“You’d better hurry; too,” put in Mr. Ford. “There’s a storm comin’ ’fore long, an’ we got t’ git across th’ river ’fore hit strikes. I’ll be here with th’ horses by the time you get your bonnets on.” He hurried away to the barn for his team, while the women with Sammy’s assistance made their simple preparation. As mother Ford climbed into the big wagon, she said to Sammy, “Hit’s an awful lonely ol’ trip fer you, child; an’ you must start right away, so’s t’ be sure t’ get there ’fore hit gets plumb dark,” while Mr. Ford added, as he started the team, “Your pony’s ready saddled, an’ if you’ll hurry along, you can jest ’bout make hit. Don’t get catched on Jakey in a big rain whatever you do.” “Don’t you worry about me,” returned the girl, “Brownie and I could find the way in the dark.” But when her friends were gone, Sammy, womanlike, busied herself with setting the disordered house aright before she started on her journey. Watching the clouds, she told herself that there was plenty of time for her to reach the Postoffice before the storm. It might not come that way at all, in fact. But the way up Jake Creek was wild and rough, and along the faint trail, that twisted and wound like a slim serpent through the lonely wilderness, Brownie could make but slow time. As they followed the little path, the walls of the narrow valley grew steeper, more rocky, and barren; and the road became more and more rough and difficult, until at last the valley narrowed to a mere rocky gorge, through which the creek ran, tumbling and foaming on its way. It was quite late when Sammy reached the point near the head of the stream where the trail leads out of the cañon to the road on the ridge above. It was still a good two miles to the Forks. As she passed the spring, a few big drops of rain came pattering down, and, looking up, she saw, swaying and tossing in the wind, the trees that fringed the ledges above, and she heard the roar of the oncoming storm. A short way up the side of the mountain at the foot of a great overhanging cliff, there is a narrow bench, and less than a hundred feet from where the trail finds its way through a break in the rocky wall, there is a deep cave like hollow. Sammy knew the spot well. It would afford excellent shelter. Pushing Brownie up the steep path, she had reached this bench, when the rushing storm cloud shut out the last of the light, and the hills shook with a deafening crash of thunder. Instinctively the girl turned her pony’s head from the trail, and, following the cliff, reached the sheltered nook, just as the storm burst in all its wild fury. The rain came down in torrents; the forest roared; and against the black sky, in an almost continuous glare of lightning, the big trees tugged and strained in their wild wrestle with the wind; while peal after peal of thunder, rolling, crashing, reverberating through the hills, added to the uproar.