succeeded by a more distinct series of crashes, as though the
storm gods of Indian belief were warming up to their work.

"Reck'n she's comin' this way," said Bill Jordan.

There was the sighing of a gentle breeze through the cottonwoods, then a
glare that shamed the oil lamps, and, so fast that it almost might be
said to trip on the light, a crash that caused the men to turn and
regard one another, almost in awe.

"Them mountain storms sure comes downhill fast," said Shorty.

As though announced by the breeze a roar of wind tore through the trees,
and shook the bunk house windows. The darkness was split by vivid,
bluish-green flashes to which the thunder responded in an almost
constant cannonading. The door opened, and Injun and Whitey forced their
way in, then threw their weight upon it in the effort to close it
against the force of the wind. Bill went to their aid.

"Funny how th' wind allus swings 'round with them storms," said Bill,
when the door was closed. "Seems t' back up an' get underneath 'em, then
push 'em from behind."

"We've missed the rain, anyway," gasped Whitey, sinking down on a bunk.

"Not by much," said Bill, as the swish of a downpouring torrent sounded
on the walls and roof and hissed through the bending branches of the
cottonwoods.

Gradually the thunder drew grumblingly away. The wind ceased to clamor,
and for a time the rain, relieved of the gale's force, fell straight in
a steady tattoo on the roof. Then it passed, and a slighter coolness of
the air, noticeable even in the closeness of the bunk house, was the
only token left of the storm's spurt of fury.

"Them storms is like some folks' money; comes hard and goes easy," said
Shorty Palmer.

"Comes quick an' goes quicker's more like it," corrected Bill Jordan.

"Have it your own way," grumbled Shorty. "Not that I have t' tell you
that, for you'd have it, anyway."

Now that the momentary interruption of the summer tempest had passed,
the minds of the company turned to the subject of Bill and Charlie's
wager, with the object of it, Injun, sitting on a cracker box and gazing
solemnly at nothing in particular. The other men all looked expectantly
at Bill, who fidgeted a moment in his chair, then started, in what he
intended for a light, conversational tone.

"Y' all ready for school to-morrow, Whitey?" Bill began, on his
roundabout attack.

"Yeh," Whitey replied gloomily.

"Too bad 'bout you, Injun. Kind o' disappointin', their