HIS FATHER'S FRIEND
Betty did not see Calumet again that day, and only at mealtime on the
day following. He had nothing to say to her at these times, though it
was plain from the expression on his face when she covertly looked at
him that he was thinking deeply. She hoped this were true; it was a
good sign. On the morning of the third day he saddled the black horse
and rode away, telling Bob, who happened to be near him when he
departed, that he was going to Lazette.
It was fully two hours after supper when he returned. Malcolm, Dade,
and Bob had gone to bed. In the kitchen, sitting beside the table, on
which was a spotlessly clean tablecloth, with dishes set for one--she
had saved Calumet's supper, and it was steaming in the warming-closet
of the stove--Betty sat. She was mending Bob's stockings, and thinking
of her life during the past few months--and Calumet. And when she
heard the black come into the ranchhouse yard--she knew the black's
gait already--she trembled a little, put aside her mending, and went to
the window.
The moon threw a white light in the yard, and she saw Calumet dismount.
When he did not turn the black into the corral, hitching him, instead,
to one of the rails, without even removing the saddle, she suspected
that something unusual had happened.
She was certain of it when she heard Calumet cross the porch with a
rapid step, and if in her certainty there had been the slightest doubt,
it disappeared when he opened the kitchen door.
He looked tired; he had evidently ridden hard, for the alkali dust was
thick on his clothing; he was breathing fast, his eyes were burning
with some deep emotion, his lips were grim and hard.
He closed the door and stood with his back against it, looking at her.
Something had wrought a wonderful change in him. He was not the
Calumet she had known--brutal, vicious, domineering, sneering; though
he was laboring under some great excitement, suppressing it, so that to
an eye less keen than hers it might have seemed that he had been
undergoing some great physical exertion and was just recovering from
it. It seemed to her that he had found himself; that that regeneration
for which she had hoped had come--had taken place between the time he
had left that morning and now.
She did not know that it had been a mighty struggle of three days'
duration; that the transformation had been a slow, tortuous thing to
him. She only knew that a great change had come over him; that, in
spite of the evident strain which was upon him, there was something
gentle, respectful, considerate, in his face, back of Its exterior
hardness--a slumbering, triumphant something that made an instant
appeal to her, lighting her eyes, coloring her face, making her heart
beat with an unaccountable gladness.
"Oh," she said; "what has happened to you?"
"Nothin'," he answered, with a grave smile. "That is, nothin'--yet.
Except that I've found out what a fool I've been. But I've found it
out too late."
"No," she said, reaching the quick conclusion that he meant it was too
late for him to complete his reformation; "it is never too late."
"I think I know what you mean," he answered. "But you've got it wrong.
It's somethin' else. I've got to get out of here--got to hit the
breeze out of the country. The sheriff is after me."
She took a step backward. "What for?" she asked breathlessly.
"For killin' Al Sharp."
"Al Sharp!" she exclaimed, staring at him in amazement. "Why, you told
me that an Indian named Telza killed him!"
"That's what Sharp told me. The Taggarts claim I done it. They've
swore out a warrant. I got wind of it an' I'm gettin' out. There's no
use tryin' to fight the law in a case like this."
"But you didn't kill him!" she cried, stiffening defiantly. "You said
you didn't, and I know you wouldn't lie. They can't prove that you did
it!"
He laughed. "You're the only one that would believe me. Do you reckon
I could prove that I didn't do it? There's two against one. The
evidence is against me. The Taggarts found me in the clearing with
Sharp. I had the knife. No one else was around. I buried Sharp. The
Taggarts will swear against me. Where's my chance?"
She was silent, and he laughed again. "They've got me, I reckon--the
Taggarts have. I fancied I was secure. I didn't think they'd try to
pull off anything like this. Shows how much dependence a man can put
in anything. They don't look like they had sense enough to think of
such a thing."
He stepped away from the door and went to the table, looking down at
the dishes she had set out for him, then at her, with a regretful smile
which brought a quick pang to her.
"Shucks," he said, more to himself than to her; "if this had happened
three months ago I'd have been plumb amused, an' I'd have had a heap of
fun with somebody before it could be got over with. Somehow, it don't
seem to be so damned funny now.
"It's your fault, too," he went on, regarding her with a direct, level
gaze. "Not that you got me into this mix-up, you understand--you're
not to blame for a thing--but it's your fault that it don't seem funny
to me. You've made me see things different."
"I am so sorry," she said, standing pale and rigid before him.
"Sorry that I'm seein' things different?" he said. "No?" at her quick,
reproachful negative. "Well, then, sorry that this had to happen.
Well, I'm sorry, too. You see," he added, the color reaching his face,
"it struck me while I was ridin' over here that I wasn't goin' to be
exactly tickled over leavin'. It's been seemin' like home to me
for--well, for a longer time than I would have admitted three days ago,
when I had that talk with you. Or, rather," he corrected, with a
smile, "when you had that talk with me. There's a difference, ain't
there? Anyways, there's a lot of things that I wouldn't have admitted
three days ago. But I've got sense now--I've got a new viewpoint. An'
somehow, what I'm goin' to tell you don't seem to come hard. Because
it's the truth, I reckon. I've knowed it right along, but kept holdin'
it back.
"Dade had me sized up right. He said I was a false alarm; that I'd
been thinkin' of myself too much; that I'd forgot that there was other
people in the world. He was right; I'd forgot that other people had
feelings. But if he hadn't told me that them was your views I'd have
salivated him. But I couldn't blame him for repeatin' things you'd
said, because about that time I'd begun to do some thinkin' myself.
"In the first place, I found that I wasn't a whole lot proud of myself
for guzzlin' your grandad, but I'd made a mistake an' I wasn't goin' to
give you a chance to crow over me. I expect there's a lot of people do
that, but they're on the wrong trail--it don't bring no peace to a
man's mind. Then, I thought you was like all the rest of the women I'd
known, an' when I found out that you wasn't, I thought you had the
swelled head an' I figgered to take you down a peg. When I couldn't do
that it made me sore. It made me feel some cheap when you showed me
you trusted me, with me treatin' you like I did; but if it's any
satisfaction to you, I'm tellin' you that all the time I was treatin'
you mean I felt like kickin' myself.
"I reckon that's all. Don't get the idea that I'm doin' any mushin'.
It's just the plain truth, an' I've had to tell you. That's why I came
over here--I wanted to square things with you before I leave. I reckon
if I'd stay here you'd never know how I feel about it."
She was staring at the floor, her face crimson, an emotion of deep
gratitude and satisfaction filling her, though mingled with it was a
queer sensation of regret. Her judgment of him had been vindicated;
she had known all along that this moment would come, but, now that it
had come, it was not as she had pictured it--there was discord where
there should be harmony; something was lacking to make the situation
perfect--he was going away.
She stood nervously tapping the floor with the toe of her shoe, hardly
hearing his last words, almost forgetting that he was in the room until
she saw his hand extended toward her. Then she looked up at him.
There was a grave smile on his face.
"I reckon you'll shake hands with me," he said, "just to show that you
ain't holdin' much against me. Well, that right," he said when she
hesitated; "I don't deserve it."
Her hand went out; he looked at it, with a start, and then seized it
quickly in both of his, squeezed it hard, his eyes aflame. He dropped
it as quickly, and turned to the door, saying: "You're a brave little
girl."
She stood silent until his hands were on the fastenings of the door.
"Wait!" she said. She attempted to smile, but some emotion stiffened
her lips, stifling it. "You haven't had your supper," she said; "won't
you eat if I get it ready?"
"No time," he said. "The law don't advertise its movements, as a usual
thing, an' Toban's liable to be here any minute. An'," he added, a
glint of the old hardness in his eyes, "I ain't lettin' him take me.
It's only twenty miles to the line, an' the way I'm intendin' to travel
I'll be over it before Toban can ketch me. I don't want him to ketch
me--he was a friend of my dad's, an' puttin' him out of business
wouldn't help me none."
"Will you be safe, then?" she asked fearfully.
"I reckon. But I won't be stoppin' at the line. I'm through here;
there's nothin' here to hold me. I reckon I'll never come back this
way. Shucks!" he added, leaving the door and coming back a little way
into the room; "I expect I'm excited. I come near forgettin'. It's
about the idol an' the money an' the ranch. I don't want any of them.
They're yours. You've earned them an' you deserve them. Go to Las
Vegas an' petition the court to turn the property over to you; tell the
judge I flunked on the specifications."
"I don't want your property," she said in a strange voice.
"You've got to take it," he returned, with a quick look at her.
"Here"--he drew a piece of paper and a short pencil from an inside
pocket of his vest, and, walking to the table, wrote quickly, giving
her the paper.
"I herewith renounce all claim to my father's property," it read; "I
refuse the conditions of the will."
It was signed with his name. While he stood watching her, she tore the
paper to small bits, scattering them on the floor.
"I think," she said, regarding him fixedly, "that you are not exactly
chivalrous in leaving me this way; that you are more concerned over
your own safety than over mine. What do you suppose will happen when
the Taggarts discover that you have gone and that I am here alone?"
His eyes glinted with hatred. "The Taggarts," he laughed. "Did you
think I was going to let them off so easy? I'm charged with one
murder, ain't I? Well, after tonight there won't be any Taggarts to
bother anybody."
"You mean to--" Her eyes widened with horror.
"I reckon," he said. "Did you think I was runnin' away without
squarin' things with them?" There was a threat of death in his cold
laugh.
While she stood with clenched hands, evidently moved by the threat in
his manner and words, he said "So-long," shortly, and swung the door
open.
She followed three or four steps, again calling upon him to "wait." He
turned in the doorway and went slowly back to her. She was nervous,
breathless, and he looked wonderingly at her.
"Wait just a minute," she said; "I have something to give you."
She darted into the sitting-room; he could hear her running up the
stairs. She was gone a long time, so long a time that he grew
impatient and paced the floor with long, hasty strides. He was certain
that it was fully five minutes before she reappeared, and then her
manner was more nervous than ever.
"You act," he said suspiciously, "as though you wanted to keep me here."
"No, no," she denied breathlessly, her eyes bright and her cheeks
aflame. "How can you think that? I have brought you some money; you
will need it." She had a leather bag in her hands, and she seized it
by the bottom and turned out its contents--a score or more of
twenty-dollar gold pieces.
"Take them," she said as he hesitated. And, not waiting for him to
act, she began to gather them up. She was nervous, though, and dropped
many of them several times, so that he felt that time would have been
gained if she had not touched them. He returned them to the bag, with
her help, and placed the bag in a pocket of his trousers. Then once
more he said good-by to her.
This time, however, she stood between him and the door, and when he
tried to step around her she changed her position so as to be always in
front of him.
"Tell me where you are going?" she said.
"What do you want to know for?" he demanded.
"Just because," she said; "because I want to know."
His eyes lighted with a deep fire as he looked at her. She was very
close to him; he felt her warm breath; saw her bosom heave rapidly, and
a strange intoxication seized him.
"Shall I tell you?" he said, with sudden hoarseness, as though asking
himself the question. He grasped her by the shoulders and looked
closely at her, his eyes boring, probing, as though searching for some
evidence of duplicity in hers. For an instant his gaze held. Then he
laughed, softly, self-accusingly.
"I thought you was stringin' me--just for a minute," he said. "But
you're true blue, an' I'll tell you. I'm goin' first to the Arrow to
hand the Taggarts their pass-out checks. Then I'm hittin' the breeze
to Durango. If you ever want me, send for me there, an' I'll come back
to you, sheriff or no sheriff."
She put out a hand to detain him, but he seized it and pressed it to
her side, the other with it. Then his arms went around her shoulders,
she was crushed against him, and his lips met hers.
Then she was suddenly released, and he was at the door.
"Good-by," he said as he stood in the opening, the glare of light from
the lamp showing his face, pale, the eyes illumined with a fire that
she had never seen in them; "I'm sorry it has to end this way--I was
hopin' for somethin' different. You've made me almost a man."
Then the door closed and he was gone. She stood by the table for a few
minutes, holding tightly to it for support, her eyes wide from
excitement.
"Oh," she said, "if I could only have kept him here a few minutes
longer!"
She walked to the door and stood in the opening, shading her eyes with
her hands. He had not been gone long, but already he was riding the
river trail; she saw him outlined in the moonlight, leaning a little
forward in the saddle, the black running with a long, swift, sure
stride. She watched them until a bend in the trail shut them from
view, and then with a sob she bowed her head in her arms.