“I’d better go right away,” he continued, “and fetch supplies from Cottonwoods.”
A startlingly swift change in the nature of her agitation made him reproach himself for his abruptness.
“No, no, don’t go!” she said. “I didn’t mean—that about the rabbit. I—I was only trying to be—funny. Don’t leave me all alone!”
“Bess, I must go sometime.”
“Wait then. Wait till after the storms.”
The purple cloud-bank darkened the lower edge of the setting sun, crept up and up, obscuring its fiery red heart, and finally passed over the last ruddy crescent of its upper rim.
The intense dead silence awakened to a long, low, rumbling roll of thunder.
“Oh!” cried Bess, nervously.
“We’ve had big black clouds before this without rain,” said Venters. “But there’s no doubt about that thunder. The storms are coming. I’m glad. Every rider on the sage will hear that thunder with glad ears.”
Venters and Bess finished their simple meal and the few tasks around the camp, then faced the open terrace, the valley, and the west, to watch and await the approaching storm.