"Take Dick with you! I'm finished here. We've only got about six minutes before she hits. What a fine welcome this is! We no sooner get settled, after havin' a time doin' that, when we're all set to get blown away." The Kid was hurrying to the back of the house. He hesitated as he reached the kitchen, and looked in. "By the ghost of my aunt Lizzie's cat!" he cried as he saw through the doorway. "If that crazy Mex ain't still fryin' bacon just as calm as if he was on Fifth Avenoo! Hey, you locoed Greaser, big wind comin'!" He gesticulated vigorously. "Whosh-whosh! Whee! Zip-zip-bang! All over! Savvy?" He stopped his dramatic explanation of the oncoming cyclone to see if the Mexican understood. To his surprise the cook nodded several times and pointed toward the sky, turning his other arm windmill fashion. His lips gave forth a whistling sound. After this demonstration he motioned to his bacon, rubbed his stomach, shrugged his shoulders, and went on with his cooking. No words could have said plainer: "Sure! I know. Cyclone coming. What of it? Can't stop it now. Must eat. Might as well stay here and cook. Hey?" "Well, if you're not a cool customer!" the Kid cried, shoving his hands deep into his pockets and tilting back on his heels. "Cook! Go ahead an' cook! You might just as well say hello to St. Peter with a fryin' pan in your hand as not. How does she look, Nort?" he asked as the boy rancher came in the door. "Not so good! Where's Bud?" "Bud? I thought he was with you. Maybe he's helping with the broncoes. I'll take a squint here in back--" as the Kid stepped into the yard he saw Bud--standing silent, widened eyes staring at the sky. The Kid started back in surprise. "Another guy that's gone locoed! First the cook, and then you! Hey, Nort, take a look at Bud. He's in a trance or something! Wake up, time to get up!" "Wonderful!" murmured Bud, without turning his head. "Isn't that wonderful, Kid? See those colors! The most marvelous thing I ever saw. If I could only paint that! It would be a sensation!" "Sensation ain't all you'll be if you don't start movin' quick!" the Kid declared. "Nort, take Bud with you and see if everything is all O. K. We've got about three minutes before the show starts. I think we'll be able to tell if the funnel is goin' to hit us, and if it does, we've got to let things ride and head for the cellar." He stopped suddenly. The five leaned forward, tense, still. A low moaning filled the air. First like the drone of a huge bumble-bee, it gradually increased in intensity. The ranchers strained their eyes toward the east, where the copper tint had merged to a sickly green. A light breeze sprang up, hot, suffocating. "Here she comes, boys! Heads up! Get ready to make a dive for the cellar!" All looked around to make sure that the door of the cyclone cellar--a dugout ten feet from the house--was within easy reach. They moved a bit closer.