The wind grew stronger and colder. I heard sand blowing
against the stones like the rustle of silk. Otherwise it was a
singularly quiet night. I wondered where the coyotes were and longed for
their chorus. By and by a prairie wolf sent in his lonely lament from
the distant ridges. That mourn was worse than the silence. It made the
cold shudders creep up and down my back. It was just the cry that seemed
to be the one to express my own trouble. No one hearing that long-drawn,
quivering wail could ever disassociate it from tragedy. By and by it
ceased, and then I wished it would come again. Steele lay like the stone
beside him. Was he ever going to speak? Among the vagaries of my mood
was a petulant desire to have him sympathize with me.
I had just looked at my watch, making out in the starlight that the hour
was eleven, when the report of a gun broke the silence.
I jumped up to peer over the stone. Steele lumbered up beside me, and I
heard him draw his breath hard.
Chapter 11
THE FIGHT IN THE HOPE SO
I could plainly see the lights of his adobe house, but of course,
nothing else was visible. There were no other lighted houses near.
Several flashes gleamed, faded swiftly, to be followed by reports, and
then the unmistakable jingle of glass.
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