The Boss of the Lazy Y - Charles Alden Seltzer (black male authors TXT) 📗

were others who saw Garvey raise the six-shooter which he had drawn from Calumet's holster. All heard the hammer click impotently on the empty chambers; saw Calumet's own weapon flash around and cover Garvey; saw the flame-spurt and watched Garvey crumple and sink.

There was a dead silence. Taggart had not moved. Calumet's gaze went from the two fallen men and rested on his father's enemy.

"Didn't work," he jeered. "They missed connections, didn't they? You'll get yours if you ain't out of town by sundown. Layin' for me for a week, eh? You sufferin' sneak, thinkin' I was born yesterday!" He ignored Taggart and looked coolly around at his audience, not a man of which had moved. He saw the sheriff standing near the door, and it was to him that he spoke.

"Frame-up," he said in short, sharp accents. "Back Durango way Denver an' the little guy pulled it off regular. Little man gets your gun. Denver gets you riled. Sticks his hip out so's you'll grab his gun. You do. Gun's empty. But you don't know it, an' you try to perforate Denver. Then he pulls another gun an' salivates you. Self-defense." He looked around with a cold grin. "Planted an empty on him myself," he said. "The little guy fell for it. So did Denver. I reckon that's all. You wantin' me for this?" he inquired of the sheriff. "You'll find me at the Lazy Y. Taggart—" He hesitated and looked around. Taggart was nowhere to be seen. "Sloped," added Calumet, with a laugh.

"I don't reckon I'll want you," said Toban. "Clear case of self-defense. I reckon most everybody saw the play. Some raw."

Several men had moved; one of them was peering at the faces of Denver and Garvey. He now looked up at the sheriff.

"Nothing botherin' them any more," he said.

Calumet stepped over to Denver's confederate and took up the pistol from the floor near him, replacing it in his holster. By this time the crowd in the saloon was standing near the two gunmen, commenting gravely or humorously, according to its whim.

"Surprise party for him," suggested one, pointing to Denver.

"Didn't tickle him a heap, though," said another. "Seemed plumb shocked an' disappointed, if you noticed his face."

"Slick," said another, pointing to Calumet, who had turned his back and was walking toward the door; "cool as ice water."

Sudden death had no terrors for these men; there was no inclination in their minds to blame Calumet, and so they watched with admiration for his poise as he stepped out through the door.

"Taggart'll be gettin' his," said a man.

"Not tonight," laughed another. "I seen him hittin' the breeze out. An' sundown's quite a considerable distance away yet, too."

CHAPTER XVI THE AMBUSH

If Calumet had any regret over the outcome of his adventure in the Red Dog, it was that Neal Taggart had given him no opportunity to square the account between them. Calumet had lingered in town until dusk, for he had given his word and would not break it, and then, it being certain that his enemy had decided not to accept the challenge, he hitched his horses and just after dusk pulled out for the Lazy Y. Something had been added to the debt of hatred which he owed the Taggarts.

As he drove through the darkening land he yielded to a deep satisfaction. He had struck one blow, a sudden and decisive one, and, though it had not landed on either of the Taggarts, it had at least shown them what they might expect. He intended to deliver other blows, and he was rather glad now that he had not been so weak as to allow Betty's dictatorial attitude to drive him from the ranch, for in that case he would never have discovered the plot to cheat him of his heritage—would not have been in a position to bring discomfiture and confusion upon them all. That was what he was determined to do. There was no plan in his mind; he was merely going to keep his eyes open, and when opportunity came he was going to take advantage of it.

The darkness deepened as he drove. When he reached the crest of the slope from which that morning he had looked down upon Lazette, the wagon entered a stretch of broken country through which the horses made slow progress. After traversing this section he encountered a flat, dull plain of sand, hard and smooth, which the horses appreciated, for they traveled rapidly, straining willingly in the harness.

It was about nine o'clock when the moon rose, a pale yellow disk above the hills that rimmed the valley of the Lazy Y, and Calumet welcomed it with a smile, lighting a cigarette and leaning back comfortably in the seat, with the reins held between his knees.

He presently thought of his weapons, drawing them out and reloading them. They recalled the incident of the Red Dog, and for a long time his thoughts dwelt on it, straight, grim lines in his face.

He wondered what Betty would say when she heard of it. Would it affect her future relations with Taggart? His thoughts were still of Betty when the wagon careened out of the level and began to crawl up a slope that led through some hills. The trail grew hazardous, and the horses were forced to proceed slowly. It was near midnight when the wagon dipped into a little gully about a mile and a half from the ranchhouse. Calumet halted the horses at the bottom of the gully, allowing them to drink from the shallow stream that trickled on its way to meet the river which passed through the wood near the ranchhouse.

After the animals had drunk their fill he urged them on again, for he was weary of the ride and anxious to have it over with. It was a long pull, however, and the horses made hard work of it, so that when they reached the crest of the rise they halted of their own accord and stood with their legs braced, breathing heavily.

Calumet waited patiently. He was anxious to get to the Lazy Y, but his sympathy was with the horses. He rolled and lighted another cigarette, holding the match concealed in the palm of his hand so that the breeze might not extinguish it.

Sitting thus, a premonition of danger oppressed him with such force and suddenness that it caused him to throw himself quickly backward. At the exact instant that his back struck the lumber piled behind him he heard the sharp, vicious crack of a rifle, and a bullet thudded dully into one of the wooden stanchions of the wagon frame at the edge of the seat. Another report followed it quickly, and Calumet flung himself headlong toward the rear of the wagon, where he lay for a brief instant, alert, rigid, too full of rage for utterance.

But he was not too angry to think. The shots, he knew, had come from the left of the wagon. They had been too close for comfort, and whoever had shot at him was a good enough marksman, although, he thought, with a bitter grin, a trifle too slow of movement to do any damage to him.

His present position was precarious and he did not stay long in it. Close to the side of the wagon—the side opposite that from which the shots had come—was a shallow gully, deep enough to conceal himself in and fringed at the rear by several big boulders. It was an ideal position and Calumet did not hesitate to take advantage of it. Dropping from the rear of the wagon, he made a leap for the gully, landing in its bottom upon all fours. He heard a crash, and a bullet flattened itself against one of the rocks above his head.

"He ain't so slow, after all," he admitted grudgingly, referring to the concealed marksman.

He kneeled in the gully and looked cautiously over its edge. The wagon was directly in front of him; part of one of the rear wheels was in his line of vision. The horses were standing quietly, undisturbed by the shots. He resolved to keep them where they were, and, exercising the greatest care, he found a good-sized rock and stuck it under the front of the rear wheel nearest him, thus blocking the wagon against them should they become restless.

The moon was at his back, and he grinned with satisfaction as he noted that the rocks behind him threw a deep shadow into the gully. He could not help thinking that his enemy, whoever he was, had not made a happy selection of a spot for an ambuscade, for the moonlight's glare revealed every rock on the other side of the wagon, and the few trees in the wood behind the rocks were far too slender to provide shelter for a man of ordinary size. Calumet chuckled grimly as, with his head slightly above the edge of the gully and concealed behind the felloes of the wagon wheel, he made an examination of the rocks beyond the wagon.

There were four of the rocks which were of sufficient size to afford concealment for a man. They varied in size and were ranged along the side of the trail in an irregular line. All were about a hundred feet distant.

The smaller one, he decided, was not to be considered, though he looked suspiciously at it before making his decision. Its neighbor was larger, though he reasoned that if he were to make a selection for an ambuscade he would not choose that one either. The other two rocks were almost the same size and he watched them warily. To the right and left of these rocks was a clear space, flat and open, with not a tree or a bush large enough to conceal danger such as he was in search of. The slope up which he had just driven the horses was likewise free from obstruction, so that if his enemy was behind any of the rocks he was doomed to stay there or offer himself as a target for Calumet's pistol.

"Wise, I reckon," he sneered. "Figgered to plug me while the horses was restin', knowin' I'd have to breathe them about here. Thought one shot would get me. Missed his reckonin'. Must be a mite peeved by this time."

His gaze became intent again, but this time it was directed to some underbrush about two hundred yards distant, back of the rocks. With some difficulty he could make out the shape of a horse standing well back in the brush, and again he grinned.

"That's why he took that side," he said. "There's no place on this side where he could hide his horse. It's plumb simple."

From where he kneeled began another slope that descended to the Lazy Y valley. It dipped gently down into the wood in front of the house, where he had hitched his horse on the night of his home-coming, and between the trees he could see a light flickering. The light came from the kitchen window of the ranch-house; Betty had left it burning for him, expecting him to return shortly after dusk. The house was not more than a mile distant and he wondered at the hardihood of his enemy in planning to ambush him so close to his home. He reflected, though, that it was not likely that the shots could be heard from the house, for the spot on which the wagon stood was several hundred feet above the level of the valley, and then there was the intervening wood, which would dull whatever sound might float in that direction.

Who could his assailant be? Why, it was Taggart, of course. Taggart had left town hours before him, he was a coward, and shooting from ambush is a coward's game.

Calumet's blood leaped a little faster in his veins. He would settle for good with Neal Taggart. But he did not move except to draw one of his six-shooters and push