The very recurrence of his name gave her strength and courage.
Her hands clenched with determination and she drew in a long breath, her body straightening.

Why, actually, she had been frightened of the dark; like a child she had been peopling the void with the demons of fancy.

It struck her as so ridiculous that she actually laughed to herself as she started straight toward the tree, which now seemed to beckon her.
It was a rough path, sandy, interspersed with small rocks, and led down into a gully.

The tree stood on the opposite bank, which was so steep she had to grasp its outcropping roots in order to pull herself up.
Even after gaining footing she saw nothing of Westcott, heard no sound indicating his presence.
A coyote howled mournfully in the distance, and a stray breath of air stirred one of the great leaves above into a startled rustling.

She crept about the gnarled trunk, every nerve aquiver, shaded her eyes with one hand, and peered anxiously around into the gloom.