It was a dirty night, beyond question; one that gave color to Piegan's
prophesy that Milk River would be out of its banks if the storm held
till morning, and that Baker's freight-train would be stalled by mud and
high water for three or four days. I was duly thankful for the shelter
we had found. A tarpaulin stretched from wheel to wheel of the wagon
shut out the driving rain that fled in sheets before the whooping wind.
The lightning-play was hidden behind the drifting cloud-bank, for no
glint of it penetrated the gloom; but the cavernous thunder-bellow
roared intermittently, and a fury of rain drove slantwise against sodden
earth and creaking wagon-tops.
If the next two hours were as slow in passing, to MacRae and Lyn, as
they seemed to me, the two of them had time to dissect and discuss the
hopes and fears and errors of their whole existence, and formulate a new
philosophy of life. Piegan broke a long silence to remark sagely that if
Mac was putting in all this time talking to that "yaller-headed fairy,"
he was a plumb good stayer.
"They're old friends," I told him. "Mac knew her long ago; and all her
people."
"Well, he's in darned agreeable company," Piegan observed. "She's a
mighty fine little woman, far's I've seen. I dunno's I'd know when t'
jar loose m'self, if I knowed her an' she didn't object t' me hangin'
around.
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