“Was that a wolf?” Elroy asked.
“No. Too shrill,” Dillon replied. “Coyote, maybe.”
Both men cocked an ear to catch the sound again. It was a moan, like an autumn wind high in the lonesome treetops.
“No. It’s not a c’yote either.”
“Well, whatever the hell it is, it’s spooking the horses,” Dillon observed. “Maybe, you should go calm them a tad bit.”
“I reckon, I might could, but why don’t you do it?” Elroy responded.
The whining moan again echoed in the night.
“Well, Elroy, it’s on account of you being better with critters than me. Besides, I’m the better shot,” he said holding up his rifle, which he was gripping white-knuckled.
As the two lawmen debated on who should step out from the light of the fire, their quarry – the notorious Travis Jackson, lay in a nearby gully blowing over a bottle.
dVerse – Prosery Inspired by: “Moan like an autumn wind high in the lonesome treetops” Carl Sandburg’s Jazz Fantasia.