“We’ll go over, while the baggage is being brought up,” said the captain. “York, you come if you want to.” He surveyed Peter—anxious Peter. “Peter, I’ll have to detail you to guard the baggage here. You must be a soldier. I’ll lend you my pistol. You won’t need to use it. But keep the stuff spread out to dry. We’ll be back soon. It’s only three or four miles.”
Away they hastened, the Bird-woman carrying small Toussaint in a net on her back. Watching them go, Peter gulped. Was he never to see the roaring falls? Still, he felt proud to be left on guard, like any soldier.
How hot and sultry was the morning! All the landscape of rock and prickly pear and low stiff brush lay smothering, and no sound was to be heard save the dull booming of the river, unseen in the north. Peter sat down, in the shade of the baggage on the wagon.
Presently a black cloud welled over the crests of the shining snow mountains in the west. More rain? Peter watched it vigilantly. It grew swiftly, and rolled into mid-sky. Peter rose with haste and covered the baggage with buffalo hides again. It was a fearful looking cloud, as it bellied and muttered, and let fall a dense veil.
On swept the veil, hanging from the cloud; under the wagon crept Peter. A moment more—and whish! crackle! r-r-r-r-r-r! Wind! Rain! Hail! The air turned black! Such wind! Such rain! But such hail!!
Listen to the shouts! See! The party sent for the baggage were legging to camp! They had left, trudging gaily, laughing and gamboling and stripped to the waist, because of the heat and the work ahead. And here they were, a confused crowd, heads down, naked shoulders high, beating through the storm for shelter while the fierce hail lashed their skins.
It was rather funny—and it was serious, too. The hail pelted like grape-shot; some of the hailstones were as large as Peter’s fist. Ah! One-eyed Cruzatte was down. He could not see very well, anyway, and the hail had knocked him flat and sprawling. Down were George Gibson and John Potts, and Nat Pryor—only, all, to stagger to their feet and lurch onward again.
In charged the crowd, blinded and bleeding, to dive frenziedly underneath the wagon, or to grab right and left for shirts and robes, and crouch, gasping but covered.
“I t’ought I was knock’ dead,” panted old Cruzatte.
“Feel as though I’d had a lickin’,” panted William Werner.