It was growing colder now, a dry, clear cold that stirred Harriet's blood and made her realize how hungry she was. While Rob unhitched and fed the team she gathered dry sticks for the fire.
Soon coffee, bacon, and canned beans were on the fire, and, with tin plates in their hands, the two hungry travelers sat down with sighs of anticipation. Harry had taken a first mouthful, when suddenly she pointed. "Look! What is it?"
Rob turned, and saw in the darkness the gleam of yellow eyes. "A coyote!" he exclaimed, overturning his plate as he scrambled to his feet. "If only I had my rifle with me now!"
He snatched up a bit of blazing sagebrush to fling at the animal, which, oddly enough, had not fled.
"Why, it's a dog!" Harry cried suddenly.
Trembling with fear, yet unable to resist the smell of food, the little animal crawled forward until he was close to the fire.
"It's starved, that's what's the matter," declared Harry, who had put down her plate and was coaxing the dog close enough to pat it. "Just feel his poor bones. And look at his foot, too. He's been beaten nearly to death."
"He's hardly more than a puppy. He must belong to some of these herders round here. Brutes some of 'em are. I've heard they'll beat a dog to death if they get mad at him. And they'd even tie up a horse without food or water all day and night. You'd better turn him loose, Harry. If he should belong to a 'Mex' the fellow'll be around after him."
"I'll wait till he comes."