THE RAINY 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 
