But it was not she who had screamed--he would have
recognized her voice. Then he saw a huddled figure leaning against the
corner of the stable nearest the ranchhouse; the figure of a boy of
twelve or thirteen. He had a withered, mis-shapen leg--the right one;
and under his right arm, partly supporting him, was a crude crutch.
The boy was facing Calumet, and at the instant the latter saw him he
looked up, his pale, thin face drawn and set, his eyes filled with an
expression of reproach and horror.
He was not over fifteen feet distant from Calumet, and the latter
watched him with a growing curiosity until Betty ran to him and folded
him into her arms. Then Calumet began to reload his six-shooter,
ignoring Malcolm, who had come close to him and was standing beside the
corral fence, breathing heavily and trembling from excitement.
"It's Lonesome!" gasped Malcolm, his lips quivering as he looked at the
beast; "Bob's Lonesome!"
Calumet flashed around at him, cursing savagely.
"What you gettin' at, you damned old gopher?" he sneered.
"It's Lonesome!" repeated Malcolm, his weather-lined face red with
resentment and anger. He showed no fear of Calumet now, but came close
to him and stood rigid, his hands clenched. "It's Lonesome!" he
repeated shrilly; "Bob's Lonesome!" And then, seeing from the
expression of Calumet's face that he did not comprehend, he added:
"It's Bob's dog, Lonesome! Bob loved him so, an' now you've gone an'
killed him--you--you hellhound! You--"
His quavering voice was cut short; once more his throat felt the
terrible pressure of Calumet's iron fingers.
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