So cautious had been its approach that old Malcolm had not seen it when fifteen minutes before he had passed Calumet and had paused for a look at him.

The beast had been in a far corner of the fence then, and had slunk close to the ground until Malcolm had passed.
Nor had Malcolm seen it just a moment before when he had crossed the ranchhouse yard behind Calumet to go to the bunkhouse, where he was now.

The instant Malcolm had disappeared within the bunkhouse, the beast had stolen to its present position.
The attack was swift and 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.