"What time does the moon rise?" asked Mormon.
"'Bout half past three or so. You figgerin' on wrastlin' Roarin' Russell by moonlight, after we git through down here?"
"I've got a hunch this is goin' to be a busy night, plumb through till sun-up," said Mormon. "An', when I meet up with Roarin' Russell it ain't goin' to be jest a wrastlin match, believe me. It's goin' to be a free-fo'-all exhibition of ground an' lofty tumblin', 'thout rounds, seconds or referee. When one of us hits the ground it'll likely be fo' keeps."
"I ain't seen you so riled up in a long time, old-timer. An' I'm backin' you fo' winner, at that. Jest the same, me an' Sandy'll do a li'l' refereein' fo' the sake of fair play."
"I can hear you two gossipin' old wimmin gabbin' clear up to the top of the hill an' down to the crick," added a third voice as Sandy glided in, materializing from the darkness.
"Anythin' doin'?" asked Sam.
"No, an' there won't be long as you air yo' voices. You play like an angel on that mouth harp of yores, Sam, but you talk like a rasp. Mormon booms like a bull frawg."
They settled down again to their watch. The Great Bear constellation dipped down, scooping into the darkness beyond the opposing hill.
"Pritty close to midnight," said Sam at last. "What's the ..."
Sandy's grip on his arm checked him, all senses centering into listening.