At the water hole where
the crane had been feeding the yellow eyes of a wildcat, cheated of its
prey, shone for a flash and withdrew. By use of his field glasses
Payne saw a mother turkey, low-crouched and stepping softly, leading
her brood to shelter in the scrub. Farther away the glasses picked out
the antlers and head of a small deer, peering above the brush.
Higgins had kicked a hole in the ground with professional interest.
"Sand! No good."
"Right. Come on."
The river frontage of the prairie was a scant mile. Its eastern
boundary consisted of a growth of custard apple. The small spreading
trees, fifteen feet at the topmost branches, were literally hidden
beneath a covering of the delicate moon vine. The vine wreathed itself
about the trunks and branches. It covered the tops, it stretched over
open spaces like closely woven tapestry; draped itself over everything,
its small green leaves and tiny pink-white flowers inextricably matted
together with the tree growth and making of the whole a delicate bloom.
A broad riding path had been cut through the tangle along the river out
to the open prairie. From the entrance a glimpse was had of a magic
interior. The sunlight struck fiercely down through the interstices in
the all-pervading moon vine, piercing the jungle shade with a myriad of
hard points of light.
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