The man was good-looking in a coarse, vulgar way,
and dissipated, gross, self-sufficient. Calumet's eyes narrowed with
dislike as he looked at him. There was interest in his glance, too,
for this was his father's enemy--his enemy. But after the first look
his face became inscrutable. He turned to see Dade standing beside
him. Dade was rigid, pale; his body was in a half-crouch and there was
an expression of cold malignance on his face. Quickly Calumet placed
both hands on the young man's shoulders and shoved him back against the
bar, thrusting his own body between him and Taggart.
"Easy there," he warned in a whisper. "He's my meat."
Dade caught the mirthless smile on his lips and looked at him
curiously, his attitude still belligerent.
"He's talkin' about Betty, the damned skunk!" he objected. His voice
was a low, throaty whisper and it did not carry to the table where the
three men sat.
"He was sure talkin' about her," said Calumet inexpressively. "An'
I'll admit that any man who talks that way about a woman is what you've
called him. But it's my funeral," he added, his voice suddenly cold
and hard, "an' you ain't buttin' in, whatever happens. Buy yourself
another drink," he suggested; "you look flustered. I'm havin' a talk
with Taggart."
He left Dade standing at the bar looking at him wonderingly, and made
his way slowly to the table where Taggart sat.
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