Still it was not far to the tree, and surely there could be no danger
at this hour. If there had been Westcott would never have asked her to
come. The very recurrence of his name gave her strength and courage.
Her hands clenched with determination and she drew in a long breath,
her body straightening. Why, actually, she had been frightened of the
dark; like a child she had been peopling the void with the demons of
fancy. It struck her as so ridiculous that she actually laughed to
herself as she started straight toward the tree, which now seemed to
beckon her.
It was a rough path, sandy, interspersed with small rocks, and led down
into a gully. The tree stood on the opposite bank, which was so steep
she had to grasp its outcropping roots in order to pull herself up.
Even after gaining footing she saw nothing of Westcott, heard no sound
indicating his presence.
A coyote howled mournfully in the distance, and a stray breath of air
stirred one of the great leaves above into a startled rustling. She
crept about the gnarled trunk, every nerve aquiver, shaded her eyes
with one hand, and peered anxiously around into the gloom.
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