As Kate rode closer the same glance that disclosed the band of sheep showed her a coyote creeping down the side of a draw in which they were feeding. She reached instantly for her carbine and drew it from its scabbard, but she was not quick enough to shoot it before it had jumped for the lamb it had been stalking. The coyote missed his prey, but the lamb, which had been feeding a little apart from the others, ran into the herd with a terrified bleat and the whole band fled on a common impulse.
The coyote followed the lamb it had singled out, through all its twistings and turnings, but manœvering to work it to the outside where it could cut the lamb away from the rest and pull it down at its leisure.
Kate dared not shoot into the herd, and after a second’s consideration as to whether or not to follow, she thrust the rifle back in its scabbard and turned her horse up the hill.
Even the sound of hoofs did not rouse the herder from his deep absorption. His hands were hanging at his sides, and his mouth was partially open. He was staring towards the east with unblinking eyes, and with as little evidence of life as though he had died standing.
“What are you looking at, Davis?”
He whirled about, startled.
“I was calc'latin’ that Nebrasky must lay 'bout in that direction.” He pointed to a pass in the mountains.
“A little homesick, aren’t you?” Her voice was ominously quiet.
“Don’t know whether I’m homesick or bilious; when I gits one I generally gits the other.”
“You were wondering just then what your wife was doing that minute, weren’t you?”