The old miner slowly rose, rubbed one leg and then the other.
“No, I reckon not,” he answered slowly. The old man was game, whatever else he lacked. Slowly he got into the saddle again, and then he grimly remarked, as the echoes of the thunder died away: “Guess I’d done better to be tied to the horse again, same as I was when the Nixon crowd had me.”
“You’ve got to keep a tight rein on your horse every time it lightens,” said Tinny. “They’re sure to jump at each clap, and if you’re not ready for ’em you’ll land on your neck. I wish we were at that cabin!”
The others felt the same way about it, and their uneasiness was not lessened when they saw Tinny looking apprehensively up at the clouds which were now thicker and blacker than ever.
“If the storm would break—I mean if the rain would come—it wouldn’t be so bad,” Jerry said.
“What do you mean—not so bad?” asked Ned. “We’ll get drenched when it starts—no umbrellas, no raincoats, nothing.”
“I mean there’ll be less danger from lightning when it starts to rain,” went on the tall lad.
“Jerry is right,” Tinny added, as they moved forward again with lightning playing about them and a continuous mutter of thunder at times muffling their words. “Once the ground and trees are soaking wet, it makes so many more natural paths for the lightning to take. It diffuses itself all over gradually, instead of the tension being relieved in one big gigantic crack. And if you’ve ever noticed it, your nerves calm down in a thunderstorm as soon as the rain starts. It’s the same way with animals. Our horses will be easier to manage as soon as everything gets well wet.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed that,” replied Bob. “We had lots of rain in France, too.”
“Gosh, I should say so!” agreed Ned. “Never a day without a shower, as I remember it.”