CALUMET'S GUARDIAN
A new silence fell; a silence pregnant with a premonition of renewed
strife. Calumet felt it and the evil in him exulted. He left the desk
and stepped close to the girl, deftly picking up the fallen pistol and
placing it on the desk back of him, out of the girl's reach. She
watched him, both hands pressed over her bosom, apparently still
stunned over the revelation of his identity. There was mystery here,
Calumet felt it and was determined to uncover it. He took up the chair
that he had previously overturned and seated himself on it, facing the
girl.
"Set down," he said, waving a hand toward another chair. In response
to his invitation she moved toward the chair, hesitated when she
reached it, apparently having nearly recovered her composure, though
her face was pale and she watched him covertly, half fearfully. While
she seated herself Calumet got out of his chair and took up the candle,
placing it on the desk beside the pistol. This done, he busied himself
with the rolling of a cigarette, working deliberately, an alert eye on
the girl and her grandfather.
The latter had recovered and was sitting rigid in the chair, fear and
wonder in his eyes as he watched Calumet. To him Calumet spoke when he
had completed the rolling of the cigarette and was holding a flaring
match to it. He took a tigerish amusement from the old man's plight.
"I reckon I come pretty near doin' for you, eh?" he said, grinning.
"Well, there ain't no tellin' when a man will make a mistake." His
gaze left the old man and was directed at the girl. "I reckon we'll
clear things up a bit now, ma'am," he said. "What are you an' your
grand-pap doin' at the Lazy Y?"
"We live here."
"Where's the old coyote which has been callin' himself my dad?"
A sudden change came over the girl; a vindictive satisfaction seemed to
radiate from her. So it appeared to Calumet. In the flashing look she
gave him he thought he could detect a knowledge of advantage, a
consciousness of power, over him. Her voice emphasized this impression.
"Your father's dead," she returned, and watched him narrowly.
Calumet's eyelashes flickered once. Shock or emotion, this was all the
evidence he gave of it. He puffed long and deeply at his cigarette and
not for an instant did he remove his gaze from the girl's face, for he
was studying her, watching for a recurrence of the subtle gleam that he
had previously caught. But in the look that she now gave him there was
nothing but amusement. Apparently she was enjoying him. Certainly she
had entirely recovered from the shock he had caused her.
"Dead, eh?" he said. "When did he cash in?"
"A week ago today."
Calumet's eyelashes flickered again. Here was the explanation for that
mysterious impulse which had moved him to return home. It was just a
week ago that he had taken the notion and he had acted upon it
immediately. He had heard of mental telepathy, and here was a working
illustration of it. However, he gave no thought to its bearing on his
presence at the Lazy Y beyond skeptically assuring himself that it was
a mere coincidence. In any event, what did it matter? He was here;
that was the main thing.
His thoughts had become momentarily introspective, and when his mental
faculties returned to a realization of the present he saw that the girl
was regarding him with an intense and wondering gaze. She had been
studying him and when she saw him looking at her she turned her head.
He experienced an unaccountable elation, though he kept his voice dryly
sarcastic.
"I reckon the ol' fool asked for me?"
"Yes."
This time Calumet could not conceal his surprise; it was revealed in
the skeptical, sneering, boring glance that he threw at the girl's
face, now inscrutable. Her manner angered him.
"I reckon you're a liar," he said, with cold deliberation.
The girl reddened quickly; her hands clenched. But she did not look at
him.
"Thank you," she returned, mockingly.
"What did he say?" he demanded gruffly, to conceal a slight
embarrassment over her manner of receiving the insult.
Her chin lifted disdainfully. "You wouldn't believe a liar," she said
coldly.
Again her spirit battled his. The dark flush spread over his face and
he found that he could not meet her eyes; again the sheer, compelling
strength of her personality routed the evilness in his heart.
Involuntarily, his lips moved.
"I reckon I didn't mean just that," he said. And then, surprised that
such words should come from him he looked up to see the hard calm of
her face change to triumph.
The expression was swiftly transient. It baffled him, filling him with
an impotent rage. But he watched her narrowly as she folded her hands
in her lap and looked down at them.
"Your father expected you to come," she said quietly. "He prayed that
you might return before he died. It seems that he felt he had treated
you meanly and he wanted to tell you that he had repented."
A cynical wonder filled Calumet, and he laughed--a short, raucous
staccato.
"How do you know?" he questioned.
"He told me."
Calumet considered her for a moment in silence and then his attention
was directed to her grandfather, who had got to his feet and was
walking unsteadily toward the dining-room door. He was a
well-preserved man, appearing to be about sixty. That Calumet's attack
had been a vicious one was apparent, for as the man reached the door he
staggered and leaned weakly against the jambs. He made a grimace at
Calumet and smiled weakly at the girl.
"I'm pretty well knocked out, Betty," he said. "My neck hurts, sorta.
I'll send Bob in to keep you company."
The girl cast a sharp, eloquent glance at Calumet and smiled with
straight lips.
"Don't bother to send Bob," she replied; "I am not afraid."
The grandfather went out, leaving the door open. While the girl stood
listening to his retreating steps, Calumet considered her. She had
said that she was not afraid of him--he believed her; her actions
showed it. He said nothing until after her grandfather had vanished
and his step was no longer heard, and then when she turned to him he
said shortly:
"So your name's Betty. Betty what?"
"Clayton."
"An' your grandpap?"
"Malcolm Clayton."
"Who's Bob?"
"My brother."
"Any more Claytons around here?" he sneered.
"No."
"Well," he said with truculent insolence; "what in Sam Hill are you-all
doin' at the Lazy Y, anyway?"
"I am coming to that presently," she returned, unruffled.
"Goin' to work your jaw again, I reckon?" he taunted.
The hard calm came again into her face as she looked at him, though
behind it was that subtle quality that hinted of her possession of
advantage. Her manner made plain to him that she held some mysterious
power over him, a power which she valued, even enjoyed, and he was
nettled, baffled, and afflicted with a deep rage against her because of
it. Dealing with a man he would have known what to do, but he felt
strangely impotent in the presence of this girl, for she was not
disturbed over his insults, and her quiet, direct glances affected him
with a queer sensation of guilt, even embarrassed him.
"Well?" he prompted, after a silence.
"I am going to tell you about your father," she said.
"Make it short," he said gruffly.
"Five years ago," said the girl, ignoring the insolent suggestion; "my
father and mother died. My father had been a big cattle owner," she
added with a flash of pride. "He was very wealthy; he was educated,
refined--a gentleman. We lived in Texas--lived well. I attended a
university in the South. In my second year there I was called home
suddenly. My father was ill from shock and disappointment. He had
invested heavily in some northern enterprise--it will not interest you
to know the nature of it--and had lost his entire fortune. His ranch
property was involved and had to be sold. There was barely enough to
satisfy the creditors. Father died and mother soon followed him.
Grandfather, Bob, and I were left destitute. We left the ranch and
took up a quarter section of land on the Nueces. We became nesters and
were continually harassed by a big cattle owner nearby who wanted our
range. We had to get out. Grandfather thought there might be an
opportunity to take up some land in this territory. Bob was--well, Bob
took mother's death so hard that we didn't want to stay in Texas any
longer. The outlook wasn't bright. Bob was too young to work--"
"Lazy, I reckon," jeered Calumet.
The girl's eyes flashed with a swift, contemptuous resentment and her
voice chilled. "Bob's leg was hurt," she said. She waited for an
instant, watching the sneer on Calumet's face, and then went on firmly,
as though she had decided not to let anything he said disturb her. "So
when Grandfather proposed coming here I agreed. We took what few
personal effects that were left us. We traveled for two months--"
"I ain't carin' to hear your family history," interrupted Calumet.
"You started to tell me about my dad."
"We were following the river trail near here," the girl went on firmly,
scorning to pay any attention to this insult; "when we heard shooting.
I stayed with the wagon while grandfather went to investigate. We
found two men--Tom Taggart and his son Neal--concealed in the
cottonwood, trying to shoot your father, who was in the house. Your
father had been wounded in the shoulder and it would not have been long
before--"
"Who are the Taggarts?" questioned Calumet, his lips setting strangely.
"They own a ranch near here--the Arrow. The motive behind their desire
to kill your father makes another story which you shall hear some time
if you have the patience," she said with jeering emphasis.
"I ain't particular."
The girl's lips straightened. "Grandfather helped your father drive
the Taggarts away," she went on. "Your father was living here alone
because several of his men had sought to betray him and he had
discharged them all. Your father was wounded very badly and
grandfather and I took care of him until he recovered. He liked us,
wanted us to stay here, and we did."
"Pretty soft for a pair of poverty-stricken adventurers," commented
Calumet.
The girl's voice was cold and distinct despite the insult.
"Your father liked me particularly well. A year ago he drew up a will
giving me all his property and cutting you off without a cent. He gave
me the will to keep for him."
"Fine!" was Calumet's dryly sarcastic comment.
"But I destroyed the will," went on the girl.
Calumet's expression changed to surprised wonder, then to mockery.
"You're locoed!" he declared. "Why didn't you take the property?"
"I didn't want it; it was yours."
Calumet forgot to sneer; his wonder and astonishment over the girl's
ability to resist such a temptation were so great as to shock him to
silence. She and her grandfather were dependants, abroad without means
of support, and yet the girl had refused a legacy which she and her
relative had undoubtedly earned. Such sturdy honesty surprised him,
mystified him, and he was convinced that there must have been some
other motive behind her refusal to become his father's beneficiary. He
watched her closely for a moment and then, thinking he had discovered
the motive, he said in a voice of dry mockery:
"I reckon you didn't take it because there was nothin' to take."
"Besides the land and the buildings, he left about twenty thousand
dollars in cash," she informed him quietly.
"Where is it?" demanded Calumet quickly.
Betty smiled. "That," she said dryly, "is what I want to talk to you
about." Again the consciousness of advantage shone in her eyes.
Calumet felt that it would be useless to question her and so he leaned
back in his chair and regarded her saturninely.
"Soon after your father became afflicted with his last sickness,"
continued Betty; "he called me to him and took me into his confidence.
He talked to me about you--about the way he had treated you. Both he
and your mother had been, he said, victims of uncontrollable tempers,
and were beset with elemental passions which he was certain had
descended to you. In fact, because of the hatred your mother bore
you--" She hesitated.
"Well, that too, belongs to the story which you will hear about Taggart
when you have the patience," she continued. "But your father repented;
he saw the injustice he had done you and wanted to repair it. He was
certain, though, that this curse of temper was deep-seated in you and
he wanted to drive it out. He felt that when you finally came home you
would need reforming, and he did not want you to profit by his money
until you forgave him. He had strange notions regarding your
reformation; he declared he would not take your word for it, but would
insist on a practical demonstration. When he had fully explained his
ideas on the subject he made me swear that I would carry them out."
She paused and looked at Calumet and he saw that the expression of
advantage that had been in her eyes all along was no longer a subtle
expression, but plain and unmistakable.
Calumet watched her intently, silently, his face a battleground for the
emotions that rioted within him. The girl watched him with covert
vigilance and he felt that she was enjoying him. And when finally she
saw the rage die out of his eyes, saw the color come slowly back into
his cheeks and his face become a hard, inscrutable mask, she knew that
the coming struggle between them was to be a bitter one.
"So," he said, after a while; "I don't get the coin until I become a
Sunday school scholar?"
"It is specified that you give a practical demonstration of reform in
character. You must show that you forgive your father."
"You're goin' to be my guardian?"
"Your judge," corrected the girl.
"He's got all this in the will?"
"Yes, the last one he made."
"You don't reckon I could break that will?" he sneered.
"Try it," she mocked. "It has been probated in Las Vegas. The judge
happens to be a friend of your father's and, I understand, sympathized
with him."
"Clever, eh?" said Calumet, grinning crookedly.
"I am glad you think so," she taunted.