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." The boy's eyes glowed with gratitude.