THAT night, after a bountiful meal, George Shelton quietly said to his brother:

“You remember, Victor, that you and I left home on the morning of the turkey shoot, telling father that we didn’t wish to stay and win the prize?”

“Of course, but nobody believed us.”

“I don’t suppose anyone did, but if you had gone into that foot-race against Deerfoot and Ralph Genther, neither would have had a show. I never dreamed how fast you can run till I saw that antelope after you.”

“See here now, George, what’s the use of talking forever about that? You would have done just as I did if you saw a wild animal coming down on you like a whirlwind, and just after you had wounded him.”

“I suppose I should, but I couldn’t have made the time you did.”

“I wonder whether Deerfoot will come up with us to-night,” remarked Victor, anxious to change the subject of conversation, and peering in the gloom to the southward.

“No,” replied the grinning Mul-tal-la; “you will see nothing of our brother for some days. He will not let Whirlwind use his leg till he knows he can’t hurt it, and that won’t be for some time yet.”

The camp had been made on the slope of the ridge, over which they had passed once or twice, and at the base of which meandered a small stream that finally made its way into one of the tributaries of the Platte, and so finally reached the Gulf of Mexico. Beyond this water the land sloped upward again. Thus it will be seen that our friends were near the bottom of a valley, covered with succulent grass, and showing here and there growths of willows and a species of alfalfa, whose bark sometimes serves animals for food, but owing to the small size of the growth itself the wood is comparatively worthless.

It was the turn of Victor to mount guard for the first half of the night. The horses had become so accustomed to the routine that, after packs, saddles and bridles were removed, they could be trusted to crop the herbage until ready to lie down for the night. Zigzag had gotten into the habit of nibbling much longer than his companions. Perhaps his teeth were not so good, but the sentinels had often observed him moving here and there long after his companions were asleep. George Shelton named his natural stubbornness as the cause, though the charge was hardly fair.

The night had progressed far enough for George to wrap himself in his blanket, for the night was quite cold, and lie down with his feet to the fire. The Blackfoot was not yet ready to sleep. Instead, he sat with his blanket around his shoulders and seemed to sink into a reverie. He remained motionless for a long time, gazing absently into the fire and saying nothing to anyone. At last Victor gently reminded him that he was at liberty to sleep while the boy guarded the camp.

Instead of lying down the Indian rose to his feet and stood for some minutes looking off to the northward toward the nearest stretch of mountains or the opposite side of the valley. It was as if he had noted something in that direction which interested him. He turned to the boy:

“Let not my brother fear; Mul-tal-la will not be away long.”

And with this remark he walked down the slope, soon passing from sight in the gloom.

“That’s a queer piece of business,” reflected Victor. “I wonder what’s the matter; maybe he’s seen some of his people over yonder and has gone to call upon them.”

However, there was no cause for misgiving, and the youth gave the Blackfoot no further thought, knowing he would return when he thought proper. Meanwhile the brothers need not fear disturbance from man or animal.

The weather was still clear, though the travelers had observed a heavy black cloud over the mountains, just before sunset, which threatened a downpour of rain, but the black mass was moving northward above the peaks and soon disappeared. The moon was near the end of the first quarter, and shed enough light for one to see quite clearly for a distance of fifty yards more or less. This illumination was steady, for not a cloud drifted across its face to produce the shifting shadows and alternations of light and obscurity which often mystified the man or boy on guard.

It had struck Victor more than once that whoever acted as sentinel was—for most of the time—wasting the hours that might as well have been spent in rest. Not once had anyone been in danger of attack from wild animals, nor since crossing the Mississippi had any Indians molested them. Moreover, he was sure that in the event of anything of the kind the horses would give timely warning. But Deerfoot had made the order, before leaving the young State of Ohio, that never was the camp to be left unguarded, and while he was with them the rule had not been disobeyed. It was useless to protest to the Shawanoe, who had a way of enforcing his views which no one dared oppose. No argument, therefore, had been offered, and that sense of honor which was ingrained with the twins made each more careful of carrying out the views of the “guide, counsellor and friend” during his absence than when he was with them. Consequently, Victor Shelton, resting his gun over his shoulder, began slowly pacing to and fro, after the manner of a veteran sentinel. His beat was twenty steps or so, and one termination brought him near where the horses had already lain down for the night. Rather it should be said that only three of them had done so, for Zigzag, acting out his queer disposition, was seen moving slowly here and there as he munched the lush grass. He was likely to keep it up for an hour or two, and the boy gave no heed to him.

A monotonous hour had worn away when Victor’s attention was drawn to the wakeful horse. He was standing with head raised, bits of grass dripping from his jaws, ears pricked, and staring toward the other side of the valley, as if he had discovered something in that direction.

“I guess Mul-tal-la is coming back,” was the thought of the lad, “and Zigzag hasn’t noticed that he is absent.”

But no Blackfoot came into view in the dim light, and the animal’s restlessness, instead of passing, became more marked. He threw his head still higher, looked more keenly and emitted a faint neigh.

“I wonder what’s the matter with him,” said Victor, turning aside from his beat and walking out to the animal, whom he patted and tried to soothe. To his astonishment he found the horse was in a tremor, as if scared by something he either saw or heard.

Victor turned his gaze in the same direction, but could discover nothing to explain the alarm of the brute. Then he listened.

From the direction of the mountains he heard a peculiar sound. It was a dull but steadily increasing roar, such as you have noticed at night when a railway train was first detected miles distant. The boy supposed it was a gale of wind, similar to what he had felt more than once since crossing the Mississippi, and, indeed, while still on the other side of that river.

But no sooner had he formed this conclusion than he was sensible of a difference in the sound from that which had come to mind. It was more intense and its volume was growing faster than he had ever observed before.

“I wish Mul-tal-la was here,” was the thought of Victor, who began to feel uncomfortable; “he would know the meaning of that, which is more than I know.”

He still believed the uproar was caused by wind, though of a more violent nature than any yet noted by him. A whirlwind, a hurricane, or what in these times is called a cyclone, may have been born among the mountains, and would soon be careering over the prairies with terrific might. If such proved the fact, Victor could think of nothing to do; for, though he and his brother fled, they would be as liable to run into the vortex or centre of disturbance as to be caught where they were.

His alarm, however, led him to hurry to the side of George and awaken him. The latter was on his feet in an instant, startled by the terrifying noise, which had aroused the other horses, who also arose and showed signs of fear. Before the two could exchange more than a few words the darkness was pierced by the voice of the Blackfoot from some point on the other side of the valley.

“Make haste, brothers! Flee to the highest land you can reach!”

“That means a cloudburst!” exclaimed George. “That is what the black cloud did. The valley will be a rushing torrent in a few minutes!”

The words were yet in his mouth when the roar of the brook a little way off was heard. The forerunner of the flood was sweeping down the valley and would be quickly followed by a Niagara of water.

The boys ran to the horses and began with desperate haste to make them ready for flight. The goods on hand were too valuable to be lost. Saddles and bridles were hurriedly adjusted in a slipshod fashion, and then both bent their energies to replacing the packs upon Zigzag, who won the gratitude of the brothers by acting as if he understood the danger and was eager to give all the help he could. He stood motionless while with nervous, trembling hands the two fixed the bulky bundles in position.

“It’s here!” called out Victor, who felt the water about his ankles and rapidly rising. “It won’t do to wait another minute!”

The horses were headed up the slope and all broke into a gallop, for the instinct of their species often surpasses the reason of man in such crises of peril. The lads ran alongside, slapping their haunches and urging them to greater speed.

It looked for a few minutes as if, despite their haste, they would be overwhelmed, for within two or three minutes after starting they were wading through the rushing volume that reached to their knees. Victor stumbled, and George, with a cry, caught his arm, believing he was about to be swept off his feet, but he recovered himself and plunged up the slope faster than before.

Nothing could have saved the boys and animals but the steady ascent which they made. A river was sweeping down the valley like that which wiped out Johnstown in the Conemaugh Valley nearly a century later. Few comprehend the appalling power of a great volume of water, which in the disaster referred to tossed locomotives about as if they were so many corks.

The moonlight showed the muddy torrent carrying limbs, trees and even rocks, tumbling and rolling together in one fearful swirl down the valley. The stream was already more than a hundred feet wide, and gathered width and volume with terrifying rapidity.

In a few minutes—though it seemed ten times as long—boys and horses paused on the crest of the ridge. They were now fifty feet higher than their camp, and the torrent steadily pursued them until within a dozen paces of where they stood. If it climbed that interval nothing could save them. They watched the rushing river for a time in silence.

“Is it coming any higher?” asked Victor in an awed voice.

“I think it is creeping up, but not so fast as at first.”

“Won’t it be safer to keep on running?”

“No; we shall have to go down into the lowland beyond, and if the water comes over this ridge we shall be caught.”

“And if it does that we shall be caught here.”

“It’s likely to pass round at some point above, and then it will be all up with us—it has done so!” added the startled George.

As he spoke he pointed down the other side of the slope which they had climbed. He was right; the muddy current had forked above and was flowing down on both sides of them. Boys and horses were standing on an elongated island which might be overflowed at any moment.

The destructive cloudbursts that sometimes break with cyclonic suddenness in the West are as short-lived as they are violent. It is impossible that it should be otherwise, for they consist simply of a sudden precipitation or fall of an enormous mass of water from the skies, which naturally hunts with the utmost swiftness for the lowest level. That found, the frightful flurry is speedily over.

It was with unspeakable relief that George and Victor Shelton finally saw that the torrent had ceased to climb the slope. A few minutes later they uttered a prayer of thankfulness when they perceived that the volume was diminishing and the margin of the torrent was steadily retreating down the incline again. All danger for the time was over.

“How is it that Mul-tal-la is on the other side of the valley?” asked George.

“I don’t know. He left camp soon after you lay down, telling me he wouldn’t be gone long. He must have had some business or pleasure to look after. I thought maybe he had gone to make a call on some of his people. It was lucky for us that he saw what was coming and gave us warning in time.”