Then as if in answer to her query, there came a faint sound. It grew louder, came closer, the night call of wild geese.
“How—how perfect!” she breathed. “The lake, the damp night air, the silence, then a call from the sky.”
She waited. She listened. The speeding flock came closer. At last they were circling. They would land. She caught the rush of wings directly over her head, then heard the faintest of splashes.
“Happy landing!”
But not for long. She was creeping silently away. They were pioneers. Pioneers lived off the land. Here was promise of roast goose for tomorrow dinner. Too bad to spoil romance, but life must go on.
Slipping up to the cabin, she took Mark’s gun from its place beside the door. With her heart beating a tattoo against her ribs, she crept back.
Closer and closer she crept until at last she lay, quite still, among the tall grass that skirted the pond.
“Where are they?” she whispered to herself. No answer, save the distant flapping of wings. How was one to shoot a wild goose he could not see?
“Ah, well,” she thought. “I can wait. There will be a moon.”
Wait she did. Once again the strangely silent night, like some great, friendly ghost, seemed to enfold her in its arms. Far away loomed the mountains, close at hand spread the plains, and over all silence. Only now and again this silence was broken by the flapping of wings, a sudden challenging scream, the call that told her a rich dinner still awaited her.