"That's joyful news--for
you. So you know her? It's likely she'll be glad to see you."
Dade was mystified by his tone. "I reckon I ain't gettin' this thing
just right," he said. "You told me Betty was runnin' the ranch, an'
you tell this man that you're the son of the man that owns it. I don't
see--"
Calumet smiled saturninely. "Take another drink," he advised. He
shoved the bottle toward Dade. "This is your fourth. Then we'll be
hittin' the breeze to the Lazy Y. Betty'll be lonesome without me."
He laughed raucously, filled his glass and drank its contents. Then he
turned from the bar and walked toward the door. Half way to it, Dade
following him, he halted, for the voice of a man who sat at a table
reached him.
"Aw, Taggart," it said loudly, "you're crowdin' the ante a little,
ain't you?" The speaker laughed. "They tell me that Betty Clayton
ain't no man's fool. An' here you say--" The rest of it was drowned
in a laugh that followed, the other two men joining the speaker.
"Stuck on me, I tell you!" said another voice, and Calumet, half turned
toward the table, saw the speaker's face. It was the face of an
egotist--the vain, sensuous visage of a man in whom the animal
instincts predominated--the face of the rider that Calumet had seen on
the hill in the valley on the day of his return--the face of the man
who had shot at him.
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