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Description
From A short story by the same title...

The wind never ceased at this time of year. It was the wailings of the mother in the skies for all her sons who had thrown their lives away to follow the father of the earth, blood and toil. This was the moon of hunger, and the winds only carried pain, cold and blizzard blindness. It cut through clothing and all but the best of shelters.

It was, of course the muleskinner, indolent and intemperate man that he was, which finally approached him about setting up pickets at the head of the canyon and waiting them out. The men would be better set to fighting with a hot meal in them and awaiting the renegades than exposing themselves to a trap in the narrow confines of the hideout, after all. Irritated at the prospect of more time spent out here, Mantrell finally relented, realizing the troops were as sick of the wind and weather as he, but still nervous and exhausted. A rough windbreak was set up with canvas and the bodies of the horses themselves, some of the wood carried on the mules was broken out and the smell of cooking beans and coffee was caught in the wind and swept away. The wind howled constantly, as though hungering and tantalized by the smell of fire and food. The thought must have occurred to the Muleskinner as he chuckled over his black coffee, laced from one of his many secreted flasks when the prudish young officer wasn't looking.

The reverie was broken by the mumbling of the Crow scout sitting at the door of the tent. Not here in officer's company, but still too close for comfort, in spite of the limited places to stay out of the blast of the wind.

The Muleskinner, one Florin by name, grunted in reply and returned a few chosen words. The Crow seemed uneasy since they had tracked the runaways to this pass, now he seemed worse. It made Captain Mantrell uneasy, the redskin behaving this unpredictably. It was Lt. Worthington, predictably, who asked, "What did he say?" Mantrell turned in annoyance to the eager beardless face of his junior officer as if to berate him for caring what the savage thought, but before he could decide to speak, the Muleskinner mumbled, "Black Knife says there was... wolves... here once't."

conte and pen.

Description
From A short story by the same title...

The wind never ceased at this time of year. It was the wailings of the mother in the skies for all her sons who had thrown their lives away to follow the father of the earth, blood and toil. This was the moon of hunger, and the winds only carried pain, cold and blizzard blindness. It cut through clothing and all but the best of shelters.

It was, of course the muleskinner, indolent and intemperate man that he was, which finally approached him about setting up pickets at the head of the canyon and waiting them out. The men would be better set to fighting with a hot meal in them and awaiting the renegades than exposing themselves to a trap in the narrow confines of the hideout, after all. Irritated at the prospect of more time spent out here, Mantrell finally relented, realizing the troops were as sick of the wind and weather as he, but still nervous and exhausted. A rough windbreak was set up with canvas and the bodies of the horses themselves, some of the wood carried on the mules was broken out and the smell of cooking beans and coffee was caught in the wind and swept away. The wind howled constantly, as though hungering and tantalized by the smell of fire and food. The thought must have occurred to the Muleskinner as he chuckled over his black coffee, laced from one of his many secreted flasks when the prudish young officer wasn't looking.

The reverie was broken by the mumbling of the Crow scout sitting at the door of the tent. Not here in officer's company, but still too close for comfort, in spite of the limited places to stay out of the blast of the wind.

The Muleskinner, one Florin by name, grunted in reply and returned a few chosen words. The Crow seemed uneasy since they had tracked the runaways to this pass, now he seemed worse. It made Captain Mantrell uneasy, the redskin behaving this unpredictably. It was Lt. Worthington, predictably, who asked, "What did he say?" Mantrell turned in annoyance to the eager beardless face of his junior officer as if to berate him for caring what the savage thought, but before he could decide to speak, the Muleskinner mumbled, "Black Knife says there was... wolves... here once't."

conte and pen.