At times the onset of the rain seemed to be held back by the fury of the gale, or was visibly seen in sharp waves on the hillside.

Unknown and concealed watercourses suddenly overflowed the trails, pools became lakes and brooks rivers.

Hidden from the storm, the sylvan silence of sheltered valleys was broken by the impetuous rush of waters; even the tiny streamlet that traversed Flip's retreat in the Gin and Ginger Woods became a cascade.
The storm drove Fairley from his couch early.

The falling of a large tree across the trail, and the sudden overflow of a small stream beside it, hastened his steps.
But he was doomed to encounter what was to him a more disagreeable object--a human figure.

By the bedraggled drapery that flapped and fluttered in the wind, by the long, unkempt hair that hid the face and eyes, and by the grotesquely misplaced bonnet, the old man recognized one of his old trespassers--an Indian squaw.
"Clear out 'er that! Come, make tracks, will ye ?" the old man screamed; but here the wind stopped his voice, and drove him against a hazel-bush.
"Me heap sick," answered the squaw, shivering through her muddy shawl.
"I'll make ye a heap sicker if ye don't vamose the ranch," continued Fairley, advancing.
"Me wantee Wangee girl.