So cautious had been its approach that old Malcolm had not
seen it when fifteen minutes before he had passed Calumet and had
paused for a look at him. The beast had been in a far corner of the
fence then, and had slunk close to the ground until Malcolm had passed.
Nor had Malcolm seen it just a moment before when he had crossed the
ranchhouse yard behind Calumet to go to the bunkhouse, where he was
now. The instant Malcolm had disappeared within the bunkhouse, the
beast had stolen to its present position.
The attack was swift and silent. Calumet was puffing abstractedly at a
cigarette when he became aware of a rush of air as the gray shape
flashed up from the ground. Calumet dodged involuntarily, throwing up
an arm to fend off the shape, which catapulted past him, shoulder-high.
The beast had aimed for his throat; his long fangs met the upthrust arm
and sank into it, crunching it to the bone.
The force of the attack threw Calumet against the corral fence. The
beast struck the ground beyond him noiselessly, its legs asprawl, its
hair bristling from rage. Ten feet beyond Calumet the force of its
attack carried it, and it whirled swiftly, to leap again.
But Calumet was not to be surprised the second time. Standing at the
fence, his eyes ablaze with hatred and pain, he crouched.
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