"Pat!" Helen May began to recover a little from the reaction. "Come here
to me! I--don't think he'll bite you, Mr. Sommers. It's--it's only
Mexicans that he's supposed to hate. I--I didn't know it was you."
Holman Sommers, being careful to keep a safe distance between himself and
Pat, came around to where he could see her face. "As a matter of fact,"
he began, "it's really my sister who came to visit you. Your brother
informed us that you were out here, and I came to tell you. Why, did I
frighten you so badly, Miss Stevenson? Your face is absolutely colorless.
What did I do to so terrify you? I surely never intended--" His eyes were
remorseful as he stood and looked at her.
"It was just the way Pat acted. I--I'd been hearing about rabid coyotes,
and I thought one was behind me, Pat acted so queer. Lie down, Pat!"
Holman Sommers spoke to the dog ingratiatingly, but Pat did not exhibit
any tail-wagging desire for friendly acquaintance. He slunk over to
Helen May and flattened himself on his belly with his nose on his paws,
and his eyes, that still showed greenish lights and bloodshot whites,
fixed on the man.
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