He listened. There came a rap on the
wood.
"Bostil! . . . Bostil!" It was Holley's voice.
Bostil rolled off the bed. He had slept without removing any apparel except
his boots.
"Wal, Hawk, what d'ye mean wakin' a man at this unholy hour?" growled Bostil.
Holley's face appeared above the rude sill. It was pale and grave, with the
hawk eyes like glass. "It ain't so awful early," he said. "Listen, boss."
Bostil halted in the act of pulling on a boot. He looked at his man while he
listened. The still air outside seemed filled with low boom, like thunder at a
distance. Bostil tried to look astounded.
"Hell! . . . It's the Colorado! She's boomin'!"
"Reckon it's hell all right--for Creech," replied Holley. "Boss, why didn't
you fetch them hosses over?"
Bostil's face darkened. He was a bad man to oppose--to question at times.
"Holley, you're sure powerful anxious about Creech. Are you his friend?"
"Naw! I've little use fer Creech," replied Holley. "An' you know thet. But I
hold for his hosses as I would any man's.
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