"Go finish washin' your dishes," he advised, with a sneer. "That's
where you belong. Until you an' your bunch butted in with your palaver
I was enjoyin' myself. You drive me plumb weary."
Betty faced him resolutely, though now there was contrition in her
manner, in her voice. She spoke firmly.
"I am sorry for what I said to you before--about Lonesome. I thought
you had killed him just to be mean, to hurt me. I will try to make
amends. If you will come into the house I will dress your arm--it must
be badly injured."
Calumet's lips curled, then straightened, and he looked down at her
with steady hostility.
"I ain't got no truck with you at all," he said. "When I'm figgerin'
on lettin' you paw over me I'll let you know." He turned shortly and
walked over to the door of the stable, where he fumbled at the
fastenings, presently swinging the door open and vanishing inside.
Five minutes later, when he came out with the pony saddled and bridled,
he found that Betty and Malcolm had gone. But Bob stood over the dead
body of Lonesome, silently weeping.
For a moment, standing beside his pony, Calumet watched the boy, and as
he stood a queer pallor overspread his face and his lips tightened
oddly. For something in the boy's appearance, in the idea of his
exhibition of grief over his dog, which Malcolm had said he loved,
smote Calumet's heart.
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