“Do you think there is any danger from lightning?” asked Jerry.
“There certainly is,” Tinny answered.
The comparative quiet that had prevailed for a few minutes was once more broken by a low rumbling that told of distant thunder.
“Look out, boys! She’s going to break loose again!” called Ned, clapping his heels against the side of his horse and sprinting forward.
His words had hardly died away before the vicious lightning again hissed through the air like some gigantic whip swung by a Titanic teamster, and what corresponded to the crack of the whip was the sharp sound of the thunder.
That is all it was at first—a sharp crack, hardly louder than that a high-powered rifle would have given forth. But it was followed with terrifying rapidity by a great crash.
Cromley’s horse leaped to one side with such suddenness that the miner was unseated, and some one would have been compelled to walk the remainder of the journey had not Ned urged his own horse forward to catch the runaway. For that is what the miner’s animal became as soon as the saddle was empty.
“Good work, Ned!” cried Jerry, as the lad quieted the frightened animal.
“Are you hurt, Bill?” asked Tinny.