Joe arose and opened the cabin door. His employer joined him there. There was no sound from the Creek; there was no Creek.
"By gosh! dat's funnee t'ing," Joe exclaimed.
"I certainly do not know how to account for it," said Berwick. He felt apprehensive.
They returned from the cabin door: Joe going to his seat by the stove, Berwick putting his bed in order for the night, when Joe jumped up and ran to the door again. A dull distant roar was heard.
"By gosh! By gosh! I got it! He's a river snow-slide what's coming. Quick, boss—quick! Get for hell out of dis! Pretty soon no more cabin—no windlass—no, no bucket, only water! No not'ing—all gone!"
The man began hurriedly putting on his boots, and instinctively his master followed his example, inquiring as he did so,
"What's that?"
"He's a river snow-slide, dat's all I know for to call him. A havalanche on wheels, all turn over—over—over! Him carry away everything, bridge, tree, dam—all sort of thing—everything go."
And as the sullen roar coming from the valley continued to increase, the appreciation of approaching danger spread from the one to the other. Berwick made haste and scrambled into his winter garb. Joe bundled together his personal effects, and some of the more valuable of the supplies in the cabin. Berwick did the same; out of the door they sprang into the night, and up the hillside, under which their cabin was built. Joe gave a sign when he considered they were out of danger. At once they threw down their loads and rushed back to the cabin. Grabbing another load they again sought the higher ground.
Meanwhile, the flood had broken from the canyon at the head of their little valley. The timber there had been largely cut, and over the rugged stumps the rolling mass spread, grinding, tearing up the weaker roots.