"It will be very wet," assented Tawannears. "We must wrap up our new bows."
"I tell you there is no need to think of bows," she exclaimed with passionate eagerness. "You have never seen one of these storms or you would know how grave is our peril. The wind blows the grass out of the ground. If it catches us in the open we shall be blown over—horses and all. I have seen them in the valley at Homolobi, and out here it will be worse, much worse!"
"What are we to do?" I asked.
"We must have shelter."
Tawannears and I both laughed.
"The only shelter is in the wood we left," I exclaimed.
"We are fortunate to be out of it," she declared. "Trees blow over. No, we must find a hole, a depression in the ground, anything——"
"Dis way," interrupted Peter calmly.
He turned his horse clumsily to the left and led us down the steep bank of a miniature rivulet, a tributary of the river beside which we had been camping. Under the bank we were out of sight of people on the prairie, and at least partially protected from the storm. At Tawannears' suggestion, we wrapped our new weapons in our clothing—what the Comanches had left us—and stowed them in a hole in the bank. Then, having done all that we could, we sat close together on the ground, holding the horses' rawhide bridles.
The moaning had increased to a dull, vibrating roar, muffled and vague. Jagged splashes of lightning streaked the sky. The air had become chilly cold, and we shivered for want of the clothes we had put aside. There was a peculiar tension in the atmosphere. The horses sensed it. They stamped nervously, jerked around at unexpected noises. The stallion whinnied at me, asking reassurance, and I stroked his muzzle.