“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.  The wind ceased to clamor, and for a time the rain, relieved of the gale’s force, fell straight in a steady tattoo on the roof.  Then it passed, and a slighter coolness of the air, noticeable even in the closeness of the bunk house, was the only token left of the storm’s spurt of fury.

“Them storms is like some folks’ money; comes hard and goes easy,” said Shorty Palmer.

“Comes quick an’ goes quicker’s more like it,” corrected Bill Jordan.

“Have it your own way,” grumbled Shorty.  “Not that I have t’ tell you that, for you’d have it, anyway.”

Now that the momentary interruption of the summer tempest had passed, the minds of the company turned to the subject of Bill and Charlie’s wager, with the object of it, Injun, sitting on a cracker box and gazing solemnly at nothing in particular.  The other men all looked expectantly at Bill, who fidgeted a moment in his chair, then started, in what he intended for a light, conversational tone.

“Y’ all ready for school to-morrow, Whitey?” Bill began, on his roundabout attack.

“Yeh,” Whitey replied gloomily.

“Too bad ‘bout you, Injun.  Kind o’ disappointin’, their barrin’ you out.  Kind o’ unfair, too.”

Injun’s response to this was as broad a grin as he ever showed to the world.  “Me glad,” he said.  “No like school.”

This was rather a setback to Bill, who had expected to play on Injun’s feeling of resentment.  He rolled a cigarette and planned a new line of attack.  He knew that all the punchers would be glad to see him fail to make Injun talk, and this didn’t make Bill any more easy in his mind.  It may have been pleasing to him to have worked up a reputation for knowing more than the others, but this reputation was not without its drawbacks.  For one thing, it was hard to keep it up; for another, it filled his friends with glee when he failed to keep it up.  He puffed hard on his cigarette, and thought harder.

Whitey broke the silence.  “Tell us a story, Bill,” he suggested.