oyful 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. The man was good-looking in a coarse, vulgar way,
and dissipated, gross, self-sufficient. Calumet's eyes narrowed with
dislike as he looked at him. There was interest in his glance, too,
for this was his father's enemy--his enemy. But after the first look
his face became inscrutable. He turned to see Dade standing beside
him. Dade was rigid, pale; his body was in a half-crouch and there was
an expression of cold malignance on his face. Quickly Calumet placed
both hands on the young man's shoulders and shoved him back against the
bar, thrusting his own body between him and Taggart.

"Easy there," he warned in a whisper. "He's my meat."

Dade caught the mirthless smile on his lips and looked at him
curiously, his attitude still belligerent.

"He's talkin' about Betty, the damned skunk!" he objected. His voice
was a low, throaty whisper and it did not carry to the table where the
three men sat.

"He was sure talkin' about her," said Calumet inexpressively. "An'
I'll admit that any man who talks that way about a woman is what you've
called him. But it's my funeral," he