He sat at the table and took several bites of food before he spoke again.

"Betty see the pup?" he asked.

"Yep."

"Like him?"

"Yep."

He hesitated, while Bob looked at him, intent for more questions. He had liked Calumet from the first, despite the killing of Lonesome. He could not forget the gruff words of consolation that had been spoken by Calumet on that occasion--they had been sincere, at any rate--his boy's heart knew that. He worshiped Calumet since he had given him the dog.

And so he wanted to talk.

"She patted him on the head," he said.

"Just what did she say?" inquired Calumet.

"She said he was nice."

"Them the exact words?"

"Yep."

There was a silence again, while Calumet chewed meditatively at his food. Bob suspended play with the puppy to watch him.

"Well," said Calumet finally, "that shows just what a woman knows about dogs--or anything. He ain't none nice, not at all, takin' dogs as dogs. He's nothin' but a fool yellow mongrel."

Bob contemplated his benefactor, sourly at first, for already he and the dog were friends, and thus Calumet's derogatory words were in the nature of a base slander. But he reasoned that all was not well between Betty and Calumet, and therefore perhaps Calumet had not meant them in exactly that spirit.

"Well," he said at last, "I like him a lot, anyway."

"What's that?" said Calumet, startled. He had forgotten about the dog.

He had been wondering if Betty had gone to bed, or whether she was in the sitting room, reading, as she was accustomed to doing. A light came through the sitting room door, and Calumet had been watching it, momentarily expecting to see Betty's shadow. "What's that?" he repeated. "You like him, anyway? Why?"

"Because you gave him to me," said Bob, blushing at the admission.

Calumet looked at him, sourly at first; and then, with a crafty grin on his face as he watched the sitting room door, he raised his voice so that if Betty were in the sitting room she could not help hearing it.

"Well," he said, "you like him because I gave him to you, eh? Shucks.

I reckon that ain't the reason Betty likes him."

Apparently Bob had no answer to make to this, for he kept silent. But Calumet saw a shadow cross the sitting room floor, and presently he heard a light footstep on the stairs. He smiled and went on eating.

CHAPTER XIII

SUSPICION

"If the repairs on the ranchhouse were not finished by this time you would not be reading this," began a letter drawn from a tightly sealed envelope Betty had given Calumet after he and Dade had completed the painting. Supper had been over for some time, but the dishes had not yet been cleared away, and when Betty had handed Calumet the letter he had shoved the tablecloth back to make room for his elbows while he read. Bob had gone to bed; Malcolm and Dade were somewhere outside.

Calumet had started to go with them, but had remained when Betty had told him quietly that she wanted to talk to him on a matter of importance. She sat opposite him now, unconcernedly balancing a knife on the edge of a coffee cup, while she waited for him to finish reading the letter.

"Therefore," continued the letter, "by this time your heart must have softened a little toward me. I am certain of this, for I know that, in spite of your other weaknesses, that cupidity and greed have no place in your mental make-up. I know, too, that you are no fool, and by this time you must have digested my first letter, and if you have you are not blaming me as much as you did in the beginning.

"I have talked this over with Betty, and she is of the opinion that as you have thus far obeyed my wishes you should be permitted to have a free hand henceforth, for she insists that perhaps by this time the restraint she has put on you will have resulted in you hating her, and in that case she says she will not care to remain here any longer. But as I have said, I do not think you are a fool, and n.o.body but a fool could hate Betty. So I have persuaded her that even if you should come to look upon her in that light she owes it to me to stay until the conditions are fulfilled.

"It is my own hope that by this time you have made friends with her.

Perhaps--I am not going to offer you any advice, but Betty is a jewel, and you might do worse. You probably will if you haven't sense enough to take her--if you can get her. I have given her your picture, and she likes you in spite of the reputation I have given you. She says you have good eyes. Now, if a girl once gets in that mood there's no end of the things she won't do for a man. And the man would be an ingrate if he didn't try to live up to her specifications after he found that out. That's why I am telling you. Faith made a certain disciple walk on the water, and lack of it caused the same one to sink.

Do a little thinking just here. If you do you are safe, and if you don't you are not worth saving.

"This is all about Betty. Whatever happens, I think she will be a match for you.

"Betty will give you another thousand dollars. With it you will fix up the corrals, the bunkhouse, and the stable.

"Perhaps you will want to know why I have not so much faith in you as Betty has. It is because one day a man from the Durango country stopped here for a day. He told me he knew you--that you were cold-blooded and a hard case. Then I knew you hadn't improved after leaving home. And so you must continue to do Betty's will, and mine.

Do you doubt this is for your own good?

"YOUR FATHER."

When Calumet folded the letter and placed it in a pocket, he leaned his arms on the table again and regarded Betty intently.

"Do you know what is in this letter?" he said, tapping the pocket into which he had placed it.

"No."

"There is something missing from the letter, ain't there?"

"Yes," she returned; "a thousand dollars." She pa.s.sed it over to him.

As before, there were ten one-hundred-dollar bills.

His eyes flashed with mocking triumph. "If you don't know what is in this letter--if you didn't read it--how do you know that I am to have this money?" he said.

She silently pa.s.sed over another envelope and watched him with a smile of quiet contempt as he removed the contents and read:

"BETTY:--Give Calumet a thousand dollars when you turn over letter number three to him.

"JAMES MARSTON."

Calumet looked at the envelope; Betty's name was on the face of it.

The triumph in his eyes was succeeded by embarra.s.sment. He looked up to see Betty's amused gaze on him.

"Well?" she questioned.

"Most women would have read it," he said. He got up and went outside, leaving her to look after him, not knowing whether he had meant to compliment her or not.

He found Dade and Malcolm standing near the stable. There was a brilliant moon. At Dade's invitation they all went down to the bunkhouse. In spite of the dilapidated appearance of its exterior, the interior of the building was in comparatively good condition--due to the continual tinkering of Malcolm, who liked to spend his idle hours there--and Malcolm lighted a candle, placed it on the rough table, took a deck of cards from the shelf, and the three played "pitch" for two hours. At the end of that time Malcolm said he was going to bed. Dade signified that he intended doing likewise. He occupied half of Calumet's bed. Since the day following the clash with Dade, Calumet had insisted on this.