Nevertheless, when the sound of hoof beats came from the trail both men
made a quick snatch for their rifles, and Susan jumped to her feet with
a cry of "Some one's coming." They could see nothing, the darkness
hanging like a curtain across their vision. Courant, with his rifle in
the hollow of his arm, moved toward the sounds, his hail reaching clear
and deep into the night. An answer came in a man's voice, the hoof
beats grew louder, and the reaching light defined approaching shapes.
Daddy John threw a bunch of sage on the fire, and in the rush of flame
that flew along its branches, two mounted men were visible.
They dropped to the ground and came forward. "From California to the
States," the foremost said to Susan, seeing a woman with fears to be
allayed. He was tall and angular with a frank, copper-tanned face,
overtopped by a wide spread of hat, and bearded to the eyes. He wore a
loose hickory shirt and buckskin breeches tucked into long boots,
already broken from the soles. The other was a small and comical
figure with an upstanding crest of sunburned blond hair, tight curled
and thick as a sheep's fleece.
Pages:
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416