Almost simultaneously with the rising of the moon, the wind
rose, and scuds of cloud-vapour passed, low down, blurring the higher
peaks.
"We got to get a move on," opined the Texan, with an eye on the clouds.
"Throw them dishes into the pack the way they are, an' we'll clean 'em
when we've got more time. There's a storm brewin' west of here an' we
want to get as far as we can before she hits."
By the time the others were in the saddle, Bat was throwing the final
hitch on his pack outfit, and with the Texan in the lead, the little
cavalcade headed southward.
An hour's climb, during which they skirted patches of scrub pine,
clattered over the loose rocks of ridges, and followed narrow,
brush-choked coulees to their sources, found them on the crest of the
Cow Creek divide.
The wind, blowing half a gale from the south-east, whipped about their
faces and roared and whistled among the rocks and scrub timber.
Alice's eyes followed the Texan's glance toward the west and there, low
down on the serried horizon she could see the black mass of a cloud
bank.
"You can't tell nothin' about those thunderheads. They might hold off
'til along towards mornin', they might pile up on us in an hour, and
they might not break at all," vouchsafed the man, as Alice reined in
her horse close beside his.
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