Page:Cherokee Trails (1928).pdf/208



That was a long watch, and a weary one. It could not have been past midnight when Simpson stopped; the rain that was falling then continued for hours. As the horses settled down to their grazing Tom dismounted, slipped the bridle off his horse, yet sticking close beside it holding the neck-rope, ready to mount at the first alarm. There was nothing he could do to warm his blood a bit but stamp up and down the length of the hitching-rope, and flap his arms like a wet rooster. It helped a little, but was not too wildly exhilarating.

There was no finding the horse that carried his grub and blanket among the shadowy, shifting animals of his little band, much as he would have appreciated the slicker that watch. But uncertainty was equal to a coat, anxiety was a fire that kept him alert and keen. And not even a wolf came to disturb the wet tranquillity of the night.

At length Tom became conscious that the rain had stopped. A breeze was springing, breaks were showing in the clouds. Then a whiff of wind, and the east was like an open door. The sky was swept clear; there was the dawn.

He could hardly believe it had come so quickly; he thought he must have been asleep on his feet. Yet daylight had only been pent beneath the clouds; it was an hour past its time. He caught the horse that carried his