All willingly followed White Buffalo to the shelter, which was the under side of a hollowed-out cliff, fronted by some heavy brush and a row of saplings. Here all set to work to clear out a space for themselves and another for a camp-fire, for the wind made the air seem much colder.
Several of the men were taking it easy on some boughs they had cut, while the others were huddled around the camp-fire, warming up, and preparing something to eat, when the wind arose with greater violence than ever. It was a winter “fall,” as it is called in that territory and it whistled and shrieked with a fury that caused more than one in the party to spring to his feet in alarm.
“By gum! This aint no June zephyr!” declared Barringford, as he gazed from the shelter with an anxious look on his bronzed face. “It’s a reg’lar fall, thet’s wot it is!”
“High wind, truly,” put in White Buffalo. “Great Spirit knock down many trees that are proud.”
The Indian chief had scarcely spoken when there came another whirl, which caused the camp-fire to fly in several directions. Then, before anybody could run away, there followed a crash on top of the cliff and then one in front of it.
“The trees are coming down!” yelled Dave.
“We must git out—we’ll be buried under the cliff!” came from Barringford.
As both spoke they tried to leave their dangerous quarters. But the movement came too late. With a thud the tree that had stood above them came down in front of the opening, and an instant later another tree before the cliff landed on top of the first.
A huge branch caught both Dave and Barringford and hurled them flat. Then came another crash, and Dave found himself buried under small stones and dirt, and for the moment he felt as if the end of the world had come.