Piggot has gone calling them. The summit is foregone for the recovery of our horses. We return to camp as night pushes in with only one beast secured and four still missing. My sleep is painted with the sound of screaming horses. I wake beaded with sweat and listen for the echoes of my dream.
Lucid eyes are useless.
My ears are lost to weeping and shattered nerves. Wilson thrashes in tormented sleep. Piggot sits against a tree, rifle on his chest, rocking slowly. He has forsaken the terror of sleep. I spend the night looking east, waiting for the sun.