“A hurricane!—A norther!”
Wat Wilder has observed it at the same time, and confirms the prognostic. This is before any of the others have noticed aught peculiar in the aspect of the sky, and when there is just the selvedge of a cloud seen above the cliff.
All Texans understand the significance of the word “norther”—a storm or tornado, usually preceded by a hot, stifling atmosphere, with drifting dust, accompanied by sheet or forked lightning and claps of terrific thunder, followed by wind and rain, sometimes hail or sleet, as if the sluices of heaven were drawn open, ending in a continued blast of more regular direction, but chill as though coming direct from the Arctic regions.
In less than ten minutes after its first sign, the tempest is around them. Down into the valley pours the dust, swept from the surface of the upper plain, along with it the leaves and stalks of the wild wormwood, with other weeds of the desert. Simultaneously the wind, at first in low sighs, like the sound of a distant sea; then roaring against the rocks, and swooping down among the trees, whose branches go crashing before its blast. Then succeed lightning, thunder, and rain—the last falling, not in drops, but in sheets, as if spilled from a spout.
For shelter the Rangers rush inside the ranche, leaving their horses to take care of themselves. The latter stand cowering under the trees, neighing with affright—the mules among them giving vent to their plaintive hinney. There are dogs, too, that howl and bark, with other sounds that come from farther off—from the wild denizens of the wilderness; cries of the cougar in contralto, wolf-barkings in mezzo-soprano, screaming of eagles in shrill treble, snorting of bears in basso, and hooting of scared owls in lugubrious tone, to be likened only to the wailing of agonised spirits in Purgatory.
Crowded within the hut, so thickly as to have scarce standing room, the Rangers wait for the calming of the tempest. They submit with greater resignation, knowing it will not long continue. It is far from being their first experience of a “norther.”
The only thought that troubles them is the delay—being hindered from setting forth on the pursuit. True, the party to be pursued will be stayed by the same obstruction. The soldiers will have to halt during the continuance of the storm, so that the distance between will remain the same.
But then their tracks will be obliterated—every vestige of them. The wind, the rain, and dust will do this. How is their trail to be taken up? “That will be easy enough,” says one, whose self-esteem is greater than his prairie experience. He adds: “As they’re going due west, we can’t make any mistake by steering the same way.”
“How little he knows about it!” is the muttered remark exchanged between Wilder and Cully. For they know that the deflection of a single point upon the prairies—above all, upon the Staked Plain—will leave the traveller, like a ship at sea without chart or compass, to steer by guesswork, or go drifting at sheer chance.
To most, the consoling thought is that the Mexicans will halt near, and stay till the storm is over. They have some baggage—a tent or two, with other camp equipage. This is learnt from the Indian; and Hamersley, as also Wilder, have themselves made note of it.