LITMIR.BIZ

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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 he could not rout her by force was certain, for he could not lay hands on a woman in violence, and he was by no means certain that he wanted her to leave, because if she did it was highly probable that he would never get his hands on the money his father had left. Of course he could search for the money, but there came to his mind now tales of treasure that had never been recovered, and he was reluctant to take any chances. On the other hand, he was facing the maddening prospect of living for a year under the eyes of a determined young woman who was to be the sole judge of his conduct. He was to become a probationer and Betty was to watch his every move.

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

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

      Leaning on the top rail of the fence, his gaze roved over the sweep of valley, dull and cheerless in the early dawn, with a misty film rising up out of it to meet and mingle and evaporate in the far-flung colors of the slow-rising sun. Once his gaze concentrated on a spot in the distance. He detected movement, and watched, motionless, until he was certain. Half a mile it was to the spot—a low hill, crested with yucca, sagebrush, and octilla—and he saw the desert weeds move, observed a dark form slink out from them and stand for an instant on the skyline. Wolf or coyote, it was too far for him to be certain, but he 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 to Betty. He did not like her, she irritated him. For a woman she was too assertive, too belligerent by half. Though considering her now, he was 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, mocking him, rebuking him, he could not repress a thrill of grudging admiration.

      For half an hour he stood at the corral fence. He rolled and smoked three cigarettes, his thoughts wrapped in memories of the past and revolving the problem of his future. Once Betty stood in the kitchen door for fully a minute, watching him speculatively, and twice old Malcolm 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 moving among the weeds on the distant hill in the valley had approached to within twenty yards of him, was crouching in a corner of the corral fence, watching him with blazing, blood-shot eyes, its dull gray hair bristling, its white fangs bared in a snarl.

      It had been a long stalk, and the beast's jaws were slavering from exertion. It watched, crouching and panting, for a favorable moment to make 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 and cunningly. So cautious had been its approach that old Malcolm had not seen it when fifteen minutes before he had passed Calumet and had paused for a look at him. The beast had been in a far corner of the fence 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 the ranchhouse yard behind Calumet to go to the bunkhouse, where he was now. The instant Malcolm had disappeared within the bunkhouse, the beast had stolen to its present position.

      The attack was swift and silent. Calumet was puffing abstractedly at a cigarette when he became aware of a rush of air as the gray shape flashed up from the ground. Calumet dodged involuntarily, throwing up an 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 arm and sank into it, crunching it to the bone.

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

      But Calumet was not to be surprised the second time. Standing at the fence, his eyes ablaze with hatred and pain, he crouched. 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. But apparently the bullet had missed a vital spot, for the beast struggled to its feet, dragging itself toward Calumet, its fangs slashing impotently.

      Calumet stepped back a pace, his face malignant with rage and hate, his eyes gleaming vengefully. He heard a scream from somewhere—a shrill protest in a voice which he did not recognize, but he paid no attention to it until he had deliberately emptied his six-shooter into the beast, putting the bullets where they would do the most good. When the weapon was emptied and the beast lay prone in the dust at his feet, its great jaws agape and dripping with blood-flecked foam, Calumet turned and looked up.

      He saw Malcolm Clayton come out of the bunkhouse door, and noticed Betty running toward him from the ranchhouse. Betty's sleeves were rolled to the elbows, her apron fluttering the wind, and the thought struck Calumet that she must have been washing dishes when interrupted by the shooting. But it was not she who had screamed—he would have recognized her voice. Then he saw a huddled figure leaning against the corner of the stable nearest the ranchhouse; the figure of a boy of twelve 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 he looked up, his pale, thin face drawn and set, his eyes filled with an expression of reproach and horror.

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

      "It's Lonesome!" gasped Malcolm, his lips quivering as he looked at the beast; "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 with resentment and anger. He showed no fear of Calumet now, but came close to him and stood rigid, his hands clenched. "It's Lonesome!" he repeated shrilly; "Bob's Lonesome!" And then, seeing from the expression 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 the terrible pressure of Calumet's iron fingers. For an instant he was held at arm's length, shaken savagely, and in the next he was flung with furious force against the corral fence, from whence he staggered and fell into a corner.

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

      "So you've killed Lonesome," she said. Calumet had finished reloading his pistol, and he folded his arms over his chest, deliberately shielding the left, which Lonesome had bitten, thus hiding the red patches that showed on the shirt sleeve over the wound. He would not give Betty the satisfaction of seeing that he had been hurt.

      "Lonesome," explained Betty, frigidly, "was a dog—he

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