Joe was sitting up in bed, wearing a red flannel nightshirt that belonged to Mr. Henderson. With the white bandage wrapped around his head he looked even more like an Indian than he had earlier that afternoon. He smiled in welcome as he caught sight of the Cooks and Sandy. “Boy!” he said. “Am I glad to see you again! Did you get those guns sighted in?”
Mr. Cook moved to the foot of the bed. “We had just finished when we heard the news. What happened, Joe?”
The Indian made an impatient gesture with one hand. “Foolish accident. I was lining the boxes up along the dock when I thought I heard somebody call my name. I looked up and turned around. Well, I guess I must have lost my footing, because the next thing I knew I was falling in the water. Then, all of a sudden, I felt this bang on my head and all the lights went out. Cracked right into a piling, I guess.” He grinned up at them. “Things like that happen sometimes. You can’t do much about it.”
“What about those Indians, Joe?” Mr. Cook asked quietly.
Joe’s eyes narrowed and Sandy thought he saw him grow pale. “What Indians?” he said sharply.
“Luke said he thought he saw some Indians right near the place where you fell. He said they were coming away from the river after you went in.” Mr. Cook laid a slight but significant stress on the word “after.”
Joe tried to dismiss the Indians with a shrug. “If they were there, I didn’t see them.”
“Luke yelled out,” Mr. Cook continued, “but they didn’t stop.”
“Why should they?”
“Wouldn’t you stop if somebody called?”
“That depends on who it was. Maybe they didn’t hear him.” He looked at Mr. Cook with an unfriendly stare. “I don’t get it,” he said resentfully. “What are you trying to prove?”
There was a pause as Mr. Cook dragged over a chair and sat down beside the bed. “Look, Joe,” he said, “take it easy. I’m not trying to prove a thing. It’s just that there are a couple of things that are bothering us.” Joe waited unsmilingly for Mr. Cook to go on. “Earlier today, you mentioned some Crow Indians you didn’t seem to like very much. Next, you can’t wait to get started on the trip to Mormon Crossing. And finally, you almost get killed.”
Joe looked thoughtfully down at the sheet. “And you think that all adds up to something?” he asked.
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. Is anybody after you, Joe? It looks a little like it.”
Joe leaned back with a smile. “I have to admit it looks funny,” he conceded with a chuckle. “But I’m afraid you’ve been reading too many mystery stories. Now,” he said, settling back comfortably, “let’s start from the beginning. About those three Crows—it’s perfectly true I don’t get along with them. But it wasn’t serious enough to lead to any bloodshed. Besides, as far as I know, they’re still in Montana. It’s also true that I’m eager to get going. I gave you my reasons this afternoon and they still hold. Why waste time here when we can be on the river? Finally, the accident.” He shook his head in bewilderment. “I don’t know how to explain that, except to say that it was exactly that—an accident. The Indians Luke saw were just a coincidence. I don’t have the slightest idea of why they were there.” Joe looked around the room and smiled disarmingly. “Sorry I can’t give you a more dramatic story, but that’s the truth. Okay?”
Mr. Cook stood up and moved the chair back against the wall. “All right, Joe,” he said quietly. “No cross-examination.”
The Indian seemed relieved. “Good,” he said. “Now what time do you want to start tomorrow?”
Mr. Cook stared at Joe in astonishment. “But great Scott, Joe! You’re in no shape to travel!”
“You heard what the doctor said.”
“He said you’d be up and around by tomorrow, but he didn’t mean for you to start downriver.”
“It’s better than lying around here. Besides, a little exercise will get my strength back a lot faster than a week in bed.”
“Well,” Mr. Cook said as he turned to go out the door, “let’s see how you feel in the morning.”
“I’ll make you a sporting proposition,” Joe called. “If I say I’m ready, will you leave?”
“All right,” Mr. Cook agreed after a pause. “But don’t push yourself too hard.”
“Don’t worry,” Joe said, grinning. “And say,” he shouted as Mr. Cook was closing the door, “better get to bed early tonight. I plan to be up at five-thirty.”
Mr. Cook nodded and pulled the door shut. The four of them trooped back out onto the porch. “Well?” demanded Mr. Cook as he looked at each of them in turn. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know,” Sandy muttered. “It sounds all right, but....”
“Exactly,” Mr. Cook agreed. “His story has too many holes as far as I’m concerned.”
“But why should he lie?” Mike objected. “If he’s in trouble, why doesn’t he tell us? Maybe we could help.”
“What struck you as the fishiest part of his story?” Mr. Cook asked Sandy.
“The accident on the dock” came the prompt reply.
“It could have happened just that way,” Mr. Henderson volunteered. “There’s more’n a couple of rotten boards on that dock. He could’ve caught himself easy and pitched over.”
Sandy refused to be convinced. “I doubt it,” he said. “Ever notice how Joe moves? He’s as graceful as a cat.”
“You’re right,” Mr. Henderson admitted. “But I just can’t bring myself to call Joe a liar. I’ve known him a long time.”
“What do you think of him?” Mr. Cook demanded.
“As a guide or as a man?”
“Both.”
“As a man I’ve never known him to do a dishonest thing. And as a guide, I’ve never known him to do a foolish one. I’d trust Joe anywhere.”
“So would I,” Mr. Cook agreed. “That’s what makes it so funny. I like him and I trust him and yet....” He shook his head helplessly. “There’s something he’s not telling us.”
“Want me to try to find another guide for you?” Mr. Henderson asked.
Mr. Cook turned to Mike and Sandy. “What do you think, boys?”
“Maybe he is mixed up in something, but I still vote we stick with him,” Mike declared.
Sandy nodded his head. “I’ll go along with that.”
“All right,” Mr. Cook said decisively. “That’s decided. We’ll leave as soon as Joe’s ready.”
“Better do what he said,” Mr. Henderson advised, “and set your alarm clocks for five-thirty.”
“You think he’ll be ready then?”
Mr. Henderson nodded. “He’s a pretty tough customer, is old Joe. When he makes up his mind to do a thing—well, it gets done.”
Mr. Cook grinned and threw up his hands in defeat. “Okay. I’m convinced.” He turned and started back into the cabin. “Let’s get going,” he said. “We’ve got some packing to do if we’re leaving for Mormon Crossing in the morning.”
Lying in the prow of the lead boat, with his head pillowed on a rolled-up sleeping bag, Sandy watched the towering stands of green pine glide smoothly by. This was their second day on the river and they had yet to see a sign of human life. The clear, sparkling river wound through what seemed to be an endless wilderness of mountain peaks and sweet-smelling fir forests.
The fast-flowing current carried them effortlessly ahead, deeper and deeper into the wild, tangled beauty of the Lost River country. Occasionally, Joe, who was stationed at the tiller in the rear of Sandy’s boat, would yell, “White water ahead!” This was the signal for Sandy to take up his paddle and brace himself firmly against the prow. Then, as Joe steered skillfully through the suddenly turbulent water, Sandy’s job was to keep the boat well away from potentially dangerous rocks by pushing out with a heavy river paddle, whose shaft was almost as thick as his wrist. Behind the first boat, Mike and his father tried to follow the course Joe set.
Only once—when Joe announced that the rapids ahead were too risky—did they have to portage. It was a long, hot job.
But most of the time they simply floated. Mr. Cook and Joe kept a hand on the tillers of their boats, while Sandy and Mike watched the scenery or sprawled lazily on their backs, drinking in the sun and the bracing mountain air.
As Sandy stretched and shifted into a more comfortable position, he could hear Mike singing in the other boat.
“‘Oh, give me a home where the buffalo roam, and the deer and the antelope play! Where seldom is heard a discouraging’—Hey, Joe!”
“What?”
“Ever see any antelopes?”
“Sure.”
“What do they play?”
“Baseball mostly” came the reply. “And a little tennis, sometimes.”
“Thanks. Just wondered.” Mike took a breath and plunged ahead. “And the deer and the antelope play! It’s baseball at night! A discouraging sight! After watching the tennis all day!”
Sandy grinned and hoisted himself up to a sitting position. “I like the original words better, Mike!” he shouted.
In the other boat, Mike assumed a posture of dignified disappointment. “That’s the trouble with people like you,” he replied haughtily. “You never appreciate an original talent. Why, I predict in a hundred years, they’ll be singing my songs from—”
“Quiet, Mike!” The sharp command came from Joe, who was sitting motionless in the stern of his boat. Slowly, he raised one hand and pointed to the shore about a hundred yards ahead. “Look!” he said in a low, urgent voice. “Look what’s over there.”
Sandy turned and followed Joe’s finger. At first, all he saw was restless motion in a grove of trees growing close by the river. Then, as he watched, the underbrush parted and a head appeared. An instant later, a huge mahogany bear was standing on the narrow strip of beach that ran along the water. Cautiously, the bear lifted up its snout and sniffed the breeze. Apparently satisfied, the animal waddled out to the edge of the river.
“Boy!” Sandy breathed. “Think we can get in a shot?” Keeping his eyes glued on the bear, he reached around for a rifle.
“No shooting,” ordered Joe. “It’s against the law.”
“How come?” Sandy asked in surprise.
“Can’t shoot bears from a boat,” Joe explained. “You have to be on dry land. Besides,” he added, “that’s a sow bear.”
“A what?”
“A female. I bet she’s got cubs with her.”
Joe’s guess turned out to be right. In a few moments, the big bear turned around and was pushing something out from behind one of the trees. Two little balls of fur tumbled out on the beach and began wrestling near the water. The mother bear gave them both a cuff that sent them streaking around behind her broad back.
“Never shoot a sow bear, Sandy,” Joe was saying. “The cubs still need her and would die without her. Every time you shoot a female, you’re killing three animals. Bears, you see, usually have two in a litter.”
Sandy forgot about the rifle and turned back to watch the family outing on the beach ahead. Suddenly, when they were about fifty yards away, the mother bear caught sight of them. With surprising speed, she snatched her cubs and tucked them between her legs. Growling fiercely, her huge snout wrinkled and her teeth bared, she backed slowly into the bushes. But just as she was about to disappear into the trees, one of the cubs broke away and scampered back out into the open. Exactly like any irate mother, the bear let out a shrill scream of warning as she jumped to cut him off. Growling and snarling, she scolded her tiny runaway and gave him a slap that sent him spinning head over heels. The little bear scrambled back to its feet and raced for the protection of the underbrush. Still scolding and snarling, the big bear followed. Sandy could hear the tirade go on for several minutes until, at last, it died down.
“Now there,” Mike observed, “is a mother who doesn’t believe in spoiling her child. Did you see the spanking that little cub got?”
“I sure did. I wonder if he knows why he got it.”
“I think so,” Joe said. “Wild animals have to learn fast. She’s probably giving them both a lecture right now.”
“Speaking of lectures,” Mike called out to Sandy, “when are you going to give me that lesson in bait casting?”
“Soon as we find some fish,” Sandy replied. “I thought you said this river was full of trout,” he said, turning to Joe.
“It is. You’ll have your chance tonight after we make camp. I know a pool ahead that’s a regular hangout for cutthroats.”
“Cutthroats! Never heard of them.”
“They’ve got a red slash on both sides of their lower jaw. I think this is the only part of the world where you’ll find them.”
“That’s right,” agreed Mr. Cook. “The Lewis and Clark expedition was the first to describe them. They’re greedy fish and fighters.”
“Hey!” Mike shouted. “Sounds good. How do they taste?”
“Youwouldthink of that,” his father commented. “But, for your information, they’re delicious.”
“Great!” answered Mike. “Put me down for three or four.”
“Got to catch them first.”
“Sandy’ll take care of that.”
“How far away is that pool of yours, Joe?”
“About five miles from here we’re going to run into the worst rapids on the river. I call them Cutthroat Rapids because the trout run is just upstream.”
“Are they worse than Dog Leg Falls?”
“Much worse. You can’t get through them. The river drops about six feet—right on a row of razor-sharp rocks.”
“Oh, oh!” cried Mike. “Sounds like another portage!”
“You’re right. Feel the river picking up speed? That’s Cutthroat Rapids. We’d better move over a little closer to the shore.”
An hour later they were tied to the roots of a stranded drift log. Mr. Cook and Joe were busy unloading gear for the night, while Sandy and Mike inflated two small rubber rafts and checked over their fishing equipment. When Mr. Cook saw the rafts, he raised an eyebrow. “How come?” he demanded.
“I thought we could move up and down along the shore a little easier with these,” Sandy explained.
“I guess you’re right. But isn’t it a little dangerous? We’re just above Cutthroat Rapids.”
“We’ll be careful,” Mike assured him. “Don’t worry about that.”
“All right,” Mr. Cook agreed reluctantly. “But wrap a length of rope around your middles. In case you start to drift, it might come in handy.”
“Okay,” Mike said breezily. “But now it’s time for us fishermen to go to work. We’re bringing back tonight’s supper, you know.”
“I’ll go grease up the frying pan right now,” Mr. Cook said, grinning at his son. “It won’t take you more than ten minutes, will it?”
“Give us fifteen.”
Mr. Cook laughed and went back to help Joe build the fire.
It was nearly five o’clock in the afternoon by the time Sandy and Mike got down to the river with their fiberglas casting rods. Taking a position opposite some broken currents about three quarters of a mile above the roaring cataracts of Cutthroat Rapids, Sandy unhooked the catch of his reel and made ready for his first cast.
“A good caster,” he told Mike, “can hit a leaf floating in the middle of a stream.” He pointed to a small twig moving in their direction. “That’ll be my target,” he said.
Sandy placed his right foot in front of his left, almost as if he intended to walk out into the water. He held his rod in front of his body with his right hand. With an easy, swinging motion, he brought up his rod until his thumb reached eye-level. The rod quivered back in an arc, then lunged forward. The line snaked out and soared gracefully through the air.
A moment later there was an almost imperceptible splash about three inches from the twig. Sandy kept a gentle pressure on the reel with his thumb and allowed the bait to be carried along by the river for eight or ten feet before he began to reel in.
Mike whistled in admiration. “Pretty fancy. Let’s have a lesson.”
“Okay,” Sandy said, putting down his rod. “Now hold your thumb against the reel like this. Bring the rod up so that the tip is just about level with your eyes. That’s it. Now, keep your elbow away from your body. No, no. That’s too far. Just a couple of inches or so. Use your elbow as a pivot and bring the rod up. Stop it when your thumb comes up even with your eyes and then snap forward with your wrist as you come down with your arm.”
Mike nodded. “All right. Let me try.”
Sandy stepped back and watched as Mike concentrated on his first cast. The light rod whistled back and sprang forward. But instead of coming out in an even play, the line fluttered from the reel and flew erratically over the water.
Mike shot a glance over at Sandy. “What did I do wrong?” he demanded.
“Just about everything,” Sandy said, laughing. “First of all, relax. You’re snapping the rod instead of swinging it. You just need a little twist on the downstroke. In the second place, you’re not using your thumb right. When the line begins to play out, make your thumb act like a brake. Here, let’s try it again.”
After forty minutes of Sandy’s expert coaching, Mike managed several reasonably accurate casts. “Okay,” Sandy said approvingly. “You’re on your own. I’m going to take the raft and drift downstream a little ways.”
“Watch the current,” Mike warned as he set himself for another cast.
“Like a hawk,” Sandy said, pushing off from shore.
But Sandy had underestimated the treacherous power of Lost River.
The first hint that he was in trouble came when Sandy felt his raft give a trembling lurch to one side and swing sharply out into the channel. He had been casting for about fifteen minutes without success, keeping close to the protection of the rocky shore as he searched the water around him for the telltale ripple of a surfacing fish. Once or twice, when he had strayed out toward the middle of the stream in pursuit of a silvery flash, he quickly realized his danger and paddled back to safety. But now he had gone too far. He was nearly ten yards away from the near shore, moving at an ever-increasing rate of speed toward Cutthroat Rapids.
Still, he thought to himself, there was plenty of time to get back. The rapids were a good half mile away and the river was not yet white with lashing foam.
In the end, it was a cutthroat trout that very nearly caused his death. He was a big fellow—at least eighteen inches, Sandy figured—and he chose that particular moment to break through the water with a twisting leap that nearly sent him into Sandy’s lap. The sight of that magnificent fish momentarily drove all thought of danger from Sandy’s head. Just one cast more, he decided, and then he would head back.
But Sandy never had a chance to make that cast. The river, in one of its unpredictable shifts, suddenly grabbed his raft and sent it skimming and twisting out into the main current. Dropping all thoughts of landing the cutthroat, Sandy leaned hastily over to pick up his paddle.
How it happened, Sandy never knew. One moment he had the paddle; the next instant he saw it shoot out of his hand and land in the water out of reach. He was helpless, caught in the grip of Lost River, minutes away from a bone-shattering fall over Cutthroat Rapids.
Fighting down the panic that threatened to overwhelm him, Sandy twisted around to call for help. Mike was standing just about where he had left him, patiently practicing his casts, unaware of the terrible danger that had suddenly overtaken Sandy.
“Mike!” Sandy screamed, realizing, as he shouted, that nobody could help him now. “Mike!”
Mike looked up with a start. A look of surprise and horror passed over his face as he took in the situation. Sandy saw him turn and shout something to his father and Joe. Then he was running along the side of the river, his fly rod still clutched in his hand.
Cutthroat Rapids was closer now. It sent up a deep, angry roar as hundreds of tons of water thundered over its rocks. Sandy’s fragile raft swayed and shook, tossed in every direction by the seething current. Clinging desperately to the slippery sides of his raft, Sandy could feel a cold spray lash at his face. Shifting his weight to ride out the bucking river, Sandy leaned to one side, then the other. Suddenly the raft leaped out of the water, gave an agonized shake and fell back on its side. The force of the fall threw Sandy from the raft and he was swept along into the remorseless current. The raging waters carried him for about fifteen feet before they slammed him, dazed and shaken, into an obstruction that clogged the river just above the rapids.
At first Sandy thought he had hit a rock. But as his groping hands clawed for a grip, he felt the sharp scratch of a branch and the rough, comforting scrape of a tree trunk.
Miraculously, the current had deposited him on the upriver side of a log jam that trembled less than twenty yards above the rapids.
Gasping for breath, Sandy shook the water out of his eyes and took a closer look at his island. He knew almost immediately that this was merely a reprieve. Already the tangle of trees groaned and shifted under the insistent tugging of the current. Here and there a few branches were tearing free, too frail to withstand the pounding pressure of the surly river.
He glanced over at the nearest shore. Only about twenty feet. He hadn’t realized he was that close. The distance gave him an idea. The rope around his middle! Would it reach? Would he be able to throw it? Hardly daring to believe he had a chance, he took a tight grip on a stout branch and, with his free hand, began to unwind the line.
When he looked back at the shore, the rope dangling from one hand, he saw that Mike had arrived and was trying to wade out into the water toward him.
“No, Mike!” Sandy shouted. “You’ll be carried away!” He held his rope over his head. “I’m going to try to throw this!” he yelled.
But even as Sandy reared back to heave the line, he knew the light rope would never carry all the way to the shore. He felt the log jam shudder and move a few inches closer to the rapids. He put every ounce of his strength into the throw, but the rope didn’t even reach halfway.
Sandy’s mind raced over the possibilities of escape. There had to be a way out. There just had to!
“Sandy!” It was Mike calling out to him. “Get ready and watch your eyes!” Sandy saw that Mike had taken up his fly rod and was about to cast. Suddenly, as he realized what Mike had in mind, his heart gave a leap. It might work!
“Go ahead!” he shouted, ducking underneath a branch. Following the instructions Sandy had given him, Mike brought up his rod in a free and easy motion. The line hummed through the reel and floated above Sandy’s head. As the lure hit the water a few feet to Sandy’s left, he reached out for it blindly, ignoring the risk of a ripped finger. But the current carried it in a mocking dance, just out of reach.
Back on shore, Mike patiently reeled in his line and set himself for another try. The log jam was breaking up now. Sandy could feel it sway and give with each push from the river. He knew there wasn’t much time left.
Mike’s rod snapped forward and, as Sandy watched, the glittering lure flashed through the air to settle lightly on the coarse bark of a branch six inches from his head.
Sandy felt the blood hammering in his temples as he maneuvered himself over to the hook that seemed to hang there by a thread. With a trembling hand, he reached out and snatched at the line. As his fingers closed around it, he allowed himself a gasp of relief.
“I’ve got it!” Sandy cried hoarsely.
“Hurry up!” came a deep voice from the shore. Sandy looked up to see Mr. Cook and Joe standing tensely beside Mike. “The jam’s about to give!”
Even as he worked the end of his rope through two of the barbed hooks, Sandy heard a noise that sounded like a piece of heavy paper being ripped down the middle. A large branch—it was more like a small tree—suddenly tore away and was swept down to the rapids by the surging current.
Sandy looped the rope once around the lure and signaled to shore. “All right!” he shouted.
The line gave a tug and began to inch toward Mike. Carefully Mike reeled in, making sure that no sudden movement would shake the rope free. It was halfway there now. Joe and Mr. Cook splashed into the water, ready to grab it as it came within range.
Sandy wanted to yell out at Mike to reel in faster, but he realized Mike knew what he was doing. He couldn’t take a chance of a slip this time. There wouldn’t be a third try.
With agonizing slowness, the end of the rope crawled toward shore. Another two or three feet. The log jam gave another sickening lurch, but Sandy hardly noticed it. He was watching the rope.
Suddenly it was there. Joe leaned over and grabbed the end. Mr. Cook moved in beside him and, together, they pulled.
“Come on!” Mr. Cook shouted. “We’ve got you!”
Sandy filled his lungs with air and kicked off from the pile of logs that had saved his life. The rope jerked once and then he was in the water, being drawn along like an enormous, awkward fish. The river fought to tear the rope out of his numbed fingers, but Sandy held on desperately. The world around him had long ago ceased to be anything but foaming water and crashing noise. There was an almost unbearable strain on his arms as he was tossed back and forth like a prize in the deadly tug of war between life and the river.
Just as he thought he couldn’t hold out another second, he felt a strong hand grip his arm. Fingers reached out and grabbed his belt, and the next moment he was being supported by Joe and Mr. Cook. Mike was standing on the shore ahead of him, his face white and shaken, his casting rod still in his hand.
“You’re all right, Sandy,” Mr. Cook was saying. “You’re safe now.”
He tried to speak, but the words stuck in his throat and refused to come out. Panting heavily, he was led up the beach and finally allowed to rest. As he threw himself down on the ground, a crashing noise filled the air. Sandy forced himself to look around.
The tangled hump of tree branches was rising out of the water. As Sandy watched with a dazed expression, it seemed to give a heaving sigh before settling back into the river. There was a grinding roar and suddenly the trees were gone, claimed by the howling fury of Cutthroat Rapids. A minute later, and Sandy would have gone over too.
“Care to talk about it, Sandy?” Mr. Cook asked as he threw three or four thick slabs of bacon into a frying pan. Sandy was sitting, wrapped in a blanket, propped up next to a roaring fire, a cup of steaming instant bouillon in his hand. Joe was squatting on his heels, Indian-fashion, in front of a flat rock, mixing up a batch of johnnycake. Mike was kneeling beside Sandy, busy opening two No. 2 cans of peaches. A casual visitor would have taken it for an ordinary camping party getting ready for a relaxed evening meal. Except for Sandy’s drawn face, there was no hint of their recent close brush with death.
Sandy took a deep breath and another swallow of broth before he answered. “Sure,” he replied. “But there’s not much to say. I kept following the trout farther and farther out into the stream until finally I realized I was too far.”
“You couldn’t get back?”
Sandy shook his head in disgust. “I shouldn’t really tell you this. It makes me look like such a dope. I was just about to head back for shore when suddenly this enormous trout finned out right under me. He must have been at least a foot and a half.”
“Whew,” whistled Joe softly. “That’s the one that always gets away.”
Sandy smiled wanly. “That’s the one that almost got me! I went after him.”
“And that brought you out still farther into the river,” concluded Mr. Cook.
Sandy nodded grimly. “I felt the raft give a heave and I knew I’d better get out of there. But I was in too much of a hurry, I guess. I grabbed for the paddle and it shot out of my hand. Next thing I knew I was being carried on down to the rapids. If it hadn’t been for Mike....” Sandy broke off and shook his head.
“You mean if it hadn’t been for the way you taught me to use that fly rod!” Mike interrupted with a grin. “Boy, was I scared when I made that cast out to you! I knew it had to be just right!”
“And it was,” Mr. Cook said with a smile.
“Prettiest cast I ever saw,” Joe admitted. “Bet you could thread a needle with that thing.”
Mike flushed and worked furiously at the second can of peaches. “Well,” he said, “it worked out okay, so let’s forget it.”
Sandy looked at the three of them and felt a lump rise in his throat. “Listen,” he said, and he noticed his voice sounded strained and husky. “I don’t know how to thank you—all of you—for what you did. I guess it sounds sort of foolish to say that you saved my life, and all. But I just....”
Mr. Cook stood up and moved over beside Sandy. “Don’t say any more, Sandy. There’s no need to thank us. We were very lucky, that’s all.”
“But it was all my fault!” Sandy muttered, staring into the fire. “What a bonehead thing to do!”
“Sure,” Mr. Cook agreed cheerfully. “You should have been more careful. But you weren’t.” He shrugged expressively. “Now that it’s all over and done with, let’s look ahead.”
After a moment’s silence, Sandy grinned up at him. “You’re right,” he said. “I’ve got my eye on tomorrow. What’s the schedule?”
Mr. Cook turned to Joe. “How about it? You’re the guide around here. Think we’ll make Mormon Crossing?”
Joe walked over and put the frying pan with its johnnycake batter on the fire. “We’ll be there before lunch,” he predicted. He winked over at Mr. Cook and Sandy. “If we can get Sleeping Beauty there on his feet bright and early.”
Mike, who always took a long time to wake up in the morning, ignored this remark. Leaning back comfortably, he began to chew thoughtfully on a blade of grass. “You know,” he said, “I read a book once that said that all the great thinkers of the world like to sleep late. Brainy fellows like us,” he explained, “just seem to need more rest. Besides,” he reflected, “we do most of our heavy thinking at night.”
“So that explains it,” his father remarked.
“Explains what?”
“That noise that comes out of your sleeping bag every night.”
“You thought I was snoring?” Mike seemed surprised.
“Yes,” Mr. Cook admitted. “I’m afraid I did.”
Mike laughed disdainfully. “If you only knew the problems I have to solve! Night after night I turn them over in my mind, searching for the right answer....” He paused and looked at them seriously. “I tell you, those problems are heavy. When I turn them over they make a big racket. That must be what you keep hearing, Dad,” he confided.
“Oh, oh!” Joe grinned. “Better stuff some cotton in your ears tonight,” he said.
“How come?” Sandy asked.
“Mike’s going to have a real problem to solve. How to portage around Cutthroat Rapids without doing any work.”
“Another portage,” groaned Mike.
“I wouldn’t advise trying to go through them,” Sandy remarked with a smile.
Mike grinned back at him. “Right!” he nodded. “There speaks a man of experience. Joe,” he said, suddenly changing the subject, “you ever been in the mountains above Mormon Crossing?”
“Sure, a couple of times.”
“What sort of country is it?”
“A lot wilder than what we’ve gone through. In places it gets above the timber line.”
“Good hunting?”
“The best. I can show you a rock bluff where you’ll see mountain goats every morning.”
“What about mountain lions?” Sandy asked eagerly.
“You’ll get your cougar, Sandy,” Joe said. “Don’t worry. The Lost River Range is full of game. A regular hunter’s paradise.” He shook the frying pan and tested the johnny cake with a fork. “You know,” he said meditatively, rocking back on his heels, “next to a little spot in Montana I’ve got my eye on, I love this country best. It’s unspoiled,” he explained. “It’s exactly the way it was when men like Jim Bridger and John Colter first saw it nearly a hundred and fifty years ago.”
“Who were they?” Sandy wanted to know.
“Trappers. Guides, like myself. John Colter guided Lewis and Clark. He traded with my people, the Blackfeet, and was the first white man ever to see Yellowstone National Park. The Indians told him about it and he went to have a look for himself. When he got back to his trading station, nobody would believe him. A whole valley where the smoke comes right out of the ground! They laughed in his face!”
“What finally happened to Colter?” Mike asked.
“He died, still sticking to his story. He was only about thirty-eight or so. It was a hard country.”
“It still is,” Mr. Cook said.
“Yes,” Joe agreed. “But that’s what I like about it. Some day,” he said softly, staring out at the setting sun in the west, “I’m going to settle into that ranch in Montana and spend the rest of my life living with it. Right in the back yard of the wilderness. I hope I never see another city.”
“When will that be?” Sandy asked.
Joe laughed. “When I can save up enough money to buy it,” he replied.
“What happens if it gets crowded?” Mike asked. “Full of tourists like us?”
“Not much chance!” Joe said. “Look at us. I bet we’re the first people to come through here in months.”
“Well, we’re not alone,” Mike observed, pointing off toward the river. “The joint’s filling up.”
The three of them swiveled around and followed Mike’s outstretched finger. In the distance, behind a range of hills, in the direction from which they had come, a lazy plume of smoke curled slowly above the treetops.
Joe gave a cry of surprise and jumped to his feet. He stood watching the smoke, every muscle in his body tense, his hands balled tight into hard fists at his side. Sandy saw he was breathing in shallow, panting gasps, like a runner after a long race.
Mr. Cook saw it too. He and Sandy exchanged glances. “What’s the matter, Joe?” he asked. “You seem upset.”
Joe turned with a start. “What ... upset?” he stammered. “No,” he said, forcing a thin smile. “I just didn’t expect anybody else to be out here.”
“They seem to be following us downriver,” Mike observed.
“Pity we won’t be able to meet them,” Mr. Cook remarked. “But we’ll be leaving the river at Mormon Crossing.”
As they were talking, the smoke suddenly stopped. It was as if someone had thrown a bucket of water on the campfire. “That’s odd,” Mr. Cook muttered. “I wonder why they did that? You don’t normally build a fire and then douse it right away.”
“No, you don’t,” Joe said grimly. He looked even more disturbed than he had the day of his accident on the Henderson dock. It was especially strange since Joe had been in excellent spirits all through the trip downriver.
There was an awkward pause that was broken by Mr. Cook bending over their cookfire. “No sense in wondering about something that must be fifteen or twenty miles away,” he declared. “Let’s eat.”
Dinner was a silent, thoughtful affair. As soon as the dishes were scraped and cleaned in the river, Mr. Cook announced he was going to turn in. “We’ll be up by dawn tomorrow,” he said. “So I advise you boys to do the same.”
Mike yawned and said he thought it was a good idea. Fifteen minutes later, the camp was quiet. But Sandy, who was stretched out near the fire, found he couldn’t sleep. The excitement of his narrow escape from the rapids was still with him. And now, added to that, here was Joe’s odd behavior to worry about.
Restlessly he tossed and turned, dead-tired, but still awake. Finally—it must have been nearly nine o’clock because he saw the moon was beginning to rise—he opened his eyes with an angry shake.
Their clearing was in almost total darkness. The only light came from the few embers that still glowed in the ashes. Suddenly Sandy became aware of a figure on the other side of the fire. In the faint light Sandy could just make out a face. It was Joe.
He was sitting with his arms crossed over his drawn-up knees, staring into the red coals. His eyes were clouded with worry and there was a heavy, brooding look about his mouth.
Sandy wondered whether to speak, but decided against it. Joe, he knew from experience, was not a man who would willingly talk about his troubles. All at once Sandy realized he was sleepy. He made up his mind to forget about the mystery that surrounded Joe. He would think about the cougar hunt tomorrow. And if he was very lucky, he would forget about his experience in Cutthroat Rapids forever.
He finally fell into a fitful sleep that was streaked and shattered by nightmares. Three huge black crows were chasing Joe, and he was trying to help. As they ran together, they came to a quiet stream. But as they started to cross, the stream became a roaring river and the three crows turned into giant cutthroat trout. Sandy could see the red slashes on either side of their lower jaws as they strained to catch him in their razor-sharp teeth. Twisting himself around in a desperate attempt to escape, he swam faster through the boiling current.
Suddenly he was awake, drenched with sweat and shaking like a reed. The panic left him as soon as he knew where he was. Before he settled himself back into his sleeping bag, he looked over at the fire.
Joe was still there, the troubled look still on his face. After a moment, Sandy slept deeply.