By no stretch of the imagination could Lazette be called attractive.

It lay forlorn and dismal at the foot of the slope, its forty or more buildings dingy, unpainted, ugly, scattered along the one street as though waiting for the encompa.s.sing desolation to engulf them. Two serpentine lines of steel, glistening in the sunlight, came from some mysterious distance across the dead level of alkali, touched the edge of town where rose a little red wooden station and a water tank of the same color, and then bent away toward some barren hills, where they vanished.

Calumet proceeded down the slope, halting at the lumber yard, where he left his wagon and orders for the material he wanted. Across the street from the lumber yard was a building on which was a sign: "The Chance Saloon." Toward this Calumet went after leaving his wagon. He hesitated for an instant on the sidewalk, and a voice, seeming to come from nowhere in particular, whispered in his ear:

"Neal Taggart's layin' for you!"

When Calumet wheeled, his six-shooter was in his hand. At his shoulder, having evidently followed him from across the street, stood a man. He was lean-faced, hardy-looking, with a strong, determined jaw and steady, alert eyes. He was apparently about fifty years of age.

He grinned at Calumet's belligerent motion.

"Hearin' me?" he said to Calumet's cold, inquiring glance.

The latter's eyes glowed. "Layin' for me, eh? Thanks." He looked curiously at the other. "Who are you?" he said.

"I'm Dave Toban, the sheriff." He threw back one side of his vest and revealed a small silver star.

"Correct," said Calumet; "how you knowin' me?"

"Knowed your dad," said the sheriff. "You look a heap like him.

Besides," he added as his eyes twinkled, "there ain't no one else in this section doin' any buildin' now."

"I'm sure much obliged for your interest," said Calumet. "An' so Taggart's lookin' for me?"

"Been in town a week," continued the sheriff. "Been makin' his brags what he's goin' to do to you. Says you wheedled him into comin' over to the Lazy Y an' then beat him up. Got Denver Ed with him."

Calumet's eyes narrowed. "I know him," he said.

"Gun-fighter, ain't he?" questioned the sheriff.

"Yep." Calumet's eyelashes flickered; he smiled with straight lips.

"Drinkin'?" he invited.

"Wouldn't do," grinned the sheriff. "Publicly, I ain't takin' no side.

Privately, I'm feelin' different. Knowed your dad. Taggart's bad medicine for this section. Different with you."

"How different?"

"Straight up. Anybody that lives around Betty Clayton's got to be."

Calumet looked at him with a crooked smile. "I reckon," he said, "that you don't know any more about women than I do. So-long," he added. He went into the "Chance" saloon, leaving the sheriff looking after him with a queer smile.

Ten minutes later when Calumet came out of the saloon the sheriff was nowhere in sight.

Calumet went over to where his wagon stood and, concealed behind it, took a six-shooter from under his shirt at the waistband and placed it carefully in a sling under the right side of his vest. Then he removed the cartridges from the weapon in the holster at his hip, smiling mirthlessly as he replaced it in the holster and made his way up the street.

With apparent carelessness, though keeping an alert eye about him, he went the rounds of the saloons. Before he had visited half of them there was an air of suppressed excitement in the manner of Lazette's citizens, and knowledge of his errand went before him. In the saloons that he entered men made way for him, looking at him with interest as he peered with impersonal intentness at them, or, standing in doorways, they watched him in silence as he departed, and then fell to talking in whispers. He knew what was happening--Lazette had heard what Taggart had been saying about him, and was keeping aloof, giving him a clear field.

Presently he entered the Red Dog.

There were a dozen men here, drinking, playing cards, gambling. The talk died away as he entered; men sat silently at the tables, seeming to look at their cards, but in reality watching him covertly. Other men got up from their chairs and walked, with apparent unconcern, away from the center of the room, so that when Calumet carelessly tossed a coin on the bar in payment for a drink which he ordered, only three men remained at the bar with him.

He had taken quick note of these men. They were Neal Taggart; a tall, lanky, unprepossessing man with a truculent eye rimmed by lashless lids, and with a drooping mustache which almost concealed the cruel curve of his lips, whom he knew as Denver Ed--having met him several times in the Durango country; and a medium-sized stranger whom he knew as Garvey. The latter was dark-complexioned, with a hook nose and a loose-lipped mouth.

Calumet did not appear to notice them. He poured his gla.s.s full and lifted it, preparatory to drinking. Before it reached his lips he became aware of a movement among the three men--Garvey had left them and was standing beside him.

"Have that on me," said Garvey, silkily, to Calumet.

Calumet surveyed him with a glance of mild interest. He set his gla.s.s down, and the other silently motioned to the bartender for another.

"Stranger here, I reckon?" said Garvey as he poured his whiskey.

"Where's your ranch?"

"The Lazy Y," said Calumet.

The other filled his gla.s.s. "Here's how," he said, and tilted it toward his lips. Calumet did likewise. If he felt the man's hand on the b.u.t.t of the six-shooter at his hip, he gave no indication of it.

Nor did he seem to exhibit any surprise or concern when, after drinking and setting the gla.s.s down, he looked around to see that Garvey had drawn the weapon out and was examining it with apparently casual interest.

This action on the part of Garvey was unethical and dangerous, and there were men among the dozen in the room who looked sneeringly at Calumet, or to one another whispered the significant words, "greenhorn"

and "tenderfoot." Others, to whom the proprietor had spoken concerning Calumet, looked at him in surprise. Still others merely stared at Garvey and Calumet, unable to account for the latter's mild submission to this unallowed liberty. The proprietor alone, remembering a certain gleam in Calumet's eyes on a former occasion, looked at him now and saw deep in his eyes a slumbering counterpart to it, and discreetly retired to the far end of the bar, where there was a whiskey barrel in front of him.

But Calumet seemed unconcerned.

"Some gun," remarked Garvey. It was strange, though, that he was not looking at the weapon at all, or he might have seen the empty chambers.

He was looking at Calumet, and it was apparent that his interest in the weapon was negative.

"Yes, some," agreed Calumet. He swung around and faced the man, leaning his left arm carelessly on the bar.

At that instant Denver Ed sauntered over and joined them. He looked once at Calumet, and then his gaze went to Garvey as he spoke.

"Friend of yourn?" he questioned. There was marked deference in the manner of Garvey. He politely backed away, shifting his position so that Denver Ed faced Calumet at a distance of several feet, with no obstruction between them.

Calumet's eyes met Denver's, and he answered the latter's question, Garvey having apparently withdrawn from the conversation.

"Friend of _his_?" sneered Calumet, grinning shallowly. "I reckon not; I'm pickin' my company."

Denver Ed did not answer at once. He moved a little toward Calumet and shoved his right hip forward, so that the b.u.t.t of his six-shooter was invitingly near. Then, with his hands folded peacefully over his chest, he spoke:

"You do," he said, "you mangy ------!"

There was a stir among the onlookers as the vile epithet was applied.

Calumet's right hand went swiftly forward and his fingers closed around the b.u.t.t of the weapon at Denver Ed's hip. The gun came out with a jerk and lay in Calumet's hand. Calumet began to pull the trigger.

The dull, metallic impact of the hammer against empty chambers was the only result.

Denver Ed grinned malignantly as his right hand stole into his vest.

There was a flash of metal as he drew the concealed gun, but before its muzzle could be trained on Calumet the latter pressed the empty weapon in his own hand against the one that Denver Ed was attempting to draw, blocking its egress; while in Calumet's left hand the six-shooter which he had concealed under his own vest roared spitefully within a foot of Denver Ed's chest.

Many in the room saw the expression of surprise in Denver Ed's eye as he pitched forward in a heap at Calumet's feet. There 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.