WAITING … WAITING … For the better part of an hour Tom had paced the confines of the stable, his shadow gliding past the stalls and flitting over the carriage and surrey that were Allyn Benedict’s personal conveyances. Sandcrane, lost in his own introspection, paid no heed to wagon or horse as he covered the straw-littered aisle from one end of the building to the other, while the north wind prowled the perimeter of the walls, plastered the moist flakes against the windowpanes, and, finding a loosened plank up near the roof line, slipped through with a keening wail like some lost soul in anguish. Coby Starving Elk emerged from his quarters at the rear of the stable, holding in his right hand a couple of thick slabs of crusty bread surrounding half-a-dozen strips of bacon. The fat, still sizzled, its juices seeping into the thirsty bread. “Want another one?” Coby asked, offering the sandwich in hand. “No. I’m set,” Tom answered. “But do not let me stop you.” Coby shook his head and, liking his bacon half cooked, took a bite.
