Surely no bed ever felt more luxurious, however, than the blankets upon which the wearied youths flung themselves, sinking almost immediately into deep, dreamless sleep.

There were no wolves or dog Indians to guard against now, and their sense of security was as strong as if in their own beds at home.
The night was well past, when both lads were awakened by the sound of rain pattering upon the roof, which, although they were on the ground floor, was but a brief space above their heads.

The storm foretold by Hank Hazletine had come.
There are few sounds more soothing at night than the falling of rain-drops upon the shingles over one's head, but in the present instance the music was anything but welcome to Jack and Fred.

It meant that there could be no hunting on the morrow, and probably not for several days.

Their time in Wyoming was so limited that they begrudged an hour of enforced idleness.
"But what's the use of kicking ?" asked Fred, after they had fully discussed the situation; "it can't be helped." Nevertheless, they condoled with each other for some time, until, lulled by the gentle patter, they floated off once more into the land of Nod, from which they did not emerge until morning.
The first doleful fact that impressed them was that it was still raining.