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

toward Betty she sat motionless, for there was a repressed savagery in his movements that chilled her blood. He came and stood in front of her, towering over her; she saw that his hands were clenched, the fingers working. Twice she tried to look up at him, but each time her gaze stopped at his hands—they fascinated her. She tried to scream when she finally saw them come out toward her, but succeeded in emitting only a breathless gasp, for a broad, rough palm suddenly enclosed each of her cheeks and her head was forced slowly and resistlessly back until she found herself looking straight up at him.

"Why, you," he said, his voice vibrating with some strange passion, while he shook her head slowly from side to side as though he were resisting an impulse to throttle her; "why, you—you—" he repeated, his voice a sudden, tense whisper; "for two bits I'd—"

He hesitated, for she had recovered from her momentary physical and mental paralysis, roused by the awful threat in his voice and manner, and was fighting to free herself, clawing at his hands, kicking, squirming, but ineffectively, for his hands were like bands of steel. Finding resistance useless she sat rigid again, her eyes flashing impotent rage and scorn.

"Coward!" she said breathlessly.

For an instant longer he held her and then laughed and dropped his hands to his sides.

"Shucks," he said, his voice expressing disgust; "I reckon the old man knowed what he was doin' when he appointed you my guardian! A man can't fight a woman—like that!"

He walked to the chair upon which he had been sitting, turned it around so that its back was toward Betty, and straddled it, leaning his arms on its back and resting his chin on them.

"Well," he said, with a slow grin at her; "if it will do you any good to know, I've decided to stay here and let you practice on me. What's the first move?"

But his action had aroused her; she stood up and confronted him, her face flushed with shame and indignation.

"Leave this house!" she commanded, taking a step toward him and speaking rapidly and hoarsely, her voice quivering as though she had been running; "leave it instantly!" She stamped a foot to emphasize the order.

Calumet did not move. He watched her, a smile on his lips, his eyes narrowed. When she stamped her foot the smile grew to a short, amused laugh.

"Sorta riled, eh?" he jeered. "Well, go as far as you like—you're sure amusin'. But I don't reckon that I'll be leavin' here in a hurry. Didn't the old man tell you I could stay here a year? What's the use of me goin' now, just when you're goin' to start to reform me? Why," he finished, surveying her with interest; "I reckon the old man would be plumb tickled to see the way you're carryin' on—obeyin' his last wishes." He rested his head on his arms and laughed heartily.

He heard her step across the floor, and raised his head again, to look into the muzzle of the pistol he had laid on the desk. It was close to him, steady in her hands, and behind it her eyes were blazing with wrath and determination.

"Go!" she ordered sharply; "go now—this minute, or I will shoot you!"

He laughed recklessly into the muzzle of the weapon and then without visible excitement turned in his chair, reached out a swift hand, grasped the weapon by the barrel and depressed the menacing muzzle so that it pointed straight downward. Holding it thus in spite of her frantic efforts to wrench it free, he got to his feet and stood in front of her.

"Why, Betty," he jeered; "you're sure some excited." Seizing her other hand, he turned her around so that she faced him fairly, holding her with a grip so tight that she could not move.

"It's your game, ain't it?" he said mockingly. "Well, I'm playin' it with you. Somethin' seems to tell me that we're goin' to have a daisy time makin' a go of it."

He suddenly released her hands and stepped back, leaving her in possession of the pistol.

"Usin' it?" he questioned, drawling, nodding toward the weapon. Betty looked down at it, shuddered, and then with an expression of dread and horror reached out and laid it gingerly on the desk top.

The next instant Calumet stood alone, grinning widely at the door through which Betty had vanished. Listening, he heard her retreating steps, heard a distant door slam. He walked to the desk and looked at the pistol, then turned and surveyed the room with a speculative eye.

"She didn't even offer me a place to sleep," he said mockingly.

He stood for an instant longer, debating the situation. Then he crossed the floor, closed the dining-room door, fastened it securely and recrossing to the outside door stepped down from the porch and sought his pony. Ten minutes later he carried the saddle in, threw it on the floor, folded the saddle blanket and placed it on the sofa, closed the outside door, opened the window, snuffed out the candle, stretched himself out on the sofa and went to sleep.

CHAPTER V THE FIRST LESSON

Shortly after daybreak the following morning Calumet turned over on his back, stretched lazily and opened his eyes. When a recollection of the events of the previous night forced themselves into his consciousness he scowled and sat erect, listening. From beyond the closed dining-room door came sundry sounds which told him that the Claytons were already astir. He heard the rattle of dishes, and the appetizing aroma of fried bacon filtered through the crevices in the battered door and assailed his nostrils.

He scowled again as he rose and stood looking down at his saddle. When beginning his homeward journey he had supplied himself with soda biscuit and jerked beef, but he had consumed the last of his food at noon the day before and the scent of the frying bacon aroused him to the realization that he was ravenously hungry. As he meditated upon the situation the scowl on his face changed to an appreciative grin. Now that he had decided to stay here he did not purpose to go hungry when there was food around.

Shouldering his saddle he left the office and proceeded to the stable, in which he had placed his pony the night before. He fed the animal from a pitiful supply of grain in a bin, and after slamming the door of the stable viciously, sneering at it as it resisted, he stalked to the ranchhouse.

There was a tin basin on a bench just outside the kitchen door. He poured it half full of water from a pail that sat on the porch floor, and washed his hands and face, noting, while engaged in his task, a clean towel hanging from a roller on the wall of the ranchhouse. While drying his face he heard voices from within, subdued, anxious. Completing his ablutions he stepped to the screen door, threw it open and stood on the threshold.

In the center of the kitchen stood a table covered with a white cloth on which were dishes filled with food from which arose promising odors. Beside a window in the opposite wall of the kitchen stood Malcolm Clayton. He was facing Calumet, and apparently had recovered from the encounter of the night before. But when he looked at Calumet he cringed as though in fear. Betty stood beside the table, facing Calumet also. But there was no fear in her attitude. She was erect, her hands resting on her hips, and when Calumet hesitated on the threshold she looked at him with a scornful half smile. Yielding to the satanic humor which had received its birth the night before when he had made his decision to remain at the Lazy Y, he returned Betty's smile with a derisive grin, walked to the table, pulled out a chair, and seated himself.

It was a deliberate and premeditated infringement of the proprieties, and Calumet anticipated a storm of protest from Betty. But when he looked brazenly at her he saw her regarding him with a direct, disdainful gaze. He understood. She was surprised and indignant over the action, possibly shocked over his cool assumption, but she was not going to lose her composure.

"Well," he said, keenly enjoying the situation and determined to torment her further, "set down. I reckon we'll grub."

"Thank you," she mocked, with quick sarcasm; "I was wondering whether you would ask us. Grandpa," she added, turning to Malcolm, "won't you join us? Mr. Marston has been so polite and thoughtful that we certainly ought not to refuse his invitation."

She drew out a chair for Malcolm and stood beside it while he shuffled forward and hesitatingly slipped into it, watching Calumet furtively. Then she moved quietly and gracefully to another chair, directly opposite Calumet.

Her sarcasm had no perceptible effect on Calumet. Inwardly he was intensely satisfied. His action in seating himself at the table without invitation angered Betty, as he had intended it should.

"Some shocked, eh?" he said, helping himself to some bacon and fried potatoes, and passing them to her when he had finished with them.

"Shocked?" she returned calmly, unconcernedly supplying herself with food from the dishes she had taken from him, "Oh, my, no. You see, from what your father told me about you, I rather expected you to be a brute."

"Aw, Betty," came Malcolm's voice, raised in mild remonstrance; "you hadn't ought to—"

"If you please, grandpa," Betty interrupted him, and he subsided and glanced anxiously at Calumet, into whose face had come a dash of dark color. He swallowed a mouthful of bacon before he answered Betty.

"Then you ain't disappointed," he sneered.

She rested her hands on the table beside her plate, the knife and fork poised, and regarded him with a frank gaze.

"No, I am not disappointed. You quite meet my expectations. In fact," she went on, "I thought you would be much worse than you are. So far, if we except your attack on grandfather, you haven't exhibited any vicious traits. You are vain, though, and conceited, and like to bully people. But those are faults that can be corrected."

Calumet had to look twice at her before he could be certain that she was not mocking him.

"I reckon you're goin' to correct them?" he said, then.

She took a sip of coffee and placed the cup delicately down before she answered.

"Of course—if you are to stay here."

"How?" His lips were in an incredulous sneer.

"By showing you that you can't be conceited around me, and that you can't bully me. I suppose," she went on, leaning her elbows on the table and supporting her chin with her hands while she looked straight at him, "that when you came in here and took a seat without being invited, you imagined you were impressing some one with your importance. But you were not; you were merely acting the part of a vulgar boor. Or perhaps you had a vague idea that you were going to do as you please."

He placed his knife and fork down and looked at her. Her manner was irritating; her quiet, direct glances disconcerted him. He could not fail to see that he had signally failed in his effort to disturb her. In fact, it became very plain to him as he watched her that she was serenely conscious of her power over him, as a teacher is conscious of her authority over an unruly pupil, and that, like a teacher, she was quietly determined to be the victor.

The thought angered Calumet. There was in his mind a desire to humble her, to crush her, to break her spirit, to drag her down to his own level where he could fight her with his own weapons. He wanted to humiliate her, wanted to gloat over her, wanted above all to have her acknowledge his superiority, his authority, over her. Had he been able to do this at their first meeting