A deep rage and contempt slumbered within him as he urged his pony out of the wood toward the ranchhouse.
He was still in no hurry, and soon after leaving the edge of the wood he halted his pony and sat loosely in the saddle, gazing about him.
When he observed that he might be seen from the ranchhouse he moved deep into the cottonwood and there, screened behind some nondescript brush, continued his examination.
The place was in a state of dilapidation, of approaching ruin.
Desolation had set a heavy hand over it all.

The buildings no more resembled those he had known than daylight resembles darkness.

The stable, wherein he had received his last thrashing from his father, had sagged to one side, its roof seeming to bow to him in derision; the corral fence was down in several places, its rails in a state of decay, and within, two gaunt ponies drooped, seeming to lack the energy necessary to move them to take advantage of the opportunity for freedom so close at hand.

They appeared to watch Calumet incuriously, apathetically.
Calumet felt strangely jubilant.

A vindictive satisfaction and delight forced the blood through his veins a little faster, for, judging from the appearance of the buildings, misfortune must have descended upon his father.