RESPONSIBILITY
For a long time after he had completed the reading of the letter,
Calumet was silent, staring straight ahead of him. The information
contained in the account of his father's adventures was soothing--the
termagant who had presided over his boyhood destinies had not been his
real mother, and his father had left him a score to settle. He already
hated the Taggarts, not particularly because they were his father's
enemies, but rather because Tom Taggart had been a traitor. He felt a
contempt for him. He himself was mean and vicious--he knew that. But
he had never betrayed a friend. It was better to have no friend than
to have one and betray him. He looked around to see that Betty was
still apparently absorbed in her book.
"Do you know what is in this letter?" he said.
She laid the book in her lap and nodded affirmatively.
"You opened it, I suppose?" he sneered.
"No," she returned, unmoved. "Your father read it to me."
"Kind of him, wasn't it? What do you think of it?"
"What I think isn't important. What do you think of it?"
"Nosey, eh?" he jeered. "If it won't inconvenience you any, I'll keep
what I think of it to myself. But it's plain to me now that when you
caught me tryin' to guzzle your granddad you thought I belonged to the
Taggart bunch. You told me I'd have to try again--or somethin' like
that. I reckon you thought I was after the idol?"
"Yes."
"Then the Taggarts have tried to get it since you've been here?"
"Many times."
"But you left the front door open the night I came," insinuated
Calumet, his eyes glowing subtly. "That looks like you was invitin'
someone to come in an' get the idol."
"We never bother much about barring the doors. Besides, I don't
remember to have told you that the idol is in the house," she smiled.
He looked at her with a baffled sneer. "Foxy, ain't you?" He folded
the letter and placed it into a pocket, she watching him silently. Her
gaze fell on the injured arm; she saw the angry red streaks spreading
from beneath the crude bandage and she got up, laying her book down and
regarding him with determined eyes.
"Please come out into the kitchen with me," she said; "I am going to
take care of your arm."
He looked up at her with a glance of cold mockery. "When did you get
my permission to take care of it? It don't need any carin' for. An'
if it did, I reckon to be able to do my own doctorin'."
She looked at him steadily and something in her gaze made him feel
uncomfortable.
"Don't be silly," she said. She turned and went out into the kitchen.
He could hear her working over the stove. He saw her cross the room
with a tea kettle, fill it with water from a pail, return and place the
kettle on the stove. He was determined that he would not allow her to
dress the wound, but when ten minutes later she appeared in the kitchen
door and told him she was ready, he got up and went reluctantly out.
She washed the arm, bathing the wound with a solution of water and some
medicine which she poured from a bottle, and then bandaged it with some
white cloth. Neither said anything until after she had delicately tied
a string around the bandage to keep it in place, and then she stepped
back and regarded her work with satisfaction.
"There," she said; "doesn't that feel better?"
"Some," he returned, grudgingly. He stood up and watched her while she
spread a cloth partly over the table and placed some dishes and food
upon it. He was hungry, and the sight of the food made him feel
suddenly ravenous. He watched her covertly, noting her matter-of-fact
movements. It was as though she had not the slightest idea that he
would refuse to eat, and he felt certain that he could not refuse. She
was making him feel uncomfortable again; that epithet, "silly," rankled
in him and he did not want to hear her apply it to him again. But he
would have risked it had she looked at him. She did not look at him.
When she had finally arranged everything to suit her taste she turned
her back and walked to the door of the dining-room.
"There is your supper," she said quietly. "I have fixed up your room
for you--the room you occupied before you left home. I am going to
leave the light burning in the dining-room--you might want to read your
letter again. Blow the light out when you go to bed. Good night."
He grumbled an incoherent reply, turning his back to her. Her calm,
unruffled acceptance of his incivility filled him with a cold
resentment.
"What did you say?" she demanded of him from the door.
He turned sullenly. The light mockery in her voice stung him, shamed
him--her eyes, dancing with mischief, held his.
"Good night," he said shortly.
"Good night," she said again. She laughed and vanished.
For an instant Calumet stood, scowling at the vacant doorway. Then he
turned and went over to the table in the kitchen, looking down at the
food and the dishes. She had compelled him to be civil. He gripped
one end of the table cloth, and for an instant it seemed as though he
meditated dumping dishes and food upon the floor. Then he grinned,
grimly amused, and sat in the chair before the table, taking up knife
and fork.
Early as he arose the next morning, he found that Betty had been before
him. He saw her standing on the rear porch when he went out to care
for his horse, and she smiled and called a greeting to him, which he
answered soberly.
For some reason which he could not explain he felt a little reluctance
toward going into the kitchen for breakfast this morning. Yet he did
go, though he waited outside until Betty came to the door and called
him. He was pretending to be busy at his saddle, though he knew this
was a pretext to cover his submission to her. He did not move toward
the house until she vanished within it.
He was quiet during the meal, wondering at the change that had come
over him, for he felt a strange resignation. He told himself that it
was gratitude for her action in caring for his injured arm, and yet he
watched her narrowly for any sign that would tell him that she was
aware of his thoughts and was enjoying him. But he was able to
determine nothing from her face, for though she smiled often there was
nothing in her face at which he could take offense. She devoted much
of her time and attention to Bob. And Bob talked to Calumet. There
was something about the boy that attracted Calumet, and before the meal
ended they were conversing companionably. But toward the conclusion of
the meal, when in answer to something Bob said to him he smiled at the
boy, he saw Betty looking at him with a glance of mingled astonishment
and pleasure, he sobered and ceased talking. He didn't want to do
anything to please Betty.
He was saddling Blackleg after breakfast, intending to go down the
river a short distance, when he became aware that Betty was standing
near him. Without a word she handed him a bulky envelope with his name
written on it. He took it, tore open an end, and a piece of paper,
enclosing several bills, slipped out. He shot a quick glance at Betty;
she was looking at him unconcernedly. He counted the bills; there were
ten one hundred dollar gold certificates.
"What's this for?" he demanded.
"Read the letter," she directed.
He unfolded the paper. It read:
"MY DEAR SON: The money in this envelope is to be used by you in buying
material to be used to repair the ranchhouse. I have prepared an
itemized list of the necessary materials, which Betty will give you.
Your acceptance of the task imposed on you will indicate that you
intend to fulfill my wishes. It will also mean that you seriously
contemplate an attempt at reform. The fact that you receive this money
shows that you are already making progress, for you would never get it
if Betty thought you didn't deserve it, or were not worthy of a trial.
I congratulate you.
"YOUR FATHER."
"Got it all framed up on me, eh?" said Calumet. "So you think I've
made progress, an' that I'm goin' to do what you want me to do?"
"Your progress hasn't been startling," she said dryly. "But you _have_
progressed. At least, you have shown some inclination to listen to
reason. Here is the itemized list which your father speaks of." She
passed over another paper, which Calumet scanned slowly and carefully.
His gaze became fixed on the total at the bottom of the column of
figures.
"It amounts to nine hundred and sixty dollars," he said, looking at
her, a disgusted expression on his face. "Looks like the old fool was
mighty careless with his money. Couldn't he have put down another item
to cover that forty dollars?"
"I believe that margin was left purposely to take care of a possible
advance in prices over those with which your father was familiar at the
time he made out the list," she answered, smiling in appreciation of
his perturbation.
"That's keepin' cases pretty close, ain't it?" he said. "Suppose I'd
blow the whole business?"
"That would show that you could not be trusted. Your father left
instructions which provide for that contingency."
"What are they?"
"I am not to tell."
"Clever, ain't it?" he said, looking at her with displeased, hostile
eyes. She met his gaze with a calm half-smile which had in it that
irritating quality of advantage that he had noticed before.
"I am glad you think it clever," she returned.
"It was your idea, I reckon?"
"I believe I did suggest it to your father. He was somewhat at a loss
to know how to deal with you. He told me that he had some doubts about
the scheme working; he said you would take it and 'blow' it in, as you
said you might, but I disagreed with him. I was convinced that you
would do the right thing."
"You had a lot of faith in me, didn't you?" he said, incredulously.
"You believed in a man you'd never seen."
"Your father had a picture of you," she said, looking straight at him.
"It was taken when you were fifteen, just before you left the ranch.
It showed a boy with a cynical face and brooding, challenging eyes.
But in spite of all that I thought I detected signs of promise in the
face. I was certain that if you were managed right you could be
reformed."
"You _were_ certain," he said significantly. "What do you think now?"
"I haven't altered my opinion." Her gaze was steady and challenging.
"Of course," she added, blushing faintly; "I believe I was a little
surprised when you came and I saw that you had grown to be a man. You
see, I had looked at your picture so often that I rather expected to
see a boy when you came. I had forgotten those thirteen years. But it
has been said that a man is merely a grown-up boy and there is much
truth in that. Despite your gruff ways, your big voice, and your
contemptible way of treating people, you are very much a boy. But I am
still convinced that you are all right at heart. I think everybody is,
and the good could be brought forward if someone would take enough
interest in the subject."
"Then you take an interest in me?" said Calumet, grinning scornfully.
"Yes," she said frankly; "to the extent of wondering whether or not
time will vindicate my judgment."
"Then you think I won't blow this coin?" he said, tapping the bills.
"I think you will spend it for the articles on the list I have given
you."
He looked at her and she was certain there was indecision in the glance.
"Well," he said abruptly, turning from her; "mebbe I will an' mebbe I
won't. But whatever I do with it will be done to suit myself. It
won't be done to please you."
He mounted his pony and rode to the far end of the ranchhouse yard.
When he turned in the saddle it was with the conviction that Betty
would be standing there watching him. Somehow, he wished she would.
But she was walking toward the ranchhouse, her back to him, and he made
a grimace of disappointment as he urged his pony out into the valley.