"
"Not a hawk?"
"No, nor an owl, or fox, or weasel--or they'd squall--they're cackling."
The rooster cackled louder than ever and the Boy recognized the voice of
his speckled hen accompanying him. How weird it sounded in the darkness
of the still spring night! The cold chills ran down his back and he
caught his mother's dress as she reached for the rifle that stood beside
her bed.
"You're not goin' out there, Ma?" the Boy protested.
"Yes. It's a dirty thief after our horse."
Her voice was low and steady and her hand was without tremor as she
grasped his.
"Get back in bed. I won't be gone a minute."
She left the cabin and noiselessly walked toward the low shed in which
the horse was stabled.
The Boy was at her heels. She knew and rejoiced in the love that made
him brave for her sake.
She paused a moment, listened, and then lifted her tall, slim form and
advanced steadily. Her bare feet made no noise. The waning moon was
shining with soft radiance. The Boy's heart was in his throat as he
watched her slender neck and head outlined against the sky. Never had he
seen anything so calm and utterly brave.
There was a slight noise at the stable. The chickens cackled with louder
call. Five minutes passed and they were silent. A shadowy figure
appeared at the corner of the stable.
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