The Boss of the Lazy Y Part 11

"Ain't you the boss?" said Dade, disappointedly.

"The boss is a woman. If you're wantin' to work you can come along.

You'll have to take your chance. Otherwise--"

"I'll go you," said the puncher. He threw his saddle into the wagon.

"You said somethin' about a drink," he added, "if you had anything left. I'm hopin'--"

Calumet hesitated.

"Just one," said Dade. "Mebbe two. Not more than three--or four. If your ranch is far--"

"Twenty miles."

"About two, then," suggested Dade. "You wouldn't feel satisfied to know that it was here an' you left it."

"Well, then, get a move on you," growled Calumet. He followed Dade into the Red Dog.

It was quiet in the barroom. Three men sat at a table near the center of the room, laughing and talking. They looked up with casual interest as Dade and Calumet entered, favored them with quick, appraising glances, and then resumed their talk and laughter. Behind the bar the proprietor waited, indolently watching.

"I'll take red-eye," said Dade; "the same that made me think I was a sure enough gambler last night. Did you ever notice," he added, turning to Calumet, who was filling his gla.s.s, "what a heap of confidence whisky will give a man? Take me, last night. Things was lookin' rosy. Them gamblers looked like plumb easy pickin'. The more whisky I drank the easier they looked, until--"

"Have another drink," invited the proprietor, for it was at one of his tables that Dade had played. His smile was bland and his manner suave and smooth. He shoved a bottle toward Dade. At the same time he looked with interest upon Calumet.

"Stranger here, I reckon?" he said. "I seen you loadin' a heap of stuff into your wagon. What's your ranch?"

"The Lazy Y."

The proprietor started and peered closer at Calumet. "That's old Marston's place, ain't it?" To Calumet's slow nod, he continued: "Betty Clayton's runnin' it now. They say old Marston was the meanest old coyote that ever--"

Calumet's gaze was level and direct, and the proprietor shrank under its cold malignance. Calumet leaned forward. "You're talkin' to the old coyote's son right now," he said. "An' you can speak right out loud in meetin' an' say that you was ga.s.sin' through your hat!"

The proprietor paled, then reddened. "I'm beggin' your pardon," he said. "I reckon--you see--there's been talk--"

"Sure," said Calumet. He smiled. It was the smile of reluctant tolerance. "Just talk," he added. "But it won't be healthy talk--hereafter."

"Have another drink," invited the proprietor, and he pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped the sudden perspiration from his forehead. Then he retreated to the far end of the bar, from whence he tried to appear unconcerned.

Dade finished his drink and set the gla.s.s down. But he was visibly excited.

"Betty Clayton," he said, looking sharply at Calumet. "Has she got a granddad named Malcolm Clayton, an' a brother Bob?"

"That's her." Calumet returned Dade's sharp glance. "What's eatin'

you? Know her? Know Bob? Know Malcolm?"

"Know them!" said Dade. "Why, man, they was neighbors of mine in Texas!"

Calumet's eyes narrowed. A pulse of some strong emotion was revealed in his face, but it was instantly subdued. "That's joyful news--for you. So you know her? It's likely she'll be glad to see you."

Dade was mystified by his tone. "I reckon I ain't gettin' this thing just right," he said. "You told me Betty was runnin' the ranch, an'

you tell this man that you're the son of the man that owns it. I don't see--"

Calumet smiled saturninely. "Take another drink," he advised. He shoved the bottle toward Dade. "This is your fourth. Then we'll be hittin' the breeze to the Lazy Y. Betty'll be lonesome without me."

He laughed raucously, filled his gla.s.s and drank its contents. Then he turned from the bar and walked toward the door. Half way to it, Dade following him, he halted, for the voice of a man who sat at a table reached him.

"Aw, Taggart," it said loudly, "you're crowdin' the ante a little, ain't you?" The speaker laughed. "They tell me that Betty Clayton ain't no man's fool. An' here you say--" The rest of it was drowned in a laugh that followed, the other two men joining the speaker.

"Stuck on me, I tell you!" said another voice, and Calumet, half turned toward the table, saw the speaker's face. It was the face of an egotist--the vain, sensuous visage of a man in whom the animal instincts predominated--the face of the rider that Calumet had seen on the hill in the valley on the day of his return--the face of the man who had shot at him. The man was good-looking in a coa.r.s.e, vulgar way, and dissipated, gross, self-sufficient. Calumet's eyes narrowed with dislike as he looked at him. There was interest in his glance, too, for this was his father's enemy--his enemy. But after the first look his face became inscrutable. He turned to see Dade standing beside him. Dade was rigid, pale; his body was in a half-crouch and there was an expression of cold malignance on his face. Quickly Calumet placed both hands on the young man's shoulders and shoved him back against the bar, thrusting his own body between him and Taggart.

"Easy there," he warned in a whisper. "He's my meat."

Dade caught the mirthless smile on his lips and looked at him curiously, his att.i.tude still belligerent.

"He's talkin' about Betty, the d.a.m.ned skunk!" he objected. His voice was a low, throaty whisper and it did not carry to the table where the three men sat.

"He was sure talkin' about her," said Calumet inexpressively. "An'

I'll admit that any man who talks that way about a woman is what you've called him. But it's my funeral," he added, his voice suddenly cold and hard, "an' you ain't b.u.t.tin' in, whatever happens. Buy yourself another drink," he suggested; "you look fl.u.s.tered. I'm havin' a talk with Taggart."

He left Dade standing at the bar looking at him wonderingly, and made his way slowly to the table where Taggart sat. Taggart was drinking when Calumet reached his side, and Dade stood tense, awaiting the expected clash.

But none came. Calumet's grin as he nodded to Taggart was almost friendly, and his voice was soft, even--almost gentle.

"I heard one of these man call you Taggart," he said. "I reckon you're from the Arrow?"

Taggart leaned back in his chair and insolently surveyed his questioner. What he saw in Calumet's face made his own pale a little.

"I'm Taggart," he said shortly--"Neal Taggart. What you wantin' of me?"

Calumet smiled. "Nothin' much," he said. "I thought mebbe you'd like to know me. We're neighbors, you know. I'm Marston--Calumet Marston, of the Lazy Y."

The color receded entirely from Taggart's face, leaving it with a queer pallor. He abruptly shoved back his chair and stood, his eyes alert and fearful as his right hand stole slowly toward the b.u.t.t of the pistol at his hip. Calumet's right hand did not seem to move, but before Taggart could get his weapon free of its holster he saw the sombre muzzle of a forty-five frowning at him from Calumet's hip and he quickly drew his own hand away--empty.

"Shucks," Calumet's voice came slowly into the silence that had fallen--slowly and softly and with apparently genuine deprecation. "If I'd known that you was goin' to get that excited I'd have broke the news different. I don't know what you're gettin' at, trying to drag your gun out that way. I was hopin' we'd be friends. We ought to, you know, bein' neighbors."

"Friends?" Taggart stepped back a pace and looked at Calumet incredulously, his eyes searching for signs of insincerity. He saw no such signs, for if Calumet had emotion at this minute it was too deep to be uncovered with a glance. But he knew from Taggart's perturbation that the latter knew him to be the man he had shot at that day in the valley.

Obviously, he had not then had any suspicion as to his ident.i.ty--his surprise showed that he had not. And his half-fearful, puzzled looks at Calumet indicated to the latter that he was wondering whether Calumet recognized him as the man who had done the shooting.

Calumet's smile was cordial, inviting, even slightly ingratiating, and watching him closely Taggart was convinced that he was not recognized.

Also he was certain that Calumet could not have learned anything of the trouble between their parents. Yet Betty knew, and if Betty hadn't told him there must be something between them--dislike or greed on Betty's part--and a smile appeared on his face as he remembered that he had heard his father say that Calumet had been vicious and unmanageable in his youth. He must be at odds with Betty.

And Betty--well, a shyster lawyer in Las Vegas had told Taggart something about a will which old Marston had made, in which Betty had been named as beneficiary of the property in case Calumet failed to agree to certain specifications, and Taggart was ready to believe that Betty would not hesitate to bring about an open clash with Calumet in order to gain control of the ranch. This thought filled Taggart with a savage exultation. He and his father had made very little progress in their past attacks on the Lazy Y, and if it were possible to set Calumet against Betty there might come an opportunity to drive a wedge which would make an opening--the opening they had long sought for. At all events he would have considered himself a fool if he failed to take advantage of this opportunity to ingratiate himself into the good nature of this man.

"Well, that's right, I reckon," he said. "There ain't no reason that I know of why we shouldn't be friends. I'm right glad to see you." He stuck out his right hand, but it appeared that Calumet did not notice it, for he laughed as he replaced the pistol in its holster.

"Same here," he said. "If you're pa.s.sin' the Lazy Y any time, drop in an' visit. I'm fixin' her up a few--enough so's I can live in the old shack."

Taggart had noted with a lowering frown Calumet's omission of the proffered handshake, but the cordial good nature of the smile on the latter's face was unmistakable, and he grinned in reply.

"I'll sure do that," he said.