“Mightn't that be a panther, or maybe... a wildcat?”
“It can't be. All the varmints was killed off long ago. This is peaceable farmin' country.”
A vagrant breeze sighed through the trees and made Saxon shiver. The mysterious cricket-noise ceased with suspicious abruptness. Then, from the rustling noise, ensued a dull but heavy thump that caused both Saxon and Billy to sit up in the blankets. There were no further sounds, and they lay down again, though the very silence now seemed ominous.
“Huh,” Billy muttered with relief. “As though I don't know what it was. It was a rabbit. I've heard tame ones bang their hind feet down on the floor that way.”
In vain Saxon tried to win sleep. The sand grew harder with the passage of time. Her flesh and her bones ached from contact with it. And, though her reason flouted any possibility of wild dangers, her fancy went on picturing them with unflagging zeal.
A new sound commenced. It was neither a rustling nor a rattling, and it tokened some large body passing through the brush. Sometimes twigs crackled and broke, and, once, they heard bush-branches press aside and spring back into place.
“If that other thing was a panther, this is an elephant,” was Billy's uncheering opinion. “It's got weight. Listen to that. An' it's comin' nearer.”
There were frequent stoppages, then the sounds would begin again, always louder, always closer. Billy sat up in the blankets once more, passing one arm around Saxon, who had also sat up.
“I ain't slept a wink,” he complained. “—There it goes again. I wish I could see.”
“It makes a noise big enough for a grizzly,” Saxon chattered, partly from nervousness, partly from the chill of the night.