nt his pony scurrying up the
slope toward the crest of the hill.

When he reached the top the man was on the level, racing across a
barren alkali flat at a speed which indicated that he was afflicted
with something more than shyness.

Calumet halted on the crest of the hill and waved a hand derisively at
the man, who was looking back over his shoulder as he rode.

"Slope, you locoed son-of-a-gun!" he yelled; "I didn't want to talk to
you, anyway!"

The rider's answer was a strange one. He brought his horse to a
dizzying stop, wheeled, drew a rifle from his saddle holster, raised it
to his shoulder and took a snap shot at Calumet.

The latter, however, had observed the hostile movement, and had thrown
himself out of the saddle. He struck the hard sand of the hill on all
fours and stretched out flat, his face to the ground. He heard the
bullet sing futilely past him; heard the sharp crack of the rifle, and
peered down to see the man again running his horse across the level.

Calumet drew his pistol, but saw that the distance was too great for
effective shooting, and savagely jammed the weapon back into the
holster. He was in a black rage, but was aware of the absurdity of
attempting to wage a battle in which the advantage lay entirely with
the rifle, and so, with a grim smile on his face, he watched the
progress of the man as he rode through the long grass and across the
barren stretches of the level toward the hills that rimmed the southern
horizon.

Promising himself that he would make a special effort to return the
shot, Calumet finally wheeled his pony and rode down the hill toward
the Lazy Y.

CHAPTER II

BETTY MEETS THE HEIR

An emotion which he did not trouble himself to define impelled Calumet
to wheel his pony when he reached the far end of the corral fence and
ride into the cottonwood where, thirteen years before, he had seen the
last of his mother. No emotion moved him as he rode toward it, but
when he came upon the grave he experienced a savage satisfaction
because it had been sadly neglected. There was no headboard to mark
the spot, no familiar mound of earth; only a sunken stretch, a pitiful
little patch of sand, with a few weeds thrusting up out of it, nodding
to the slight breeze and casting grotesque shadows in the somber
twilight.

Calumet was not surprised. It was all as he had pictured it during
those brief moments when he had allowed his mind to dwell on his past;
its cond