The storm was clearly defined.

Its limits were as distinctly marked by its Creator as if it had been a living intelligence sent forth to put a belt of desolation round the world; and, although the edge of devastation was not five hundred yards from the rock behind which the hunters were stationed, only a few drops of ice-cold rain fell upon them.
It passed directly between the Camanchee Indians and their intended victims, placing between them a barrier which it would have taken days to cut through.

The storm blew for an hour, then it travelled onward in its might, and was lost in the distance.

Whence it came and whither it went none could tell, but far as the eye could see on either hand an avenue a quarter of a mile wide was cut through the forest.

It had levelled everything with the dust; the very grass was beaten flat; the trees were torn, shivered, snapped across, and crushed; and the earth itself in many places was ploughed up and furrowed with deep scars.
The chaos was indescribable, and it is probable that centuries will not quite obliterate the work of that single hour.
While it lasted, Joe and his comrades remained speechless and awe-stricken.