The Boss of the Lazy Y | Page 9

merited the term
"pretty," which formed on Calumet's lips as he gazed at her, though it
remained unspoken. He gave her this tribute grudgingly, conscious of
the deep impression she was making upon him. He had never seen a
woman like her--for the reason, perhaps, that he had studiously avoided
the good ones. Mere facial beauty would not have made this impression
on him--it was something deeper, something more substantial and
abiding. And, watching her, he suddenly knew what it was. There was
in her eyes, back of the defiance that was in them now, an expression

that told of sturdy honesty and virtue. These gave to her features a
repose and calm that could not be disturbed, an unconscious dignity of
character that excitement could not efface, and her gaze was
unwavering as her eyes met his in a sharp, brief struggle. Brief, for
Calumet's drooped. He felt the dominant personality of the girl and
tried to escape its effect; looked at her with a snarl, writhing under her
steady gaze, a slow red coming into his cheeks.
The silence between them lasted long. The man on the chair, swaying
back and forth, began to recover his wits and his breath. He struggled to
an erect position and gazed about him with blood-shot eyes, feeling his
throat where Calumet's iron fingers had gripped it. Twice his lips
moved in an effort to speak, but no, sound came from between them.
Under the girl's uncomfortable scrutiny, Calumet's thoughts became
strangely incoherent, and he shifted uneasily, for he felt that she was
measuring him, appraising him, valuing him. He saw slow-changing
expressions in her eyes--defiance, scorn, and, finally, amused contempt.
With the last expression he knew she had reached a decision, not
flattering to him. He tried to show her by looking at her that he did not
care what her opinion was, but his recreant eyes refused the issue and
he knew that he was being worsted in a spiritual battle with the first
strong feminine character he had met; that her personality was
overpowering his in the first clash. With a last effort he forced his eyes
to steadiness and succeeded in sneering at her, though he felt that
somehow the sneer was ineffectual, puerile. And then she smiled at him,
deliberately, with a disdain that maddened him and brought a dark flush
to his face that reached to his temples. And then her voice taunted him:
"What a big, brave man you are?"
Twice her gaze roved over him from head to foot before her voice came
again, and in the total stoppage of his thoughts he found it impossible
to choose a word suitable to interrupt her.
"For you think you are a man, I suppose?" she added, her voice filled
with a lashing scorn. "You wear a gun, you ride a horse, and you look
like a man. But there the likeness ends. I suppose I ought to kill you--a

beast like you has no business living. Fortunately, you haven't hurt
grandpa very much. You may go now--go and tell Tom Taggart that he
will have to try again!"
The sound of her voice broke the spell which her eyes had woven about
Calumet's senses, and he stood erect, hooking his thumbs in his
cartridge belt, unaffected by her tirade, his voice insolent.
"Why, ma'am," he said, mockingly, his voice an irritating drawl, "you
cert'nly are some on the talk, for sure! Your folks sorta handed you the
tongue for the family when you butted into this here world, didn't they?
An' so that's your grandpa? I come pretty near hurtin' him an' you're
some het up over it? But I reckon that if he has to set around an' listen
to your palaver he'd be right glad to cash in. Shucks. I beg your pardon,
ma'am. If it'll do you any good to know, I thought your poor grandpap
was some one else. I was thinkin' it was a family affair, an' that I had a
right to guzzle him. You see, I thought the ol' maverick was my father."
The girl started, the color slowly faded from her cheeks and she drew a
long, tremulous breath.
"Then you," she said; "you are----" She hesitated and stared at him
intensely, her free hand tightly clenched.
He bowed, derisively, discerning the sudden confusion that had
overtaken her and making the most of his opportunity to increase it.
"I'm Calumet Marston," he said, grinning.
The girl gasped. "Oh!" she said, weakly; "Oh!"
The huge pistol slipped out of her hand and thudded dully to the floor
and she stood, holding tightly to the door jambs, her eyes fixed on
Calumet with an expression that he could not analyze.
CHAPTER III
CALUMET'S GUARDIAN

A new silence fell; a silence pregnant with