Together they scrambled over the loose rubble that had collected at the mouth of the cave. “Let’s take it easy,” Sandy said, picking his way with care. “We don’t want to start another one.”
Mike flashed Sandy a grin over his shoulder. “Why not?” he demanded. “Now that we’ve done it once, the next time should be easier.”
“Do me a favor and practice it when I’m not around,” Sandy said with a chuckle. He pulled himself up to the lip of the cave and leaned over. “Nobody in sight,” he announced.
“Do you think it’s safe to go down?”
“I don’t know,” Sandy said. “I wish we could see Hank.”
“I’ve got an idea,” Mike declared. “We’ve got our rifles. Why don’t we fire off a couple of shots?”
“Hey, that’s using your head!” Sandy commented. “Can you reach mine and unstrap it?” Both boys still carried their rifles, having secured them firmly to their packs before starting out. Sandy could feel Mike working the slings of his rifle loose. “Got it?” he asked.
“Just a minute,” Mike muttered. “There,” he said at last. “Where are the shells?”
“In a flap pocket on the side.”
“I see them.”
Mike opened the box and fed the shells into the chamber. “Here,” he said. “Fire away. The safety’s on.”
Sandy took the gun, flipped the safety switch and jabbed the barrel out of the cave. He fired twice. The booming shots echoed hollowly as they rumbled over the mountains.
“Hear any answer?” Mike asked.
“Give him a chance.”
A moment later they heard a pair of muffled explosions. Mike grinned over at Sandy. “That’s Hank, all right. Let’s try it again.”
“Okay.” Sandy blasted two more holes in the sky and sat back to wait. This time Hank answered almost immediately.
“I wonder where he is?” Mike muttered.
“Hank!” Sandy shouted. “Hello!”
“Sandy!” came a voice. “Mike! Are you all right?”
“We’re fine!” Sandy yelled.
“Where are you?”
“Up here!”
“That’s a big help!” Hank’s voice was tinged with sarcasm. “Where’s ‘up here’?”
“He’s got a point,” Sandy muttered sheepishly. “Do you have a handkerchief, Mike?”
“I think so.” Mike fumbled in his pocket. “Here.”
Quickly Sandy tied the white handkerchief to the forward sight of the gun and poked it out over the ledge. “Can you see that?” he yelled. “I’m waving a handkerchief.”
After a minute or two there was an excited shout from below. “I’ve got you! How’d you two ever manage to get up there?”
“It wasn’t easy!” Mike yelled back. “If you can figure a way of getting us down, we’ll let you in on our secret.”
“What’s the matter with walking?”
“You think it’s safe?”
“Sure. It is now.”
Sandy and Mike grinned at each other. “Sounds simple,” Mike said. “Let’s go.”
Minutes later they were down at the foot of the slope, telling Hank, as best they could, what had happened.
When they finished, Hank looked at both of them and shook his head. “You know,” he said, “some people think there’s a guardian angel whose special job is to look out for tenderfeet in the mountains. I never believed it before. But I do now. There’s no other explanation.”
Mike thought back over the past several days and broke into a grin. “If there is such an angel,” he said, “the poor fellow must be close to a nervous breakdown. He’s been working overtime.”
Hank grunted and peered up the side of the mountain. “It’s funny about that cave,” he said. “You think it’s a big one?”
Sandy nodded. “It looked that way to us.”
“It must have been covered over for a long time. I’ve never seen it before.”
“Why don’t we explore it some day?”
“Not a bad idea.” Hank’s eyes were still glued to the hillside. “You can hardly see it from here,” he said. “The rocks cover it up completely.”
“A good place for an ambush—if there were any Indians around,” Sandy commented.
“Or a hiding place,” Mike suggested.
Hank glanced at them with amusement. “You fellows sure have lively imaginations.”
“Well, you see,” Mike explained seriously, “we live such dull lives. Nothing ever happens to us.”
Hank laughed. “All right,” he said, “let’s give you a little action. Still want that goat?”
“Is he still around?” Sandy asked wonderingly. “After all that noise?”
“You mean the goat we spotted up on the peak? Oh no! He lit out for Canada soon as he heard you two tearing that mountain apart. But he’s not the only billy in these hills. How about it?” He looked at them closely. “Or are you still a little shaky?”
Sandy turned to Mike. “What do you think?” he asked. It had almost stopped raining, but instead of clearing, the sky had taken on an even darker, more ominous color. Mike squinted up at the gathering clouds, hitched his pack more comfortably onto his shoulders and nodded. “Let’s go!” he said firmly.
Hank grinned at them. “You boys are all right,” he said. “I’m going to take you to a hill that’s swarming with goats. I never took anybody there before. We might even get ourselves a head that’ll make the record books.”
But just as he started to turn down the trail, the storm broke with violent, ear-shattering fury. Angry flickers of lightning danced across the tops of nearby ridges. An earth-shaking peal of thunder boomed and rattled down far-off valleys. The rain, which earlier had been falling in a steady drizzle, now came flooding down in streaming torrents.
“Let’s find some shelter,” Mike shouted.
“Don’t bother,” Hank replied, pulling up the collar of his jacket. “We’re about as wet as we’ll ever be. Let’s head back to the house. The mountains aren’t safe in an electric storm.”
Bracing himself against the wind, Hank hunched over and bulled his way through the driving rain, with Sandy and Mike following. It was a miserable hike back, climbing down muddy ravines and slipping over wet gravelly rock. Sandy breathed a sigh of relief when he caught sight of the well-worn trail that led down to Hank’s lodge.
“Boy, that looks good!” he shouted above the wind.
Mike looked back and started to say something, but an enormous clap of thunder drowned his words. He gave it up and grinned instead.
They were about halfway down the trail when two sharp reports rang out over the howling storm. Hank stopped abruptly.
“What’s that?” Mike asked. “Thunder?”
As another report boomed out, Hank stiffened in surprise.
“No,” he said uneasily, reaching for the rifle at his back. “Those are shots. Somebody’s shooting down near the house.”
Suddenly all three of them were running down the trail. They had heard a sound that was definitely not a part of the storm. It was a terrible, high-pitched scream that cut through the sighing wind like a knife.
Mike was the first to see his father. Mr. Cook was standing on the porch, feet braced apart, a rifle cradled in his arms. Even at that distance, they could see there was an air of tense watchfulness about him, almost as though he expected a sudden attack. When he saw the three of them pounding down the hill toward the house, he vaulted down the steps, waving his arms in an urgent message of warning. But they were still too far away to hear what he was trying to tell them.
Hank broke stride briefly and levered a handful of shells into the breech of his rifle. Without knowing why, Sandy followed suit.
Mr. Cook was now standing in the middle of what could be considered Hank’s back yard. The two corrals—one for the dogs and the other for the pack animals—were over to his right. Hank’s lean-to that served as a feed barn was fifty yards over to his left. The dogs, especially Drum, were wild with excitement, adding to the noise and confusion with their sharp yelps of eagerness.
Sandy jammed the last shell into position and raced to catch up with Mike and Hank. “Watch out!” he heard Mr. Cook cry. “He’s somewhere near us.”
“Who?” Sandy shouted breathlessly as he braked to a stop beside them.
“There’s a wounded mountain lion around,” Hank said. The line of his jaw was firm and his eyes looked grim.
“He came up to the house about five minutes ago,” Mr. Cook explained. “I was inside, sitting by the fire, when I heard a terrific racket behind the house. All the dogs were barking at once. I went out to investigate and saw them scratching and jumping, trying to get out of the corral. Then I saw the cat. I raced back into the house, grabbed a gun and tried for a shot. I should have been more careful and taken a little time. But I was rattled. My first two shots were wild. The third one, though, got him. I’m positive of that.”
“Where was he when you hit him?” Hank asked.
“Right over there. Near the watering trough.”
“Let’s take a look.” Hank led the way over to the trough and crouched down to examine the ground. “This rain’s coming down so fast it’s hard to tell,” he muttered. He peered closely at the area around the trough and then straightened with a grunt of satisfaction. “You got him all right,” he said. “There’s a spill of fresh blood on the grass there.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t put him away,” Mr. Cook apologized. “I thought I was a better shot than that.”
“Don’t blame you a bit,” Hank replied. “What with the storm and all, this light’s tricky.” He turned to Sandy and Mike. “Well, you’ve got your lion hunt, boys. We’re going to get that cat.”
Sandy wheeled and started for the corral. “I’ll let the dogs out,” he said.
Hank threw out an arm to stop him. “Wait a minute. I don’t think we’ll use them. We already know where he is.” He spoke to Mr. Cook. “Where did you see him last?”
Mr. Cook pointed in the direction of the feeding shed. “He was headed that way.”
“All right,” Hank said. “We’ll each take one side of the building. Check your guns and make sure your safety’s off. As soon as you spot him, start pouring lead. If you’ve got a side shot, aim right behind his shoulder. If he’s coming at you head-on, blast him in the chest. Is that clear?”
They nodded and started to move away. “One thing more,” Hank added. “Don’t take any chances. He’s wounded and he’s dangerous. This storm has made him nervous and he’s probably plenty mad. Sandy, you take the north side of the shed. Mike, you cover the west.”
It was then that Sandy noticed for the first time that Joe wasn’t with them. He started to ask why, but checked himself. There would be plenty of time for that later. Thumbing the safety catch back, he curled his finger around the trigger and moved cautiously into position.
The rain was letting up a little, but it was still difficult to see. Massive dark clouds continued to roll overhead. Trees, heavy with rainwater, bent and rustled under the force of a snarling wind that slashed at loose leaves and stirred bushes into sudden motion.
Or was that the wind?
Sandy froze and took a closer look. The top leaves of a bush about seventy-five yards away trembled slightly and then settled back into immobility. Crouched under the tangled stems of the bush was what looked like a long, lean shape, hugging flatly against the ground.
Sandy’s heart thumped under the pressure of pounding blood as he knelt slowly to pick up a handful of stones. How long, he wondered, did it take for a mountain lion in full charge to cover seventy-five yards? The thought crossed his mind that he should shoot first, but he rejected it almost immediately as being too risky. The first shot, Hank had told him once, was the one that counted. Every competent hunter waited for his quarry to present itself before he pulled the trigger. Shooting at shadows was wasteful and dangerous.
Sandy took a deep breath and heaved the stones into the bush. As they whistled through the leaves and branches, he yanked his rifle up to his shoulder and tensed himself for a flash of yellow fury.
But nothing happened.
The long, menacing shape under the bush hadn’t moved. Sandy’s hand was shaking as he lowered the rifle. Breathing in short, dry gasps, he forced himself to relax. There was nothing under the bush more dangerous than a dead, half-rotted log.
Feeling embarrassed and a little foolish, he turned to see how the others were doing. Over to his right, Mike was sweeping carefully in toward the shed, his body bent slightly forward in an attitude of absorbed concentration.
Just as Sandy craned around to locate Mr. Cook, the corner of his eye caught a lightning-fast motion. It happened so quickly and was over so fast that Sandy wasn’t sure, at first, whether he had actually seen it.
Something vaguely earth-colored had dropped silently from a tree behind Mike and was now hidden under a cover of tall grass that ran along the border of the clearing.
Uneasily, Sandy swung around and moved closer to the waving grass under the tree. He saw a flurry among the stems and then what looked like a ripple of motion less than forty yards behind Mike’s back.
Sandy broke into a quick trot, narrowing the range to approximately sixty yards. Mike was completely unaware of what was going on behind him, and Sandy felt no inclination to shout. A startled cat might jump before he was properly in position.
There was another rippling movement from the clump of grass. Then slowly the tangle of underbrush parted and Sandy saw the mountain lion.
The big cat’s head was flat against the ground and his eyes were fastened on Mike. Sandy sensed that the beast was gathering itself for a spring, and suddenly he knew that he would have to fire quickly.
Now that the crisis had come, Sandy was surprisingly calm. He brought the rifle up to his shoulder and nestled his cheek comfortably against the stock. As the mountain lion loomed up into the field of his telescopic sight, Sandy noticed that his eyes were thin slits of yellow. They looked malevolent and deadly. Powerful muscles at the joints of his shoulders gathered and hunched into hard knots. In another moment they would uncoil, sending two hundred pounds of clawing death down on Mike’s unsuspecting back.
Bracing himself for the gun’s recoil, Sandy took a deep breath and squeezed slowly down on the trigger. The intersection of the two cross hairs was centered on a spot directly above and behind the cougar’s foreleg. Sandy could feel the trigger pressing harder into the crook of his finger as he held the rifle steady. He closed down the last sixteenth of an inch and held his breath.
The cat made his move a split second before Sandy fired. Then three things happened simultaneously. Sandy’s rifle roared out, missing a fatal spot, but slamming into the cougar’s side. Mike whirled around at the sound of the explosion, saw the cat and backed away instinctively. As he stepped back, his foot caught on a stray root and he sprawled awkwardly to the ground, losing his rifle. The impact of the bullet momentarily broke the lion’s charge. The force of the blow sent him spinning into the earth with a spine-tingling scream of pain and rage. By the time he clawed back to his feet to renew his attack, Sandy had managed to pump another shell into the chamber.
This time he didn’t miss. He caught the cat three inches behind the shoulder and could almost see the slug smack home. The lion lunged through the air, jerked once and slumped to the ground, barely fifteen feet from Mike’s frightened face.
Still holding his rifle, Sandy walked unsteadily over to Mike.
“You all right?” he asked huskily.
Mike gulped and nodded wordlessly. His face was completely drained of color. He made no attempt to stand up.
The next moment, Mr. Cook was bending over his son, but Mike refused any help and scrambled to his feet. He walked over to Sandy and extended his hand. “Thanks, Sandy,” he said quietly. “I never expected to come out of that alive.”
Sandy took the outstretched hand and gave Mike a friendly punch on the shoulder. “That makes us even, Mike.”
Mike managed a weak grin of acknowledgment. “Let’s not do it again,” he said.
Hank, who had been covering the south side of the shed, was the last to arrive on the scene. When he was told what had happened, he frowned and walked over to Mr. Cook.
“Listen, Arthur,” he said sincerely, “I’m sorry Mike had such a bad time, but I guess it’s my fault. I should have stalked that lion alone.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” Mr. Cook replied. “The boys wouldn’t have let you.”
“Anyway,” Hank went on, “I never expected to see a mountain lion attack from cover. They don’t normally do that, unless they’re being deviled by dogs. I’ve been going after them for more than twenty years and this is the first time anything like that’s ever happened. I knew there’d be a little danger, but I didn’t think it would be quite so serious. I was confident the boys would have plenty of time to place their shots.”
“Well,” observed Mr. Cook with a smile, “they did. Or at least one of them did.”
They walked over to the dead mountain lion. Hank bent down and lifted one enormous paw. “Right where I told you to shoot,” he said. “Nice work, Sandy. I’ll skin it for you and you’ll have yourself a fine trophy.”
“I think Mike should have it,” Sandy said. “As a sort of reminder.”
“No, thanks!” Mike protested. “I’d just as soon never see that cat again. I’ll bag one of my own. Joe guaranteed it—remember?” Mike stopped and looked around with a puzzled expression.
“By the way,” he said, “where is Joe? You’d think he’d be here, with all this shooting.”
Mr. Cook cleared his throat and looked at the three of them strangely. “I’ve got some news for you,” he said, “and I don’t know what to make of it. Early this morning—right after you left—Joe and I were sitting on the porch, cleaning the guns, when suddenly I noticed him start and grow pale. I followed his eyes and there—up in the mountains behind the lodge—I saw a thin column of smoke. You three didn’t light a campfire by any chance?”
They shook their heads.
Mr. Cook raised his eyebrows and nodded. “I was afraid of that,” he went on. “About an hour later I noticed that Joe was gone. I looked around and called, but he wasn’t in the house or near it.”
“What do you mean?” Sandy asked.
“Exactly what I said,” Mr. Cook slowly replied. “Joe has disappeared—vanished.”
“You don’t suppose,” Sandy suggested, and the words came out hesitantly, “that he was killed by the lion? That he walked right across his path?”
“The lion came down from above us,” Mr. Cook pointed out. “There’s no guarantee that Joe went in that direction.”
“But the smoke,” Sandy countered. “You said it was coming from the mountain.”
“Yes, but how do we know he went looking for the men that built the fire? It seemed to me he didn’t especially want to meet them. He probably went back down the trail to Mormon Crossing.”
“That’s true,” Sandy admitted. “Except for one thing. It doesn’t sound like Joe.”
“I go along with Sandy,” Mike asserted. “Joe isn’t the kind of person who backs away from trouble.”
“Say, hold on for a minute,” Hank interrupted. “You people seem to know an awful lot more than I do.” He turned to Mr. Cook. “What did you mean just now when you said something about the men who built the fire? Have you seen anybody on your trip upriver?”
Mr. Cook quickly filled Hank in on the story of Joe’s mishap back in Salmon. Hank listened attentively, without unnecessary interruptions. Mr. Cook told him Joe’s story about the three Crow Indians and ended up describing Joe’s reaction the night above Cutthroat Rapids when they saw the mysterious smoke on the horizon. “It’s all too much of a pattern for me to believe it’s coincidence,” Mr. Cook concluded.
“But what kind of a pattern?”
“I haven’t the foggiest idea.”
“You left out one thing,” Sandy reminded Mr. Cook. “How he seemed to know all about Mormon Crossing and the massacre.”
“I thought we’d settled that. It was tribal lore passed down from his elders.”
“No,” Sandy insisted. “That’s still a theory. We don’t know for sure.”
“Hey!” Mike interrupted suddenly. “Did you take a look to see if his stuff is still around?”
“I did,” his father replied. “And it is.”
“Then he didn’t go back down to the river,” Mike said triumphantly.
“Why do you say that?”
“If he planned to run away, he’d take his things with him. If he intended to come back, he wouldn’t bother.”
Mr. Cook nodded in agreement. “You’ve got a point there.”
“That means,” Mike went on, “that he’s up there somewhere in the mountains.”
“With the chances very good,” Sandy said, “of his being in trouble.”
There was a pause as the four of them stared thoughtfully at the jagged range of peaks that towered above them. The rain had tapered off and a weak sun was struggling to break through the clouds.
“Yes, you may be right,” Mr. Cook agreed. “But I’m afraid we can’t do much. No sense in stumbling around without knowing where we’re going.”
“Would you help him if you could?” Sandy asked eagerly.
“Yes, I would,” Mr. Cook said with conviction. “I like Joe and if there’s anything dishonest going on, I’m positive Joe’s not mixed up in it.”
“All right, then,” Sandy said unexpectedly. “Let’s go.”
They stared at him in astonishment. “Where?” Mr. Cook said. “Where do we start?”
“You said Joe left his things?”
“That’s right.”
Sandy addressed his next question to Hank. “Those dogs of yours—they track lions by scent, don’t they?”
Hank granted that was so.
“If we give them some of Joe’s clothing to sniff,” Sandy went on, “wouldn’t they follow his scent?”
“Like bloodhounds!” Mike cried.
“Exactly. What about it?”
“It might work,” Hank said slowly. “It’s certainly worth a try.”
“I’ll go and get an old shirt of Joe’s,” Mike said, turning toward the lodge.
“Hang on a minute,” Mr. Cook ordered. “Let’s not rush out right away. If we start tracking Joe, it might take some time. Overnight maybe. I suggest we pack some supplies, get a good meal inside ourselves and then go.”
Mike grinned over at his father. “Now that,” he said enthusiastically, “sounds like a first-rate idea—particularly the part about food.”
“I thought you’d appreciate it,” Mr. Cook said dryly.
At first the dogs were undecided about Joe’s shirt. They sniffed it and nosed it back and forth eagerly but refused to strike out on a course. Instead they ran around in circles, some of them off in one direction, others headed exactly the opposite way.
It was Drum who finally called the pack to order. He had been moving purposefully around the clearing, keeping his nose close to the ground, when suddenly he stopped and began to scratch the earth. After a few minutes of furious activity, he looked up and trotted back to the shirt for a second sniff. It seemed to satisfy him. Raising his head, he barked commandingly. The dogs around him stopped their aimless wandering and turned around. A series of deep-throated barks brought them scampering up as he led the way over the trail that curved deep into the mountains.
“That’s it!” cried Hank. “He’s got the scent! You can always tell.”
Hurriedly they formed a line behind the dogs. Hank was first, Mr. Cook second, while the boys brought up the rear.
After nearly an hour of breathless climbing, Sandy saw they were following the trail they had taken earlier that morning on the goat hunt that had almost ended in disaster. “Look,” he said, pointing to a tumbled pile of rocks spilled over the lower half of a peak. “Recognize that?”
Mike glanced over and grimaced. “I won’t forget it in a hurry.”
Sandy stopped for a moment and peered up. “You can’t even see the cave from here,” he remarked.
“That’s right,” Mike said. “No wonder Hank had a hard time finding us.”
“Hey, you two!” came a voice. “Stop admiring the view and keep moving.”
“We’re coming!” Sandy shouted. “Boy,” he said, panting, “those dogs can really travel.”
Mike nodded. “Save your breath,” he advised.
They moved ahead in silence for another twenty minutes when suddenly Sandy heard Mike grunt irritably. “Darn it!” he muttered.
Sandy turned to see Mike’s bedroll on the ground with his belongings scattered beside it. “Strap broke,” Mike explained.
“Hank!” Sandy shouted. “Can you wait a minute?”
Hank turned and looked back. “What happened?” he yelled.
“A bedroll strap broke. We’ll have it fixed in a minute.”
“We’ll go on ahead to the top of this slope,” Hank shouted down. “We can see a lot of the country from up there. I’ll collect the dogs and wait for you.”
“Okay! We’ll be right up.”
Mike was hurriedly gathering together his equipment, frowning angrily as he stuffed various articles into his blanket. “Everything happens to me!” he said in an annoyed voice. “D’you think we can mend that strap?”
“I think so. It won’t take long.”
“Just when we’re in a hurry!”
“What’s that?” Sandy said suddenly.
“Where?”
“Behind you.”
Mike swiveled and made a grab for something lying on the ground. With a sheepish grin he tried to tuck it into the folds of his bedroll.
Sandy laughed when he saw what it was. “That looks suspiciously like a sandwich wrapped in waxed paper.”
“Wrong again,” Mike said cheerfully. “It’s two sandwiches. I thought we might get a little hungry.”
Sandy shook his head admiringly. “Remind me never to go into the grocery business with you. You’d eat up all the profits before ...”
But Mike wasn’t listening. He was staring down at a colorful patch of red-checked cloth draped over a rock about three feet off the trail.
“What’s the matter?” Sandy asked.
Mike pointed to the patch. “Take a look at that,” he said.
Sandy walked over and picked it up. “It’s a piece of cloth,” he said.
“It’s more than that,” Mike said seriously. “It belongs to Joe’s shirt.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. Don’t you recognize the pattern? Big black stripes over the red, with little yellow lines running through it.”
Sandy nodded. “It’s Joe’s all right. What do we do now?”
“Let’s get this strap fixed and tell Hank and Dad.”
“It looks to me,” Sandy mused as he glanced over the terrain, “as if Joe broke away from the trail right about here.”
“What makes you say that?” Mike was busy tying a knot in his broken strap.
“Look where the piece fell. I think he climbed up here and tore his shirt doing it. Maybe we ought to do a little exploring on our own.”
Mike shook his head in disagreement. “Let’s stop being heroes. If Joe’s in trouble, we won’t be able to help him alone.”
“I guess you’re right,” Sandy admitted. “But I sure would like to know what’s above those rocks.”
“We’ll know in a little while,” Mike assured him, heaving the bedroll over his shoulder, “soon as we can bring Dad and Hank down here.”
“I think,” Sandy said in a very quiet voice, “that we’ll know sooner than that.”
“What do you mean?” Mike asked. He glanced at Sandy, and was surprised to see the strange expression on his face. He followed Sandy’s gaze up to the row of boulders above their heads, and suddenly he knew why Sandy had frozen.
Standing on the rocks were three men. Two of them carried rifles which they kept trained down at the boys. All three, Mike saw, had the dark complexion and long, straight hair of Indians.
The middle Indian—the one without a rifle—was the first to speak. “Drop your packs to the ground,” he ordered. His voice was hard and guttural. “And do it slow.”
Mike stiffened in anger, and for a moment Sandy thought he was going to try to make a break for it. “Take it easy,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “Better do what he says.”
Mike shook his head stubbornly. “They’re not going to do any shooting,” he insisted. “The others are too close.”
The Indian gave a short, unpleasant laugh. “You think they’d get back in time?” he asked.
“They’d be back in time to get you!” Mike flared.
“Try it,” the Indian invited. His voice became hard and menacing. “We could pick you off and wait for the others to come running back. This place makes a perfect ambush.”
The realization that Hank and his father might also be killed sobered Mike considerably. He reached up and loosened the strap that held his bedroll and rifle. Keeping his eyes on the rifles that stared down at them, Sandy did the same.
“Now move back. And keep your hands up in the air.”
Sandy and Mike did as they were told. The two armed Indians vaulted lightly down from their perch, approached the blankets, and took the boys’ guns.
“All right,” the Indian on the rock ordered. “Pick up your packs and climb up here.”
“Where are we going?” Sandy demanded.
“You’ll find out soon enough” came the answer. “Just keep moving—and don’t try anything.”
For the better part of an hour, they moved silently ahead, climbing higher into the mountains, avoiding what trails there were, keeping close to the protective cover afforded by the thick stands of jack pine. At last they arrived at a small clearing, perched high on the top of a lonely, desolate peak. The clearing was admirably situated, with an unobstructed view on three sides and accessible only by a single trail that wound tortuously up through jagged piles of razor-sharp rock. Sandy noticed the remains of a fire surrounded by three blanket rolls. It was an uncomfortable but well-hidden campsite.
“Sit over there,” the lead Indian commanded. He walked over to a blanket roll and rummaged through it. The other Indians stood to one side, keeping their guns trained on Sandy and Mike.
“What’s all this about?” Sandy said irritably. “What do you want from us?”
“Nothing,” the Indian replied. “Not a single thing. It’s Eagle Plume we want—Joe, to you.”
“Then you must be the three Crows!” Mike blurted out.
The Indian straightened up from his pack and looked at them. There was a flat, veiled expression in his eyes. “Yes,” he said quietly, “we’re Crows. So Joe’s been telling you about us.”
Sandy glanced over at Mike to warn him into silence. “He mentioned you once,” he replied. “Said there was some bad feeling between you.”
“What else did he say?” It was more of a command than a question.
“Nothing. Joe didn’t talk much.”
The Indian nodded. “I can believe that. He wouldn’t want you to know too much.”
“About what?”
“Never mind,” the Indian said briefly. “I bet you never guessed that Joe has been using you all this time.”
“Using us!”
“Sure. He had to find some way of getting to Mormon Crossing. You made it easy for him.”
Sandy and Mike digested this piece of news in silence. Joe didn’t seem like the kind who would deliberately “use” somebody and then disappear without a word. But there was no effective reply to what they had heard.
“It’s too bad you had to poke your noses into this,” the Indian went on. “But now that you’re here, you can be useful.”
“We wouldn’t lift a finger to help you!” Mike declared hotly.
The Indian threw him a disdainful look. “You won’t have anything to say about it.” He reached down and drew a long rope from his pack. He tossed it to one of the Indians with a rifle. “Tie them up,” he ordered. “The dark one first.” Mike struggled to his feet and the second Indian moved around to a point directly behind Sandy. “I wouldn’t try that,” the leader advised Mike sharply. “Unless you want to see your friend shot. I wouldn’t kill him—just a bullet in his leg, maybe. But I don’t think he’d like it much.”
Mike stiffened, his mouth a grim line of anger, but he allowed the Indian to pin his arms behind his back. The Crow worked quickly and efficiently. In a moment Mike was helpless.
“Now the other one,” the Indian said. Sandy felt strong hands grab his arms and twist a length of rope tightly around his wrists. He gasped involuntarily as the rope bit deep into his skin. A second rope was coiled around his ankles. Rough hands threw him heavily on the ground, ran a line through his wrist bindings and joined the other end to the rope that held his ankles. When this was drawn tight, Sandy’s legs were jerked back, forcing his spine into an awkward arc. The halter knotted between the two bindings made it impossible for him to move. If he tried to work his fingers free, the pressure drew his legs further up behind him. Any motion from his feet pulled his arms painfully out of joint.
When the job was done, the lead Indians seemed satisfied. “Good,” he grunted. “That’ll keep you from wandering off.” He glanced speculatively up at the sky. “Couple more hours of daylight,” he said. “Time enough to try to find Joe and have a talk with him.”
“What are you going to do with us?” Sandy asked, gritting his teeth against the pain of the ropes.
“Leave you here until we get back. Don’t worry. You’ll be all right. You’re too valuable to us alive—for now, anyway.”
Sandy let the last remark pass. “How do you know where to find Joe?”
“Curious, aren’t you?” The Indian leaned down and picked up Sandy’s rifle. “To tell you the truth,” he said, throwing open the bolt, “I don’t know.” He slammed the bolt shut and moved off. “But if we don’t find him today, we’ll talk to him tomorrow. Don’t worry. We’ll get together sooner or later.” He made an abrupt motion with his head and the other two Indians disappeared silently down the trail.
“The quicker we see Joe,” he said, “the quicker you two get out of here. So wish us luck.” He turned and followed his companions. Sandy and Mike could hear the subdued tones of whispered conversation, then silence.
By working himself around on one shoulder, Sandy managed to twist himself into a position where he could see Mike. “You okay?” he called softly.
Mike grunted sourly. “I’d feel a lot better if I could figure this thing out.”
“Joe sure seems to have gotten himself into a mess of trouble,” Sandy said.
“What about us, for Pete’s sake! We’re not doing too badly.”
Despite their situation, Sandy grinned. “You’re right,” he admitted. “Those boys don’t fool around, do they?”
Mike pulled himself around and grimaced. “One thing I’ll have to hand them. They tie a mean knot.”
“Can you move at all?” Sandy asked.
“Sure,” Mike replied bitterly. “Just enough to break my back!”
“There’s a knife in my bedroll over there,” Sandy speculated.
“Do you think you can make it?”
“I don’t know. I can try pushing myself along the ground.”
Sandy concentrated on lunging forward, but after a few minutes he knew it wasn’t going to work. “No good,” he panted. “I can’t make any headway.”
“How long did they say they’d be gone?”
“Till dark. That’s about an hour and a half. I’m afraid my arms are going to drop off before then. How do yours feel?”
“Not too good.” The tightly knotted ropes were beginning to cut off circulation and it occurred to Sandy that he’d better keep his fingers and toes in motion.
He was about to advise Mike to do the same when he heard a faint scraping noise that froze him into immobility. It came a second time, a short distance to his rear. He experienced a moment of panic as he envisioned a mountain lion stalking up to the camp, but he managed to keep his voice calm when he called out to Mike.
“Hey, Mike! Do you hear anything?”
Mike cocked his head. “No,” he said. “Not a thing.”
“It sounds like somebody coming up the trail.”
Mike strained his head to take a look. “No,” he began, “I don’t see any ...” His voice broke off in an excited shout. “Joe! What are you doing here?”
“Shhh!” came a voice. “Keep it down. Lie still and let me get you out of those ropes.”
The next instant Joe was kneeling by Sandy’s side, a sharp knife in one hand.