The Boss of the Lazy Y

  CHAPTER VI

  "BOB"

  Five minutes after leaving the kitchen of the ranchhouse Calumet stoodbeside the rotted rails of the corral fence near the stable, frowning,fully conscious that he had been worsted in the verbal battle justended. He was filled with a disagreeable sense of impotence; he feltsmall, mean, cheap, and uncomfortable, and was oppressed withindecision. In short, he felt that he was not the same man who hadridden up to the Lazy Y ranchhouse at twilight the night before--intwelve hours a change had come over him. And Betty had wrought it. Heknew that.

  Had he only to do with Malcolm--or any man, for that matter--therewould have been no doubt of his course. He would have hustled outMalcolm or any other man long before this, and there would have been anend to it. But Betty had made it quite plain to him that she did notpurpose to leave, and, since he had had little experience with women,he was decidedly at a loss to discover a way to deal with her. That hecould not rout her by force was certain, for he could not lay hands ona woman in violence, and he was by no means certain that he wanted herto leave, because if she did it was highly probable that he would neverget his hands on the money his father had left. Of course he couldsearch for the money, but there came to his mind now tales of treasurethat had never been recovered, and he was reluctant to take anychances. On the other hand, he was facing the maddening prospect ofliving for a year under the eyes of a determined young woman who was tobe the sole judge of his conduct. He was to become a probationer andBetty was to watch his every move.

  He wondered, making a wry face at the thought, whether she intended torecord his actions in a book, giving him marks of merit or demeritaccording as the whim struck her? In that case she had probablyalready placed a black mark against him, perhaps several.

  He stood long beside the fence, considering the situation. It was oddto the point of unreality, but, no matter how odd, it was a situationthat he must face, because he had already decided to stay and make anattempt to get the money. He certainly would not go away and leave itto Betty; he would not give her that satisfaction. Nor did he intendto be pliable clay in her hands, to become in the end a creature of hershaping. He would stay, but he would be himself, and he would make theClaytons rue the day they had interfered in his affairs.

  Leaning on the top rail of the fence, his gaze roved over the sweep ofvalley, dull and cheerless in the early dawn, with a misty film risingup out of it to meet and mingle and evaporate in the far-flung colorsof the slow-rising sun. Once his gaze concentrated on a spot in thedistance. He detected movement, and watched, motionless, until he wascertain. Half a mile it was to the spot--a low hill, crested withyucca, sagebrush, and octilla--and he saw the desert weeds move,observed a dark form slink out from them and stand for an instant onthe skyline. Wolf or coyote, it was too far for him to be certain, buthe watched it with a sneer until it slunk down into the tangle of sage,out of his sight.

  He presently forgot the slinking figure; his thoughts returned toBetty. He did not like her, she irritated him. For a woman she wastoo assertive, too belligerent by half. Though considering her now, hewas reluctantly compelled to admit that she was a forceful figure, and,reviewing the conversation he had had with her a few minutes before,the picture she had made standing in the doorway defying him, mockinghim, rebuking him, he could not repress a thrill of grudging admiration.

  For half an hour he stood at the corral fence. He rolled and smokedthree cigarettes, his thoughts wrapped in memories of the past andrevolving the problem of his future. Once Betty stood in the kitchendoor for fully a minute, watching him speculatively, and twice oldMalcolm passed him on the way to do some chore, eyeing him curiously.Calumet did not see either of them.

  Nor did he observe that the slinking form which he had observed movingamong the weeds on the distant hill in the valley had approached towithin twenty yards of him, was crouching in a corner of the corralfence, watching him with blazing, blood-shot eyes, its dull gray hairbristling, its white fangs bared in a snarl.

  It had been a long stalk, and the beast's jaws were slavering fromexertion. It watched, crouching and panting, for a favorable moment tomake the attack which it meditated.

  It had seen Calumet from the hill and had dropped down to the level,keeping out of sight behind the sagebrush and the clumps of mesquite,crossing the open places on its belly, stealing upon him silently andcunningly. So cautious had been its approach that old Malcolm had notseen it when fifteen minutes before he had passed Calumet and hadpaused for a look at him. The beast had been in a far corner of thefence then, and had slunk close to the ground until Malcolm had passed.Nor had Malcolm seen it just a moment before when he had crossed theranchhouse yard behind Calumet to go to the bunkhouse, where he wasnow. The instant Malcolm had disappeared within the bunkhouse, thebeast had stolen to its present position.

  The attack was swift and silent. Calumet was puffing abstractedly at acigarette when he became aware of a rush of air as the gray shapeflashed up from the ground. Calumet dodged involuntarily, throwing upan arm to fend off the shape, which catapulted past him, shoulder-high.The beast had aimed for his throat; his long fangs met the upthrust armand sank into it, crunching it to the bone.

  The force of the attack threw Calumet against the corral fence. Thebeast struck the ground beyond him noiselessly, its legs asprawl, itshair bristling from rage. Ten feet beyond Calumet the force of itsattack carried it, and it whirled swiftly, to leap again.

  But Calumet was not to be surprised the second time. Standing at thefence, his eyes ablaze with hatred and pain, he crouched. As the beastleaped Calumet's hand moved at his hip, his heavy six-shooter crashedspitefully, its roar reverberating among the buildings and startlingthe two gaunt horses in the corral to movement. The gray beastsnarled, crumpled midway in its leap, and dropped at Calumet's feet. Adark patch on its chest just below the throat showed where the bullethad gone. But apparently the bullet had missed a vital spot, for thebeast struggled to its feet, dragging itself toward Calumet, its fangsslashing impotently.

  Calumet stepped back a pace, his face malignant with rage and hate, hiseyes gleaming vengefully. He heard a scream from somewhere--a shrillprotest in a voice which he did not recognize, but he paid no attentionto it until he had deliberately emptied his six-shooter into the beast,putting the bullets where they would do the most good. When the weaponwas emptied and the beast lay prone in the dust at his feet, its greatjaws agape and dripping with blood-flecked foam, Calumet turned andlooked up.

  He saw Malcolm Clayton come out of the bunkhouse door, and noticedBetty running toward him from the ranchhouse. Betty's sleeves wererolled to the elbows, her apron fluttering the wind, and the thoughtstruck Calumet that she must have been washing dishes when interruptedby the shooting. But it was not she who had screamed--he would haverecognized her voice. Then he saw a huddled figure leaning against thecorner of the stable nearest the ranchhouse; the figure of a boy oftwelve or thirteen. He had a withered, mis-shapen leg--the right one;and under his right arm, partly supporting him, was a crude crutch.The boy was facing Calumet, and at the instant the latter saw him helooked up, his pale, thin face drawn and set, his eyes filled with anexpression of reproach and horror.

  He was not over fifteen feet distant from Calumet, and the latterwatched him with a growing curiosity until Betty ran to him and foldedhim into her arms. Then Calumet began to reload his six-shooter,ignoring Malcolm, who had come close to him and was standing beside thecorral fence, breathing heavily and trembling from excitement.

  "It's Lonesome!" gasped Malcolm, his lips quivering as he looked at thebeast; "Bob's Lonesome!"

  Calumet flashed around at him, cursing savagely.

  "What you gettin' at, you damned old gopher?" he sneered.

  "It's Lonesome!" repeated Malcolm, his weather-lined face red withresentment and anger. He showed no fear of Calumet now, but came closeto him and stood rigid, his hands clenched. "It's Lonesome!" herepeated shrilly; "Bob's Lonesome!" And the
n, seeing from theexpression of Calumet's face that he did not comprehend, he added:"It's Bob's dog, Lonesome! Bob loved him so, an' now you've gone an'killed him--you--you hellhound! You--"

  His quavering voice was cut short; once more his throat felt theterrible pressure of Calumet's iron fingers. For an instant he washeld at arm's length, shaken savagely, and in the next he was flungwith furious force against the corral fence, from whence he staggeredand fell into a corner.

  Calumet turned from him to confront Betty. Her eyes were ablaze, andone hand rested with unconscious affection on Bob's head as the boystood looking down at the body of the dog, sobbing quietly. Betty wastrying to keep her composure, but at her first words her voice trembled.

  "So you've killed Lonesome," she said. Calumet had finished reloadinghis pistol, and he folded his arms over his chest, deliberatelyshielding the left, which Lonesome had bitten, thus hiding the redpatches that showed on the shirt sleeve over the wound. He would notgive Betty the satisfaction of seeing that he had been hurt.

  "Lonesome," explained Betty, frigidly, "was a dog--he was Bob's dog.Bob loved him. I suppose you didn't know that--you couldn't haveknown. We believed him to be part wolf. Bob found him on the Lazettetrail, where he had evidently been left behind, probably forgotten, bysome traveler who had camped there. Bob brought him home and raisedhim. He has never been known to exhibit any vicious traits. You wereborn in the West," she went on, "and ought to be able to tell thedifference between a dog and a wolf. Did you take Lonesome for a wolf?"

  "I reckon," sneered Calumet, determined not to be lectured by her,"that I've got to give a reason for everything I do around here. Evento killin' a damn dog!"

  "Then," she said with cold contempt, "you killed him in purewantonness?"

  It was plain to Calumet that she was badly hurt over the dog's death.Certainly, despite her cold composure, she must be filled with rageagainst him for killing the animal. He might now have exhibited hisarm, to confound her with the evidence of his innocence of wantonness,and very probably she would have been instantly remorseful. But he hadno such intention; he was keenly alive to his opportunity to show herthat he was answerable to no one for his conduct. He enjoyed herchagrin; he was moved to internal mirth over her impotent wrath; hetook a savage delight in seeing her cringe from the evidence of hisapparent brutality. He grinned at her.

  "He's dead, ain't he?" he said. "An' I ain't makin' no excuses to you!"

  She gave him a scornful glance and went over to Malcolm, who hadclambered to his feet and was crouching, his face working with passion.At the instant Betty reached him he was clawing at his six-shooter,trying to drag it from the holster. But Betty's hand closed over hisand he desisted.

  "Not that, grandpa," she said quietly. "Shooting won't bring Lonesomeback. Besides"--she turned toward Calumet and saw the cold grin on hisface as his right hand dropped to his hip in silent preparation forMalcolm's menacing movement--"don't you see that he would shoot you ashe shot Lonesome? He just can't help being a brute!"

  She turned her back to Calumet and spoke in a low voice to hergrandfather, smoothing his hair, patting his shoulders--calming himwith all a woman's gentle artifices. And Calumet stood watching her,marveling at her self-control, feeling again that queer, thrillingsensation of reluctant admiration.

  He had forgotten Bob. Betty had left the boy standing alone when shehad gone over to Malcolm, and Bob had hobbled forward when Calumet hadturned to follow the girl's movements, so that now he stood just behindCalumet. The latter became aware of the boy's presence when the latterseized his left hand from behind, and he turned with a snarl, hissix-shooter half drawn, to confront the boy, whose grip on the hand hadnot been loosened. Calumet drew the hand fiercely away, overturningBob so that he fell sprawling into the dust at his feet. The youngsterwas up again before Betty and Malcolm could reach him, hobbling towardCalumet, his thin face working from excitement, his big eyes alightover the discovery he had made.

  "He didn't kill Lonesome because he is mean, Betty!" he shrilled; "Iknew he didn't! Look at his arm, Betty! It's all bloody! Lonesomebit him!"

  In spite of Calumet's efforts to avoid him, the boy again seized thearm, holding it out so that Betty and Malcolm could see the patches onthe sleeve and the thin red streak that had crawled down over the backof his hand and was dripping from the finger tips.

  Malcolm halted in his advance on Calumet and stealthily sheathed hisweapon. Betty, too, had stopped, a sudden wave of color overspreadingher face, the picture of embarrassment and astonishment.

  "Why didn't you tell us?" she asked accusingly; "it would have saved--"

  "Saved you from makin' a fool of yourself," interrupted Calumet. "Youcertainly did prove that I'm a mighty mean man," he added, mockingly."I didn't tell you because it's none of your business. It's only ascratch, but I ain't lettin' no damned animal chaw me up an' get awaywith it." He drew the hand away from the boy and placed it behind himso that Betty could not look at it, which she had been doing until now,with wide, frightened eyes. She came forward when he placed the handbehind him, and stood close to him, determination in her manner.

  "I want to see how badly you have been bitten," she said.

  "Go finish washin' your dishes," he advised, with a sneer. "That'swhere you belong. Until you an' your bunch butted in with your palaverI was enjoyin' myself. You drive me plumb weary."

  Betty faced him resolutely, though now there was contrition in hermanner, in her voice. She spoke firmly.

  "I am sorry for what I said to you before--about Lonesome. I thoughtyou had killed him just to be mean, to hurt me. I will try to makeamends. If you will come into the house I will dress your arm--it mustbe badly injured."

  Calumet's lips curled, then straightened, and he looked down at herwith steady hostility.

  "I ain't got no truck with you at all," he said. "When I'm figgerin'on lettin' you paw over me I'll let you know." He turned shortly andwalked over to the door of the stable, where he fumbled at thefastenings, presently swinging the door open and vanishing inside.Five minutes later, when he came out with the pony saddled and bridled,he found that Betty and Malcolm had gone. But Bob stood over the deadbody of Lonesome, silently weeping.

  For a moment, standing beside his pony, Calumet watched the boy, and ashe stood a queer pallor overspread his face and his lips tightenedoddly. For something in the boy's appearance, in the idea of hisexhibition of grief over his dog, which Malcolm had said he loved,smote Calumet's heart. As he continued to watch, his set lips movedstrangely, and his eyes glittered with a light that they had not yetknown. Twice he started toward the boy, and twice he changed his mindand returned to his pony to continue his vigil. The boy was unaware ofhis presence.

  The third time Calumet reached his side, and the big rough palm of hisright hand was laid gently on the boy's head.

  "I reckon I'm sorry, you damned little cuss," he said huskily as theyoungster looked up into his face. "If I'd have knowed that he wasyour dog I'd have let him chaw my arm off before I'd have shot him."

  The boy's eyes glowed with gratitude. Then they sought the body ofLonesome. When he looked up again Calumet was on his pony, ridingslowly past the bunkhouse. The boy watched him until he rode far outinto the valley.