Nearly all the afternoon they worked with a will, bringing in fuel and whatever fodder for the horses they could find.
Fiercer and fiercer the wind blew and the sleet dashed against their shelter as if determined to gain access. Great trees were torn up by the roots and the crashing was fearful. Sounds of distress from herds of cattle huddled together in the woods came to their ears. Cattle seem to scent these storms, and try to reach a place of safety; but the weakly ones frequently perish on the plains.
Jack found an empty kettle, an immense black one, in one corner of the shed. It was cracked entirely around the bottom and a blow from a billet of wood knocked the bottom out. This he placed over the fire leaving a draught-hole in one side and thus the coals were prevented from being blown about, although their eyes suffered from the smoke.
Watson deftly sliced some bacon with his jack-knife, the coffee was soon boiling, and with a relish of a perfect appetite for sauce, they pronounced their supper “fit for a king.”
Their stove soon became red-hot and Jack said they roasted on one side while the other froze. How he pitied the poor animals outside, but it was better than the open country.
They decided to divide the night into watches, and as Watson was already nodding, he consented to turn in first and was soon snoring, lying with his back to the fire.
Jack was no coward, but the weirdness of the situation impressed him and with every sense on the alert, he prepared himself for any emergency. The fire was kept burning and his rifle ready.
One o’clock. Suddenly a screech as of some human being in distress sounded not twenty feet from their shelter.
Watson sprang up, pistol in hand, and seeing nothing, exclaimed impatiently, “I aint deaf, that you’ve got to yell like that to wake me.”
Jack was about to explain when again that awful screech.