The former rumble was 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.