“When the vulture sheds his wing-feathers the rains have started to fall in the mountains. Run, all of you, to the high banks and remain there. I will go to warn the others. Soon the flood will be upon us.”
The urchins fled without further urging. And Oomah started on a run toward the cluster of hovels on the margin of the water.
His cries brought out the men and women before he reached their midst, and it required but a moment to deliver his message.
“Impossible,” Choflo replied with a malicious gleam in his eyes. “The sign did not appear to me.”
“But, I saw it. The children saw it. Gather up what you can and run for your lives.”
“No!” The leader raised his hands. “The flood will not reach us. I will stop it.”
He raised his voice in a low, droning chant but before he had uttered a dozen words there came a distant roar, dull but unmistakable, that drowned the sound of his incantation.
The Indians needed no further evidence of the truth of Oomah’s warning. Abandoning everything, they rushed in a body toward the distant bank that meant safety; and Choflo, despite his years, well held his place among them.
They were just in time. Scarcely had the last man gained the higher ground than the wall of water thundered down the riverbed, engulfing everything in its path. Their weapons were lost; the turtles in the corrals were swept away; their cooking utensils had vanished. Had they heeded Oomah without delay it would have been different.
They had escaped with nothing but their lives; but, even for this they were grateful even though it meant days of suffering in the rain-drenched forest before they could again replace their loss.