“Bolly!” called Mescal. The mare did not stop.
“What the deuce?” Hare ran forward to catch her.
“I never knew Bolly to act that way,” said Mescal. “See—she didn't eat half the oats. Well, Bolly—Jack! look at Wolf!”
The white dog had risen and stood warily shifting his nose. He sniffed the wind, turned round and round, and slowly stiffened with his head pointed toward the eastern rise of the plateau.
“Hold, Wolf, hold!” called Mescal, as the dog appeared to be about to dash away.
“Ugh!” grunted Piute.
“Listen, Jack; did you hear?” whispered the girl.
“Hear what?”
“Listen.”
The warm breeze came down in puffs from the crags; it rustled in the cedars and blew fragrant whiffs of camp-fire smoke into his face; and presently it bore a low, prolonged whistle. He had never before heard its like. The sound broke the silence again, clearer, a keen, sharp whistle.