PROGRESS
Calumet had some thoughts on the subject but they were all inchoate and
unsatisfying. He got only one conclusion out of them--that for some
mysterious reason he had surrendered to Betty and was going to work to
repair the ranchhouse.
On the morning following his visit to Lazette he sat on a piece of
heavy timber which he and Dade had lifted a few minutes before to some
saw-horses preparatory to framing. Armed with a scratch awl and a
square Dade was at the other end of the timber, his hat shoved back
from his forehead while he ran his fingers through his hair as though
pondering some weighty problem. Watching him, Calumet suffered a
recurrence of that vague disquiet which had moved him the night before
when he had listened to the cordial greeting which Betty had given the
young man. Old friendship had been between the two and somehow it had
disturbed Calumet. He did not know why. He didn't like Betty, but at
the same time every smile that she had given Dade the night before had
caused some strange emotion to grip him. And he liked Dade, too. He
couldn't understand that, either.
He had never been friendly with any man. But something about Dade
appealed to him; he felt tolerant toward him, was mildly interested in
him. He thought it was because Dade was boyish and impulsive.
Whatever it was, he knew of its existence. It was not a deep feeling;
it was like the emotion that moves a large animal to permit a smaller
one to remain near it--a grudging tolerance which may develop into
sincere friendship or at a flash turn into a furious hatred. And so
Dade's security depended entirely upon how he conducted himself. If he
kept out of Calumet's way, all well and good. But if he interfered
with him, if, for instance, he became too friendly with Betty, there
would come an end to Calumet's tolerance.
And so there was a glint of speculative distrust in Calumet's eyes as
he sat and watched Dade ponder. Calumet was in no good humor. He felt
like baiting Dade.
"What you clawin' your head that way for?" he suddenly demanded as Dade
continued to puzzle over his problem.
Dade grinned. "I'm goin' to halve these sills together. But I'm
wantin' to make sure that the halves will be made reverse, so's they'll
fit. An' I don't seem to be able to fix it clear in my mind."
"You was braggin' some on bein' a carpenter."
"I reckon I wasn't doin' no braggin'," denied Dade, reddening a little.
Calumet fixed a hostile eye on him. "Braggin' goes," he said shortly.
"If you'd said you was a barber, now, no one would expect you to fit
any sills together. But when you say you've done carpenter work that
makes it different. You ought to _sabe_ sills."
Dade laid his square and scratch awl down on the piece of timber and
deliberately seated himself on the saw-horse beside it. He looked
defiantly at Calumet. A change had come over him from the day
before--the slight deference in his manner had become succeeded by
something unyielding and hard.
"Let's get on an understandin'," he said. "You can't go to pickin' on
me." And he looked fairly into Calumet's eyes over the length of the
timber.
"I'm gassin' to suit myself," said Calumet; "if that don't size up
right to you you can pull your freight."
"You're a false alarm," said Dade bluntly; "you drive me plumb weary."
Before his voice had died away Calumet's hand had flashed to his pistol
butt. Why he did not draw the weapon was a mystery known only to
himself. It might have been because Dade had not moved. Calumet's
lips had tensed over his teeth in a savage snarl; they still held the
snarl when he spoke.
"You'll swallow that," he said. "Do you _sabe_ my idea?"
"Nary swallow," declared Dade. "False alarm goes. I've got you sized
up right."
Calumet's six-shooter came out. His eyes, blazing with a wanton fire,
met Dade's and held them. The youngster's lips whitened, but his eyes
did not waver. Death twitched at Calumet's finger. There was a long
silence. And then Dade spoke.
"Usin' it?" he said.
Into Calumet's blazing eyes came a slow glint of doubt, of reluctant
admiration. His lashes flickered, the blaze died down, he squinted, a
cold, amused smile succeeded the snarl. He laughed shortly, looked at
the pistol, and then slowly jammed it back into the holster.
"You're too good to lose," he said. "I'm savin' you for another time."
"Thanks," said Dade dryly, though the ashen face of him showed how well
he realized his narrow escape. "I reckon we understand each other now.
I can see by the way you yanked out your gun just now and by the way
you got the drop on Taggart yesterday, that you're some on the shoot.
But I ain't none scared of you. An' now I'm tellin' you why I said
you're a false alarm. I was talkin' to Betty last night. She's read
up a bit, an' I'm parrotin' what she said about you because it's what I
think, too. Your cosmos is all ego. That's what Betty said. Brought
down to cases, what that means is that you've got a bad case of swelled
head. So far as you're concerned there's only one person in the world.
That's you. Nobody else counts. You've been thinkin' about yourself
so much that you can't find time to think about anybody else. There's
other people in the world as good as you--better. Betty's one of them.
She's a good girl an' you an' me'll hitch all right as long as you
don't go to bullyin' her. I reckon that's all."
"Meanin' that you'll let me hang around as long as I'm good," sneered
Calumet in a dangerously soft voice. He was trying to work himself
into a rage, but the effort was futile. Something in Dade's quiet,
matter-of-fact voice had a dulling, cooling effect on him. Besides, he
knew that an attack on Dade would be resented by Betty, and he felt a
strange reluctance toward further antagonizing her. "You Texas folks
are sure clever at workin' your jaws," he sneered, when Dade did not
answer. "But I reckon that lets you out. When I'm lookin' for advice
from women an' kids mebbe I'll call on you an' Betty, but if I don't
you'll understand that I'm followin' my own trail. You've got away
with one call because--well, because I was fool enough to let you.
Mebbe another time I won't feel so foolish."
There were few words spoken between them during the following hours of
the morning, though several times Dade caught Calumet watching him with
a puzzled, amused smile in which there was a sort of slumbering
ferocity. By the middle of the morning the front of the ranchhouse had
been raised with the assistance of jacks, the old rotted sills taken
out and new ones substituted. About an hour before noon, while
Calumet, in woolen shirt and overalls, his face dirty, his hair
tousled, and his temper none too good, was wedging the sill tight
against the studding above it, he became aware of Betty standing near
him. She nodded toward the sill.
"That makes an improvement already," she said.
"Ye-es?" he said, with an irritating drawl.
There was a silence; she stood, regarding his back, a faint smile on
her face.
"I want to compliment you on your judgment of horses," she persisted,
in an attempt to make him talk; "the ones you bought are fine."
Calumet drove a wedge home viciously. But he did not answer.
"I've been checking up your other purchases," she went on; "and I find
that you followed the list I gave you faithfully."
He turned and looked up. "Look here," he said; "I got what you wanted,
didn't I? There's no use of gettin' mush headed about it. I'd have
blowed the money just as quick, if I'd wanted to."
"But you didn't."
"Because you didn't want me to, I reckon?" he sneered.
"No. Because you wanted to be fair."
He had not known what sort of an answer he had expected from her, but
the one he got embarrassed him. He felt a reluctant pleasure over the
knowledge that she had faith in him, but mingling with this was a rage
against himself over his surrender. When she turned from him and
walked over to Dade, speaking to him in a low voice, he could not have
told which affected him most, his rage against himself or his
disappointment over her abrupt leave-taking. She irritated him, but
somehow he got a certain pleasure out of that irritation--which was a
wholly unsatisfying and mystifying paradox. He covertly watched Dade
during her talk with him and discovered that he did not like the way
the young man looked at her; he was entirely too familiar even if he
was a friend of the family. He saw, too, that Betty seemed to be an
entirely different person when talking to Dade. For one thing she
seemed natural, which she didn't seem when talking to him. Until he
saw her talking with Dade he had been able to see nothing in her manner
but restraint and stiff formality, but figuratively, when in Dade's
presence she seemed to melt--she was gracious, smiling, cordial.
Betty's attitude toward him during the noon meal puzzled him much.
Some subtle change had come over her. Several times he surprised her
looking at him, and at these times he was certain there was approval in
her glances, though perhaps the approval was mingled with something
else--speculation, he thought.
But whatever it was, he had not seen it before. Had he known that Dade
had told her about the incident of the Red Dog Saloon he would have
understood, for she was wondering--as Dade had wondered--why he had
pretended to make friends with Taggart, why he had asked the Arrow man
to visit the Lazy Y that afternoon.
After dinner Calumet went out again to his work, apparently carefree
and unconcerned, if we are to omit those thoughts in which Dade and
Betty figured, Dade watched him with much curiosity, for the incident
of the day before was still vivid in his mind, and if there had been.
mystery in Calumet's action in inviting Taggart to the Lazy Y there had
been no mystery in the words he had spoken outside the Red Dog Saloon
immediately afterward: "It's my game, do you hear?"
But along toward the middle of the afternoon Dade became so interested
that he forgot all about Taggart, and was only reminded of him when
looking up momentarily he saw Calumet sitting on a pile of timber near
the ranchhouse, leaning lazily forward, his elbows resting on his
knees, his chin on his hands, gazing speculatively into the afternoon
haze. Dade noted that he was looking southward, and he turned and
followed his gaze to see, far out in the valley, a horseman approaching.
Dade had turned stealthily and thought his movement had been unobserved
by Calumet, and he started when the latter slowly remarked:
"Well, he's comin', after all. I was thinkin' he wouldn't."
"That's him, all right, I reckon," returned Dade. He shot a glance at
Calumet's face--it was expressionless.
There was a silence until Taggart reached the low hill in the valley
where on the day following his coming to the Lazy Y Calumet had seen
Lonesome, before the dog had begun the stalk that had ended in its
death. Then Calumet turned to Dade, a derisive light in his eyes.
"Do you reckon Betty will be glad to see him?"
"I don't reckon you done just right in askin' him here after what he
said in the Red Dog," returned Dade.
Calumet seemed amused. "Shucks, you're a kid yet," he said. He
ignored Dade, giving his attention to Taggart, who was now near the
bunkhouse.
Taggart's coming was attended with interest by Malcolm, who, hearing
hoofbeats in the ranchhouse yard came to the door of the bunkhouse
where he had been doing some small task; by Bob, who hobbled out of the
stable door, his eyes wide; and by Betty, who, forewarned of the visit
by Dade, had come out upon the porch and had been watching his approach.
Dade was interested also, betraying his interest by covertly eyeing
Taggart as he drew his pony to a halt. But apparently Calumet's
interest was largely negative, for he did not move from his position,
merely glancing at Taggart as the latter halted his pony, grinning
mildly at him and speaking to him in a slow drawl.
"Get off your cayuse an' visit," he invited.
Taggart's smile was wide as he dismounted. He did not seem to look at
the others particularly, not even deigning a glance at Dade, but his
gaze fell on Betty with an insolent boldness that brought a flush to
that young lady's face. There was a challenge in the look he gave her.
He dismounted and bowed mockingly to her, sweeping his hat from his
head with a movement so derisive that it made Dade longingly finger his
pistol butt.
Calumet still sat on the pile of lumber. His smile was engaging even
if, as it seemed to Dade, it was a trifle shallow. But now Calumet
slowly got to his feet. He stood erect, yawned, and stretched himself.
Then turning, his back to Taggart, who had come close to him, he looked
at Betty, steadily, intently, with a command showing so plainly in his
eyes that the girl involuntarily started.
"Betty," he said slowly; "come here."
She went toward him, scarcely knowing why, yet remotely conscious of
something in his eyes that warned her that she must not refuse--a cold,
sinister gleam that hinted of approaching trouble. She walked to a
point near him and stood looking at him wonderingly. And now for the
first time since the beginning of their acquaintance she became aware
of a quiet indomitability in his character, the existence of which she
had suspected all along without having actually sensed it. She saw now
why men feared him. In his attitude, outwardly calm, but suggesting in
some subtle way the imminence of deadly violence; in his eyes, steady
and cold, but with something cruel and bitter and passionate slumbering
deep in them; in the set of his head and the thrust of his chin, there
was a threat--nay, more--a promise of volcanic action; of ruthless,
destroying anger.
Taggart, apparently, saw nothing of these things. He looked again at
Betty, his heavy face wreathed in an insolent half-smile. She saw the
look and instantly flushed and stiffened. But it appeared that Calumet
noticed nothing of her agitation or of Taggart's insulting glance. He
stood a little to one side of Taggart, and he spoke slowly and
distinctly:
"Taggart," he said; "meet my boss, Betty Clayton." He smiled grimly at
the consternation in Betty's face, at the black rage in Dade's.
"I have already had the honor of meeting Mr. Taggart," said Betty
coldly. "If that is what you--" She caught a glance from Calumet and
subsided.
Taggart was deeply amused; he guffawed loudly.
"That's rich," he said. "Why, man, I've knowed her ever since she's
been here. Me an' her's pretty well acquainted. In fact--"
"Well, now; that's odd," cut in Calumet dryly.
"What is?" questioned Taggart quickly, noting his tone.
"That I didn't remember," said Calumet.
"Remember what?" inquired Taggart.
"That I heard you gassin' about Betty to your Red Dog friends. You
rattled it off pretty glibly. You ought to remember what you said.
I'm wantin' you to repeat it while she's watchin' you. That's why I
wanted you to come over here."
"Why--" began Taggart. Then he hesitated, an embarrassed, incredulous
light in his shifting eyes. He looked from one to the other, not
seeming to entirely comprehend the significance of the command, and
then he saw the gleam in Betty's eyes, the derisive enjoyment in
Dade's, the implacable glint in Calumet's, knowledge burst upon him in
a sudden, sickening flood and his face paled. He looked at Calumet,
the look of a trapped animal.
"Get goin'!" said the latter; "we're all waitin'."
Taggart cursed profanely, stepping back a pace and reaching for his
pistol. But as in the Red Dog, Calumet was before him. Again his
right hand moved with the barely perceptible motion, and his
six-shooter was covering Taggart. The latter quickly withdrew his own
hand, it was empty. And in response to an abrupt movement of Calumet's
hand it went upward, the other following it instantly. Watchful,
alert, Calumet stepped forward, plucked Taggart's pistol from its
holster, threw it a dozen feet from him, swiftly passed a hand over
Taggart's shirt and waistband and then stepped back.
"You've got a minute," he said. "Sixty seconds to decide whether you'd
rather die with your boots on or get to talkin'. Take your time, for
there won't be any arguin' afterward."
Taggart looked into Calumet's eyes. What he saw there seemed to decide
him. "I reckon it's your trick," he said; "I'll talk."
"Get goin'."
"I said I'd made love to her."
A half-sneer wreathed Calumet's face. "I reckon that covers the ground
pretty well. You didn't say it that way, but we won't have you repeat
the exact words; they ain't fit to hear. The point is, did you tell
the truth?"
"No," said Taggart. He did not look at Betty and his face was scarlet.
"So you lied, eh? Lied about a woman! There's only one place for that
kind of a man. Crawl an' tell her you're a snake!"
Taggart had partly recovered his composure.
"Guess again," he sneered. "You're buttin' in where--"
Calumet dropped his pistol and took a quick step. With a swish his
right hand went forward to Taggart's face, one hundred and eighty
pounds of vengeful, malignant muscle behind it. There was the dull,
strange sound of impacting bone and flesh. Taggart's head shot
backward, he crumpled oddly, his legs wabbled and doubled under him and
he sank in his tracks, sprawling on his hands and knees in the sand.
For an instant he remained in this position, then he threw himself
forward, groping for the pistol Calumet had dropped. Calumet's booted
foot struck his wrist, and with a bellow of rage and pain he got to his
feet and rushed headlong at his assailant. Calumet advanced a step to
meet him. His right fist shot out again; it caught Taggart fairly in
the mouth and he sank down once more. He landed as before, on his
hands and knees, and for an instant he stayed in that position, his
head hanging between his arms and swaying limply from side to side.
Then with an inarticulate grunt he plunged forward and lay face
downward in the sand.
Calumet stood watching him. He felt Betty's hand on his arm, laid
there restrainingly, but he shook her viciously off, telling her to
"mind her own business." Malcolm had come forward; he stood behind
Betty. Dade had not moved, though a savage satisfaction had come into
his eyes. Bob stood in front of the stable door, trembling from
excitement. But besides Betty, none of them attempted to interfere,
and there was a queer silence when Taggart finally got to his feet.
He stood for an instant, glaring around at them all, and then his gaze
at last centered on Calumet. Calumet silently motioned toward Betty.
In response to the movement, Taggart's lips moved. "I'm apologizin',"
he said. He turned to his horse. After he had climbed into the saddle
he looked around at Calumet. He sneered through his swollen lips.
"You'll be gettin' what I owe you," he threatened.
"I'm your friend," jeered Calumet. "I've been your friend since the
day you tried to bore me with a rifle bullet out there in the
valley--the day I come here--after runnin' like a coyote from the
daylight. I've got an idea what you was hangin' around for that
day--I've got the same idea now. You're tryin' to locate that heathen
idol. You're wastin' your time. You're doin' more--you're runnin' a
heap of risk. For what you've just got is only a sample of what you'll
get if you stray over onto my range again. That goes for the sneakin'
thief you call your father, or any of your damned crowd."
He stood, slouching a little, watching Taggart until the latter rode
well out into the valley. Then without a word he walked over to the
sill upon which he had been working before the arrival of Taggart,
seized a hammer, and began to drive wedges wherever they were necessary.
Presently he heard a voice behind him, and he turned to confront Betty.
"I heard what you said to Taggart, of course, about him trying to shoot
you. I didn't know that. He deserved punishment for it. But I am
sure that part of the punishment you dealt him was administered because
of the way he talked about me. If that is so, I wish to thank you."
"You might as well save your breath," he said gruffly; "I didn't do it
for you."
She laughed. "Then why didn't you choose another place to call him to
account?"
He did not answer, driving another wedge home with an extra vicious
blow.
She watched him in silence for an instant, and then, with a laugh which
might have meant amusement or something akin to it, she turned and
walked to the house.