brief struggle. Brief, for
Calumet's drooped. He felt the dominant personality of the girl and
tried to escape its effect; looked at her with a snarl, writhing under
her steady gaze, a slow red coming into his cheeks.

The silence between them lasted long. The man on the chair, swaying
back and forth, began to recover his wits and his breath. He struggled
to an erect position and gazed about him with blood-shot eyes, feeling
his throat where Calumet's iron fingers had gripped it. Twice his lips
moved in an effort to speak, but no, sound came from between them.

Under the girl's uncomfortable scrutiny, Calumet's thoughts became
strangely incoherent, and he shifted uneasily, for he felt that she was
measuring him, appraising him, valuing him. He saw slow-changing
expressions in her eyes--defiance, scorn, and, finally, amused
contempt. With the last expression he knew she had reached a decision,
not flattering to him. He tried to show her by looking at her that he
did not care what her opinion was, but his recreant eyes refused the
issue and he knew that he was being worsted in a spiritual battle with
the first strong feminine character he had met; that her personality
was overpowering his in the first clash. With a last effort he forced
his eyes to steadiness and succeeded in sneering at her, though he felt
that somehow the sneer was ineffectual, puerile. And then she smiled
at him, deliberately, with a disdain that maddened him and brought a
dark flush to his face that reached to his temples. And then her voice
taunted him:

"What a big, brave man you are?"

Twice her gaze roved over him from head to foot before her voice came
again, and in the total stoppage of his thoughts he found it impossible
to choose a word suitable to interrupt her.

"For you _think_ you are a man, I suppose?" she added, her voice filled
with a lashing scorn. "You wear a gun, you ride a horse, and you
_look_ like a man. But there the likeness ends. I suppose I ought to
kill you--a beast like you has no business living. Fortunately, you
haven't hurt grandpa very much. You may go now--go and tell Tom
Taggart that he will have to try again!"

The sound of her voice broke the spell which her eyes had woven about
Calumet's senses, and he stood erect, hooking his thumbs in his
cartridge belt, unaffected by her tirade, his voice insolent.

"Why, ma'am," he said, mockingly, his voice an irritating drawl, "you
cert'nly are some on