"I hope it ain't nothin' serious.
But I'm gettin' my hand in." This odd duel continued with long lapses of silence while the moon grew to a disk of pale, liquid silver in the west, enduring through the bleak, chill time preceding the end of night, finally fading and disappearing as the far eastern distance began to glow with the gray light of dawn.
Calumet's cold humor had not survived the night.

He patrolled the gully during the slow-dragging hours of the early morning with a growing caution and determination, his lips setting always into harder lines, his eyes beginning to blaze with a ferocity that promised ill for Taggart.
Shortly after dawn, kneeling in the gully at the end toward the ranchhouse, he heard the wagon move.

He looked up to see that the horses had started, evidently with the intention of completing their delayed journey to the stable, where they would find the food and water which they no doubt craved.

As the wagon bumped over the obstruction which Calumet had placed in front of the rear wheel, he was on the verge of shouting to the horses to halt, but thought better of it, watching them in silence as they made their way slowly down the slope.
It took them a long time to reach the level of the valley, and then they passed slowly through the wood, going as steadily as though there was a driver on the seat behind them, and finally they turned into the ranchhouse yard and came to a halt near the kitchen door.
Calumet watched them until they came to a stop and then he went to the opposite end of the gully, peeping above it in order to learn of the whereabouts of Taggart.

He saw no signs of him and returned to the other end of the gully.
Taggart, he suspected, could not see where the wagon had gone and no doubt was filled with curiosity.