“You didn’t try going up the creek bottom to see where it led to,” Gildersleeve pressed him.
“Not much. I up and beat it. Something mighty queer about it all that sort of got my goat, and besides I was scared that bell ringing would bring some one round that might use me rough. I didn’t know it had got so late until I was out in the daylight again.”
“So that’s it,” mused Gildersleeve, “that’s how they get up into the Cup. Well, to-morrow we’ll—” He strode over and stood staring at the circular draft-vent of the little stove.
What he might have said was left unfinished for there came a great crash above the howlings of the storm that made the earth shudder. It was followed by a continuous pounding thunder that grew louder and louder as though the tops had slid from the mountains and were crashing down to the lake. Nearer and more formidable it grew, setting the building a-quiver at each succeeding smash until it seemed to sweep into and through the very heart of the camp.
The three men stood speechless and aghast, staring into each other’s terror-smitten countenances.
IV
Gildersleeve was the first to move. With an inarticulate cry he flung open the door and leaped into the night.
Outside all was pandemonium. With the advent of the new terror the storm had subsided considerably, though rain was still pouring down. Men awakened from their sleep were rushing everywhere through the wet and darkness. There were hysterical shouts and coarse, ugly curses. In another moment scores of lanterns gleamed blearily in the murk and the search-lights of the police sent shafts of light playing up from the waterfront.
Twenty-five feet from the river Gildersleeve found the Mounties holding back the crowd with hoarse commands, their carbines held crosswise before them.
Conjecture ran rife. “Cloud-burst in the hills,” some one cried. And another: “Look, look, the Nannabijou River’s roarin’ full to the top of the banks!”