The air rapidly grew warmer, showing that the sudden winter had come only on the high mountains, and that autumn yet lingered on the lower levels.  The gorgeous reds and yellows and browns and vivid shades between returned, but there was a haze in the air and the west was dusky.

“Storm will come again before night,” said Tayoga.

“I think so too,” said Willet, “and as I’ve no mind to be beaten about by it, suppose we build a spruce shelter in the gorge here and wait until it passes.”

The two lads were more than willing, feeling that the chance of pursuit had passed for a long time at least, and they set to work with their sharp hatchets, rapidly making a crude but secure wickiup, as usual against the rocky side of a hill.  Before the task was done the sky darkened much more, and far in the west thunder muttered.

“It’s rolling down a gorge,” said Robert, “and hark! you can hear it also in the south.”

From a point, far distant from the first, came a like rumble, and, after a few moments of silence, a third rumble was heard to the east.  Silence again and then the far rumble came from the south.

“That’s odd,” said Robert.  “It isn’t often that you hear thunder on all sides of you.”

“Listen!” exclaimed Tayoga, whose face bore a rapt and extraordinary look.  The four rumbles again went around the horizon, coming from one point after the other in turn.

“It is no ordinary thunder,” said the Onondaga in a tone of deep conviction.

“What is it, then?” asked Robert.

“It is Manitou, Areskoui, Tododaho and Hayowentha talking together.  That is why we have the thunder north, east, south and west.  Hear their voices carrying all through the heavens!”

“Which is Manitou?”

“That I cannot tell.  But the great gods talk, one with another, though what they say is not for us to know.  It is not right that mere mortals like ourselves should understand them, when they speak across infinite space.”

“It may be that you’re right, Tayoga,” said Willet.

The three did not yet go into the spruce shelter, because, contrary to the signs, there was no rain.  The wind moaned heavily and thick black clouds swept up in an almost continuous procession from the western horizon, but they did not let a drop fall.  The thunder at the four points of the horizon went on, the reports moving from north to east, and thence to south and west, and then around and around, always in the same direction.  After every crash there was a long rumble in the gorges until the next crash came again.  Now and then lightning flared.

“It is not a storm after all,” said the Onondaga, “or, at least, if a storm should come it will not be until after night is at hand, when the great gods are through talking.  Listen to the heavy booming, always like the sound of a thousand big guns at one time.  Now the lightning grows and burns until it is at a white heat.  The great gods not only talk, but they are at play.  They hurl thunderbolts through infinite space, and watch them fall.  Then they send thunder rumbling through our mountains, and the sound is as soft to them as a whisper to us.”