“Are snow storms common here the end of September?” asked Jerry.
“They are when you git high enough in the mountains,” replied the hunter. “Many’s the night I’ve gone to bed thinkin’ it was summer, to wake up an’ find it winter, an’ me sleepin’ under a foot of snow. The storms come up so easy you don’t know anythin’ about ’em.”
“Will it last long?” asked Ned.
“No; it’ll melt when the sun strikes it,” was the answer. “But snow or no snow, we must have breakfast.”
Broswick scraped away a place amid the white blanket and found some wood. A blaze was soon kindled, and the appetizing smell of coffee filled the crisp air. A hasty but substantial meal was made, and then the travelers, urged on by the call of gold in the mine they were striving to reach, took up their journey again.
As Broswick had said, as soon as the sun rose the snow began to melt and soon the landscape showed no signs of the winter costume it had masqueraded in. The adventurers were now close to the top of the mountain, and would shortly begin descending on the other slope. They had dinner beside a swift, cold brook, from which Broswick caught several large trout that made an excellent and very welcome addition to the meal, broiled as they were over the coals.
It was late that afternoon when the hunter, who was riding somewhat in the rear, came galloping up on his horse.
“I’m afraid we’re in for it,” he said.
“In for what?” asked Nestor.
“A rippin’ old thunder storm,” was the answer. “The clouds back there are as black as ink an’ the wind’s drivin’ ’em right this way. If I know anythin’ of signs, an’ I ought to, considerin’ I’ve hunted in these mountains for nigh onto twenty years, we’re goin’ to have a regular rip-snorter.”