Once or twice George started, imagining that somebody was creeping through the bushes behind him, but he was glad of the confused sounds, because they would cover his movements when the time for action came.

His companion, a teamster born on the prairie, lay beside him amid the tall harsh grass that swayed to and fro with a curious dry clashing.

He broke into a soft laugh when George suddenly raised his head.
"Only a cottontail hustling through the brush.

Whoever's coming will strike the bluff on the other side," he said.

"Night's kind of wild; pity it won't rain.