The Boss of the Lazy Y | Page 8

young woman standing in the
doorway, a candle in one hand, a forty-five Colt clutched in the other,
its muzzle gaping at him. The young woman's face was white, her eyes
wide and brilliant, she swayed, but there was determination in her
manner that could not be mistaken.
"Get up, or I will shoot you like a dog!" she said, in a queer, breathless
voice.
[Illustration: "Get up, or I will shoot you like a dog!" she said.]
Releasing his grip on the man's throat, Calumet swung around sideways
and glared malevolently at the young woman. His anger was gone;

there was no reason for it, now that he had discovered that the man was
not his father. But the demon in him was not yet subdued, and he got to
his feet, not because the young woman had ordered him to do so, but
because he saw no reason to stay down. A cold, mocking smile
replaced the malevolence on his face when, after reaching an erect
position, he saw that the weapon in the young woman's hand had
drooped until its muzzle was directed toward the floor at his feet. A
forty-five caliber revolver, loaded, weighs about forty ounces, and this
one looked so unwieldy and cumbersome, so entirely harmless in the
young woman's slender hand, that her threat seemed absurd, even
farcical. An ironical humor over the picture she made standing there
moved Calumet.
"I reckon you ought to use two hands if you want to hold that gun
proper, ma'am," he said.
The muzzle of the weapon wavered uncertainly; the young woman
gasped. Apparently the lack of fear exhibited by the intruder shocked
her. But she did not follow Calumet's suggestion, she merely stood and
watched him warily, as the man whom he had attacked struggled
dizzily to his feet, staggered weakly to a chair and half fell, half slipped
into it, swaying oddly back and forth, gasping for breath, a grotesque
figure.
The demon in Calumet slumbered--this situation was to his liking. He
stepped back a pace, and when the young woman saw that he meditated
no further mischief she lowered the pistol to her side. Then, moving
cautiously, watching Calumet closely, she placed the candle on the
floor in front of her. Again she stood erect, though she did not raise the
pistol. Evidently she was regaining her composure, though Calumet
observed that her free hand came up and grasped the dress over her
bosom so tightly that the fabric was in danger of ripping. Her face, in
the flickering light from the candle on the floor, was slightly in in the
shadow, but Calumet could see that the color was coming back to her
cheeks, and he took note of her, watching her with insolent intentness.
Of the expression in Calumet's eyes she apparently took no notice, but
she was watching the man he had attacked, plainly concerned over his

condition. And when at last she saw that he was suffering more from
shock than from real injury she breathed a sigh of relief. Then she
turned to Calumet.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded. She was breathing more
easily, but her voice still quivered, and the hand over her bosom moved
with a quick, nervous motion.
"I reckon that's my business," returned Calumet. He had made a
mistake, certainly, he knew that. It was apparent that his father had left
the Lazy Y. At least, if he were anywhere about he was not able to
come to investigate the commotion caused by the arrival of his son.
Either he was sick or had disposed of the ranch, possibly, if the latter
were the case, to the girl and the man. In the event of his father having
sold the ranch it was plain that Calumet had no business here. He was
an intruder--more, his attack on the man must convince both him and
the girl that there had been a deeper significance to his visit. However,
the explanation of the presence of the present occupants of the house
did not bother Calumet, and he did not intend to set them right, for he
was enjoying himself. Strife, danger, were here. Moreover, he had
brought them, and he was in his element. His blood pulsed swiftly
through his veins and he felt a strange exhilaration as he stepped
slightly aside and rested a hand on the desk top, leering at the girl.
She returned his gaze and evidently divined something of what was in
his mind, for her chin lifted a little in defiance. The flickering light
from the candle fell on her hair, brown and wavy, and in a tumble of
graceful disorder, and threw into bold relief the firm lines of her chin
and throat. She was not beautiful, but she certainly