The Boss of the Lazy Y | Page 5

from the distant mountains fell full upon the horseman, and with
the instinct for attention to detail which had become habitual with
Calumet, he noted that the rider was a big man; that he wore a
cream-colored Stetson and a scarlet neckerchief. Even at that distance,
so clear was the light, Calumet caught a vague impression of his
features--his nose, especially, which was big, hawk-like.
Calumet yielded to a sudden wonder over the rider's appearance on the
hill. He had not seen him; had not heard him before. Still, that was not
strange, for he had become so absorbed in his thoughts while on the hill
that he had paid very little attention to his surroundings except to
associate them with his past.
The man, evidently, was a cowpuncher in the employ of his father; had
probably seen him from the level of the valley and had ridden to the
crest of the hill out of curiosity.
Another impulse moved Calumet. He decided to have a talk with the
man in order to learn, if possible, something of the life his father had
led during his absence. He kicked his pony in the ribs and rode toward
the man, the animal traveling at a slow chop-trot.
For a moment the man watched him, still motionless. Then, as Calumet
continued to approach him the man wheeled his horse and sent it
clattering down the opposite side of the hill.
Calumet sneered, surprised, for the instant, at the man's action.
"Shy cuss," he said, grinning contemptuously. In the next instant,
however, he yielded to a quick rage and sent his pony scurrying up the

slope toward the crest of the hill.
When he reached the top the man was on the level, racing across a
barren alkali flat at a speed which indicated that he was afflicted with
something more than shyness.
Calumet halted on the crest of the hill and waved a hand derisively at
the man, who was looking back over his shoulder as he rode.
"Slope, you locoed son-of-a-gun!" he yelled; "I didn't want to talk to
you, anyway!"
The rider's answer was a strange one. He brought his horse to a
dizzying stop, wheeled, drew a rifle from his saddle holster, raised it to
his shoulder and took a snap shot at Calumet.
The latter, however, had observed the hostile movement, and had
thrown himself out of the saddle. He struck the hard sand of the hill on
all fours and stretched out flat, his face to the ground. He heard the
bullet sing futilely past him; heard the sharp crack of the rifle, and
peered down to see the man again running his horse across the level.
Calumet drew his pistol, but saw that the distance was too great for
effective shooting, and savagely jammed the weapon back into the
holster. He was in a black rage, but was aware of the absurdity of
attempting to wage a battle in which the advantage lay entirely with the
rifle, and so, with a grim smile on his face, he watched the progress of
the man as he rode through the long grass and across the barren
stretches of the level toward the hills that rimmed the southern horizon.
Promising himself that he would make a special effort to return the shot,
Calumet finally wheeled his pony and rode down the hill toward the
Lazy Y.
CHAPTER II
BETTY MEETS THE HEIR

An emotion which he did not trouble himself to define impelled
Calumet to wheel his pony when he reached the far end of the corral
fence and ride into the cottonwood where, thirteen years before, he had
seen the last of his mother. No emotion moved him as he rode toward it,
but when he came upon the grave he experienced a savage satisfaction
because it had been sadly neglected. There was no headboard to mark
the spot, no familiar mound of earth; only a sunken stretch, a pitiful
little patch of sand, with a few weeds thrusting up out of it, nodding to
the slight breeze and casting grotesque shadows in the somber twilight.
Calumet was not surprised. It was all as he had pictured it during those
brief moments when he had allowed his mind to dwell on his past; its
condition vindicated his previous conviction that his father would
neglect it. Therefore, his satisfaction was not in finding the grave as it
was, but in the knowledge that he had not misjudged his father. And
though he had not loved his mother, the condition of the grave served
to infuse him with a newer and more bitter hatred for the surviving
parent. A deep rage and contempt slumbered within him as he urged his
pony out of the wood toward the ranchhouse.
He was still in