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His
slumber
was
of
short
continuance
.
The
pain
of
his
wounds
,
once
more
returning
,
awoke
him
.
It
was
this
--
and
not
the
cry
of
the
coyoté
--
that
kept
him
from
sleeping
throughout
the
remainder
of
the
night
.
Little
did
he
regard
the
sneaking
wolf
of
the
prairies
--
a
true
jackal
--
that
attacks
but
the
dead
;
the
living
,
only
when
dying
.
He
did
not
believe
that
he
was
dying
.
It
was
a
long
dismal
night
to
the
sufferer
;
it
seemed
as
if
day
would
never
dawn
.
The
light
came
at
length
,
but
revealed
nothing
to
cheer
him
.
Along
with
it
came
the
birds
,
and
the
beasts
went
not
away
.
Over
him
,
in
the
shine
of
another
sun
the
vultures
once
more
extended
their
shadowy
wings
.
Around
him
he
heard
the
howl-bark
of
the
coyoté
,
in
a
hundred
hideous
repetitions
.
Crawling
down
to
the
stream
,
he
once
more
quenched
his
thirst
.
He
now
hungered
;
and
looked
round
for
something
to
eat
.
A
pecân
tree
stood
,
near
.
There
were
nuts
upon
its
branches
,
within
six
feet
of
the
ground
.
