Soon the west held none but the deeper tints, and the shadows climbed, with the stealthy tread of trailing Indians, from the valley, chasing the after-glow to the very hilltops, where it stood a moment at bay and then surrendered meekly to the dusk. A meadow-lark near-by cut the silence into haunting ripples of melody, stopped affrighted at their coming, and flew off into the dull glow of the west; his little body showed black against a crimson cloud. Out across the river a lone coyote yapped sharply, then trailed off into the weird plaint of his kind.
“Brother-in-law's in town to-day; Bob Nevin saw him,” Pink remarked, when the coyote ceased wailing and held his peace.
“Who?” Rowdy only half-heard.
“Bob Nevin,” repeated Pink naively.
“Don't get funny. Who did Bob see?”
“Brother-in-law. Yours, not mine. Jessie's tin god. If he's there yet, I bid for an invite to the 'swatfest.' Or maybe”—a horrible possibility forced itself upon Pink—“maybe you'll kill the fattest maverick and fall on his neck—”
“The maverick's?” Rowdy's brows were rather pinched together, but his tone told nothing.
“Naw; Harry Conroy's a fellow's liable to do most any fool thing when he's got schoolma'amitis.”
“That so?”
Pink snorted. The possibility had grown to black certainty in his mind. He became suddenly furious.