He sat up at last and put on his hat. Then he threw the blankets back and got up, pulling on his pants and shaking out his boots. This morning he had collected nothing but a half-grown tarantula, who reared up menacingly. But Canavan was in no mood for trouble, and the big spider wandered away to come again another night. He hadn't been looking for trouble, anyway, just a warm place to sleep. And that big thing, whatever it was, had no right to shake him out of his bed at such an ungodly hour.
(from Where the Long Grass Blows, by Louis L'Amour)
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