Calumet's cold humor had not survived the night. He patrolled the
gully during the slow-dragging hours of the early morning with a
growing caution and determination, his lips setting always into harder
lines, his eyes beginning to blaze with a ferocity that promised ill
for Taggart.
Shortly after dawn, kneeling in the gully at the end toward the
ranchhouse, he heard the wagon move. He looked up to see that the
horses had started, evidently with the intention of completing their
delayed journey to the stable, where they would find the food and water
which they no doubt craved. As the wagon bumped over the obstruction
which Calumet had placed in front of the rear wheel, he was on the
verge of shouting to the horses to halt, but thought better of it,
watching them in silence as they made their way slowly down the slope.
It took them a long time to reach the level of the valley, and then
they passed slowly through the wood, going as steadily as though there
was a driver on the seat behind them, and finally they turned into the
ranchhouse yard and came to a halt near the kitchen door.
Calumet watched them until they came to a stop and then he went to the
opposite end of the gully, peeping above it in order to learn of the
whereabouts of Taggart. He saw no signs of him and returned to the
other end of the gully.
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