The Boss of the Lazy Y | Page 6

no hurry, and soon after leaving the edge of the wood he
halted his pony and sat loosely in the saddle, gazing about him. When
he observed that he might be seen from the ranchhouse he moved deep
into the cottonwood and there, screened behind some nondescript brush,
continued his examination.
The place was in a state of dilapidation, of approaching ruin.
Desolation had set a heavy hand over it all. The buildings no more
resembled those he had known than daylight resembles darkness. The
stable, wherein he had received his last thrashing from his father, had
sagged to one side, its roof seeming to bow to him in derision; the
corral fence was down in several places, its rails in a state of decay, and
within, two gaunt ponies drooped, seeming to lack the energy necessary
to move them to take advantage of the opportunity for freedom so close
at hand. They appeared to watch Calumet incuriously, apathetically.
Calumet felt strangely jubilant. A vindictive satisfaction and delight
forced the blood through his veins a little faster, for, judging from the

appearance of the buildings, misfortune must have descended upon his
father. The thought brought a great peace to his soul; he even smiled
when he saw that the bunkhouse, which had sheltered the many
cowboys whom he had hated, seemed ready to topple to destruction.
The smile grew when his gaze went to the windmill, to see its long
arms motionless in the breeze, indicating its uselessness.
When he had concluded his examination he did not ride boldly toward
the ranchhouse, but made a wide circuit through the wood, for he
wanted to come upon his father in his own way and in his own time;
wanted to surprise him. There was no use of turning his pony into the
corral, for the animal had more life in him than the two forlorn beasts
that were already there and would not stay in the corral when a breach
in the fence offered freedom. Therefore, when Calumet reached the
edge of the wood near the front of the house he dismounted and tied his
pony to a tree.
A moment later he stood at the front door, filled with satisfaction to
find it unbarred. Swinging it slowly open he entered, silently closing it
behind him. He stood, a hand on the fastenings, gazing about him. He
was in the room which his father had always used as an office. As he
peered about in the gray dusk that had fallen, distinguishing familiar
articles of furniture--a roll-top desk, several chairs, a sofa, some cheap
prints on the wall--a nameless emotion smote him and his face paled a
little, his jaws locked, his hands clenched. For again the army of
memories was passing in review.
For a long time he stood at the door. Then he left it and walked to the
desk, placing a hand on its top and hesitating. Doubtless his father was
in another part of the house, possibly eating supper. He decided not to
bother him at this moment and seated himself in a chair before the desk.
There was plenty of time. His father would be as disagreeably surprised
to meet him five minutes from now as he would were he to stalk into
his presence at this moment.
Once in the chair, Calumet realized that he was tired, and he leaned
back luxuriously, stretching his legs. The five minutes to which he had
limited himself grew to ten and he still sat motionless, looking out of

the window at the deepening dusk. The shadows in the wood near the
house grew darker, and to Calumet's ears came the long-drawn,
plaintive whine of a coyote, the croaking of frogs from the river, the
hoot of an owl nearby. Other noises of the night reached him, but he
did not hear them, for he had become lost in meditation.
What a home-coming!
Bitterness settled into the marrow of his bones. Here was ruin,
desolation, darkness, for the returning prodigal. These were the things
his father had given him. A murderous rage seized him, a lust to rend
and destroy, and he sat erect in his chair, his muscles tensed, his blood
rioting, his brain reeling. Had his father appeared before him at this
minute it would have gone hard with him. He fought down an impulse
to go in search of him and presently the mood passed, his muscles
relaxed, and he stretched out again in the chair.
Producing tobacco and paper he rolled a cigarette, noting with a
satisfied smile the steadiness of his hand. Once he had overheard a man
telling another man that Calumet Marston had no nerves. He knew that;
had known it. He knew also that this faculty of control made his
passions more dangerous.