As the beast
leaped Calumet's hand moved at his hip, his heavy six-shooter crashed
spitefully, its roar reverberating among the buildings and startling
the two gaunt horses in the corral to movement. The gray beast
snarled, crumpled midway in its leap, and dropped at Calumet's feet. A
dark patch on its chest just below the throat showed where the bullet
had gone. But apparently the bullet had missed a vital spot, for the
beast struggled to its feet, dragging itself toward Calumet, its fangs
slashing impotently.
Calumet stepped back a pace, his face malignant with rage and hate, his
eyes gleaming vengefully. He heard a scream from somewhere--a shrill
protest in a voice which he did not recognize, but he paid no attention
to it until he had deliberately emptied his six-shooter into the beast,
putting the bullets where they would do the most good. When the weapon
was emptied and the beast lay prone in the dust at his feet, its great
jaws agape and dripping with blood-flecked foam, Calumet turned and
looked up.
He saw Malcolm Clayton come out of the bunkhouse door, and noticed
Betty running toward him from the ranchhouse. Betty's sleeves were
rolled to the elbows, her apron fluttering the wind, and the thought
struck Calumet that she must have been washing dishes when interrupted
by the shooting.
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