"BOB"
Five minutes after leaving the kitchen of the ranchhouse Calumet stood
beside the rotted rails of the corral fence near the stable, frowning,
fully conscious that he had been worsted in the verbal battle just
ended. He was filled with a disagreeable sense of impotence; he felt
small, mean, cheap, and uncomfortable, and was oppressed with
indecision. In short, he felt that he was not the same man who had
ridden up to the Lazy Y ranchhouse at twilight the night before--in
twelve hours a change had come over him. And Betty had wrought it. He
knew that.
Had he only to do with Malcolm--or any man, for that matter--there
would have been no doubt of his course. He would have hustled out
Malcolm or any other man long before this, and there would have been an
end to it. But Betty had made it quite plain to him that she did not
purpose to leave, and, since he had had little experience with women,
he was decidedly at a loss to discover a way to deal with her. That he
could not rout her by force was certain, for he could not lay hands on
a woman in violence, and he was by no means certain that he wanted her
to leave, because if she did it was highly probable that he would never
get his hands on the money his father had left. Of course he could
search for the money, but there came to his mind now tales of treasure
that had never been recovered, and he was reluctant to take any
chances. On the other hand, he was facing the maddening prospect of
living for a year under the eyes of a determined young woman who was to
be the sole judge of his conduct. He was to become a probationer and
Betty was to watch his every move.
He wondered, making a wry face at the thought, whether she intended to
record his actions in a book, giving him marks of merit or demerit
according as the whim struck her? In that case she had probably
already placed a black mark against him, perhaps several.
He stood long beside the fence, considering the situation. It was odd
to the point of unreality, but, no matter how odd, it was a situation
that he must face, because he had already decided to stay and make an
attempt to get the money. He certainly would not go away and leave it
to Betty; he would not give her that satisfaction. Nor did he intend
to be pliable clay in her hands, to become in the end a creature of her
shaping. He would stay, but he would be himself, and he would make the
Claytons rue the day they had interfered in his affairs.
Leaning on the top rail of the fence, his gaze roved over the sweep of
valley, dull and cheerless in the early dawn, with a misty film rising
up out of it to meet and mingle and evaporate in the far-flung colors
of the slow-rising sun. Once his gaze concentrated on a spot in the
distance. He detected movement, and watched, motionless, until he was
certain. Half a mile it was to the spot--a low hill, crested with
yucca, sagebrush, and octilla--and he saw the desert weeds move,
observed a dark form slink out from them and stand for an instant on
the skyline. Wolf or coyote, it was too far for him to be certain, but
he watched it with a sneer until it slunk down into the tangle of sage,
out of his sight.
He presently forgot the slinking figure; his thoughts returned to
Betty. He did not like her, she irritated him. For a woman she was
too assertive, too belligerent by half. Though considering her now, he
was reluctantly compelled to admit that she was a forceful figure, and,
reviewing the conversation he had had with her a few minutes before,
the picture she had made standing in the doorway defying him, mocking
him, rebuking him, he could not repress a thrill of grudging admiration.
For half an hour he stood at the corral fence. He rolled and smoked
three cigarettes, his thoughts wrapped in memories of the past and
revolving the problem of his future. Once Betty stood in the kitchen
door for fully a minute, watching him speculatively, and twice old
Malcolm passed him on the way to do some chore, eyeing him curiously.
Calumet did not see either of them.
Nor did he observe that the slinking form which he had observed moving
among the weeds on the distant hill in the valley had approached to
within twenty yards of him, was crouching in a corner of the corral
fence, watching him with blazing, blood-shot eyes, its dull gray hair
bristling, its white fangs bared in a snarl.
It had been a long stalk, and the beast's jaws were slavering from
exertion. It watched, crouching and panting, for a favorable moment to
make the attack which it meditated.
It had seen Calumet from the hill and had dropped down to the level,
keeping out of sight behind the sagebrush and the clumps of mesquite,
crossing the open places on its belly, stealing upon him silently and
cunningly. So cautious had been its approach that old Malcolm had not
seen it when fifteen minutes before he had passed Calumet and had
paused for a look at him. The beast had been in a far corner of the
fence then, and had slunk close to the ground until Malcolm had passed.
Nor had Malcolm seen it just a moment before when he had crossed the
ranchhouse yard behind Calumet to go to the bunkhouse, where he was
now. The instant Malcolm had disappeared within the bunkhouse, the
beast had stolen to its present position.
The attack was swift and silent. Calumet was puffing abstractedly at a
cigarette when he became aware of a rush of air as the gray shape
flashed up from the ground. Calumet dodged involuntarily, throwing up
an arm to fend off the shape, which catapulted past him, shoulder-high.
The beast had aimed for his throat; his long fangs met the upthrust arm
and sank into it, crunching it to the bone.
The force of the attack threw Calumet against the corral fence. The
beast struck the ground beyond him noiselessly, its legs asprawl, its
hair bristling from rage. Ten feet beyond Calumet the force of its
attack carried it, and it whirled swiftly, to leap again.
But Calumet was not to be surprised the second time. Standing at the
fence, his eyes ablaze with hatred and pain, he crouched. As the beast
leaped Calumet's hand moved at his hip, his heavy six-shooter crashed
spitefully, its roar reverberating among the buildings and startling
the two gaunt horses in the corral to movement. The gray beast
snarled, crumpled midway in its leap, and dropped at Calumet's feet. A
dark patch on its chest just below the throat showed where the bullet
had gone. But apparently the bullet had missed a vital spot, for the
beast struggled to its feet, dragging itself toward Calumet, its fangs
slashing impotently.
Calumet stepped back a pace, his face malignant with rage and hate, his
eyes gleaming vengefully. He heard a scream from somewhere--a shrill
protest in a voice which he did not recognize, but he paid no attention
to it until he had deliberately emptied his six-shooter into the beast,
putting the bullets where they would do the most good. When the weapon
was emptied and the beast lay prone in the dust at his feet, its great
jaws agape and dripping with blood-flecked foam, Calumet turned and
looked up.
He saw Malcolm Clayton come out of the bunkhouse door, and noticed
Betty running toward him from the ranchhouse. Betty's sleeves were
rolled to the elbows, her apron fluttering the wind, and the thought
struck Calumet that she must have been washing dishes when interrupted
by the shooting. But it was not she who had screamed--he would have
recognized her voice. Then he saw a huddled figure leaning against the
corner of the stable nearest the ranchhouse; the figure of a boy of
twelve or thirteen. He had a withered, mis-shapen leg--the right one;
and under his right arm, partly supporting him, was a crude crutch.
The boy was facing Calumet, and at the instant the latter saw him he
looked up, his pale, thin face drawn and set, his eyes filled with an
expression of reproach and horror.
He was not over fifteen feet distant from Calumet, and the latter
watched him with a growing curiosity until Betty ran to him and folded
him into her arms. Then Calumet began to reload his six-shooter,
ignoring Malcolm, who had come close to him and was standing beside the
corral fence, breathing heavily and trembling from excitement.
"It's Lonesome!" gasped Malcolm, his lips quivering as he looked at the
beast; "Bob's Lonesome!"
Calumet flashed around at him, cursing savagely.
"What you gettin' at, you damned old gopher?" he sneered.
"It's Lonesome!" repeated Malcolm, his weather-lined face red with
resentment and anger. He showed no fear of Calumet now, but came close
to him and stood rigid, his hands clenched. "It's Lonesome!" he
repeated shrilly; "Bob's Lonesome!" And then, seeing from the
expression of Calumet's face that he did not comprehend, he added:
"It's Bob's dog, Lonesome! Bob loved him so, an' now you've gone an'
killed him--you--you hellhound! You--"
His quavering voice was cut short; once more his throat felt the
terrible pressure of Calumet's iron fingers. For an instant he was
held at arm's length, shaken savagely, and in the next he was flung
with furious force against the corral fence, from whence he staggered
and fell into a corner.
Calumet turned from him to confront Betty. Her eyes were ablaze, and
one hand rested with unconscious affection on Bob's head as the boy
stood looking down at the body of the dog, sobbing quietly. Betty was
trying to keep her composure, but at her first words her voice trembled.
"So you've killed Lonesome," she said. Calumet had finished reloading
his pistol, and he folded his arms over his chest, deliberately
shielding the left, which Lonesome had bitten, thus hiding the red
patches that showed on the shirt sleeve over the wound. He would not
give Betty the satisfaction of seeing that he had been hurt.
"Lonesome," explained Betty, frigidly, "was a dog--he was Bob's dog.
Bob loved him. I suppose you didn't know that--you couldn't have
known. We believed him to be part wolf. Bob found him on the Lazette
trail, where he had evidently been left behind, probably forgotten, by
some traveler who had camped there. Bob brought him home and raised
him. He has never been known to exhibit any vicious traits. You were
born in the West," she went on, "and ought to be able to tell the
difference between a dog and a wolf. Did you take Lonesome for a wolf?"
"I reckon," sneered Calumet, determined not to be lectured by her,
"that I've got to give a reason for everything I do around here. Even
to killin' a damn dog!"
"Then," she said with cold contempt, "you killed him in pure
wantonness?"
It was plain to Calumet that she was badly hurt over the dog's death.
Certainly, despite her cold composure, she must be filled with rage
against him for killing the animal. He might now have exhibited his
arm, to confound her with the evidence of his innocence of wantonness,
and very probably she would have been instantly remorseful. But he had
no such intention; he was keenly alive to his opportunity to show her
that he was answerable to no one for his conduct. He enjoyed her
chagrin; he was moved to internal mirth over her impotent wrath; he
took a savage delight in seeing her cringe from the evidence of his
apparent brutality. He grinned at her.
"He's dead, ain't he?" he said. "An' I ain't makin' no excuses to you!"
She gave him a scornful glance and went over to Malcolm, who had
clambered to his feet and was crouching, his face working with passion.
At the instant Betty reached him he was clawing at his six-shooter,
trying to drag it from the holster. But Betty's hand closed over his
and he desisted.
"Not that, grandpa," she said quietly. "Shooting won't bring Lonesome
back. Besides"--she turned toward Calumet and saw the cold grin on his
face as his right hand dropped to his hip in silent preparation for
Malcolm's menacing movement--"don't you see that he would shoot you as
he shot Lonesome? He just can't help being a brute!"
She turned her back to Calumet and spoke in a low voice to her
grandfather, smoothing his hair, patting his shoulders--calming him
with all a woman's gentle artifices. And Calumet stood watching her,
marveling at her self-control, feeling again that queer, thrilling
sensation of reluctant admiration.
He had forgotten Bob. Betty had left the boy standing alone when she
had gone over to Malcolm, and Bob had hobbled forward when Calumet had
turned to follow the girl's movements, so that now he stood just behind
Calumet. The latter became aware of the boy's presence when the latter
seized his left hand from behind, and he turned with a snarl, his
six-shooter half drawn, to confront the boy, whose grip on the hand had
not been loosened. Calumet drew the hand fiercely away, overturning
Bob so that he fell sprawling into the dust at his feet. The youngster
was up again before Betty and Malcolm could reach him, hobbling toward
Calumet, his thin face working from excitement, his big eyes alight
over the discovery he had made.
"He didn't kill Lonesome because he is mean, Betty!" he shrilled; "I
knew he didn't! Look at his arm, Betty! It's all bloody! Lonesome
bit him!"
In spite of Calumet's efforts to avoid him, the boy again seized the
arm, holding it out so that Betty and Malcolm could see the patches on
the sleeve and the thin red streak that had crawled down over the back
of his hand and was dripping from the finger tips.
Malcolm halted in his advance on Calumet and stealthily sheathed his
weapon. Betty, too, had stopped, a sudden wave of color overspreading
her face, the picture of embarrassment and astonishment.
"Why didn't you tell us?" she asked accusingly; "it would have saved--"
"Saved you from makin' a fool of yourself," interrupted Calumet. "You
certainly did prove that I'm a mighty mean man," he added, mockingly.
"I didn't tell you because it's none of your business. It's only a
scratch, but I ain't lettin' no damned animal chaw me up an' get away
with it." He drew the hand away from the boy and placed it behind him
so that Betty could not look at it, which she had been doing until now,
with wide, frightened eyes. She came forward when he placed the hand
behind him, and stood close to him, determination in her manner.
"I want to see how badly you have been bitten," she said.
"Go finish washin' your dishes," he advised, with a sneer. "That's
where you belong. Until you an' your bunch butted in with your palaver
I was enjoyin' myself. You drive me plumb weary."
Betty faced him resolutely, though now there was contrition in her
manner, in her voice. She spoke firmly.
"I am sorry for what I said to you before--about Lonesome. I thought
you had killed him just to be mean, to hurt me. I will try to make
amends. If you will come into the house I will dress your arm--it must
be badly injured."
Calumet's lips curled, then straightened, and he looked down at her
with steady hostility.
"I ain't got no truck with you at all," he said. "When I'm figgerin'
on lettin' you paw over me I'll let you know." He turned shortly and
walked over to the door of the stable, where he fumbled at the
fastenings, presently swinging the door open and vanishing inside.
Five minutes later, when he came out with the pony saddled and bridled,
he found that Betty and Malcolm had gone. But Bob stood over the dead
body of Lonesome, silently weeping.
For a moment, standing beside his pony, Calumet watched the boy, and as
he stood a queer pallor overspread his face and his lips tightened
oddly. For something in the boy's appearance, in the idea of his
exhibition of grief over his dog, which Malcolm had said he loved,
smote Calumet's heart. As he continued to watch, his set lips moved
strangely, and his eyes glittered with a light that they had not yet
known. Twice he started toward the boy, and twice he changed his mind
and returned to his pony to continue his vigil. The boy was unaware of
his presence.
The third time Calumet reached his side, and the big rough palm of his
right hand was laid gently on the boy's head.
"I reckon I'm sorry, you damned little cuss," he said huskily as the
youngster looked up into his face. "If I'd have knowed that he was
your dog I'd have let him chaw my arm off before I'd have shot him."
The boy's eyes glowed with gratitude. Then they sought the body of
Lonesome. When he looked up again Calumet was on his pony, riding
slowly past the bunkhouse. The boy watched him until he rode far out
into the valley.