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Five miles into the distance, at a point where the river doubled sharply, rose the roofs of several ranch buildings his father's ranch, the Lazy Y. Upon the buildings Calumet's army of memories descended and he forgot the desert, the long ride, the bleak days of his exile, as he yielded to solemn introspection. Yet, even now, the expression of his face did not change.
They had almost reached them when Calumet's voice brought them to a halt. His lips were wreathed in a cold grin, his eyes alight with a satanic humor. But the rage had gone from his voice; it was mocking, derisive. "Goin' to ride?" he said. "Oh, don't! Them horses look dead tired. Leave them here; they need a rest.
In spite of Calumet's efforts to avoid him, the boy again seized the arm, holding it out so that Betty and Malcolm could see the patches on the sleeve and the thin red streak that had crawled down over the back of his hand and was dripping from the finger tips. Malcolm halted in his advance on Calumet and stealthily sheathed his weapon.
That Calumet's attack had been a vicious one was apparent, for as the man reached the door he staggered and leaned weakly against the jambs. He made a grimace at Calumet and smiled weakly at the girl. "I'm pretty well knocked out, Betty," he said. "My neck hurts, sorta. I'll send Bob in to keep you company." The girl cast a sharp, eloquent glance at Calumet and smiled with straight lips.
The pony lunged, swerved, and presented its right shoulder to the swaying reptile, its flesh quivering from excitement. Then the heavy revolver in Calumet's hand roared spitefully, there was a sudden threshing in the dust of the trail, and the huge rattler shuddered into a sinuous, twisting heap.
More, he rarely allowed Betty to get out of his sight, for he was determined to defeat the plan to rob him. However, the days passed and Taggart did not put in an appearance. Time removes the sting from many hurts and even jealousy's pangs are assuaged by the flight of days. And so after a while Calumet's vigilance relaxed, and he began to think that he had scared Taggart away.
For an instant he remained in this position, then he threw himself forward, groping for the pistol Calumet had dropped. Calumet's booted foot struck his wrist, and with a bellow of rage and pain he got to his feet and rushed headlong at his assailant. Calumet advanced a step to meet him. His right fist shot out again; it caught Taggart fairly in the mouth and he sank down once more.
The youngster's lips whitened, but his eyes did not waver. Death twitched at Calumet's finger. There was a long silence. And then Dade spoke. "Usin' it?" he said. Into Calumet's blazing eyes came a slow glint of doubt, of reluctant admiration. His lashes flickered, the blaze died down, he squinted, a cold, amused smile succeeded the snarl.
Dade followed him to the wagon, meekly enough now that he had received unmistakable proof that Taggart was Calumet's "game," and shortly afterward the wagon pulled out of Lazette and struck the trail toward the Lazy Y. Calumet had some thoughts on the subject but they were all inchoate and unsatisfying.
He discovered that it was imperative for him to stand without moving when his master trailed the reins over his head; he early learned that the bit was a terrible instrument of torture, and that it were better to answer to the pressure of Calumet's knee than to be subjected to the pain it caused him.
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