Emergency demands held the agent at his station all that day and evening.  Trainmen brought news of heavy rains beyond the mountains.  In the morning he awoke to find his little world hushed in a murky light and with a tingling apprehension of suspense in the atmosphere.  High, gray cloud shapes hurried across the zenith to a conference of the storm powers, gathering at the horizon.  Weather-wise from long observation, Banneker guessed that the outbreak would come before evening, and that, unless the sullen threat of the sky was deceptive, Manzanita would be shut off from rail communication within twelve hours thereafter.  Having two hours’ release at noon, he rode over to the lodge in the forest to return Io’s blanket.  He found the girl pensive, and Miss Van Arsdale apparently recovered to the status of her own normal and vigorous self.

“I’ve been telling Io,” said the older woman, “that, since the rumor is out of her being here, she will almost certainly be found by the reporter.  Too many people in the village know that I have a guest.”

“How?” asked Banneker.

“From my marketing.  Probably from Pedro.”

“Very likely from the patron of the Sick Coyote that you and I met on our walk,” added the girl.

“So the wise thing is for her to go,” concluded Miss Van Arsdale.  “Unless she is willing to risk the publicity.”

“Yes,” assented Io.  “The wise thing is for me to go.”  She spoke in a curious tone, not looking at Banneker, not looking at anything outward and visible; her vision seemed somberly introverted.

“Not now, though,” said Banneker.

“Why not?” asked both women.  He answered Io.

“You called for a storm.  You’re going to get it.  A big one.  I could send you out on Number Eight, but that’s a way-train and there’s no telling where it would land you or when you’d get through.  Besides, I don’t believe Gardner is coming.  I’d have heard from him by now.  Listen!”

The slow pat-pat-pat of great raindrops ticked like a started clock on the roof.  It ceased, and far overhead the great, quiet voice of the wind said, “Hush—­sh—­sh—­sh—­sh!”, bidding the world lie still and wait.

“What if he does come?” asked Miss Van Arsdale

“I’ll get word to you and get her out some way.”

The storm burst on Banneker, homebound, just as he emerged from the woodland, in a wild, thrashing wind from the southwest and a downpour the most fiercely, relentlessly insistent that he had ever known.  A cactus desert in the rare orgy of a rainstorm is a place of wonder.  The monstrous, spiky forms trembled and writhed in ecstasy, heat-damned souls in their hour of respite, stretching out exultant arms to the bounteous sky.  Tiny rivulets poured over the sand, which sucked them down with a thirsting, crisping whisper.  A pair of wild doves, surprised and terrified, bolted close past the lone rider, so near that his mount shied and headed for the shelter of the trees again.  A small snake, curving indecisively and with obvious bewilderment amidst the growth, paused to rattle a faint warning, half coiled in case the horse’s step meant a new threat, then went on with a rather piteous air of not knowing where to find refuge against this cataclysm of the elements.