Paul grabbed a bundle of hay and ran to Misty's stall. He found her stomping uneasily and biting at herself, but he blamed the little colt inside her, not the weather. The wind fluttered the cobwebs over the window at the back of her stall. He nailed a gunny sack to the frame to keep the cold out. Then, feeling satisfied, he gave Misty a gentle pat on the rump. As he went out, he bolted both the top and the bottom of her door.
He joined Grandpa, who was gathering up four fluffy black mallards, too young to fly, and putting them in a high cage in the hay house. The peacocks and banties were already roosting in the pine trees. Wherever Paul and Grandpa went, Skipper ran ahead, enjoying the wind and the feeling of danger and excitement. At the kitchen door he left them, jumping into his bed in the truck. Habit was stronger than the wind.
Inside the house, all was warmth and comfort—the fire crackling in the stove, the oyster pie sending forth rich fragrances, and from the radio in the sitting room a cowboy's voice was throbbing:
"Oh, give me a home