"Not so often," replied the German, "and this Norther, I think, is the worst I ever saw. The cold wind certainly blows like der Teufel. These storms must start on the great mountains far, far to the north, and I think they get stronger as they come. Iss it not so, Herr Breakstone?" "Your words sound true to me, Sir Hans of the Beer Barrel," replied Breakstone. "I’ve seen a few Northers in my time, and I’ve felt ’em, but this seems to me to be about the most grown-up, all-around, healthy and frisky specimen of the kind that I ever met." Phil thought that the Norther would blow itself out in an hour or two, but he was mistaken. Several hours passed and the wind was as strong and as cold as ever. The four ate some cold food that was in the wagon, and then settled back into their places. No attempt would be made to cook that day. But Phil grew so warm and snug in his blanket among the baggage, and the beating of the rain on the stout canvas cover was so soothing, that he fell asleep after awhile. He did not know how long he slept, because when he awoke it was still dark, the wind was still shrieking, and the other three, as he could tell by their regular breathing, were asleep, also. He felt so good that he stretched himself a little, turned on the other side, and went to sleep again. CHAPTER V THE COMANCHE VILLAGE The Norther did not blow itself out until noon of the next day. Then it ceased almost as abruptly as it had begun. The wind stopped its shrieking and howling so suddenly that the silence, after so long a period of noise, was for awhile impressive. The clouds fell apart as if cut down the middle by a saber, and the sun poured through the rift. It was like a fairy transformation scene. The rift widened so fast that soon all the clouds were gone beyond the horizon. The sky was a solid blue, shot through with the gold of the warm sun. The hail melted, and the ground dried. It was spring again, and the world was beautiful. Phil saw, felt, and admired. Bill Breakstone burst into song: "The Norther came, The Norther went. It suits its name, Its rage is spent. "From the looks of things now," he continued, "you wouldn’t think it had been whistling and groaning around us for about twenty-four hours, trying to shoot us to death with showers of hail, but I’d have you to know, Sir Philip of the Untimely Cold and the Hateful Storm, that I have recorded it upon the tablets of my memory. I wouldn’t like to meet such a Norther when I was alone on the plains, on foot, and clad in sandals, a linen suit, and a straw hat." "Nor I," said Phil with emphasis.