By and by the wind died and the rain steadied into
a dogged downpour. He knew what that meant--there would be no
letting up now in the storm, and for another night he was a
prisoner. So he went to his saddle-pockets and pulled out a cake
of chocolate, a can of potted ham and some crackers, munched his
supper, went to bed, and lay there with sleepless eyes, while the
lights and shadows from the wind-swayed fire flicked about him.
After a while his body dozed but his racked brain went seething on
in an endless march of fantastic dreams in which June was the
central figure always, until of a sudden young Dave leaped into
the centre of the stage in the dream-tragedy forming in his brain.
They were meeting face to face at last--and the place was the big
Pine. Dave's pistol flashed and his own stuck in the holster as he
tried to draw. There was a crashing report and he sprang upright
in bed--but it was a crash of thunder that wakened him and that in
that swift instant perhaps had caused his dream. The wind had come
again and was driving the rain like soft bullets against the wall
of the cabin next which he lay.
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