bowed, derisively, discerning the sudden confusion that had
overtaken her and making the most of his opportunity to increase it.
"I'm Calumet Marston," he said, grinning.
The girl gasped. "Oh!" she said, weakly; "Oh!"
The huge pistol slipped out of her hand and thudded dully to the floor
and she stood, holding tightly to the door jambs, her eyes fixed on
Calumet with an expression that he could not analyze.