To do them justice, this was no fault of theirs. They were tired enough, but their eyelids felt as if they were furnished with springs which held them wide open, to stare through the open side of the barn at the glittering stars, while their ears were all on the strain to listen to the different sounds that came from all around.
At first there was the cropping of the horses and mules, as they feasted on the fresh shoots of the abundant growth, owing to the moisture beneath the little dry river-bed having kept the coarse grasses pretty succulent. There was the hum of mosquitoes and the boom of big beetles, and every now and then the cry and answering cry of some animal unknown from out in the sage-brush. But for a time the lads lay silent, till a peculiar mournful shout, as it seemed to be, came from the direction of the lagoon, sounding so mournful and human that it was too much for Ned, who whispered—
“Awake, Chris?”
“Of course. Who’s to go to sleep with millions of things getting up your legs and arms and down your neck? I wish I’d taken off my clothes. Isn’t it hot!”
“Yes, yes; but did you hear that?”
“Yes.”
“What was it?”
“Owl,” said Chris shortly.
“I know it was a howl,” said Ned, “but it was more like a shout or hail.”
“Owl, owl, hunting about over the brush for young hares or rats and mice.”