A deep orange glow showed on the southern horizon for an instant, then settled back into the prairie, leaving the gloom about the young cowboy even more dense than it had been before.
"Feels spooky," was Tad's comment.
Not being able to sing to his own satisfaction, Tad shoved his hands deep into his trousers pockets and began whistling "Old Black Joe." It was the most appropriate tune he could think of.
"Kind of fits the night," he explained to the pony, which was picking its way slowly about the great herd. Then he resumed his whistling.
The guards passed each other without a word, some being too sleepy; others too fully occupied with their own thoughts.
The night, by this time, had grown intensely still, even the insects and night birds having hushed their weird songs.
A flash more brilliant than the first attracted the lad's attention.
"Lightning," he muttered, glancing off to the south. "I guess Mr. Stallings was right about the storm." Yet, directly overhead the stars still sparkled. In the distance Tad saw the comforting flicker of the camp-fire, about which the cowmen were sleeping undisturbed by the oppressiveness of the night.
"I guess the foreman knew what he was talking about when he said we were going to have a storm," repeated Tad. "I wonder how the cattle will behave if things get lively."
As if in answer to his question there came a stir among the animals on the side nearest him.