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.
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