A forty-five caliber
revolver, loaded, weighs about forty ounces, and this one looked so
unwieldy and cumbersome, so entirely harmless in the young woman's
slender hand, that her threat seemed absurd, even farcical. An
ironical humor over the picture she made standing there moved Calumet.
"I reckon you ought to use two hands if you want to hold that gun
proper, ma'am," he said.
The muzzle of the weapon wavered uncertainly; the young woman gasped.
Apparently the lack of fear exhibited by the intruder shocked her. But
she did not follow Calumet's suggestion, she merely stood and watched
him warily, as the man whom he had attacked struggled dizzily to his
feet, staggered weakly to a chair and half fell, half slipped into it,
swaying oddly back and forth, gasping for breath, a grotesque figure.
The demon in Calumet slumbered--this situation was to his liking. He
stepped back a pace, and when the young woman saw that he meditated no
further mischief she lowered the pistol to her side. Then, moving
cautiously, watching Calumet closely, she placed the candle on the
floor in front of her. Again she stood erect, though she did not raise
the pistol. Evidently she was regaining her composure, though Calumet
observed that her free hand came up and grasped the dress over her
bosom so tightly that the fabric was in danger of ripping.
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