JEALOUSY
Dade was asleep when Calumet got into bed, and he was still asleep when
Calumet awoke the next morning. Calumet descended to the kitchen. When
he opened the kitchen door Bob's dog ran between his legs and received a
kick that sent him, whining with pain and surprise, off the porch.
Dominating everything in Calumet's mind this morning was the bitter
conviction that Betty had deceived him. There had been ground for
Taggart's talk in the Red Dog--he saw that now. Taggart and Betty were
leagued against him. When he had brought Taggart face to face with Betty
that morning more than a month ago the Arrow man had pretended insolence
toward Betty in order to allay any suspicion that Calumet might have
concerning the real relations between them. It had been done cleverly,
too, so cleverly that it had convinced him. When he remembered the cold,
disdainful treatment that Betty had accorded Taggart that afternoon, he
almost smiled--though the smile was not good to see. He had championed
her--he knew now that it had been a serious championship--and by doing so
he had exposed himself to ridicule; to Betty's and Taggart's secret humor.
He discovered an explanation for Betty's conduct while he fed and watered
Blackleg. It was all perfectly plain to him. Neither Betty nor Taggart
had expected him to return to the Lazy Y. Betty's actions on the night
of his arrival proved that. She had exhibited emotion entirely out of
reason. Undoubtedly she and Taggart had expected to wait the year
specified in the will, certain that he would not appear to claim the
money or the idol, or they might have planned to leave before he could
return. But since he had surprised them by returning unexpectedly, it
followed that they must reconstruct their plans; they would have to make
it impossible for him to comply with his father's wishes. They could
easily do that, or thought they could, by making life at the ranch
unbearable for him. That, he was convinced, was the reason that Betty
had adopted her cold, severe, and contemptuous attitude toward him. She
expected he would find her nagging and bossing intolerable, that he would
leave in a rage and allow her and Taggart to come into possession of the
property. Neither she nor Taggart would dare make off with the money and
the idol as long as he was at the ranch, for they would fear his
vengeance.
He thought his manner had already forced Betty to give him his father's
letters and admit the existence of the idol--she had been afraid to lie
to him about them. And so Betty was "stringing" him along, as Taggart
had suggested, until he completed the repairs on the buildings, until he
had the ranch in such shape that it might be worked, and then at the end
of the year Betty would tell him that his reformation had not been
accomplished, and she and Taggart would take legal possession.
But if that was their plan they were mistaken in their man. Until he had
worked out this solution of the situation he had determined to leave.
Betty's deceit had disgusted him. But now, though there were faults in
the structure of the solution he had worked out, he was certain that they
intended working along those lines, and he was now equally determined to
stay and see the thing out.
Of course, Taggart was trying to make a fool of Betty--that was all too
evident. A man who has serious intentions--honorable intentions--toward
a girl does not talk about her to his friends as Taggart had talked.
Taggart did not care for her; he was merely planning to gain her
confidence that he might gain possession of the money and the idol. The
very fact that he was meeting Betty secretly proved that she had not
given him the treasure. Perhaps she had doubts of him and was delaying.
Yes, that was the explanation. Well, he would see that Taggart would
never get the treasure.
He went in to breakfast and watched Betty covertly during the meal. She
was trying to appear unconcerned, but it was plain to see that her
unconcern was too deep to be genuine, and it moved Calumet to malevolent
sarcasm.
"Nothin' is botherin' you this mornin', I reckon?" he said to her once
when he caught her looking at him. "Clear conscience, eh?" he added as
she flushed.
"What should bother me?" she asked, looking straight at him.
"I was thinkin' that mebbe the racket I was makin' tryin' to kill that
snake might have bothered--"
To his surprise, she pressed her lips tightly together, and he could see
mirth in her eyes--mocking mirth.
"You are talking in riddles," she said quietly.
So then she was going to deny it? Wrath rose in him.
"Riddles, eh?" he said. "Well, riddles--"
"That reptile was sure botherin' you a heap," cut in Dade; and Calumet
shot a quick glance at him, wondering whether he, also, was a party to
the plot to "string" him.
He thought he detected gratitude in Betty's eyes as she smiled at Dade,
but he was not certain. He said no more on the subject--then. But
shortly after the conclusion of the meal he contrived to come upon Betty
outside the house. She was hanging a dish towel from a line that
stretched from a corner of the porch to the stable.
Looking at her as he approached, he was conscious that there was
something more than rage in his heart against her for her duplicity;
there was a gnawing disappointment and regret. It was as though he was
losing something he valued. But he put this emotion away from him as he
faced her.
"You're damn slick," he said; "slicker than I thought you was. But I
ain't lettin' you think that you're stringin' me like you thought you
was." He put vicious and significant emphasis on the word, and when he
saw her start he knew she divined that he had overheard the conversation
between her and Taggart.
Her face flushed. "You were listening, then," she said with cold
contempt.
"I ain't ashamed of it, either," he shot back. "When a man's dealin'
with crooks like--" He hesitated, and then gave a venomous accent to the
words--"like you an' Taggart, he can't be over-scrupulous. I was sure
listenin'. I heard Taggart ask you if you was still stringin' me. If it
hadn't been for that new pup which I just brought Bob I'd have done what
I was goin'--"
He stopped talking and looked sharply at her, for a change had come over
her. In her eyes was that expression of conscious advantage which he had
noticed many times before. She seemed to be making a great effort to
suppress some emotion, and was succeeding, too, for when she spoke her
voice was low and well controlled.
"So you heard Taggart talking to me?" she mocked, mirth in her eyes.
"And you shot at him? Is that it? Well, what of it? I do not have to
account to you for my actions!"
He laughed. "Nothin' of it, I reckon. But if you're stuck on him, why
don't you come out in the open, instead of sneakin' around? You made it
pretty strong the day I smashed his face for talkin' about you. I reckon
he had some grounds."
He was talking now to hurt her; there was a savage desire in his heart to
goad her to anger.
But he did not succeed. Her face paled a little at his brutal words, at
the insult they implied, and she became a little rigid, her lips
stiffening. But suddenly she smiled, mockingly, with irritating
unconcern.
"If I didn't know that you hate me as you do I should be inclined to
think that you are jealous. Are you?"
He straightened in astonishment. Her manner was not that of the woman
who is caught doing something dishonorable; it was the calm poise of
sturdy honesty at bay. But while he was mystified, he was not convinced.
She had hit the mark, he knew, but he laughed harshly.
"Jealous!" he said; "jealous of you? I reckon you've got a good opinion
of yourself! You make me sick. I just want to put you wise a few. You
don't need to try to pull off any of that sweet innocence stuff on me any
more. You're deep an' slick, but I've sized you up. You made a monkey
of the old man; you made him think like you're tryin' to make me think,
that you're sacrificin' yourself.
"You soft-soaped him into smearin' a heap of mush into his letters to me.
It's likely you wrote them yourself. An' you hoodwinked him into givin'
you the money an' the idol so's you an' Taggart could divvy up after you
put me out of the runnin'. Goin' to reform me! I reckon if I was an
angel I'd have to have a recommendation from the Lord before you'd agree
that I'd reformed. You couldn't be pried loose from that coin with a
crow-bar!"
He turned from her, baffled, for it was apparent from the expression of
mirth deep in her eyes that his attack had made no impression on her.
Calumet went to the stable and threw a bridle on Blackleg. While he was
placing the saddle on the animal he hesitated and stood regarding it with
indecision. He had intended to refuse to accept Betty's orders in the
future; had decided that he would do no more work on the buildings. But
he was not the Calumet of old, who did things to suit himself, in
defiance to the opinions and wishes of other people. Betty had thrown a
spell over him; he discovered that in spite of his discovery he felt like
accommodating his movements to her desires. It was a mystery that
maddened him; he seemed to be losing his grip on himself, and, though he
fought against it, he found that he dreaded her disapproval, her sarcasm,
and her taunts.
It seemed to him puerile, ridiculous, to think of refusing to continue
with the work he had started. As long as he was going to stay at the
Lazy Y he might as well keep on. Betty would surely laugh at him if he
refused to go on. He fought it out and took a long time to it, but he
finally pulled the saddle from Blackleg and hitched the two horses to the
wagon. When he drove out of the ranchhouse yard he saw Betty watching
him from one of the kitchen windows. He felt like cursing her, but did
not.
"I reckon," he said as he curled the lash of the whip viciously over the
shoulders of the horses, "that she's got me locoed. Well," he cogitated,
"any woman's liable to stampede a man, an' I ain't the first guy that's
had his doubts whether he's a coyote or a lion after he's been herd-rode
by a petticoat. I'm waitin' her out. But Taggart--" The frown on his
face indicated that his intentions toward the latter were perfectly clear.