“Huh!” he grunted, looking away to his left. “Well, now, that looks like business. Came up quick, too. I’d better be getting back.”
He had no trouble finding his way back to camp, but by the time he reached it the snow fog was so thick he could not see three rods before him.
He found Jennings struggling with the tent ropes. The tent was in a complete state of collapse.
“Wind tore it down,” shouted Jennings. “Give—”
The wind caught the tent and fairly tore it from his grasp.
“Give us a hand,” he puffed as he regained his hold. “This is going to be bad. Got to pack up and get out of here and find shelter of some kind. Tent won’t stand here.”
“There’s a lot of willow bushes with the dead leaves on down there by a little stream,” suggested Joe.
“That’s the place. We can tie the ropes to the willows. Willows keep off the wind. Come on, let’s pack up.” Jennings threw the tent into a heap.
“But Curlie? He’ll be coming back.”
“Set up a stake. Write a note. Tell where we’ve gone. Got a pencil, paper?”