Once again they dug a hole, in which Roger expected to cook the prairie fowl which had fallen to his skill as an archer. Dick saw to the staking of the two horses, and made them additionally secure.
The clouds still hung overhead, and it would be strange if the night passed, he believed, without some sort of storm breaking over the prairie. The boys began to wish that they had their Indian tent along, for, old though it was, in a heavy downpour not a drop of water penetrated it.
Dick made preparations looking to a change of base if the threatening storm proved severe. He insisted that the bundles be kept almost intact, so that they could be fastened on the backs of the horses without the customary delay. That proved to be another fortunate move on the part of the boy, and for which he had much cause to be thankful.
The supper was finally prepared, though the fire had to be made as before from dead grass and dry buffalo chips, and was anything but a joy to Roger, accustomed as he had always been to plenty of good fuel.
Though they might have had the benefit of a fair moon but for the clouds, the latter were so dense that the night seemed inky dark. The usual noises of crickets and katydids and other insects appeared to be hushed, so that a strange silence rested on the wide expanse around them.
They were tired, and lay down soon after eating, not knowing how long they would have a chance to sleep before the coming of the storm disturbed them again. Dick, in fact, hardly expected to even doze, for he felt that some sort of watch should be kept; but, after lying there a while, his eyes gradually closed, and almost before he was aware of what was coming he went to sleep.
Neither of the boys ever knew how much time passed in this way when they were aroused by the growling of thunder, as they believed; and, sitting up, Dick called out to his companion:
“It’s coming at last, Roger!”