"Turning in" meant undressing, folding a Hudson's Bay blanket about him,
and lying near the open flap of the tepee, on a heap of wolf skins as
soft as feathers and as silvery as a cloud.
Night crept up over the prairie like a grey veil, and the late moon,
rising, touched the far level wastes with a pale radiance. Through
the open flap of the tepee Tony watched it--the majestic loneliness
and isolation, the hushed silence of this prairie world were very
marvellous--and he loved it almost as if it were his birthright, instead
of the heritage of the Blackfoot boy sleeping beside him. Then across
the white night came the cry of a wandering coyote, and once the whirr
of many wings swept overhead. Then his wolfskin couch grew very soft
and warm, the night airs very gentle, the silence very drowsy, and
Tony slept.
It was daylight. Something had wakened him abruptly. Instantly all
his faculties were alert, yet oddly enough he seemed held rigid and
speechless. He wanted to cry out with fear, he knew not of what, and
the next moment a lithe red body was flung across his, and his hand was
imprisoned in strong, clinging fingers.
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