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 go, Peter gulped. Was he never to see the roaring falls? Still, he felt proud to be left on guard, like any soldier.

How hot and sultry was the morning! All the landscape of rock and prickly pear and low stiff brush lay smothering, and no sound was to be heard save the dull booming of the river, unseen in the north. Peter sat down, in the shade of the baggage on the wagon.

Presently a black cloud welled over the crests of the shining snow mountains in the west. More rain? Peter watched it vigilantly. It grew swiftly, and rolled into mid-sky. Peter rose with haste and covered the baggage with buffalo hides again. It was a fearful looking cloud, as it bellied and muttered, and let fall a dense veil.

On swept the veil, hanging from the cloud; under the wagon crept Peter. A moment more—and whish! crackle! r-r-r-r-r-r! Wind! Rain! Hail! The air turned black! Such wind! Such rain! But such hail!!

Listen to the shouts! See! The party sent for the baggage were legging to camp! They had left, trudging gaily, laughing and gamboling and stripped to the waist, because of the heat and the work ahead. And here they were, a confused crowd, heads down, naked shoulders high, beating through the storm for shelter while the fierce hail lashed their skins.

It was rather funny—and it was serious, too. The hail pelted like grape-shot; some of the hailstones were