It was this—and not the cry of the coyoté—that kept him from sleeping throughout the remainder of the night.
Little did he regard the sneaking wolf of the prairies—a true jackal—that attacks but the dead; the living, only when dying.
He did not believe that he was dying.
It was a long dismal night to the sufferer; it seemed as if day would never dawn.
The light came at length, but revealed nothing to cheer him. Along with it came the birds, and the beasts went not away.
Over him, in the shine of another sun the vultures once more extended their shadowy wings. Around him he heard the howl-bark of the coyoté, in a hundred hideous repetitions.
Crawling down to the stream, he once more quenched his thirst.
He now hungered; and looked round for something to eat.
A pecân tree stood, near. There were nuts upon its branches, within six feet of the ground.
He was able to reach the pecân upon his hands and knees; though the effort caused agony.