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 instant the latter saw him he looked up, his pale, thin face drawn and set, his eyes filled with an expression of reproach and horror.
He was not over fifteen feet distant from Calumet, and the latter watched him with a growing curiosity until Betty ran to him and folded him into her arms.

Then Calumet began to reload his six-shooter, ignoring Malcolm, who had come close to him and was standing beside the corral fence, breathing heavily and trembling from excitement.
"It's Lonesome!" gasped Malcolm, his lips quivering as he looked at the beast; "Bob's Lonesome!" Calumet flashed around at him, cursing savagely.
"What you gettin' at, you damned old gopher ?" he sneered.
"It's Lonesome!" repeated Malcolm, his weather-lined face red with resentment and anger.

He showed no fear of Calumet now, but came close to him and stood rigid, his hands clenched.