The Beast of the Corral

Lady Vere de Vere, cat of a thousand battles, gave one frightful squawl,
shot from Milt's shoulder and at the bear, claws out, fur electric. The
bear carelessly batted once with its paw, and the cat sailed into the
air. The satisfied bear strolled to the fence, shinned up it and over.

"Good old Vere! That wallop must of darn near stunned her, though!" Milt
laughed to Claire, as they trotted back into the corral. The cat did not
move, as they came up; did not give the gallant "Mrwr" with which she
had saluted Milt on lonely morning after morning of forlorn driving
behind the Gomez. He picked Vere up.

"She's--she's dead," he said. He was crying.

"Oh, Milt---- Last night you said Vere was all the family you had. You
have the Boltwoods, now!"

She did not touch his hand, nor did they speak as they walked soberly to
the far side of the corral, and buried Lady Vere de Vere. At breakfast
they talked of the coming day's run, from the canyon out of the Park,
and northward. But they had the queer, quick casualness of intimates.

* * * * * It was at breakfast that her father heard one Milt Daggett address the
daughter of the Boltwoods as "Claire." The father was surprised into
clearing his throat, and attacking his oatmeal with a zealousness
unnatural in a man who regarded breakfast-foods as moral rather than
interesting.

While he was lighting a cigar, and Claire was paying the bill, Mr.
Boltwood stalked Milt, cleared his throat all over again, and said,
"Nice morning."