Despite the snowstorm, Boka the Fox waited around patiently for some chance to do the whites an injury. He had only his hunting knife with him—a weapon taken from a murdered frontiersman some months before. His bow had been broken the day before and his tomahawk had been lost during a wild flight to get away from some soldiers who had seen him on the trail and fired several shots after his retreating form. Not to remain out in the howling storm—for the wind was growing wilder every moment—Boka the Fox had wormed his way into a small recess close to the rude fireplace of which this council-house boasted. I say boasted, for the majority of such places had only an open place where a fire might be built, the smoke rising directly to the outer air. In his warm corner the red warrior waited patiently for Dave and Henry to go to sleep. Several times he was in danger of being discovered, and he kept his hand on the handle of his knife, ready to battle the instant he was seen. He heard every word that was spoken, but understood only a little. The wind was now whistling shrilly around the old council-house, causing the dilapidated building to creak and groan and quiver from end to end. With so much noise, Boka the Fox stepped forward boldly to the center of the room. The fire was still bright, and he could distinctly see the faces of the two youths as they slept. [Illustration: “Boka must kill both before either awakens,” murmured the Indian.—_Page 147._] “Boka must kill both before either awakens,” murmured the Indian in his native tongue. “Then he can take their guns and all of their belongings and fly as soon as the storm ceases.” He dropped the blanket he had been wearing, so that he might be free to act, and draw himself up, knife in hand,—a tall, slim figure, with a face full of shrewdness and treachery. As he took a step towards Dave the wind came up once more, shaking the old building worse than ever. Henry turned uneasily in his sleep, and gave a deep sigh. The Indian turned toward the youth, thinking to kill him before he had a chance to rouse up. There was now a sudden spell of silence—so unusual and so impressive that the Indian was compelled to stop in his dastardly work and listen. It was as if the wind had ceased utterly. Then, with almost the quickness of lightning, came a strange humming sound, accompanied by the cracking of trees and tree-limbs, and the fierce pelting of hard snow as it swept along on the wings of a tornado. The onrush of the elements was directly for the old council-house, and in a twinkling the building was caught up and fairly blown into the air. “Henry!” gasped Dave, as he found himself rolled over and over in the snow. “What in the world is this?”