The disappointment at not getting across the river,
combined with the fear that the Indians were still in the
neighborhood, added to my nervousness and produced an exhaustion
which, under other circumstances, would have meant collapse.
The mournful and demoniacal cries of the coyotes filled the
night; they seemed to come close to the tent, and their number
seemed to be legion. I lay with eyes wide open, watching for the
day to come, and resolving each minute that if I ever escaped
alive from that lonely river-bottom with its burning alkali, and
its millions of howling coyotes, I would never, never risk being
placed in such a situation again.
At dawn everybody got up and dressed. I looked in my small
hand-mirror, and it seemed to me my hair had turned a greyish
color, and while it was not exactly white, the warm chestnut
tinge never came back into it, after that day and night of
terror. My eyes looked back at me large and hollow from the
small glass, and I was in that state when it is easy to imagine
the look of Death in one's own face. I think sometimes it comes,
after we have thought ourselves near the borders. And I surely
had been close to them the day before.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* *
If perchance any of my readers have followed this narrative so
far, and there be among them possibly any men, young or old, I
would say to such ones:
