"Your father had a picture of you," she said, looking straight at him.

"It was taken when you were fifteen, just before you left the ranch.

It showed a boy with a cynical face and brooding, challenging eyes.

But in spite of all that I thought I detected signs of promise in the face. I was certain that if you were managed right you could be reformed."

"You _were_ certain," he said significantly. "What do you think now?"

"I haven't altered my opinion." Her gaze was steady and challenging.

"Of course," she added, blushing faintly; "I believe I was a little surprised when you came and I saw that you had grown to be a man. You see, I had looked at your picture so often that I rather expected to see a boy when you came. I had forgotten those thirteen years. But it has been said that a man is merely a grown-up boy and there is much truth in that. Despite your gruff ways, your big voice, and your contemptible way of treating people, you are very much a boy. But I am still convinced that you are all right at heart. I think everybody is, and the good could be brought forward if someone would take enough interest in the subject."

"Then you take an interest in me?" said Calumet, grinning scornfully.

"Yes," she said frankly; "to the extent of wondering whether or not time will vindicate my judgment."

"Then you think I won't blow this coin?" he said, tapping the bills.

"I think you will spend it for the articles on the list I have given you."

He looked at her and she was certain there was indecision in the glance.

"Well," he said abruptly, turning from her; "mebbe I will an' mebbe I won't. But whatever I do with it will be done to suit myself. It won't be done to please you."

He mounted his pony and rode to the far end of the ranchhouse yard.

When he turned in the saddle it was with the conviction that Betty would be standing there watching him. Somehow, he wished she would.

But she was walking toward the ranchhouse, her back to him, and he made a grimace of disappointment as he urged his pony out into the valley.

CHAPTER X

NEW ACQUAINTANCES

Calumet had been in no hurry, though maintaining its steady chop-trot for most of the distance, Blackleg had set him down in Lazette in a little over two hours.

Something had happened to Calumet. He had carefully considered the phenomenon all the way over from the Lazy Y; he considered it now as he sat sideways in the saddle before the rough board front of the Red Dog Saloon. Betty had faith in him. That was the phenomenon--the unheard of miracle. No one else had ever had faith in him, and so it was a new experience and one that must be thoroughly pondered if he was to enjoy it. And that he was enjoying it was apparent. Though he faced the Red Dog Saloon he did not see it. He kept seeing Betty as she looked after she had given him the money. "I know you will do the right thing," she had said, or something very like that. It made no difference what her words had been. What she meant was that she had faith in him. And her eyes had said that she expected him to justify that faith.

But would he? He didn't know. For the first time in his life he was afflicted with indecision over the possession of money. In the old days--the Durango days--which now seemed to be far behind him, the thousand dollars in his pocket would have served to finance a brief holiday of license and drinking and reckless play with gambling devices. But now it was different--something within him had called--or was calling--a halt. He told himself that it was because he had a curiosity to follow this strange, freakish plan of Betty's to the end.

Some other emotion was calling just as strongly for him to do with the money as he had always done with money. And so indecision afflicted him. Humor likewise. He rarely felt in this mood. Not for years had he felt like laughing. Was he the Calumet Marston who, a week before, had set out on his homeward journey filled with bitterness--looking for trouble? Had he been at the Lazy Y a day or a year? It was a day--two days--but it seemed more like the longer time. At least the time had wrought a change in him. It was ludicrous, farcical. In spite of his treatment of Betty she had faith in him! Wasn't that just like a woman? There was nothing logical in her. She had taken him on trust.

The whole business was in the nature of a comedy and suddenly yielding to his feelings he straightened in the saddle and laughed uproariously.

He did not laugh long, and when he sobered down and with an effort brought his mind back to the present, he became aware of the Red Dog, saw a young cowpuncher seated on the board sidewalk in front of the building, his back resting against it, laughing in sympathy with him.

Calumet was disconcerted for a moment. His eyes narrowed truculently.

But then, as the oddness of the situation struck him he laughed again.

But this time as he laughed he took stock of the young cowpuncher, who was again laughing with him.

The puncher was young--very young; not more than twenty-one or two.

There was a week's growth of beard on his face. A saddle reposed by his side. In spite of his laughter something about him spoke eloquently of trouble. Calumet felt a sudden interest in him. Any man who could laugh when the world was not doing well with him must be made of good stuff. But Calumet's interest was cynical and it brought a sneer to his lips as he ceased laughing and sat loosely in the saddle regarding the puncher.

"I reckon you ain't got no objections to tellin' me what you're laughin' at?" he said coldly.

"Mebbe you'd put me wise to the same thing," said the other. "I'm settin' here, puttin' in a heap of my time tryin' to figger out who got the most of the six months' wages which I had with me when I struck town yesterday--an' not makin' a h.e.l.l of a lot of progress--when you mosey up here an' begin to laugh your fool head off. At nothin', so far's I can see. Well, that's what I was laughin' at. Ketch my drift?"

"Meanin' that I'm nothin', I reckon?"

"Meanin' that you was laughin' at it," said the puncher with a deprecatory smile. "I ain't lookin' for trouble--I'm it!"

Calumet's eyes twinkled. This was a very discerning young man.

"Cleaned out, I reckon," he said. "You look old enough to _sabe_ that playin' with a buzz saw is mild amus.e.m.e.nt compared with buckin' a gambler's game."

"Got singed yourself, I reckon," said the puncher wearily. "You know the signs. Well, you've hit it. They'd have got my saddle, too, only--only they didn't seem to want it. There's still charity in the world, after all--some guys don't want everything. So I'm considerin'

the saddle a gift. It's likely, though, that they thought that if they left me the saddle I'd go right out an' rustle me another job an' earn some more coin an' come back an' hand that over, too. But they've got me wrong. Your little Dade Hallowell has swore off. He ain't never goin' to get the idea again that he's a simon-pure, dyed-in-the-wool card sharp."

"Another job? Then you're disconnected at present?"

"I'm free as the water. Ugh!" he shivered. "I couldn't even wash my face in it this mornin'. Water's a weak sister after last night." His expression changed. "I reckon you're in clover, though. Any man which can laugh to hisself as you was laughin', certainly ain't botherin' his head about much."

This quick turn of the conversation brought Calumet's thoughts back to Betty. "Looks is deceivin'," he said. "I've got a heap of burden on my mind. I've got a thousand dollars which is botherin' me considerable."

The puncher sat erect, his eyes bulging.

"You've got a thousand!" he said "Oh, Lordy! An' you're botherin'

about it?"

"It ain't none of your business, of course," said Calumet. "An' I reckon I'm tellin' you about it so's you'll feel mean about losin' your own. But mebbe not. Mebbe I'm tellin' you about it because I've got somethin' else in mind. When I first seen you I was filled clear to the top with doubt. If you had my thousand what would you do with it?"

"Meanin' that if I had your thousand an' was in your place?"

"I reckon."

"That would depend," said the puncher, cautiously. "If I'd robbed a man, or held up a stage coach, or busted a bank, I'd be burnin' the breeze out of the country. But if I'd earned it honest I'd blow myself proper, beginnin' by settin' 'em up to a fool guy which had give all his coin to some card sharps yesterday."

"None of them things fill the bill," said Calumet. "This thousand was give to me by a woman. I'm to buy things with it--horses, wagon, lumber, hardware, an' such truck."

"Shucks," said the puncher, disappointedly. Over his face settled a glum expression. "Then you ain't got no right to spend it--for anything but what she told you about. You'd be worse'n a thief to squander that money."

Calumet looked keenly at him. "I reckon you're more'n half right.

You've settled a thing in my mind. If you're hangin' around here when I get through buyin' them things I'll be settin' them up to you. If I've got anything left." He abruptly broke off and urged his pony about, leaving the puncher to look after him speculatively.

Two hours later he returned, driving two horses which were hitched to a wagon of the "prairie-schooner" variety. The wagon was loaded with lumber and sundry kegs, boxes and packages. Calumet's pony trailed it.

The puncher was still where Calumet had left him--apparently he had not moved. But when he saw Calumet halt the horses in front of him and jump out of the wagon he got to his feet. He met Calumet's gaze with a sober, interested smile.

"That wagon of yours is speakin' mighty loud of work," he said. "Back in Texas I used to be counted uncommon clever with a saw an' hammer.

If you can ra.s.sle them two statements around to look them in the face you can see what I'm drivin' at."

"What do you think you are worth to a man who ain't got no authority to do any hirin'?" said Calumet.