silent. Calumet was puffing abstractedly at a
cigarette when he became aware of a rush of air as the gray shape
flashed up from the ground. Calumet dodged involuntarily, throwing up
an arm to fend off the shape, which catapulted past him, shoulder-high.
The beast had aimed for his throat; his long fangs met the upthrust arm
and sank into it, crunching it to the bone.

The force of the attack threw Calumet against the corral fence. The
beast struck the ground beyond him noiselessly, its legs asprawl, its
hair bristling from rage. Ten feet beyond Calumet the force of its
attack carried it, and it whirled swiftly, to leap again.

But Calumet was not to be surprised the second time. Standing at the
fence, his eyes ablaze with hatred and pain, he crouched. As the beast
leaped Calumet's hand moved at his hip, his heavy six-shooter crashed
spitefully, its roar reverberating among the buildings and startling
the two gaunt horses in the corral to movement. The gray beast
snarled, crumpled midway in its leap, and dropped at Calumet's feet. A
dark patch on its chest just below the throat showed where the bullet
had gone. But apparently the bullet had missed a vital spot, for the
beast struggled to its feet, dragging itself toward Calumet, its fangs
slashing impotently.

Calumet stepped back a pace, his face malignant with rage and hate, his
eyes gleaming vengefully. He heard a scream from somewhere--a shrill
protest in a voice which he did not recognize, but he paid no attention
to it until he had deliberately emptied his six-shooter into the beast,
putting the bullets where they would do the most good. When the weapon
was emptied and the beast lay prone in the dust at his feet, its great
jaws agape and dripping with blood-flecked foam, Calumet turned and
looked up.

He saw Malcolm Clayton come out of the bunkhouse door, and noticed
Betty running toward him from the ranchhouse. Betty's sleeves were
rolled to the elbows, her apron fluttering the wind, and the thought
struck Calumet that she must have been washing dishes when interrupted
by the shooting. But it was not she who had screamed--he would have
recognized her voice. Then he saw a huddled figure leaning against the
corner of the stable nearest the ranchhouse; the figure of a boy of
twelve or thirteen. He had a withered, mis-shapen leg--the right one;
and under his right arm, partly supporting him, was a crude crutch.
The boy was facing Calumet, and at the