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The sharp bark of the coyote, near or far away; soft as an echo, the gently cadenced tremolo of the prairie owl.

Here and there a prairie owl would whirl low to the ground with a throaty chuckle for a time, but that soon ceased.

Rolled up in the blanket, through which the stinging cold pierced as though it were gossamer, shivering, beating his hands and feet to prevent their stiffening, longing for protecting fur like a wolf or a buffalo, keeping constant watch about him as does a great prairie owl, the interminably long hours of his second night dragged by.

In the lull, the soft night-breeze crooned its minor song, while near or far away—no human ear could measure the distance—a prairie owl gave its weird cry.

No living thing stirred, save now and then a prairie owl flitting through the gloom added to the sombre desolation of the scene.