as large as Peter's fist. Ah! One-eyed Cruzatte was down. He could not see very well, anyway, and the hail had knocked him flat and sprawling. Down were George Gibson and John Potts, and Nat Pryor—only, all, to stagger to their feet and lurch onward again.
In charged the crowd, blinded and bleeding, to dive frenziedly underneath the wagon, or to grab right and left for shirts and robes, and crouch, gasping but covered.
"I t'ought I was knock' dead," panted old Cruzatte.
"Feel as though I'd had a lickin'," panted William Werner.
The hail was followed by a furious deluge of rain. The sky cleared—and here came the captain and squad. What a sight they were, not only drenched, but muddy from head to feet. They had been caught in a ravine, near the Great Falls, where they had sought the protection of shelf-rock. But in a twinkling the ravine had filled with water—a rushing mass carrying stones and drift-wood. They tried to climb. The water rose almost as fast as they climbed. The captain and Chaboneau helped the Bird-woman. She lost her net, but saved little Toussaint. The captain lost his compass and an umbrella that he had carried; Chaboneau lost his gun and bullet-pouch and tomahawk. York was up on the plain hunting buffalo, and although badly bruised, fared the best of anybody, except Peter. So, after all, Peter was satisfied that he had not been along.
