The ground was pale with the whitened terror of upturned leaves, the
high branches of the cotton-woods whipping back and forth in wild
agitation. He felt the first large drops, far apart, falling with a
reluctant splash, and he ran, a tiny figure in the tragic and
tremendous scene.
When he reached the camp the rush of the rain had begun. Through a
network of boughs he caught the red eye of the fire and beyond had a
vision of stampeding mules with the men in pursuit. Then crashing
through the bushes he saw why the fire still burned--Susan was holding
an umbrella over it, the rain spitting in the hot ash, a pan of
biscuits balanced in the middle. Behind her the tent, one side
concave, the other bellying out from restraining pegs, leaped and
jerked at its moorings. A rumble of thunder rolled across the sky and
the rain came at them in a slanting wall.
"We're going to have biscuits for supper if the skies fall," Susan
shouted at him, and he had a glimpse of her face, touched with
firelight, laughing under the roof of the umbrella.
A furious burst of wind cut off his answer, the blue glare of lightning
suddenly drenched them, and the crackling of thunder tore a path across
the sky.
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