American fiction -- 20th century; Gold mines and mining -- Fiction; Western stories
"I tell you he was hanging on the rim of nowhere, broke. And he used my
three thousand and God knows what other stolen funds, and now again he
is the one power across a hundred miles up here!"
There was one other thing she meant to ask. Billy Winch had said just
now that Standing was on his way; that all they had to do was _listen_
for him. She supposed that he had meant the clatter of a running
horse's hoofs; and yet something in Winch's tone implied something
else. No doubt Deveril understood; she was parting her lips to ask
when, across the fields of the silent night, Bruce Standing himself
answered her. A sudden thrill shot through her blood.
As she was to learn later, there were many wonderful things about Bruce
Standing. Among them were his reckless impudence and his glorious
voice. Now, before ever she saw the man, she heard him singing,
somewhere far out, under the stars, alone with his wilderness, sending
far ahead of him into Big Pine the word of his coming. A coming which
was in defiance of the order which had gone forth and which, with his
superb assurance, he was ignoring. It was a voice as sweet and clear
and true, for the high notes and the low notes alike, as a silver
trumpet. She stopped breathing to listen. She felt her heart leap and
quicken; a tingling quivered along her nerves. Never had she heard
singing like that, wild, free, a voice to haunt and linger echoing in
the memory.
And then, all of a sudden, she was set shivering. For the voice had
done with the song and, at the end, with a great unexpected upgathering
of sound was poured forth into a long-drawn-out call that was like
nothing on earth save the howling of a wolf. The night call throbbed
and billowed across the disturbed silences and all of a sudden was gone
and the night was again hushed and still.
"There you have one of the two good reasons why men call him
Timber-Wolf," said Deveril with a grunt.
She scarcely heard. Somewhere, deep down within her, that golden
outpouring, that rush of fierceness at the end, echoed and lived on.
CHAPTER IV
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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