And
still, when it seemed the end of the day, it was not high noon.
By afternoon, we were saturated; the camp steamed. We ate supper after
dark, standing around the camp-fire, holding our tin plates of food in
our hands. The firelight shone on our white faces and dripping slickers.
The horses stood with their heads low against the storm. The men of the
outfit went to bed on the sodden ground with the rain beating in their
faces.
The next morning was gray, yet with a hint of something better. At eight
o'clock, the clouds began to lift. Their solidity broke. The lower edge
of the cloud-bank that had hung in a heavy gray line, straight and
ominous, grew ragged. Shreds of vapor detached themselves and moved off,
grew smaller, disappeared. Overhead, the pall was thinner. Finally it
broke, and a watery ray of sunlight came through. And, at last, old
Rainbow, at the upper end of the lake, poked her granite head through
its vapory sheathings. Angel, my white horse, also eyed the sky, and
then, putting her pink nose under the corral-rope, she gently worked her
way out.
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