He pulled heavily at his pipe until his face was enveloped in a fog of smoke.  His companion’s tone of patronage had nettled him.  The old hand moved restlessly but did not answer.  It is doubtful if the other’s sarcasm had been observed.  It was scarcely broad enough to penetrate the toughened hide of the older hand’s susceptibilities.

The silence was broken by a man’s voice in the distance.  The sound of an old familiar melody, chanted in a manly and not unmusical voice, reached the fireside.  It was the voice of the man who was on watch round the band of cattle, and he was endeavoring to lull them into quiescence.  The human voice, in the stillness of the night, has a somnolent effect upon cattle, and even mosquitoes, unless they are very thick, fail to counteract the effect.  The older hand stirred.  Then he sat up and methodically replenished the fire, kicking the dying embers together until they blazed afresh.

“Jim Bowley do sing mighty sweet,” he said, in disparaging tones.  “Like a crazy buzz-saw, I guess.  S’pose them beasties is gettin’ kind o’ restless.  Say, Nat, how goes the time?  It must be night on ter your spell.”

Nat sat up and drew out a great silver watch.

“Haf an hour yet, pard.”  Then he proceeded to re-fill his pipe, cutting great flakes of black tobacco from a large plug with his sheath knife.  Suddenly he paused in the operation and listened.  “Say, Jake, what’s that?”

“What’s what?” replied Jake, roughly, preparing to lie down again.

“Listen!”

The two men bent their keen, prairie-trained ears to windward.  They listened intently.  The night was very black—­as yet the moon had not risen.  Jake used his eyes as well as ears.  On the prairie, as well as elsewhere, eyes have a lot to do with hearing.  He sought to penetrate the darkness around him, but his efforts were unavailing.  He could hear no sound but the voice of Jim Bowley and the steady plodding of his horse’s feet as he ceaselessly circled the band of somnolent cattle.  The sky was cloudy, and only here and there a few stars gleamed diamond-like in the heavens, but threw insufficient light to aid the eyes which sought to penetrate the surrounding gloom.  The old hand threw himself back on his pillow in skeptical irritation.

“Thar ain’t nothin’, young ’un,” he said disdainfully.  “The beasties is quiet, and Jim Bowley ain’t no tenderfoot.  Say, them skitters ’as rattled yer.  Guess you ‘eard some prowlin’ coyote.  They allus come around whar ther’s a tenderfoot.”

Jake curled himself up again and chuckled at his own sneering pleasantry.

“Coyote yerself, Jake Bond,” retorted Nat, angrily.  “Them lugs o’ yours is gettin’ old.  Guess yer drums is saggin’.  You’re mighty smart, I don’t think.”

The youngster got on to his feet and walked to where the men’s two horses were picketed.  Both horses were standing with ears cocked and their heads held high in the direction of the mountains.  Their attitude was the acme of alertness.  As the man came up they turned towards him and whinnied as if in relief at the knowledge of his presence.  But almost instantly turned again to gaze far out into the night.  Wonderful indeed is a horse’s instinct, but even more wonderful is the keenness of his sight and hearing.