"Aw, you female critters is deep ones," grinned Dade, "an' all smeared over with honey an' innocence. You're the goal he's after. An' I'm bettin' he'll get you."
Her face reddened, and she looked at him plainly indignant.
"He is a brute," she said.
"Most all men is brutes if you scratch them deep enough," drawled Dade. "The trouble with Calumet is that he's never had a chance to spread on the soft stuff. He's the plain, unvarnished, dyed-in-the-wool, original man. There's a word fits him, if I could think of it." He looked at her inquiringly.
"Primitive, I think you mean," she said.
"That's it—primitive. That's him. He's the rough material; nobody's ever helped him to get into shape. A lot of folks pride themselves on what they call culture, forgettin' that it wasn't in them when they came into the world, that it growed on them after they got here, was put there by trainin' an' example. Not that I'm ag'in culture; it's a mighty fine thing to have hangin' around a man. But if a man ain't got it an' still measures up to man's size, he's goin' to be a humdinger when he gets all the culture that's comin' to him. Mebbe Calumet'll never get it. But he's losin' his grouch, an' if you—"
"When do you think you will finish repairing the corral?" interrupted Betty.
Dade grinned. "Tomorrow, I reckon," he said.