As he continued to watch, his set lips moved
strangely, and his eyes glittered with a light that they had not yet
known. Twice he started toward the boy, and twice he changed his mind
and returned to his pony to continue his vigil. The boy was unaware of
his presence.
The third time Calumet reached his side, and the big rough palm of his
right hand was laid gently on the boy's head.
"I reckon I'm sorry, you damned little cuss," he said huskily as the
youngster looked up into his face. "If I'd have knowed that he was
your dog I'd have let him chaw my arm off before I'd have shot him."
The boy's eyes glowed with gratitude. Then they sought the body of
Lonesome. When he looked up again Calumet was on his pony, riding
slowly past the bunkhouse. The boy watched him until he rode far out
into the valley.
CHAPTER VII
A PAGE FROM THE PAST
Darkness had fallen when Calumet returned to the Lazy Y. He had passed
the day riding over the familiar ranges, returning to almost forgotten
spots, reviving the life of his youth and finding the memories irksome.
He was in no pleasant frame of mind when he rode in, and he disdained
the use of the corral or the stable, staking his horse out in the
pasture, remembering the scant supply of grain in the bin in the
stable, and telling himself that "them two skates"--referring to the
horses he had seen in the corral--"need it worse than Blackleg," his
own pony.
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