The backwoodsman was right, and they had just time in which to reach shore when the wind-storm came rushing on them in all of its fury, hurling the whitecaps one over another and causing the tall trees to groan and bend beneath the blast.
“Don’t catch me under the trees in such a blow,” said Gilfoy, and the others agreed that it would be a foolhardy move to look for shelter there at such a time. More than one branch came down with a crack like that of a pistol, and further off they heard half-decayed monarchs of the forest come down with low booms.
The wind continued to blow, at first in irregular puffs and then in a steady gale, directly from the east. The raindrops were large and scattering and scarcely wet the ground.
“It’s of no use to try rowing in this wind,” said Silvers, after a careful look at the sky. “We’ll be blown back and all our strength wasted.”
“How far are we from Oswego?” asked Henry.
“I should say about sixty miles.”
“We might tramp that distance,” put in Dave. “But it would take not less than two days over this rough ground.”
“It’s out of the question, lad. The ground is rougher than you imagine. No, I think we had better rest until morning. This wind can’t last.”
This being decided, the party proceeded to make themselves comfortable, moving inland to where a series of rocks formed something of a cliff, thickly overgrown with vines and bushes. Here they formed a shelter by leaning long branches and saplings against the rocks, and in a hollow a fire was lit, where they made something hot to drink.
“We must be on our guard here,” said Silvers. “Those Indians may be following us. This cliff——”