Part 16 (1/2)
”How'd'y, Zeb.”
”On watch ter night?”
”No; you?”
”No. Glad of it.”
”Me, too.”
”This is whar Taos Bill war sculped, ain't it?”
”They killed 'im but didn't git his ha'r.”
”How'd it happen?”
”Owl screeched an' a wolf howled. Bill snuk off ter find out about it.”
”Arrer pizened?”
”Yes; usually air.”
”Whar ye goin'?”
”Ter th' crick fer water.”
”I'm goin' ter see th' capting. Good night.”
”Good night; wish it war good mornin', Zeb.”
”Me, too. Good night.”
At that instant an owl screeched, the quavering, eerie sound softened by distance.
”Hear that?”
The mournful sound of a wolf floated through the little valley.
”An' that? Wolves don't generally answer owls, do they?”
”Come along ter th' crick, Zeb. Thar ain't no tellin'.”
”I'm with ye,” and the two figures moved silently away.
The silence around the camp-fire was profound and reflective, but there was some squirming and surrept.i.tious examination of caps and flints. The questioning call of the hoot owl was answered by a weird, uncanny, succession of sharp barks growing closer and faster, ending in a mournful, high-pitched, long-drawn, quavering howl. The noisy activity of the encampment became momentarily slowed and then went on again.
The first guard came off duty with an apparent sense of relief and grew very loquacious. One of them joined the silent circle of tenderfeet around the blazing fire.
”Phew!” he grunted as he sat down. ”Hear those calls?” His question remained unanswered, but he did not seem surprised. ”When you go on, Doc?” he asked.
”One o'clock,” answered Dr. Whiting. He looked around pityingly.
”Calls?” he sneered. ”Don't you know an owl or a wolf when you hear one?” There was a lack of sincerity in his voice which could not be disguised. The doctor was like the boy who whistled when going through the woods.