Full of this strange
feeling, she almost mechanically stopped her horse as she entered the
cross-road.
From this momentary hesitation a singular sound aroused her. It seemed
at first like the swift hurrying by of some viewless courier of the
air, the vague alarm of some invisible flying herald, or like the
inarticulate cry that precedes a storm. It seemed to rise and fall
around her as if with some changing urgency of purpose. Raising her
eyes she suddenly recognized the two far-stretching lines of telegraph
wire above her head, and knew the aeolian cry of the morning wind along
its vibrating chords. But it brought another and more practical fear to
her active brain. Perhaps even now the telegraph might be anticipating
her! Had Poindexter thought of that? She hesitated no longer, but
laying the whip on the back of her jaded mustang, again hurried
forward.
As the level horizon grew more distinct, her attention was attracted by
the white sail of a small boat lazily threading the sinuous channel of
the slough. It might be Poindexter arriving by the more direct route
from the steamboat that occasionally laid off the ancient _embarcadero_
of the Los Cuervos Rancho.
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