"Flat on the ground, every one of you!" commanded the guide.
All the warnings had come a few seconds too late. Ere the boys had awakened sufficiently to realize what was wanted of them there sounded above the roar a report like that of a cannon.
The tents were lifted from over the startled Pony Riders and hurled high into the air. A cloud of sand swept over the boys like an avalanche, burying them, suffocating them, while the resistless coils of the funnel picked them out of the drift and cast them far from the spot where but a few minutes before they had been sleeping so peacefully.
Above the roar they heard the shrill voice of Stacy Brown.
"W-o-o-ow!" he shrieked. His voice appeared to be somewhere in the air over their heads.
Blankets, trappings, together with all the other belongings of the party, shot up into the black funnel and disappeared, while the ponies strained at their tethers, floundering, kicking where they had been hurled on their backs, screaming with fright.
The mad medley continued for only a few seconds, though to the unfortunate lads it seemed to have been tumbling them about for hours.
As suddenly as it had appeared the funnel tore itself from the camp and went roaring off into the hills to the northward.
Staggering to his feet, some distance from where he had been caught, the guide rubbed the sand from his eyes and mouth and stood gasping for breath.
An impressive silence had settled over the scene.