Malcolm halted in his advance on Calumet and stealthily sheathed his weapon. Betty, too, had stopped, a sudden wave of color overspreading her face, the picture of embarrassment and astonishment. "Why didn't you tell us?" she asked accusingly; "it would have saved--" "Saved you from makin' a fool of yourself," interrupted Calumet. "You certainly did prove that I'm a mighty mean man," he added, mockingly. "I didn't tell you because it's none of your business. It's only a scratch, but I ain't lettin' no damned animal chaw me up an' get away with it." He drew the hand away from the boy and placed it behind him so that Betty could not look at it, which she had been doing until now, with wide, frightened eyes. She came forward when he placed the hand behind him, and stood close to him, determination in her manner. "I want to see how badly you have been bitten," she said. "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. 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."