Dave shouted out the words—to make himself heard above the whistling of the wind as it blew across the little plateau on the mountainside, where the party had gone into camp.
It was half an hour later, and during that time the oncoming storm had approached steadily. At first the wind had come in fitful gusts, bending the scant brushwood among the rocks first in one direction and then another. This had been followed by a sudden dash of rain, and for a few minutes they had hoped that the worst of the downpour would pass to the south of them. But then had come a sudden turn, and now the rain was descending on them in torrents, driven in a slanting direction by the wind, which showed no signs of abating.
"I should say it was a corker!" returned Roger, as he brushed the water from his face and peered beyond the rocks. To get out of that driving downfall was impossible.
"I wish we were in that cave," cried Phil. "We'd be as dry as a bone in there."
"Not if the roof leaked," returned the senator's son, grimly. "Besides, somehow I don't think it would be safe."
"Why not?"
"The rain might wash down some of the rocks forming the roof."
"Pooh! they have stayed up so long, I guess they would stay up a little longer," grumbled Phil.
"No sech cave for me," broke in Abe Blower. "The rain makes 'em too dangerous. I was in a mine onct when it rained like this, an', fust thing we knew, about a hundred tons o' rocks slid down, almost buryin' us alive!"
"We'll stay where we are," said Tom Dillon. "The storm won't last forever."