"What is it, Ma?"
"Something's after the chickens."
"Not a hawk?"
"No, nor an owl, or fox, or weasel—or they'd squall—they're cackling."
The rooster cackled louder than ever and the Boy recognized the voice of his speckled hen accompanying him. How weird it sounded in the darkness of the still spring night! The cold chills ran down his back and he caught his mother's dress as she reached for the rifle that stood beside her bed.
"You're not goin' out there, Ma?" the Boy protested.
"Yes. It's a dirty thief after our horse."
Her voice was low and steady and her hand was without tremor as she grasped his.
"Get back in bed. I won't be gone a minute."
She left the cabin and noiselessly walked toward the low shed in which the horse was stabled.