The young hunters looked the blade over, and then both sat down by the fire. Presently Henry feel asleep once more, and after a bit Dave followed his example. When they awoke it was dawn, and the storm had cleared away completely. The fire had died down, but it was easily replenished, and then both of the youths began a systematic hunt for the rest of their belongings. Henry declared that he felt all right, saving for a certain stiffness across the chest, where the tree-limb had held him down. Dave was stirring among some heavy tree-branches when he leaped back with a loud cry. “An Indian!” “An Indian! Where?” came from Henry, and he caught up his rifle. “Here—between the tree-limbs. I—I reckon he is dead.” Henry ran to the spot, and both of the young hunters gazed at Boka the Fox. The tornado had caught up the Indian and landed him head first in the branches of a tree laid low by the mighty wind. In turning over the red warrior had been unable to save himself, and his neck had been broken, killing him instantly. “This beats the kingdom!” cried Dave. “Henry, that Indian must have been on hand when the tornado occurred!” “Like as not he was watching us.” “And maybe he was going to kill us.” “The finding of that hunting knife makes it look that way, Dave.” “Perhaps there are more near by.” The two young hunters looked around without delay—Henry holding his rifle ready for use, should a warrior appear. They were greatly upset and did not quiet down for half an hour. “He must have been alone,” said Henry, at last. “Where he came from there is no telling. Well, if he was going to kill us, it was a lucky thing that the tornado came along as it did and stopped him.” They continued their search in the snow and among the fallen trees, and presently uncovered Dave’s rifle and the rest of the traps, and also the last of the rabbits. This they spitted over the fire and ate for breakfast. “Now we may as well get back to the fort—before another storm overtakes us,” said Henry. “What about the Indian?” “Leave him where he is. I reckon the wolves will take care of him. I am not going to bother myself on his account.” “I hope the tornado didn’t overtake father and his party,” went on Dave. “It’s a wonder we weren’t killed.” “Yes, we can certainly be thankful,—not only because we escaped from the windstorm, but for escaping from that Indian.” The wind had swept the snow into great drifts or ridges, and they knew they would have to make wide detours in order to escape the worst of these piles. They kicked out the fire, picked up their traps and the blanket of the dead Indian, and set out. It was a hard, exhausting journey, and they often stopped to rest. On their way they saw in the distance a small deer, stalled in a snowdrift, and Henry could not resist the temptation to fire. The deer leaped into the air, threw up a flurry of snow, and then disappeared from view. “There’s something to take to the fort!” cried the young hunter.