n his
hand, heard his voice, a little hoarse, possibly from fear, give the
faltering command:

"Hands up!"

Until now, Calumet had been filled with a savage enjoyment of the
possibilities. He had counted on making his presence known at this
juncture, anticipating much pleasure in the revelation of his father's
surprise when he should discover that the intruder was his hated son.
But in his eagerness to conceal the fire from the cigarette he burned
the palm of the hand holding it. Instantly he succumbed to a furious
rage. With a snarl he flung himself forward, grasping the man's pistol
with his left hand and depressing the muzzle, at just the instant that
it was discharged.

Calumet felt the sting of the powder in his face, and in a fury of
resentment he brought his right hand up and clutched his father's
throat. He had taken much pride in his ability to control his
passions, but at this moment they were unleashed. When his father
showed resistence, Calumet swung him free of the door, dragged him to
the center of the room, where he threw him heavily to the floor,
falling on top of him and jamming a knee savagely into the pit of his
stomach. Perhaps he had desisted then had not the man struggled and
fought back. His resistence made Calumet more furious. He pulled one
hand free and attempted to secure the pistol, forcing the hand holding
it viciously against the floor. The weapon was again discharged and
Calumet became a raging demon. Twice he lifted the man's head and
knocked it furiously against the floor, and each time he spoke, his
voice a hoarse, throaty whisper:

"So, this is the way you greet your son, you damned maverick!" he said.

So engrossed was Calumet with his work of subduing the still struggling
parent that he did not hear a slight sound behind him. But a
flickering light came over his shoulder and shone fairly into the face
of the man beneath him, and he saw that the man was not his father but
an entire stranger!

He was not given time in which to express his surprise, for he heard a
voice behind him and turned to see a young woman standing in the
doorway, a candle in one hand, a forty-five Colt clutched in the other,
its muzzle gaping at him. The young woman's face was white, her eyes
wide and brilliant, she swayed, but there was determination in her
manner that could not be mistaken.

"Get up, or I will shoot you like a dog!" she said, in a queer,
breathless voice.

[Illustration: