A single light gleamed.

It was like a beacon.
The air was cold with a nip of frost.

From far on the other side of the ridge she had descended came the bawls of the last straggling cattle of the round-up.

But surely Pronto had not shot up his ears for them.

As if in answer a wild sound pealed down the slope, making the mustang jump.
Columbine had heard it before.
"Pronto, it's only a wolf," she soothed him.
The peal was loud, rather harsh at first, then softened to a mourn, wild, lonely, haunting.