camp at once, but James Morris decided to keep on and did so until the
middle of the afternoon, when, as the storm increased, the party halted
beneath a large clump of trees and lost no time in getting out their
shelters and putting them up. The Indians had a wigwam of skins and the
whites two canvas coverings. These were placed close together, and a
roaring camp fire was started near by, where all hands tried to dry
themselves and get warm. A steaming hot meal was also served, which did
much to make everybody feel comfortable.

"I do hate a cold rain on a march," grumbled Henry, as he crouched in the
shelter beside Dave. "Makes me feel like a wet hen that can't get inside of
the coop."

"If only one doesn't catch cold," replied Dave. "Don't you remember the
cold I caught when we were up at Lake Ontario?"

"To be sure; and I had a cold myself." Henry paused for a moment. "Where
has Barringford gone?"

"He said he was going to try to stir up some game. I don't know what he
expects to get in this rain."

"He ought to know what he is doing. He is the best white hunter that I ever
ran across."

An hour passed, and by that time it was dark. The Indians sat in their
wigwam smoking and talking in low guttural tones. The white hunters were
also telling yarns of the war and of the various Indian uprisings before
that time. They were thrilling tales and the youths listened to them with
deep interest. Both Dave and Henry had been through a great deal