"Yes."
This time Calumet could not conceal his surprise; it was revealed in the skeptical, sneering, boring glance that he threw at the girl's face, now inscrutable. Her manner angered him.
"I reckon you're a liar," he said, with cold deliberation.
The girl reddened quickly; her hands clenched. But she did not look at him.
"Thank you," she returned, mockingly.
"What did he say?" he demanded gruffly, to conceal a slight embarrassment over her manner of receiving the insult.
Her chin lifted disdainfully. "You wouldn't believe a liar," she said coldly.
Again her spirit battled his. The dark flush spread over his face and he found that he could not meet her eyes; again the sheer, compelling strength of her personality routed the evilness in his heart. Involuntarily, his lips moved.
"I reckon I didn't mean just that," he said. And then, surprised that such words should come from him he looked up to see the hard calm of her face change to triumph.
The expression was swiftly transient. It baffled him, filling him with an impotent rage. But he watched her narrowly as she folded her hands in her lap and looked down at them.
"Your father expected you to come," she said quietly. "He prayed that you might return before he died. It seems that he felt he had treated you meanly and he wanted to tell you that he had repented."
A cynical wonder filled Calumet, and he laughed—a short, raucous staccato.
"How do you know?" he questioned.
"He told me."
Calumet considered her for a moment in silence and then his attention was directed to her grandfather, who had got to his feet and was walking unsteadily toward the dining-room door. He was a well-preserved man, appearing to be about sixty. That Calumet's attack had been a vicious one was apparent, for as the man reached the door he staggered and leaned weakly against the jambs. He made a grimace at Calumet and smiled weakly at the girl.
"I'm pretty well knocked out, Betty," he said. "My neck hurts, sorta. I'll send Bob in to keep you company."
The girl cast a sharp, eloquent glance at Calumet and smiled with straight lips.
"Don't bother to send Bob," she replied; "I am not afraid."
The grandfather went out, leaving the door open. While the girl stood listening to his retreating steps, Calumet considered her. She had said that she was not afraid of him—he believed her; her actions showed it. He said nothing until after her grandfather had vanished and his step was no longer heard, and then when she turned to him he said shortly:
"So your name's Betty. Betty what?"
"Clayton."
"An' your grandpap?"
"Malcolm Clayton."
"Who's Bob?"
"My brother."
"Any more Claytons around here?" he sneered.
"No."
"Well," he said with truculent insolence; "what in Sam Hill are you-all doin' at the Lazy Y, anyway?"
"I am coming to that presently," she returned, unruffled.
"Goin' to work your jaw again, I reckon?" he taunted.
The hard calm came again into her face as she looked at him, though behind it was that subtle quality that hinted of her possession of advantage. Her manner made plain to him that she held some mysterious power over him, a power which she valued, even enjoyed, and he was nettled, baffled, and afflicted with a deep rage against her because of it. Dealing with a man he would have known what to do, but he felt strangely impotent in the presence of this girl, for she was not disturbed over his insults, and her quiet, direct glances affected him with a queer sensation of guilt, even embarrassed him.
"Well?" he prompted, after a silence.
"I am going to tell you about your father," she said.
"Make it short," he said gruffly.
"Five years ago," said the girl, ignoring the insolent suggestion; "my father and mother died. My father had been a big cattle owner," she added with a flash of pride. "He was very wealthy; he was educated, refined—a gentleman. We lived in Texas—lived well. I attended a university in the South. In my second year there I was called home suddenly. My father was ill from shock and disappointment. He had invested heavily in some northern enterprise—it will not interest you to know the nature of it—and had lost his entire fortune. His ranch property was involved and had to be sold. There was barely enough to satisfy the creditors. Father died and mother soon followed him. Grandfather, Bob, and I were left destitute. We left the ranch and took up a quarter section of land on the Nueces. We became nesters and were continually harassed by a big cattle owner nearby who wanted our range. We had to get out. Grandfather thought there might be an opportunity to take up some land in this territory. Bob was—well, Bob took mother's death so hard that we didn't want to stay in Texas any longer. The outlook wasn't bright. Bob was too young to work—"
"Lazy, I reckon," jeered Calumet.
The girl's eyes flashed with a swift, contemptuous resentment and her voice chilled. "Bob's leg was hurt," she said. She waited for an instant, watching the sneer on Calumet's face, and then went on firmly, as though she had decided not to let anything he said disturb her. "So when Grandfather proposed coming here I agreed. We took what few personal effects that were left us. We traveled for two months—"
"I ain't carin' to hear your family history," interrupted Calumet. "You started to tell me about my dad."
"We were following the river trail near here," the girl went on firmly, scorning to pay any attention to this insult; "when we heard shooting. I stayed with the wagon while grandfather went to investigate. We found two men—Tom Taggart and his son Neal—concealed in the cottonwood, trying to shoot your father, who was in the house. Your father had been wounded in the shoulder and it would not have been long before—"
"Who are the Taggarts?" questioned Calumet, his lips setting strangely.
"They own a ranch near here—the Arrow. The motive behind their desire to kill your father makes another story which you shall hear some time if you have the patience," she said with jeering emphasis.
"I ain't particular."
The girl's lips straightened. "Grandfather helped your father drive the Taggarts away," she went on. "Your father was living here alone because several of his men had sought to betray him and he had discharged them all. Your father was wounded very badly and grandfather and I took care of him until he recovered. He liked us, wanted us to stay here, and we did."
"Pretty soft for a pair of poverty-stricken adventurers," commented Calumet.
The girl's voice was cold and distinct despite the insult.
"Your father liked me particularly well. A year ago he drew up a will giving me all his property and cutting you off without a cent. He gave me the will to keep for him."
"Fine!" was Calumet's dryly sarcastic comment.
"But I destroyed the will," went on the girl.
Calumet's expression changed to surprised wonder, then to mockery.
"You're locoed!" he declared. "Why didn't you take the property?"
"I didn't want it; it was yours."
Calumet forgot to sneer; his wonder and astonishment over the girl's ability to resist such a temptation were so great as to shock him to silence. She and her grandfather were dependants, abroad without means of support, and yet the girl had refused a legacy which she and her relative had undoubtedly earned. Such sturdy honesty surprised him, mystified him, and he was convinced