Bare knees, profusely scratched, bare arms
rapidly browning to the color of the fur she wore, Haines and Buck had to
rub their eyes and look again before they could recognize her.
They must have made a noise--perhaps merely an intaking of breath inaudible
even to themselves but clear to the ears of Joan. She was on her feet, with
bright, wild eyes glancing here and there. There was no suggestion of
childishness in her, but a certain willingness to flee from a great danger
or attack a weaker force. She stood alert, rather than frightened, with her
head back as if she scented the wind to learn what approached. The ball of
gray fur straightened into the sharp ears and the flashing teeth of a
coyote puppy. Buck Daniels' foot slipped on a pebble and at the sound the
coyote darted to the shadow of a little shrub and crouched there, hardly
distinguishable from the shade which covered it, and the child, with
infinitely cunning instinct, raced to a patch of yellow sand and tawny
rocks among which she cowered and remained there moveless.
One thing at least was certain.
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