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The wagon was loaded with lumber and sundry kegs, boxes and packages. Calumet's pony trailed it. The puncher was still where Calumet had left him apparently he had not moved. But when he saw Calumet halt the horses in front of him and jump out of the wagon he got to his feet. He met Calumet's gaze with a sober, interested smile. "That wagon of yours is speakin' mighty loud of work," he said.
This odd duel continued with long lapses of silence while the moon grew to a disk of pale, liquid silver in the west, enduring through the bleak, chill time preceding the end of night, finally fading and disappearing as the far eastern distance began to glow with the gray light of dawn. Calumet's cold humor had not survived the night.
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. "I'll be right glad to have you," said Calumet. "Come tomorrow in the afternoon any time." "You reckonin' on bein' the boss now?" questioned Taggart.
As the beast leaped Calumet's hand moved at his hip, his heavy six-shooter crashed spitefully, its roar reverberating among the buildings and startling the two gaunt horses in the corral to movement. The gray beast snarled, crumpled midway in its leap, and dropped at Calumet's feet. A dark patch on its chest just below the throat showed where the bullet had gone.
Taggart looked into Calumet's eyes. What he saw there seemed to decide him. "I reckon it's your trick," he said; "I'll talk." "Get goin'." "I said I'd made love to her." A half-sneer wreathed Calumet's face. "I reckon that covers the ground pretty well. You didn't say it that way, but we won't have you repeat the exact words; they ain't fit to hear. The point is, did you tell the truth?"
Under the girl's uncomfortable scrutiny, Calumet's thoughts became strangely incoherent, and he shifted uneasily, for he felt that she was measuring him, appraising him, valuing him. He saw slow-changing expressions in her eyes defiance, scorn, and, finally, amused contempt. With the last expression he knew she had reached a decision, not flattering to him.
At that instant Calumet looked over the edge of the gully to see Taggart shoving the muzzle of his rifle around the side of the rock. Its report mingled with the roar of Calumet's pistol. Taggart yelled with pain and rage and flopped back out of sight, while Calumet laid an investigating hand on his left shoulder, which felt as though it had been seared by a red-hot iron.
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 coarse, vulgar way, and dissipated, gross, self-sufficient. Calumet's eyes narrowed with dislike as he looked at him.
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.
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.
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