THE EAINY SEASON 97, 



one hot night in the early part of July. We had 

 been laboriously covering the upper Gallinas coun- 

 try, the Noonday Canyon watershed and the lower 

 reaches of Shepherd Creek during the two weeks or 

 more of the rainy weather that had passed. 



It was our first camp on Shepherd Creek, and we 

 had pitched our tents near a little side draw. Within 

 the camp limits grew several large pines, to one of 

 which the cook tent was lashed. Some one spoke of 

 the danger of sleeping so close to these " lightning 

 rods ' ' and our conversation thereafter until bedtime 

 consisted chiefly of reminiscences concerning light- 

 ning and its dangers. 



The stars were shining when we retired. Not a 

 cloud obscured the sky. But in the middle of the 

 night we were brought up standing by a crash as if 

 the heavens had fallen. The wind was howling 

 hoarsely, the rain coming down in torrents and the 

 lightning and thunder performing with great and 

 insistent regularity. Through the uproar we heard, 

 near at hand, loud yells for assistance. I peered 

 cautiously out through the tent flap and by the rapid 

 flashes saw a strange sight. 



The tent in which Wallace and Wetherby dwelt 

 was flapping madly in the wind, guy ropes flying and 

 stakes pulled up. It was held only by the ridge 

 rope, fastened to two trees, one in front and one be- 

 hind. The frantic owners, scantily clad and looking 

 like two bedraggled ghosts, jumped around the 

 canvas in a mad effort to secure it without being 



