Chapter 7
SILVERMANELITTLE dew fell on the night of July first; the dawn brightened
without mists; a hot sun rose; the short summer of the plateau had
begun.
As Hare rose, refreshed and happy from his breakfast, his
whistle was cut short by the Indian.
"Ugh!" exclaimed Piute, lifting a dark finger. Black Bolly had
thrown her nose-bag and slipped her halter, and she moved toward
the opening in the cedars, her head high, her black ears straight
up.
"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 Wolfl"
The white dog had risen and stood warily shifting his nose. He
sniffed the wind, turned round and round, and slowly sti
