But she sat on in stubborn silence.

The clouds bulged downward and burst suddenly into a great black funnel. Frozen, they stared at it whirling down the valley, gouging and spitting out boulders and chunks of earth like a starving hound dog cracking marrowbones. The six ton Conestoga began to whip and shake.

Their world turned black. It was filled with dust and wind and sound and violence. The heavens opened, pelting them with hail the size of walnuts. And then came the water -- not rain, but solid sheets that sluiced down like water slopping from a bucket. Walls of water rushed down the slopes and filled the hollows like the crests of flash floods. Through the splash of the rising waters, they could hear the roar of the river as it raged through its canyon, gnashing big chunks out of the banks.

The jetting, frothing surface of the river reached the level of the runoff. The dangerous current upon the prairie ceased, but the water stood and kept on rising. They cringed under sodden covers, listening to the waves slop against the bottom.

The cloudburst cut off abruptly. They were engulfed by the weird silence, broken only by the low, angry murmur of the river. Then the darkness thinned, and there was light again, and then bright sunlight.

Beaten with fear and sound and wet and chill, they crawled to the hurricane deck and looked out haggardly at a world of water that reached clear to the surrounding hills. The water level was higher than their hubs. Only the heavy bones of the oxen kept them anchored.