NEW ACQUAINTANCES
Calumet had been in no hurry, though maintaining its steady chop-trot
for most of the distance, Blackleg had set him down in Lazette in a
little over two hours.
Something had happened to Calumet. He had carefully considered the
phenomenon all the way over from the Lazy Y; he considered it now as he
sat sideways in the saddle before the rough board front of the Red Dog
Saloon. Betty had faith in him. That was the phenomenon--the unheard
of miracle. No one else had ever had faith in him, and so it was a new
experience and one that must be thoroughly pondered if he was to enjoy
it. And that he was enjoying it was apparent. Though he faced the Red
Dog Saloon he did not see it. He kept seeing Betty as she looked after
she had given him the money. "I know you will do the right thing," she
had said, or something very like that. It made no difference what her
words had been. What she meant was that she had faith in him. And her
eyes had said that she expected him to justify that faith.
But would he? He didn't know. For the first time in his life he was
afflicted with indecision over the possession of money. In the old
days--the Durango days--which now seemed to be far behind him, the
thousand dollars in his pocket would have served to finance a brief
holiday of license and drinking and reckless play with gambling
devices. But now it was different--something within him had called--or
was calling--a halt. He told himself that it was because he had a
curiosity to follow this strange, freakish plan of Betty's to the end.
Some other emotion was calling just as strongly for him to do with the
money as he had always done with money. And so indecision afflicted
him. Humor likewise. He rarely felt in this mood. Not for years had
he felt like laughing. Was he the Calumet Marston who, a week before,
had set out on his homeward journey filled with bitterness--looking for
trouble? Had he been at the Lazy Y a day or a year? It was a day--two
days--but it seemed more like the longer time. At least the time had
wrought a change in him. It was ludicrous, farcical. In spite of his
treatment of Betty she had faith in him! Wasn't that just like a
woman? There was nothing logical in her. She had taken him on trust.
The whole business was in the nature of a comedy and suddenly yielding
to his feelings he straightened in the saddle and laughed uproariously.
He did not laugh long, and when he sobered down and with an effort
brought his mind back to the present, he became aware of the Red Dog,
saw a young cowpuncher seated on the board sidewalk in front of the
building, his back resting against it, laughing in sympathy with him.
Calumet was disconcerted for a moment. His eyes narrowed truculently.
But then, as the oddness of the situation struck him he laughed again.
But this time as he laughed he took stock of the young cowpuncher, who
was again laughing with him.
The puncher was young--very young; not more than twenty-one or two.
There was a week's growth of beard on his face. A saddle reposed by
his side. In spite of his laughter something about him spoke
eloquently of trouble. Calumet felt a sudden interest in him. Any man
who could laugh when the world was not doing well with him must be made
of good stuff. But Calumet's interest was cynical and it brought a
sneer to his lips as he ceased laughing and sat loosely in the saddle
regarding the puncher.
"I reckon you ain't got no objections to tellin' me what you're
laughin' at?" he said coldly.
"Mebbe you'd put me wise to the same thing," said the other. "I'm
settin' here, puttin' in a heap of my time tryin' to figger out who got
the most of the six months' wages which I had with me when I struck
town yesterday--an' not makin' a hell of a lot of progress--when you
mosey up here an' begin to laugh your fool head off. At nothin', so
far's I can see. Well, that's what I was laughin' at. Ketch my drift?"
"Meanin' that I'm nothin', I reckon?"
"Meanin' that you was laughin' at it," said the puncher with a
deprecatory smile. "I ain't lookin' for trouble--I'm it!"
Calumet's eyes twinkled. This was a very discerning young man.
"Cleaned out, I reckon," he said. "You look old enough to _sabe_ that
playin' with a buzz saw is mild amusement compared with buckin' a
gambler's game."
"Got singed yourself, I reckon," said the puncher wearily. "You know
the signs. Well, you've hit it. They'd have got my saddle, too,
only--only they didn't seem to want it. There's still charity in the
world, after all--some guys don't want everything. So I'm considerin'
the saddle a gift. It's likely, though, that they thought that if they
left me the saddle I'd go right out an' rustle me another job an' earn
some more coin an' come back an' hand that over, too. But they've got
me wrong. Your little Dade Hallowell has swore off. He ain't never
goin' to get the idea again that he's a simon-pure, dyed-in-the-wool
card sharp."
"Another job? Then you're disconnected at present?"
"I'm free as the water. Ugh!" he shivered. "I couldn't even wash my
face in it this mornin'. Water's a weak sister after last night." His
expression changed. "I reckon you're in clover, though. Any man which
can laugh to hisself as you was laughin', certainly ain't botherin' his
head about much."
This quick turn of the conversation brought Calumet's thoughts back to
Betty. "Looks is deceivin'," he said. "I've got a heap of burden on
my mind. I've got a thousand dollars which is botherin' me
considerable."
The puncher sat erect, his eyes bulging.
"You've got a thousand!" he said "Oh, Lordy! An' you're botherin'
about it?"
"It ain't none of your business, of course," said Calumet. "An' I
reckon I'm tellin' you about it so's you'll feel mean about losin' your
own. But mebbe not. Mebbe I'm tellin' you about it because I've got
somethin' else in mind. When I first seen you I was filled clear to
the top with doubt. If you had my thousand what would you do with it?"
"Meanin' that if I had your thousand an' was in your place?"
"I reckon."
"That would depend," said the puncher, cautiously. "If I'd robbed a
man, or held up a stage coach, or busted a bank, I'd be burnin' the
breeze out of the country. But if I'd earned it honest I'd blow myself
proper, beginnin' by settin' 'em up to a fool guy which had give all
his coin to some card sharps yesterday."
"None of them things fill the bill," said Calumet. "This thousand was
give to me by a woman. I'm to buy things with it--horses, wagon,
lumber, hardware, an' such truck."
"Shucks," said the puncher, disappointedly. Over his face settled a
glum expression. "Then you ain't got no right to spend it--for
anything but what she told you about. You'd be worse'n a thief to
squander that money."
Calumet looked keenly at him. "I reckon you're more'n half right.
You've settled a thing in my mind. If you're hangin' around here when
I get through buyin' them things I'll be settin' them up to you. If
I've got anything left." He abruptly broke off and urged his pony
about, leaving the puncher to look after him speculatively.
Two hours later he returned, driving two horses which were hitched to a
wagon of the "prairie-schooner" variety. The wagon was loaded with
lumber and sundry kegs, boxes and packages. Calumet's pony trailed it.
The puncher was still where Calumet had left him--apparently he had not
moved. But when he saw Calumet halt the horses in front of him and
jump out of the wagon he got to his feet. He met Calumet's gaze with a
sober, interested smile.
"That wagon of yours is speakin' mighty loud of work," he said. "Back
in Texas I used to be counted uncommon clever with a saw an' hammer.
If you can rassle them two statements around to look them in the face
you can see what I'm drivin' at."
"What do you think you are worth to a man who ain't got no authority to
do any hirin'?" said Calumet.
"Ain't you the boss?" said Dade, disappointedly.
"The boss is a woman. If you're wantin' to work you can come along.
You'll have to take your chance. Otherwise--"
"I'll go you," said the puncher. He threw his saddle into the wagon.
"You said somethin' about a drink," he added, "if you had anything
left. I'm hopin'--"
Calumet hesitated.
"Just one," said Dade. "Mebbe two. Not more than three--or four. If
your ranch is far--"
"Twenty miles."
"About two, then," suggested Dade. "You wouldn't feel satisfied to
know that it was here an' you left it."
"Well, then, get a move on you," growled Calumet. He followed Dade
into the Red Dog.
It was quiet in the barroom. Three men sat at a table near the center
of the room, laughing and talking. They looked up with casual interest
as Dade and Calumet entered, favored them with quick, appraising
glances, and then resumed their talk and laughter. Behind the bar the
proprietor waited, indolently watching.
"I'll take red-eye," said Dade; "the same that made me think I was a
sure enough gambler last night. Did you ever notice," he added,
turning to Calumet, who was filling his glass, "what a heap of
confidence whisky will give a man? Take me, last night. Things was
lookin' rosy. Them gamblers looked like plumb easy pickin'. The more
whisky I drank the easier they looked, until--"
"Have another drink," invited the proprietor, for it was at one of his
tables that Dade had played. His smile was bland and his manner suave
and smooth. He shoved a bottle toward Dade. At the same time he
looked with interest upon Calumet.
"Stranger here, I reckon?" he said. "I seen you loadin' a heap of
stuff into your wagon. What's your ranch?"
"The Lazy Y."
The proprietor started and peered closer at Calumet. "That's old
Marston's place, ain't it?" To Calumet's slow nod, he continued:
"Betty Clayton's runnin' it now. They say old Marston was the meanest
old coyote that ever--"
Calumet's gaze was level and direct, and the proprietor shrank under
its cold malignance. Calumet leaned forward. "You're talkin' to the
old coyote's son right now," he said. "An' you can speak right out
loud in meetin' an' say that you was gassin' through your hat!"
The proprietor paled, then reddened. "I'm beggin' your pardon," he
said. "I reckon--you see--there's been talk--"
"Sure," said Calumet. He smiled. It was the smile of reluctant
tolerance. "Just talk," he added. "But it won't be healthy
talk--hereafter."
"Have another drink," invited the proprietor, and he pulled a
handkerchief from a pocket and wiped the sudden perspiration from his
forehead. Then he retreated to the far end of the bar, from whence he
tried to appear unconcerned.
Dade finished his drink and set the glass down. But he was visibly
excited.
"Betty Clayton," he said, looking sharply at Calumet. "Has she got a
granddad named Malcolm Clayton, an' a brother Bob?"
"That's her." Calumet returned Dade's sharp glance. "What's eatin'
you? Know her? Know Bob? Know Malcolm?"
"Know them!" said Dade. "Why, man, they was neighbors of mine in
Texas!"
Calumet's eyes narrowed. A pulse of some strong emotion was revealed
in his face, but it was instantly subdued. "That's joyful news--for
you. So you know her? It's likely she'll be glad to see you."
Dade was mystified by his tone. "I reckon I ain't gettin' this thing
just right," he said. "You told me Betty was runnin' the ranch, an'
you tell this man that you're the son of the man that owns it. I don't
see--"
Calumet smiled saturninely. "Take another drink," he advised. He
shoved the bottle toward Dade. "This is your fourth. Then we'll be
hittin' the breeze to the Lazy Y. Betty'll be lonesome without me."
He laughed raucously, filled his glass and drank its contents. Then he
turned from the bar and walked toward the door. Half way to it, Dade
following him, he halted, for the voice of a man who sat at a table
reached him.
"Aw, Taggart," it said loudly, "you're crowdin' the ante a little,
ain't you?" The speaker laughed. "They tell me that Betty Clayton
ain't no man's fool. An' here you say--" The rest of it was drowned
in a laugh that followed, the other two men joining the speaker.
"Stuck on me, I tell you!" said another voice, and Calumet, half turned
toward the table, saw the speaker's face. It was the face of an
egotist--the vain, sensuous visage of a man in whom the animal
instincts predominated--the face of the rider that Calumet had seen on
the hill in the valley on the day of his return--the face of the man
who had shot at him. The man was good-looking in a coarse, vulgar way,
and dissipated, gross, self-sufficient. Calumet's eyes narrowed with
dislike as he looked at him. There was interest in his glance, too,
for this was his father's enemy--his enemy. But after the first look
his face became inscrutable. He turned to see Dade standing beside
him. Dade was rigid, pale; his body was in a half-crouch and there was
an expression of cold malignance on his face. Quickly Calumet placed
both hands on the young man's shoulders and shoved him back against the
bar, thrusting his own body between him and Taggart.
"Easy there," he warned in a whisper. "He's my meat."
Dade caught the mirthless smile on his lips and looked at him
curiously, his attitude still belligerent.
"He's talkin' about Betty, the damned skunk!" he objected. His voice
was a low, throaty whisper and it did not carry to the table where the
three men sat.
"He was sure talkin' about her," said Calumet inexpressively. "An'
I'll admit that any man who talks that way about a woman is what you've
called him. But it's my funeral," he added, his voice suddenly cold
and hard, "an' you ain't buttin' in, whatever happens. Buy yourself
another drink," he suggested; "you look flustered. I'm havin' a talk
with Taggart."
He left Dade standing at the bar looking at him wonderingly, and made
his way slowly to the table where Taggart sat. Taggart was drinking
when Calumet reached his side, and Dade stood tense, awaiting the
expected clash.
But none came. Calumet's grin as he nodded to Taggart was almost
friendly, and his voice was soft, even--almost gentle.
"I heard one of these man call you Taggart," he said. "I reckon you're
from the Arrow?"
Taggart leaned back in his chair and insolently surveyed his
questioner. What he saw in Calumet's face made his own pale a little.
"I'm Taggart," he said shortly--"Neal Taggart. What you wantin' of me?"
Calumet smiled. "Nothin' much," he said. "I thought mebbe you'd like
to know me. We're neighbors, you know. I'm Marston--Calumet Marston,
of the Lazy Y."
The color receded entirely from Taggart's face, leaving it with a queer
pallor. He abruptly shoved back his chair and stood, his eyes alert
and fearful as his right hand stole slowly toward the butt of the
pistol at his hip. Calumet's right hand did not seem to move, but
before Taggart could get his weapon free of its holster he saw the
sombre muzzle of a forty-five frowning at him from Calumet's hip and he
quickly drew his own hand away--empty.
"Shucks," Calumet's voice came slowly into the silence that had
fallen--slowly and softly and with apparently genuine deprecation. "If
I'd known that you was goin' to get that excited I'd have broke the
news different. I don't know what you're gettin' at, trying to drag
your gun out that way. I was hopin' we'd be friends. We ought to, you
know, bein' neighbors."
"Friends?" Taggart stepped back a pace and looked at Calumet
incredulously, his eyes searching for signs of insincerity. He saw no
such signs, for if Calumet had emotion at this minute it was too deep
to be uncovered with a glance. But he knew from Taggart's perturbation
that the latter knew him to be the man he had shot at that day in the
valley.
Obviously, he had not then had any suspicion as to his identity--his
surprise showed that he had not. And his half-fearful, puzzled looks
at Calumet indicated to the latter that he was wondering whether
Calumet recognized him as the man who had done the shooting.
Calumet's smile was cordial, inviting, even slightly ingratiating, and
watching him closely Taggart was convinced that he was not recognized.
Also he was certain that Calumet could not have learned anything of the
trouble between their parents. Yet Betty knew, and if Betty hadn't
told him there must be something between them--dislike or greed on
Betty's part--and a smile appeared on his face as he remembered that he
had heard his father say that Calumet had been vicious and unmanageable
in his youth. He must be at odds with Betty.
And Betty--well, a shyster lawyer in Las Vegas had told Taggart
something about a will which old Marston had made, in which Betty had
been named as beneficiary of the property in case Calumet failed to
agree to certain specifications, and Taggart was ready to believe that
Betty would not hesitate to bring about an open clash with Calumet in
order to gain control of the ranch. This thought filled Taggart with a
savage exultation. He and his father had made very little progress in
their past attacks on the Lazy Y, and if it were possible to set
Calumet against Betty there might come an opportunity to drive a wedge
which would make an opening--the opening they had long sought for. At
all events he would have considered himself a fool if he failed to take
advantage of this opportunity to ingratiate himself into the good
nature of this man.
"Well, that's right, I reckon," he said. "There ain't no reason that I
know of why we shouldn't be friends. I'm right glad to see you." He
stuck out his right hand, but it appeared that Calumet did not notice
it, for he laughed as he replaced the pistol in its holster.
"Same here," he said. "If you're passin' the Lazy Y any time, drop in
an' visit. I'm fixin' her up a few--enough so's I can live in the old
shack."
Taggart had noted with a lowering frown Calumet's omission of the
proffered handshake, but the cordial good nature of the smile on the
latter's face was unmistakable, and he grinned in reply.
"I'll sure do that," he said.
"I'll be right glad to have you," said Calumet. "Come tomorrow--in the
afternoon--any time."
"You reckonin' on bein' the boss now?" questioned Taggart.
Some emotion flickered Calumet's eyelashes. "You've said somethin',"
he returned; "nobody's runnin' me." He turned and walked to Dade, who
had been watching him with wrath and astonishment.
"Drinkin'?" suggested Taggart. "Have a drink, old man," he said, with
celluloid good fellowship.
Calumet turned with a grin. "Me an' my friend has got to the end of
our capacity," he said. "He's workin' for me an I ain't settin' him a
bad example. The next time, if you're in the humor, I'll be glad to
drink all you can buy." He waved a hand behind him, with the other he
was pushing Dade before him toward the door. "So-long," he said, as he
and Dade went out.
Taggart laughed as he turned to his companions, who had said nothing
during the conversation.
"Friends!" he said; "he's green an' due for a shock!"
Either Taggart or the proprietor had made a mistake in their estimate
of Calumet. For at the instant Taggart had sneered at Calumet to his
friends, the bartender, who had come in while Taggart and Calumet had
been talking, leaned over to listen to the proprietor.
"In Taggart's place," said the proprietor, "I'd be mighty careful of
that man. Friend, eh? Well, mebbe. But you noticed that he didn't
offer to shake hands with Taggart. An' he wouldn't drink. Reached his
capacity! He had four in here. Sober as a judge! Did you notice his
eyes? They fair made me shiver when he looked at me when I was talkin'
about his old man. I'm goin' to be damn careful about my palaver after
this. Friend! Well, if I wasn't his friend I'd be damn careful not to
rile him!"
Outside Dade halted, white hot with rage.
"I reckon I ain't got no job with you, you white-livered--"
The muzzle of Calumet's forty-five, magically produced, it seemed, so
quickly did it show in his hand, was making an icy ring against Dade's
throat, and the words, the epithet for which he had hesitated, remained
unspoken. Metallic, venomous and filled with a threat of death came
Calumet's voice.
"You sufferin' fool!" he said, the words writhing through his lips, his
eyes blazing. "It's my game, do you hear? An' if you gas another word
about it I'll tear you apart!"
"He was blackguardin' Betty," objected Dade, his face ashen, but his
spirit still undaunted. "He was blackguardin' her an' you made friends
with him. I'd have salivated him if I'd thought you wasn't goin' to.
I'm goin' back there now an'--"
Calumet stepped back a pace and cocked his six-shooter. "I reckon I
can't make you understand that it's my game," he said coldly. "Walk
backwards when you go in," he directed; "I don't want to plug you in
the back."
Dade started and looked intently at Calumet. "You mean that it ain't
ended between you an' him?" he demanded.
"Some people would have tumbled to that long ago," jeered Calumet.
"But kids--kids take longer to _sabe_ a thing. I'm glad you're over
it," he added. He sheathed his pistol. "I reckon we'll be goin'," he
said. "Betty'll begin to believe I'm lost."
Dade followed him to the wagon, meekly enough now that he had received
unmistakable proof that Taggart was Calumet's "game," and shortly
afterward the wagon pulled out of Lazette and struck the trail toward
the Lazy Y.