house he dismounted and tied his pony to
a tree.

A moment later he stood at the front door, filled with satisfaction to
find it unbarred. Swinging it slowly open he entered, silently closing
it behind him. He stood, a hand on the fastenings, gazing about him.
He was in the room which his father had always used as an office. As
he peered about in the gray dusk that had fallen, distinguishing
familiar articles of furniture--a roll-top desk, several chairs, a
sofa, some cheap prints on the wall--a nameless emotion smote him and
his face paled a little, his jaws locked, his hands clenched. For
again the army of memories was passing in review.

For a long time he stood at the door. Then he left it and walked to
the desk, placing a hand on its top and hesitating. Doubtless his
father was in another part of the house, possibly eating supper. He
decided not to bother him at this moment and seated himself in a chair
before the desk. There was plenty of time. His father would be as
disagreeably surprised to meet him five minutes from now as he would
were he to stalk into his presence at this moment.

Once in the chair, Calumet realized that he was tired, and he leaned
back luxuriously, stretching his legs. The five minutes to which he
had limited himself grew to ten and he still sat motionless, looking
out of the window at the deepening dusk. The shadows in the wood near
the house grew darker, and to Calumet's ears came the long-drawn,
plaintive whine of a coyote, the croaking of frogs from the river, the
hoot of an owl nearby. Other noises of the night reached him, but he
did not hear them, for he had become lost in meditation.

What a home-coming!

Bitterness settled into the marrow of his bones. Here was ruin,
desolation, darkness, for the returning prodigal. These were the
things his father had given him. A murderous rage seized him, a lust
to rend and destroy, and he sat erect in his chair, his muscles tensed,
his blood rioting, his brain reeling. Had his father appeared before
him at this minute it would have gone hard with him. He fought down an
impulse to go in search of him and presently the mood passed, his
muscles relaxed, and he stretched out again in the chair.

Producing tobacco and paper he rolled a cigarette, noting with a
satisfied smile the steadiness of his hand. Once he had overheard a
man telling another man that Calumet Marston had no nerves. He knew
that; had known it. He knew al