A MEETING IN THE RED DOG
Of the good resolutions that Calumet had made since the night before,
when he had re-read his father's letter in the moonlight while standing
beside the corral fence, none had survived. Black, vicious thoughts
filled his mind as he drove toward Lazette. When the wagon reached the
crest of a slope about a mile out of town, Calumet halted the horses
and rolled a cigarette, a sullen look in his eyes, unrelieved by the
prospect before him.
By no stretch of the imagination could Lazette be called attractive.
It lay forlorn and dismal at the foot of the slope, its forty or more
buildings dingy, unpainted, ugly, scattered along the one street as
though waiting for the encompassing desolation to engulf them. Two
serpentine lines of steel, glistening in the sunlight, came from some
mysterious distance across the dead level of alkali, touched the edge
of town where rose a little red wooden station and a water tank of the
same color, and then bent away toward some barren hills, where they
vanished.
Calumet proceeded down the slope, halting at the lumber yard, where he
left his wagon and orders for the material he wanted. Across the
street from the lumber yard was a building on which was a sign: "The
Chance Saloon." Toward this Calumet went after leaving his wagon. He
hesitated for an instant on the sidewalk, and a voice, seeming to come
from nowhere in particular, whispered in his ear:
"Neal Taggart's layin' for you!"
When Calumet wheeled, his six-shooter was in his hand. At his
shoulder, having evidently followed him from across the street, stood a
man. He was lean-faced, hardy-looking, with a strong, determined jaw
and steady, alert eyes. He was apparently about fifty years of age.
He grinned at Calumet's belligerent motion.
"Hearin' me?" he said to Calumet's cold, inquiring glance.
The latter's eyes glowed. "Layin' for me, eh? Thanks." He looked
curiously at the other. "Who are you?" he said.
"I'm Dave Toban, the sheriff." He threw back one side of his vest and
revealed a small silver star.
"Correct," said Calumet; "how you knowin' me?"
"Knowed your dad," said the sheriff. "You look a heap like him.
Besides," he added as his eyes twinkled, "there ain't no one else in
this section doin' any buildin' now."
"I'm sure much obliged for your interest," said Calumet. "An' so
Taggart's lookin' for me?"
"Been in town a week," continued the sheriff. "Been makin' his brags
what he's goin' to do to you. Says you wheedled him into comin' over
to the Lazy Y an' then beat him up. Got Denver Ed with him."
Calumet's eyes narrowed. "I know him," he said.
"Gun-fighter, ain't he?" questioned the sheriff.
"Yep." Calumet's eyelashes flickered; he smiled with straight lips.
"Drinkin'?" he invited.
"Wouldn't do," grinned the sheriff. "Publicly, I ain't takin' no side.
Privately, I'm feelin' different. Knowed your dad. Taggart's bad
medicine for this section. Different with you."
"How different?"
"Straight up. Anybody that lives around Betty Clayton's got to be."
Calumet looked at him with a crooked smile. "I reckon," he said, "that
you don't know any more about women than I do. So-long," he added. He
went into the "Chance" saloon, leaving the sheriff looking after him
with a queer smile.
Ten minutes later when Calumet came out of the saloon the sheriff was
nowhere in sight.
Calumet went over to where his wagon stood and, concealed behind it,
took a six-shooter from under his shirt at the waistband and placed it
carefully in a sling under the right side of his vest. Then he removed
the cartridges from the weapon in the holster at his hip, smiling
mirthlessly as he replaced it in the holster and made his way up the
street.
With apparent carelessness, though keeping an alert eye about him, he
went the rounds of the saloons. Before he had visited half of them
there was an air of suppressed excitement in the manner of Lazette's
citizens, and knowledge of his errand went before him. In the saloons
that he entered men made way for him, looking at him with interest as
he peered with impersonal intentness at them, or, standing in doorways,
they watched him in silence as he departed, and then fell to talking in
whispers. He knew what was happening--Lazette had heard what Taggart
had been saying about him, and was keeping aloof, giving him a clear
field.
Presently he entered the Red Dog.
There were a dozen men here, drinking, playing cards, gambling. The
talk died away as he entered; men sat silently at the tables, seeming
to look at their cards, but in reality watching him covertly. Other
men got up from their chairs and walked, with apparent unconcern, away
from the center of the room, so that when Calumet carelessly tossed a
coin on the bar in payment for a drink which he ordered, only three men
remained at the bar with him.
He had taken quick note of these men. They were Neal Taggart; a tall,
lanky, unprepossessing man with a truculent eye rimmed by lashless
lids, and with a drooping mustache which almost concealed the cruel
curve of his lips, whom he knew as Denver Ed--having met him several
times in the Durango country; and a medium-sized stranger whom he knew
as Garvey. The latter was dark-complexioned, with a hook nose and a
loose-lipped mouth.
Calumet did not appear to notice them. He poured his glass full and
lifted it, preparatory to drinking. Before it reached his lips he
became aware of a movement among the three men--Garvey had left them
and was standing beside him.
"Have that on me," said Garvey, silkily, to Calumet.
Calumet surveyed him with a glance of mild interest. He set his glass
down, and the other silently motioned to the bartender for another.
"Stranger here, I reckon?" said Garvey as he poured his whiskey.
"Where's your ranch?"
"The Lazy Y," said Calumet.
The other filled his glass. "Here's how," he said, and tilted it
toward his lips. Calumet did likewise. If he felt the man's hand on
the butt of the six-shooter at his hip, he gave no indication of it.
Nor did he seem to exhibit any surprise or concern when, after drinking
and setting the glass down, he looked around to see that Garvey had
drawn the weapon out and was examining it with apparently casual
interest.
This action on the part of Garvey was unethical and dangerous, and
there were men among the dozen in the room who looked sneeringly at
Calumet, or to one another whispered the significant words, "greenhorn"
and "tenderfoot." Others, to whom the proprietor had spoken concerning
Calumet, looked at him in surprise. Still others merely stared at
Garvey and Calumet, unable to account for the latter's mild submission
to this unallowed liberty. The proprietor alone, remembering a certain
gleam in Calumet's eyes on a former occasion, looked at him now and saw
deep in his eyes a slumbering counterpart to it, and discreetly retired
to the far end of the bar, where there was a whiskey barrel in front of
him.
But Calumet seemed unconcerned.
"Some gun," remarked Garvey. It was strange, though, that he was not
looking at the weapon at all, or he might have seen the empty chambers.
He was looking at Calumet, and it was apparent that his interest in the
weapon was negative.
"Yes, some," agreed Calumet. He swung around and faced the man,
leaning his left arm carelessly on the bar.
At that instant Denver Ed sauntered over and joined them. He looked
once at Calumet, and then his gaze went to Garvey as he spoke.
"Friend of yourn?" he questioned. There was marked deference in the
manner of Garvey. He politely backed away, shifting his position so
that Denver Ed faced Calumet at a distance of several feet, with no
obstruction between them.
Calumet's eyes met Denver's, and he answered the latter's question,
Garvey having apparently withdrawn from the conversation.
"Friend of _his_?" sneered Calumet, grinning shallowly. "I reckon not;
I'm pickin' my company."
Denver Ed did not answer at once. He moved a little toward Calumet and
shoved his right hip forward, so that the butt of his six-shooter was
invitingly near. Then, with his hands folded peacefully over his
chest, he spoke:
"You do," he said, "you mangy ------!"
There was a stir among the onlookers as the vile epithet was applied.
Calumet's right hand went swiftly forward and his fingers closed around
the butt of the weapon at Denver Ed's hip. The gun came out with a
jerk and lay in Calumet's hand. Calumet began to pull the trigger.
The dull, metallic impact of the hammer against empty chambers was the
only result.
Denver Ed grinned malignantly as his right hand stole into his vest.
There was a flash of metal as he drew the concealed gun, but before its
muzzle could be trained on Calumet the latter pressed the empty weapon
in his own hand against the one that Denver Ed was attempting to draw,
blocking its egress; while in Calumet's left hand the six-shooter which
he had concealed under his own vest roared spitefully within a foot of
Denver Ed's chest.
Many in the room saw the expression of surprise in Denver Ed's eye as
he pitched forward in a heap at Calumet's feet. There were others who
saw Garvey raise the six-shooter which he had drawn from Calumet's
holster. All heard the hammer click impotently on the empty chambers;
saw Calumet's own weapon flash around and cover Garvey; saw the
flame-spurt and watched Garvey crumple and sink.
There was a dead silence. Taggart had not moved. Calumet's gaze went
from the two fallen men and rested on his father's enemy.
"Didn't work," he jeered. "They missed connections, didn't they?
You'll get yours if you ain't out of town by sundown. Layin' for me
for a week, eh? You sufferin' sneak, thinkin' I was born yesterday!"
He ignored Taggart and looked coolly around at his audience, not a man
of which had moved. He saw the sheriff standing near the door, and it
was to him that he spoke.
"Frame-up," he said in short, sharp accents. "Back Durango way Denver
an' the little guy pulled it off regular. Little man gets your gun.
Denver gets you riled. Sticks his hip out so's you'll grab his gun.
You do. Gun's empty. But you don't know it, an' you try to perforate
Denver. Then he pulls another gun an' salivates you. Self-defense."
He looked around with a cold grin. "Planted an empty on him myself,"
he said. "The little guy fell for it. So did Denver. I reckon that's
all. You wantin' me for this?" he inquired of the sheriff. "You'll
find me at the Lazy Y. Taggart--" He hesitated and looked around.
Taggart was nowhere to be seen. "Sloped," added Calumet, with a laugh.
"I don't reckon I'll want you," said Toban. "Clear case of
self-defense. I reckon most everybody saw the play. Some raw."
Several men had moved; one of them was peering at the faces of Denver
and Garvey. He now looked up at the sheriff.
"Nothing botherin' them any more," he said.
Calumet stepped over to Denver's confederate and took up the pistol
from the floor near him, replacing it in his holster. By this time the
crowd in the saloon was standing near the two gunmen, commenting
gravely or humorously, according to its whim.
"Surprise party for him," suggested one, pointing to Denver.
"Didn't tickle him a heap, though," said another. "Seemed plumb
shocked an' disappointed, if you noticed his face."
"Slick," said another, pointing to Calumet, who had turned his back and
was walking toward the door; "cool as ice water."
Sudden death had no terrors for these men; there was no inclination in
their minds to blame Calumet, and so they watched with admiration for
his poise as he stepped out through the door.
"Taggart'll be gettin' his," said a man.
"Not tonight," laughed another. "I seen him hittin' the breeze out.
An' sundown's quite a considerable distance away yet, too."