eight o'clock
They could hear at intervals a weird , mournful note , a single whistling call in dismal minor , but it brought no new significance . Every day of their undesired and enforced sojourn , every hour of the interminable day , that raven-like , hermit bird of the Sierras had piped his unmelodious signal to some distant feathered fellow , and sent a chill to the heart of more than one war-tried soldier . There was never a man in Arizona wilds that did not hate the sound of it . And yet , as eight o'clock was noted and still no sight or sound of assailant came , Sergeant Carmody turned a wearied , aching eye from his loophole and muttered to the officer crouching close beside him : `` I could wring the neck of the lot of those infernal cat crows , sir , but I 'll thank God if we hear no worse sound this day . '' Blakely rose to his feet and wearily leaned upon the breastworks , peering cautiously over . Yesterday the sight of a scouting hat would have brought instant whiz of arrow , but not a missile saluted him now . One arm , his left , was rudely bandaged and held in a sling , a rifle ball from up the cliff , glancing from the inner face of the parapet , had torn savagely through muscle and sinew , but mercifully scored neither artery nor bone .