"Not that, grandpa," she said quietly. "Shooting won't bring Lonesome
back. Besides"--she turned toward Calumet and saw the cold grin on his
face as his right hand dropped to his hip in silent preparation for
Malcolm's menacing movement--"don't you see that he would shoot you as
he shot Lonesome? He just can't help being a brute!"
She turned her back to Calumet and spoke in a low voice to her
grandfather, smoothing his hair, patting his shoulders--calming him
with all a woman's gentle artifices. And Calumet stood watching her,
marveling at her self-control, feeling again that queer, thrilling
sensation of reluctant admiration.
He had forgotten Bob. Betty had left the boy standing alone when she
had gone over to Malcolm, and Bob had hobbled forward when Calumet had
turned to follow the girl's movements, so that now he stood just behind
Calumet. The latter became aware of the boy's presence when the latter
seized his left hand from behind, and he turned with a snarl, his
six-shooter half drawn, to confront the boy, whose grip on the hand had
not been loosened. Calumet drew the hand fiercely away, overturning
Bob so that he fell sprawling into the dust at his feet. The youngster
was up again before Betty and Malcolm could reach him, hobbling toward
Calumet, his thin face working from excitement, his big eyes alight
over the discovery he had made.
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