Evan

We put the fire out completely and went dark, on purpose.

No light is often safer in predator country because it keeps you from becoming a beacon, but it also forces you to listen.

The desert at night is a catalogue of small sounds if you let it be.

Insects, a distant owl, a mouse in dry grass, the far-off cough of a cow.

I lay in my tent and listened until the ordinary sound started to make a pattern in my mind.

Around 10.15, the cattle started to move.

Not a stampede.

A slow drift, like they were being pushed without panic.

I heard hooves on hard ground.

I heard a few low moos, the questioning kind.

Then they went quiet again.

A few minutes later, something walked past my tent.

It wasn't on the fabric.

It was outside, in the dirt.

The footfalls were heavy, deliberate, too slow for a coyote.

I could hear the slight crunch of grit under weight.

The steps came from the direction of the wash, passed within maybe six feet of my tent, and continued toward the tank.

I held my breath.

I didn't unzip the tent.

I didn't shine a light.