As they rode down the shaly mountain side, their ponies slipping and sliding and scrambling desperately to keep a footing, there came a low, distant rumble of thunder. The sky to the northwest turned from black to a sort of purplish green. Through this ugly cloud blanket a shaft of lightning zipped with a livid glare. The thunder rolled and rumbled among the mountains, reminding Ralph of Rip Van Winkle’s experiences in the far-off Catskills.
“She’ll hit in most almighty quick,” opined Mountain Jim; “wish we’d brought slickers with us.”
“I don’t mind a wetting,” rejoined Ralph stoutly.
“It’s worse than a wetting you’ll get, if it’s bad; half a drowning is more like it,” grunted Mountain Jim. “Geddap, Baldy, shake a foot.”
But hasten as they would, before they had gone more than a few hundred yards further the rain began to fall in huge globules; drops they could not be called, they were too large. The thunder roared closer and a sudden chill struck into the air. The dark woods were lit up in uncanny fashion by the blinding blue glare of the lightning.
Suddenly, there was a flash of brilliant intensity and simultaneously a ripping crash of thunder, followed by a sound like some mighty mass crashing earthward.
“Tree hit yonder,” said Mountain Jim laconically, “reckon we’d better be looking for shelter. We came close enough to getting hit in that brulee.”
Ralph agreed with him. But where were they to go to get from under the lofty trees that invited the lightning to pass through their columnular trunks earthward? Suddenly Mountain Jim gave a shout:
“There we are yonder. The Hotel de Bothwell,” he cried with a grin.
Ralph looked and saw a small opening under some rocks not far distant. It was only a small cave seemingly, but at least, in case anything in their vicinity was struck, it would keep them out of harm’s way.