A PAGE FROM THE PAST
Darkness had fallen when Calumet returned to the Lazy Y. He had passed
the day riding over the familiar ranges, returning to almost forgotten
spots, reviving the life of his youth and finding the memories irksome.
He was in no pleasant frame of mind when he rode in, and he disdained
the use of the corral or the stable, staking his horse out in the
pasture, remembering the scant supply of grain in the bin in the
stable, and telling himself that "them two skates"--referring to the
horses he had seen in the corral--"need it worse than Blackleg," his
own pony.
After staking Blackleg out, he took the saddle and bridle from the
animal and stalked toward the ranchhouse. A light burned on the
kitchen table. He saw it from a distance and resisted an impulse to
enter the house from the kitchen, walking, instead, around to the
front, where he found the door to the office unbarred. He threw the
saddle into a corner, lighted the candle that still stood on the desk
where he had placed it the night before, and stood for a long time in
its glare, examining the ragged gashes on his arm. Twice during the
day he had washed the wounds with water secured from the river, binding
the arm with a handkerchief; but he noted with a scowl that the arm was
swollen and the wound inflamed. He finally rewound the bandage, tieing
the ends securely. Then he stood erect beside the desk, listening and
undecided.
No sound reached his ears. The Claytons, he assured himself, must have
retired.
He walked over to the sofa and sat upon it, frowning. He was hungry,
having been without food since morning, and he found himself wondering
if he might not find food in the kitchen. Obeying an impulse, he got
up from the sofa and went to the door through which Betty had entered
the night before, noting that it was still barred as he had left it
that morning. He carefully removed the fastenings and swung the door
open, intending to go into the kitchen. He halted on the threshold,
however, for beside a table in the dining room, in the feeble glare of
a light that stood at her elbow, sat Betty, reading a book.
She looked up as the door opened, betraying no surprise, smiling
mildly, and speaking as she might have spoken had she been addressing a
friend.
"Won't you come in?"
She placed the book down, sticking a piece of paper between the leaves
to mark her place, and stood up.
"I have been waiting for you. I heard you come in. I expected you for
supper, and when you didn't come I saved yours. If you will come out
into the kitchen I will get it for you."
Calumet did not move. Had Betty shown the slightest dismay or
perturbation at sight of him he would not have hesitated an instant in
walking past her to get the food which she had said was in the kitchen.
But her easy unconcern, her cool assumption of proprietorship, aroused
in him that obstinacy which the revelation of her power over him had
brought into being. He did not purpose to allow her to lead him to
anything.
"I don't reckon I'll grub," he said.
"Then of course you have been to Lazette," she returned. "You had
dinner there."
"Look here," he said truculently; "does it make any difference to you
where I've been or what I've done?"
"Perhaps it really doesn't make any difference," she answered calmly;
"but of course I am interested. I don't want you to starve."
His face expressed disgust. "Holy smoke!" he said; "I reckon I ain't
man enough to take care of myself!"
"I don't think that is the question. Can't we get at it in the proper
spirit? You belong here; you have a right to be here. And I am here
because your father wanted me to stay. I want you to feel that you are
at home, and I don't want to be continually quarreling with you. Be
mean and stubborn if you want to--I suppose you can't help that. But
so long as conditions are as they are, let us try to make the best of
them. Even if you don't like me, even if you resent my presence here,
you can at least act more like a human being and less like a wild man.
Why," she continued, with a dry laugh, "just now you spoke of being a
man, and this morning after you killed Lonesome you acted like a big,
over-grown boy. You had your arm hurt and refused to allow me to dress
it. Did you think I wanted to poison you?"
"What I thought this morning is my business," returned Calumet gruffly.
Betty's voice had been quietly conversational, but it had carried a
subtle sting with its direct mockery, and Calumet felt again as he had
felt the night before, like an unruly scholar being rebuked by his
teacher. Last night, though, the situation had been a novel one; now
the thought that she was laughing at him, taunting him, filled him with
rage.
"Mebbe you'll be interested in knowin' what I think right now," he
said. "It's this: you've got a bad case of swelled head. You're one
of them kind of female critters which want to run things their own way.
You're--"
Her laugh interrupted him. "We won't argue that again, if you please.
If you remember, you had something to say on that subject last night,
and I want you to know that I haven't the slightest desire to hear your
opinion of me. Won't you sit down?" She invited again, motioning to a
chair beside the table, opposite hers. "If you absolutely refuse to
eat, I presume there is no help for it, though even if you had dinner
in Lazette you must be hungry now, for a ride of twenty miles is a
strict guarantee of appetite. Please sit down. There is something I
want to give you, something your father left for you. He told me to
have you read it as soon as you came."
She stood motionless until Calumet left the door and seated himself in
the chair beside the table, and then she went out of the room; he could
hear her steps on the stairs. She returned quickly and laid a bulky
envelope on the table beside him.
"Here it is," she said.
As Calumet took up the envelope and tore it open she dropped into the
other chair, took up her book, opened it, and settled herself to read.
Calumet watched her covertly for a moment, and then gave his attention
to the contents of the envelope.
There were a number of sheets of paper on which Calumet recognized his
father's handwriting.
"MY SON:--Feeling that I am about to die, it is my desire to do what I
can toward setting things right between us. Betty Clayton will tell
you that I have repented of my treatment of you, but she cannot tell
you how deep is the realization of the injury I have done you through
my inhuman attitude toward you. I fear that I have ruined your
character and that it may be too late to save you from those passions
which, if not checked, will spoil your life.
"I know that children sometimes inherit the evil that has abided with
their parents, and I am certain that you have inherited mine, because
while you stayed at home I saw many evidences of it, aye, I used to
delight in its manifestation. Toward the end of your stay at home I
grew to hate you. But it was because of that woman. If ever there was
an evil spirit in the guise of a human being, it was she. She--well,
you will learn more of her later.
"I am going to try at this late day to repair the damage I did you. I
have come to the conclusion that the surest way to do this is to force
you to give me in death that respect and veneration which you refused
me while I lived. You see that, in spite of my boasted repentance, I
still have left a spark of satanic irony, and I do not expect you to
believe me when I tell you that I have planned this for your own good.
But it seems to me that if you can exhibit respect for the one who is
directly responsible for your cursed passions you will be able to
govern them on all occasions. That is my conviction, and if you do not
agree with me there is no hope for you.
"Betty Clayton will tell you the conditions, and she will be your
judge. I believe in Betty, and if you do not see that she is a
true-blue girl you are more of a fool than I think you are."
At this point Calumet glanced sidelong at Betty, but she seemed
engrossed in her book, and he resumed reading.
"That is all I have to say on that subject. You will have to look to
Betty for additions. By this time, if she has carried out my wishes,
she has told you what you may expect. I have told her the story which
I am going to tell you, and I am certain that when you have finished it
you will see that I am not entirely to blame. You will see, too, what
havoc Tom Taggart has wrought in my life; why he has tried many times
to kill me. Calumet, beware of the Taggarts! For the last five years
they have been a constant menace to me; I have been forced to be on my
guard against them day and night. They have hounded me, induced my men
to betray me. In five years I have not slept soundly because of them.
But I have foiled them. I am dying now, and that which they seek will
be hidden until you fulfill the conditions which I impose on you. I
know you are coming home--I can feel it--and I know that when you read
what is to follow you will be eager to square my account with Tom
Taggart.
"Before going any further, before you read my story, I want you to know
that the cursed virago whom you saw buried in the cottonwood was not
your real mother. Your mother died giving you birth, and her body lies
in a quiet spot beside the Rio Pecos, at Twin Pine crossing, about ten
miles north of the Texas border. God rest her."
Again Calumet glanced at Betty. She was reading, apparently
unconscious of him, and without disturbing her Calumet laid down the
finished page and took up another.