The Driving Rain Drew A Sullen, Metallic Curtain Across The fading afternoon, and beneath his horse's hoofs the earth was soggy with this rain and that of the rains that had gone before. Hunching his big shoulders under the slicker, Tom Radigan was thinking of the warm cabin and the hot coffee that awaited him when he glimpsed the trail across the meadow. A walking man will kick the grass down in the direction of travel, but a horse with the swinging movements of its hoofs will knock the grass down so it points in the direction from which it has come. What Tom Radigan saw was the trail of a ridden horse that had come down from the lonely hills to the southwest and headed into even lonelier hills beyond his ranch house. Squinting from under his dripping hat brim in the direction the trail pointed he saw nothing-only a trail that crossed the knee-high grass of the meadow and disappeared into the hills beyond. "Now what in thunderation," he said aloud, "would anybody want back in there on a day like this?" Or on any other day, for that matter.
