He glances apprehensively towards it, then across the plain.
His face is now towards the sun, whose lower limb just touches the horizon, the red round orb appearing across the smooth surface, as over that of a tranquil sea.
He regards it, to direct his course. He knows that the camping place on Coyote Creek is due west from where he is.
And at length, having resolved, he sets his foot in the stirrup, vaults into the saddle, and spurs off, leaving the black-jack grove behind him.
He does not proceed far, before becoming uncertain as to his course. The sun goes down, leaving heaven’s firmament in darkness, with only some last lingering rays along its western edge. These grow fainter and fainter, till scarce any difference can be noted around the horizon’s ring.
He now rides in doubt, guessing the direction. Scanning the stars he searches for the Polar constellation. But a mist has meanwhile sprung up over the plain, and, creeping across the northern sky, concealed it.
In the midst of his perplexity, the moon appears; and taking bearings by this, he once more makes westward.
But there are cumulus clouds in the sky; and these, ever and anon drifting over the moon’s disc, compel him to pull up till they pass.
At length he is favoured with a prolonged interval of light, during which he puts his animal to its best speed, and advances many miles in what he supposes to be the right direction. As yet he has encountered no living creature, nor object of any kind. He is in hopes to get sight of the solitary tree; for beyond it the trail to Coyote Creek is easily taken.
While scanning the moonlit expanse he descries a group of figures; apparently quadrupeds, though of what species he cannot tell. They appear too large for wolves, and yet are not like wild horses, deer, or buffaloes.