The Boss of the Lazy Y, Charles Alden Seltzer [top 10 best books of all time .txt] 📗

Betty was in her room. Calumet went out upon the porch, leaped off, and ran around the house in a direction opposite that which had marked his course when coming toward the front, covering the ground with long, swift strides. He reasoned that as he had seen no one leave the house from the other side or the front, whoever had been with Betty had made his escape in this direction, and he drew a breath of satisfaction when, approaching some underbrush near the kitchen, he saw outlined in the moonlight the figure of a man on a horse.

The latter had evidently just mounted, for at the instant Calumet saw him he had just settled into the saddle, one foot searching for a stirrup. He was about seventy-five feet distant, and he turned at about the instant that Calumet saw him. That instant was enough for Calumet, for as the man turned his face was bathed for a fraction of a second in the moonlight, and Calumet recognized him. It was Neal Taggart.

Calumet halted. His six-shooter roared at the exact second that the man buried his spurs in the flanks of his horse and threw himself forward upon its neck.

The bullet must have missed him only by a narrow margin, but it did miss, for he made no sign of injury. His instant action in throwing himself forward had undoubtedly saved his life. Calumet swung the pistol over his head and brought it down to a quick level, whipping another shot after the fleeing rider. But evidently the latter had anticipated the action, for as he rode he jumped his horse from one side to another, and as the distance was already great, and growing greater, he made an elusive target.

Calumet saw his failure and stood silent, watching until Taggart was well out into the valley, riding hard, a cloud of dust enveloping him. A yell reached Calumet from the distance—derisive, defiant, mocking. Calumet cursed then, giving voice to his rage and disappointment.

He went glumly around to the front of the house and closed the door to the office. When he stepped off the porch, afterward, intending to go around the way he had come in order to enter the house, he heard a voice above him, and turned to see Dade, his head sticking out of an upstairs window, his hair in disorder, his eyes bulging, a forty-five gleaming in his hand. Back of him, his head over Dade's shoulder, stood Malcolm, and Bob's thin face showed between the two.

At another window, one of the front ones, was Betty. Of the four who were watching him, Betty seemed the least excited; it seemed to Calumet as he looked at her that there was some amusement in her eyes.

"Lordy!" said Dade as Calumet looked up at him, "how you scairt me! Was it you shootin'? An' what in thunder was you shootin' at?"

"A snake," said Calumet in a voice loud enough for Betty to hear.

"A snake! Holy smoke!" growled Dade in disgust. "Wakin' people up at this time of the night because you wanted to shoot at a measly snake. Tomorrow we'll lay off for an hour or so an' I'll take you where you can shoot 'em to your heart's content. But, for the love of Pete, quit shootin' at 'em when a guy's asleep."

Calumet looked up sardonically, not at Dade, but at Betty. "Was you all asleep?" he inquired in a voice of cold mockery. Even at that distance he saw Betty redden, and he laughed shortly.

"A foxy snake," he said; "one of them kind which goes roamin' around at night. Lookin' for a mate, mebbe." He turned abruptly, with a last sneering look at Betty, and made his way around the house.

CHAPTER XIV 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