There was no answer—indeed, no answer could have been heard above that terrible shrieking and humming of the wind. In the path of the tornado the trees were being mowed down from one end of the forest to the other. Branches were flying in all directions, and when Dave tried to rise he found himself powerless to do so. He was rolled over and over again, and at last brought up against a tree-stump, out of breath and completely bewildered. Inside of five minutes the tornado was a thing of the past and the wind died down to a moderate breeze. The fire that had been built in the old council-house had been blown in a heap between two old tree-stumps and was still blazing away, thus affording some light. Where the two youths had been sleeping were half a dozen broken and twisted tree-limbs, partly covered with snow. It took Dave some little time to recover his breath. He had to feel of himself, to make sure that no limbs were broken. He looked around for Henry, but his cousin was nowhere in sight. “Henry!” he called, loudly. “Where are you? Henry!” He repeated the cry many times, walking slowly around the wreck of the council-house and among the trees which had been blown down in that vicinity. At last came a faint response, and running in the direction of the sound he found poor Henry wedged under some heavy tree-branches. “Tak—take them off!” gasped the prisoner. “I—I can hardly breathe.” To remove the big limbs was impossible, but after a good deal of maneuvering, Dave managed to raise one branch a little and Henry crawled through the snow from underneath. Then he sat on the branch panting for breath. “It’s a windstorm,” said Dave. “About the worst I ever saw.” “Whe—where is the house?” “Gone—the wind took it up like a kite. Henry, we can be thankful that we weren’t killed.” “You are right. Oh, how my breast hurts!” “Any ribs broken, do you think?” “No, I think I—I am scraped more than anything else,” answered the injured one. As the fire was in a safe place, Dave stirred it up and helped Henry to a spot where he might keep warm. Then Dave dragged some tree-branches up in a semicircle, to keep off what little was left of the wind. “We’ll have to look for our guns and traps,” said Henry. “Have you any idea where they are?” “They can’t be far off, Henry. But why not wait until morning?” “It’s not safe. Some wild animal might attack us.” Taking a firebrand Dave made a torch of it and began a hunt. Soon he came across Henry’s rifle and other things. Then he brought out of the snow a hunting knife. “Hullo! Whose hunting knife is this?” he asked, examining it carefully. “Henry, you didn’t have this, did you?” “I did not,” was the answer. “I never saw it before. Let me see. It’s got the initials R. D. C. on it. I don’t know anybody by those letters, do you?” “Old Dick Capenfeld. He was killed by the Indians several weeks ago.” “I’d like to know how the knife got here.”