“Listen!” Hank Dawson threw up one hand as he reined in his horse. Behind him the column of riders plowed to a sudden halt. “Hear that?” he called. Down from the mountain above them, through the lonely, windswept stands of ponderosa and jackpine, drifted a yelping chorus of excited barks.
“Dogs!” Sandy cried. “We must be nearly there.”
Hank nodded. “About twenty minutes,” he said. “Hear that deep-voiced bark? That’s Drum—the leader. Best lion dog I ever had.” He turned in his saddle and called back to the others. “Not far to go now. Think you can hold out?”
They had been riding steadily since mid-morning, shortly after they arrived at Mormon Crossing. Hank Dawson was waiting for them, as Mr. Cook had predicted, with four pack mules and five saddle horses, ready and eager to start the upland trek without delay.
Hank Dawson turned out to be a huge, raw-boned man who looked, unexpectedly, as if he had just stepped down from the deck of a Viking ship. His thick blond hair and reddish-gold beard were both worn long—because, as he explained, he couldn’t find his scissors and he never bothered to take a razor with him into the mountains.
Standing side by side, Joe and Hank Dawson made an odd contrast. Both men had the same air of rugged power and quiet competence. But while Joe’s strength was that of solid rock—planted firmly and unyieldingly in the ground—Hank’s was that of a sturdy tree that towered high in the clear mountain air.
It was a subdued party that had pulled up to Mormon Crossing to meet Hank that morning. Joe, although he had regained some of his composure after seeing the smoke from the mysterious campfire the night before, was still thoughtful and quiet. As for Sandy, the experience above Cutthroat Rapids was too fresh a memory for him to be his normal, cheerful self.
But hard work quickly brightened the mood. The boats had to be beached, turned upside down and covered with canvas tarpaulins. Trip boxes and camping gear had to be unloaded, sorted, repacked and arranged evenly on the backs of the sturdy, patient pack mules—bandy-legged little animals that seemed to be willing to carry an incredible amount of baggage without complaint.
Hank Dawson directed the entire operation with practiced efficiency. He gave Sandy and Mike the job of weeding out excess equipment and storing it away.
“That includes all your fishing tackle,” he told them. “You won’t be needing that in the mountains. And the heavy camping stuff—like tents and sleeping bags and cooking gear.”
“All the comforts of home,” Mike observed ruefully.
“That’s it,” Hank agreed. “Tents are too bulky. One frying pan apiece is plenty, and a couple of blankets is all you’ll need for a bedroll.”
“What about an air mattress?” Mike suggested hopefully.
Hank brushed the idea aside. “That’s the trouble with most campers. They go out on the trail with so much fancy equipment that they don’t have time to enjoy what they came for. Why, I remember a party I guided once—he came up here to get himself a mountain sheep.” Hank shook his head in wonder. “That man was a walking sporting-goods store. Took three mules for his equipment alone. It used to take us two hours in the morning just to break camp. I tried to tell him right after dawn was the best time to bag a sheep, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“Did he ever get one?” Sandy asked.
Hank smiled. “Sure,” he said. “I’ve got my reputation to think of. I got up one morning while he was still in the sack and found me a real nice ram. After I shot him, I propped him up against some rocks and went back down to camp. ‘I think we’ll find ourselves a sheep today,’ I told him. ‘There’s a set of tracks near here that looks promising.’” Hank chuckled and fished in his pocket for some cigarette makings. “Course, what he didn’t know,” he went on, as he expertly rolled himself a smoke, “was that no man alive ever saw tracks over solid rock. Anyway, he thought I could and that was the important thing. I led him around for about an hour and finally brought him to where he could see the ram I’d planted. ‘Go ahead,’ I told him. ‘Shoot before he gets away.’ Well, he rears up his rifle and lets that sheep have it. The force of his bullet knocks the sheep over just like I knew it would. I skinned it real quick so’s he wouldn’t notice the second bullet hole and then gave him the head to have mounted. He was the happiest man I ever saw. Guess he’s still bragging about that shot.”
“Do all guides have that kind of trouble?” Mr. Cook asked.
Hank shrugged. “It’s bound to happen in this business. Ask Joe. He knows.”
The Indian nodded gravely. “I’ve been at it for nearly five years and you’re about the best party I’ve ever taken out.”
“Gee!” Mike laughed. “Can you imagine what some of the others must have been like! We’re certainly not a prize bunch.”
“Yes, you are,” Joe insisted. “At least you let me do my job. The arguments some people give me!”
“That’s it,” Hank cut in. “That’s exactly the trouble. People hire a guide to tell them what to do—and then refuse to do it.”
“Or else they want a long explanation,” Joe added. “Which you can’t give because there isn’t time.”
“Speaking of time,” Hank said, reaching into the bottom of one of the boats to pull out a trip box. “We’ve got to get moving if we want to make my place before nightfall. Start sorting that gear, boys.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” Mike said smartly. “No questions asked.”
Hank grunted approvingly as he brought the box up to his shoulder. “Good. We’ll get along fine.”
After about an hour’s work, the boats were beached and secured under canvas covers, the mules were loaded and they were ready to mount. “I’ll take the lead,” Hank announced. “Sandy, you follow behind me. Then you and your father, Mike. Do you think you can handle those mules by yourself, Joe?” The Indian nodded. “Good. One final word of advice. We’ll be going up nearly four thousand feet. The trails are hard to follow and sometimes they’ll look dangerous. But these animals have made the trip before. So don’t try to guide them. Just give them their head and they’ll get you up safe and sound.” He looked around inquiringly. “All set? Then let’s go.”
It seemed to Sandy that the trail led straight up, through narrow box canyons and over barren stretches of rock fall where every step sent a shower of loose stones cascading down the steep slope. Most of the time he concentrated grimly on keeping his balance and breathed a prayer that the wiry little pony underneath him knew what it was doing. Occasionally, though, Hank would lead them across a relatively flat plateau and let them stop to admire the view.
They were standing on one of these ridges—the silvery ribbon of Lost River far below them and a towering panorama of snow-capped peaks all around them—when Mike sighed deeply.
“What a perfect place,” he said, “for a picnic.”
“A what?” his father asked.
“Eats,” Mike explained. “Big thick roast beef sandwiches and a thermos bottle full of cold milk.”
“You wouldn’t be hungry, would you?” Mr. Cook said with a smile.
“Oh no,” Mike assured him. “I’m not hungry, exactly. I’m just plain starved. I’m so lightheaded from not having any food that I can’t stay on the back of my horse. I keep floating away.”
“I’m afraid we can’t stop to cook a meal,” Hank told Mike. “These mountains are no fun in the dark.”
“The death sentence,” Mike muttered gloomily. “I’ll never make it.”
“Oh yes, you will,” Joe called out. “Indians used to travel for days with nothing more than a handful of dried corn. If they did it, so can you.”
“I’m a little out of practice,” Mike pointed out. “Besides, I don’t have any corn.”
“But, Mike,” Hank said, “there’s food all around you.”
“I know,” Mike replied gloomily. “I see it everywhere I look. Cold fried chicken, hot buttered rolls, strawberry shortcake....”
“No, I mean it,” Hank interrupted. “A man could live for days on the food that grows in the mountains.” He swung down from his horse and walked over to a whitebark pine. “See these cones?” He reached up, twisted one from a branch, and broke it open. A dozen tiny reddish-orange pellets spilled out into his hand. “These are pine nuts,” he explained, holding one up for Mike to take. “They’re like the piñon nuts that grow in the Southwest.”
Mike took an experimental bite. “They’re delicious,” he announced.
“Help yourself. Plenty more where that came from.” Hank walked over to a clump of grass that was laced with delicate-looking flowers. “Here’s something else,” he called, bending down to pull up the blossoms. Up through the earth came white roots that resembled onions. “Camass bulbs,” he said. “You boil them in water and they taste like potatoes. They saved the Lewis and Clark expedition more than once. If we looked hard enough, I imagine we could find some puffball mushrooms.”
“What are they?” Sandy demanded.
“Just like regular mushrooms,” Hank explained, “but much bigger. Some of them grow to be the size of a basketball. Two of them will feed a dozen men. In the fall,” he went on, “these mountains are covered with golden currants. Wild grapes ripen later in the summer. What more could you ask for?”
“Nothing,” said Mike, munching happily. “Except maybe some more of these nuts.”
“Tear some loose and let’s get going,” Hank ordered. “It must be nearly three o’clock by now.”
For three more hours they plodded ahead, with Hank setting a steady, tireless pace. The only sound that broke the mountain stillness was the creak of saddle leather and the sharp, scraping noise made by the horses as they carefully picked their way up the rocky trail.
The sun was just beginning to turn a deep orange at their backs when Hank finally called the weary riders to a halt and pointed out the faint, echoing chorus of dogs in the distance.
“How do they know we’re coming?” Sandy wondered. “Can they hear us so far away?”
“They’ve caught our scent,” Hank explained. “They have a very keen sense of smell.”
“How many dogs do you have?” Mike asked.
“About twenty. Real scrappers, every one.”
“I guess they have to be,” Sandy said, “to tangle with mountain lions.”
“Say!” Mike said. “That’s right. We’re in mountain-lion country now.” He turned in his saddle and peered up at the bluffs of raw rock above him.
Hank nodded. “Yep,” he said. “They’re thick as fleas around here. You’ll be close enough to shake hands with one before the week’s out.”
Hank’s prediction, it turned out later, was almost too close for comfort.
Hank Dawson’s hunting lodge, high in the Lost River Mountains of Idaho, was the first house Sandy had ever been in where no woman had ever set foot. In every way it was a man’s paradise—designed exclusively for male society.
No chintz curtains cluttered the view. There were no pictures, prints or china figurines on side tables, no hooked rugs underfoot, no attempt to cover wooden walls with plaster or, even worse, with decorative wallpaper. Hank Dawson had built himself a straightforward, sturdy house. Massive, seasoned beams supported the roof. Half-rounded logs formed the walls and the floor. All wood surfaces were scraped, sanded and still fresh with the fragrant smell of the forest.
An enormous forty-foot main room looked out on a breath-taking view of jutting peaks and misty valleys. Behind the lodge bulged a huge rock bluff, dotted with clusters of vivid green jackpine and traced by a thin finger of crystal-clear water that trickled musically down its rough, gray surface.
One end of the living room was completely faced with a stone wall that held the biggest fireplace Sandy had ever seen. Splendid heads of elk, mule deer, mountain goats and pronghorn antelope filled up the rest of the space. One animal, though, was significantly missing. Mike was the first to notice it.
“How come no mountain lions, Hank?” he asked.
They were stretched out in front of the fireplace, deep in comfortable chairs, relaxing as the stiffness of a hard day in the saddle drained slowly out of their tired bodies. A full meal and the warm glow of the fire had made them all pleasantly drowsy.
Mr. Cook and Hank Dawson were both drawing thoughtfully on their pipes. Joe sat with his head thrown back against the stone wall, the smoke from his cigarette curling lazily through his fingers. Mike was propped up on one elbow, staring into the fire with glazed fascination. Sandy was lying on a large, overstuffed sofa, one hand absent-mindedly scratching the floppy ear of a big-chested tan-and-black dog.
The dog, Drum—Hank’s favorite lion hound—had adopted Sandy the first moment they met. Ignoring everyone else, even Hank, he insisted on padding around after him all evening and was now settled happily by his side.
Mike’s question broke a contented, peaceful silence that had lasted for nearly ten minutes.
“What’s that, Mike?” Hank said.
Mike repeated his question. “I see every other kind of trophy up there, but no lion,” he added.
Hank tapped the bowl of his pipe reflectively against the side of the fireplace. “Frankly,” he said, “I don’t think they’re worth mounting.”
Mike looked surprised. “I thought they were the best prize of all.”
Hank shook his head. “I don’t agree. Oh, they’re dangerous, all right. Don’t make any mistake about that.”
“How big do they get?” Sandy asked.
“They vary,” Hank replied. “Mountain lions or pumas or cougars—they’re the same animal, you know—are found all the way from British Columbia down to the tip of South America. And the farther north you go, the bigger they get. A full-grown male will weigh as much as two hundred pounds. That makes them bigger than an African leopard.”
“Then why don’t you like to hunt them?” Mike asked.
“That’s just it. I don’t hunt them.”
“Huh?” Mike was confused.
“I kill them. There’s a big difference.” Hank shrugged and reached for a match. “At least there is for me.”
Sandy slid along the bottom of the sofa and sat up. “I don’t get it,” he said.
“Well,” Hank said deliberately through a cloud of smoke, “look at it this way. If you had a vegetable garden and a woodchuck was tearing it apart, what would you do?”
“Shoot him,” Mike replied promptly.
“You see?” Hank grinned. “I notice you didn’t use the word ‘hunt.’ That’s exactly the way I feel about a cougar. They’re destructive beasts and wanton killers. I’ve known them to kill fifty sheep in a night just for the fun of it. That’s why I’ve declared war on them.” He paused and looked up at the trophy heads lined up along the wall. “There’s another reason I don’t care much for mountain lions. They’re no challenge to me as a hunter. It’s no good trying to match wits with them because, essentially, they’re cowards. All you do is set the dogs on their trail and they do the rest. You just follow the pack and, after a little while, you come up against your lion crouched in a tree like a frightened old lady. After that, it doesn’t take much to knock it off.”
“Couldn’t they kill the dogs?” Sandy asked.
“Oh, yes,” Hank said. “And they do. Old Drum’s been clawed plenty of times, but, knock on wood, he’s still alive and kicking. A cornered animal is always dangerous. I’ve had them charge me on several occasions. If they’re hungry enough they’ll come right up to a house. One of them tried to get into my corral once. I shot him just outside, on the path as you come up to the front door.”
Mike shook his head in bewilderment. “I give up,” he said. “It sure sounds like exciting sport to me. I wouldn’t exactly put it in the same class as shooting woodchucks.”
Mr. Cook spoke for the first time. “I think I know what Hank means. He’s the man with the gun. He’s got the advantage. The sport isn’t in the killing—it’s in the stalking.”
“Right!” Hank agreed, leaning back comfortably. “I remember one time I was hunting elk up in Thoroughfare Creek country in Wyoming. On the first day, I spotted a real giant—oh, he was a beauty! He must have had close to twenty points and a spread of nearly seventy inches. How I wanted that head! Nothing else would do. I stalked that animal for ten days trying to get into position for a shot. But he was a wise customer and always managed to keep out of my way. Not that he got panicky or ran!” Hank broke into a grin of admiration. “That’s the whole point. He knew what I was after—I’m convinced of that—but he wouldn’t give me the satisfaction of showing any fear. He was that proud. Well, as I say, we played our little game for ten days and, finally, on the morning of the eleventh, just as dawn was beginning to break through some gray clouds, I stepped out into a clearing in the woods. I heard a noise behind me and there was my elk. He was standing straight as an arrow, staring at me—a perfect shot against the rising sun.” Hank threw up his hands. “But I couldn’t do it. We stood looking at each other for about a minute or two and then he slowly moved back into the woods—one of the most majestic sights I’ve ever seen.” Hank found a twig and began to scrape the bowl of his pipe. “I’ve never regretted losing that elk.” Hank paused and corrected himself. “Actually, I didn’t lose him. He was mine—in a way that no stuffed trophy will ever be.”
Mr. Cook looked over at his son and Sandy. “You boys still want to bother with a cougar?”
Hank threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, come now, Arthur. Don’t discourage them. Of course they do and I don’t blame them. I just hope they’ll experience some real hunting, too.”
Mike, who had been listening to Hank’s story with a rapt expression on his face, scrambled to his feet. The quick movement made Drum open one curious eye. “Why don’t we start tomorrow?” Mike cried excitedly.
“Tomorrow?” his father said with a frown. “I’d just as soon wait a day or two.”
“Why?”
“Well, for one thing, we’re up pretty high, you know. Before I go scrambling around any mountain peaks, I’d like to get used to the altitude.”
“I’ll go out with the boys,” Hank said unexpectedly. “You can loaf around the house and take it easy.”
“How about it, Dad?”
Mr. Cook shrugged and put down his pipe. “As far as I’m concerned there’s no better man in the world to take you hunting than Hank. You’re sure you want to, Hank?”
“Positive.”
“Then that’s settled.” Mr. Cook nodded over to the Indian, who was sitting with his back against the stone wall. “How about you, Joe? Feel like going out?”
Joe smiled and shook his head slowly. “I don’t think so,” he said quietly. “I’ll just wander around here for a while until I get my mountain legs under me.”
“Suit yourself,” Hank Dawson replied. “What’s your pleasure, gents?” he said, turning back to the boys.
“How do you mean?” Sandy asked.
“What do you want to go out after—giraffes, elephants, saber-toothed tigers—you name it!”
“You’re the boss,” Mike said, grinning. “You say!”
Hank paused and considered the question. “Well,” he said slowly, “how about trying for anOreamnos montanus?”
“Awhat?”
“A mountain goat to you, Mike.”
“A mountain goat!” Mike’s face fell. “I thought we were going to go after some big game—not a billy goat!”
Hank laughed. “Don’t kid yourself—if you’ll pardon the pun. A mountain goat is my personal candidate for the most dangerous animal in the world.”
“No fooling!”
“I’m serious. A mountain goat lives in the most inaccessible places. He’s got eyes like binoculars, he’s smart and fast, and he’s not afraid of anything that walks. I’ve known of cases where mountain goats have killed a lion. He may not be much to look at, but I can promise you an exciting chase and one you won’t forget in a hurry. Okay?”
Sandy and Mike both nodded their heads in agreement. “Okay,” they chorused.
“Good.” Hank stood up and stretched his arms over his head. “I’m for bed,” he announced. “And you better do the same. If we’re going hunting tomorrow, we’ll have to be up at....”
“Oh, no!” Mike groaned as he lumbered to his feet. “Don’t tell me—dawn again! Why is it,” he asked plaintively, “that everything around here starts at dawn?”
“Tell you what,” Hank said, moving to the door of one of the bedrooms that opened off from the main room. “When we get back, we’ll let you lie around in bed some morning all you like.”
“Sure,” Sandy agreed. “We’ll let you sleep till six—or maybe even seven.”
“Lucky boy.” Mr. Cook chuckled as he reached over to turn down the wick of the kerosene lamp. “Just let me know what the sunrise is like tomorrow morning, will you? Personally, I plan to sleep until noon.”
“Still want that goat?” Hank asked Mike, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
Mike grinned back at him. “See you at dawn,” he said. “If I’m lucky, I may even have one eye open.”
The urgent jangling of the alarm clock woke Sandy first. The room was icy cold and pitch-black, but the soft glow of the dial read four-thirty. Sandy forced himself to grope free of the blanket and shut off the insistent clamor. He leaned over and gave Mike’s shoulder a shake.
“Hey, Mike!” he called.
Mike groaned, opened one eye, and then turned back to the wall, muttering something under his breath.
Sandy shook him a second time. “Wake up, Mike. Let’s go.”
The figure under the blanket heaved up and settled back down on the mattress. “Whazzamattawhyuh, huh?” it said.
Sandy sighed and swung his feet down on the cold floor. “A brilliant conversationalist,” he observed, reaching for his trousers. “May I quote you on that?” A bulge under the blanket made a tempting target. He gave it a friendly whack. “Rise and shine, boy. We’ve got a date with a goat.”
There was a sharp yelp and a flurry of movement. Slowly a tousled head appeared from under the covers and regarded Sandy with a baleful look. “No self-respecting goat is up at a time like this,” he said bitterly. “So let me go back to sleep. What time is it, anyway?”
“After four-thirty. I’m going to go out and see about breakfast. See you in the kitchen.”
Mike reached for the covers. “Good,” he grunted. “That gives me another fifteen minutes.”
Sandy stood over Mike’s bed threateningly. “You want the cold-water treatment?” he said.
“You win.” Mike struggled up and peered out at the morning. “Looks like the middle of the night,” he said.
“The sun’ll be up pretty soon. I’ll throw on some bacon and eggs while you get dressed.”
“Lots of eggs!” Mike shouted as Sandy opened the door and went out into the main room.
Hank was already up. A fire was going in the fireplace and Sandy could hear noises coming from the kitchen. He pushed open the door to find Hank mopping up a plate of eggs. He was dressed in a heavy flannel shirt, a pair of corduroy trousers and high-topped, sturdy-looking climbing shoes. A leather jacket, a bedroll and a rifle were propped against the far wall.
“I put out some bacon and eggs for you two,” he said when he saw Sandy. “Got your gear all packed?”
“We’re all ready. We did it last night.” He threw half a dozen thick slabs of bacon into the frying pan and sat down beside Hank. “Doesn’t look as if it’s going to be much of a day,” he said.
“’Fraid not. We’re due for some rain.” Hank got up and scraped his plate. “Hurry up with your breakfast and meet me outside. I’d like to be up in the peaks by dawn.”
Later that morning, they stood on a narrow, windswept ledge of rock, nearly ten thousand feet high, watching a pale, watery dawn touch the tops of mountain peaks fifty miles away. It was an experience Sandy would never forget. One moment they were in darkness; then gradually the world around them began to take shape. First the tops of the ridges loomed up out of the gray mist. As the sun rose higher, faint fingers of light streaked down into the valleys far below, probing the shadowy pools of night that still huddled there.
Sandy and Mike stared at the scene wordlessly, lost in the wonder of the view. Finally Mike sighed deeply. “It must have looked like this a million years ago,” he said softly.
Sandy nodded. “Not a living thing in sight. Just the mountains and the wind....”
“And the rain,” Hank said suddenly. “Here it comes.”
The first spattering gusts of rain lashed the rock outcropping above them. In the east, dirty ragged clouds scudded over the sun. “Want to go back?” Hank asked.
Sandy and Mike both shook their heads. “Not unless the rain drives the goats away,” Sandy said.
“Don’t worry about that,” Hank replied. “I told you they’re tough. Weather like this won’t stop a goat.” He dropped the pack from his shoulder and reached into a pocket for a pair of binoculars. “Here,” he said, offering the glasses to Sandy. “Start looking.”
Sandy brought the binoculars up to his eyes and started to scan the neighboring peaks. “Where do I look?” he asked.
“Notice how the south sides of all the peaks are covered with trees?” Hank asked. Sandy nodded. “That’s because they get most of the sun.”
“The sides facing north are practically all rock,” Sandy observed.
“Except for a big yellow pine here and there. See them?”
“Sure. And there seems to be something that looks like snow at the base of each tree.”
“Right.”
“Snow!” Mike said. “At the end of June?”
“It never had a chance to melt,” Hank explained. “The shade of the tree keeps the ground cold until the middle of July. Now take a close look at every patch of snow you can see. That’s where you’ll spot a goat.”
Sandy swept back and forth across the peaks with his glasses. “Not a thing,” he announced.
“Let me look.” After a moment or two, Hank stiffened and leaned forward. “There’s your billy goat,” he said.
“Where?” Sandy cried. “I just looked there.”
“Well, you didn’t look hard enough.” He turned the glasses back to Sandy. “Try another peek.”
Sandy focused in on a tiny white spot that stood out against the gray granite. At first he thought it was a faint smear of snow. But then, unexpectedly, he saw it move. “I’ll be darned!” he breathed. “You’re right!”
“Let me take a look!” Mike cried. He stared through the binoculars and nodded his head excitedly. “I see him,” he cried. “How do you know it’s a billy?”
“I don’t think it’s a nanny goat,” Hank said. “This one’s all by himself and nannies mostly stay together.”
“Just like women!” Mike observed with a laugh.
“That’s right.” Hank grinned. “I guess they like to gossip. And then you’ll usually see some kids around if it’s a nanny.”
“Anything else?” Sandy asked.
“One more thing. Nannies are snow-white, but billies get dirty. From the color, I’ll bet that goat’s a billy.”
“Okay,” Mike said. “Now how do we get him?”
They were separated from their quarry by a deep box canyon whose sides plunged almost straight down from the narrow ledge at their feet. To reach the goat, they would have to work their way down the sheer rock wall, cross over a small stream that flowed along the canyon floor and then climb up the far side.
But instead of heading directly into the canyon, Hank Dawson led them along the narrow ledge, around to the other side of the mountain.
“We can’t climb right up under his nose,” he explained. “He’d spot us for sure. We’re going to have to get behind and above him.”
“Is there a trail up there?” Mike asked.
“I doubt it. You all set for a rough ride?”
The boys tightened their pack straps and nodded.
“Then let’s go. We’ll have to move fast. He’s not going to stay up there all morning.”
Hank set a fast, sure-footed pace over a ledge that curled around the peak like a vine. Sandy and Mike followed as best they could, concentrating on keeping their balance as they worked their way over rain-slippery rock, inches away from about 700 feet of space that yawned emptily to their left.
As they came puffing around the first turn, Hank was waiting for them, a tree branch in either hand.
“We’re in luck,” he said, pointing down. “A rockslide.”
Sandy peered over the edge. Hundreds of small pieces of rock had spilled down the side of the mountain, forming a steep pathway to the floor of the canyon below.
“Isn’t that dangerous?” Mike asked. “Won’t the whole thing give way?”
“It’ll slide, if that’s what you mean,” Hank replied. “But it won’t all come tumbling down at once. It’s sort of like running down a long sand dune. The particles of sand keep slipping downhill, but the hill itself holds together. Use these branches for balance and you’ll get down without any trouble. Here, watch me.”
With a carefree abandon that made the boys gasp, Hank flung himself down on the river of rock. The force of his leap made the slide slip forward about six feet. Rocks about the size of a man’s fist clattered and grated downhill in a sagging wave with Hank riding on the crest. When it stopped, he plunged his branch down and leaned on it to catch his balance. Lifting one leg free, he used his makeshift alpenstock like a pole vault to propel himself forward a second time.
“Look at him go!” Mike said admiringly.
“We’d better get going ourselves,” Sandy said. “Or he’ll be halfway up the other side.”
“What we need for this maneuver,” Mike said as he braced himself for a take-off, “is a little armor for the seat of our pants. I have the feeling we’re going to need it.”
Sandy grinned at him, took a deep breath and jumped. His feet ground into a bed of pebbles and suddenly he was sliding downhill. Clawing wildly to keep upright, he felt the rocks brake to a halt. Before he fell he managed to catch himself and push off for another short spurt.
Their progress was remarkably fast. They made the 700-foot descent in a matter of minutes, arriving at the bottom shaken, bruised, but triumphant.
“Good for you,” Hank said as they came hurtling down to join him. “You made that like experts. It’s a little like skiing, isn’t it?”
Mike managed a lopsided grin as he shook out a pocketful of pebbles. “Think we’ll make the Olympics?” he asked.
“Not this year, Mike,” Hank answered.
“Good,” grunted Mike. “I can wait. Where to now?”
“We’ll follow the canyon down to the other side of the peak and go up there.”
The south face of the peak was covered with scrubby pine that somehow managed to grow despite a fifty-degree slope. Burdened by their rifles and full packs, they began to haul themselves up, using tree trunks, rock outcroppings and anything else that came to hand. Slowly they inched along, scraping on their stomachs through soaking wet, sharp pine needles that cut their faces and dripped water down the backs of their necks.
“Brother!” Mike muttered. “This is work!”
“We can always go back if you don’t think it’s worth it,” Hank called back. He was almost fifty yards ahead of them, moving through the tangled underbrush with comparative ease.
“Wouldn’t dream of it!” Mike replied. “I just wish I could get one hand free. I’ve got a terrible itch on my right shoulder blade.”
“You would think of that at a time like this!” Sandy said.
“Just keep moving, please,” Mike said. “That’s a beautiful boot you’ve got on, but not in my face.”
“Hey, boys!” It was Hank calling from up ahead.
“What?” Sandy said.
“I’m going on and spot the goat,” he said. “I want some time to figure out the best stalk for the shot. It’s a little clearer up ahead, so you won’t have too much trouble. Just keep coming as fast as you can and I’ll meet you at the top.”
“Okay,” Sandy yelled. “We’ll see you up there.”
“You’re sure you can find the way?”
“Positive,” Sandy assured him.
Hank waved a hand and scrambled out of sight. Behind him, Sandy heard Mike mutter, “We’re a fine pair of hunters! Here we are—stuck on the side of a mountain in the middle of a cloudburst like a couple of flies caught on flypaper.”
“Well, at least we can move,” Sandy said philosophically, shaking the water out of his eyes. “Looks like another seventy-five yards or so. Think you can make it?”
“Carry on, old man.”
After another five minutes of hard climbing, they broke through to a clearing that led in one direction to another clump of trees. In the other direction was another rock slide, similar to the one they had just negotiated, but smaller.
“Which way?” Mike wondered.
“Hank said it was easy going from here on,” Sandy reasoned. “He must mean up the slide.”
“He certainly can’t mean through those trees,” Mike agreed. “Let’s try it your way.”
Moving along on all fours, Sandy started to scramble up the slippery rock. He was surprised to find the going was much easier than he had anticipated.
“Hey!” he said. “This is a cinch.”
“A real pleasure,” Mike echoed.
They were halfway up when, abruptly, the rock slide gave an ominous lurch. Both boys froze as they felt the tremor and heard a grinding rumble beneath their feet.
“I don’t think I like this!” Mike’s voice sounded shaky.
“Me either,” Sandy said. “Let’s go back—quick!”
“Right!”
Sandy could hear Mike backtracking down the slide. There was a clatter of loose rolling stones, a second, more violent tremor, and then a sharp cry.
“Sandy!” Mike shouted. “It’s giving way! I’m falling!”
Forgetting his own balance, Sandy whirled around and grabbed for Mike’s arm. Below him the entire slide was slowly caving in. Sandy’s fingers tightened around Mike’s wrist but he could offer no support.
Suddenly, the sliding surface gave way with a rush, and he was plunged with sickening force through a roaring avalanche of grinding rock.
Neither boy cried out. The accident had happened so suddenly there wasn’t time. Sandy started to protect his head from flying hunks of granite, but before he could lift his arms, he felt his body break through the curtain of tumbling rock. The next instant his feet hit solid ground and he was thrown over on his side.
For a moment Sandy lay in semi-darkness, dazed by his fall. The thundering roar of the avalanche was passing somewhere over his head. Then he remembered Mike. “Mike—you all right?” he called, almost afraid to ask the question.
It seemed hours before he heard an answering gasp. “Yes. Wind knocked out ... me.”
Sandy pulled himself over beside Mike. A swirling cloud of dust cut down visibility to a few inches. Just as he reached over to touch Mike’s arm, there was a sigh and Mike struggled to sit up. “I’m okay now, thanks,” he said. “I just couldn’t catch my breath.” He looked around wonderingly. “What happened?”
They were sitting in what looked like the entrance to a large cave that sloped back down into the mountain at a steep slant. A jagged pile of loose stones nearly—but not quite—blocked the mouth.
“How did we get here?” Mike asked in an awed voice. The dust had settled and they were sitting in a tomblike silence. Occasionally a single stone clattered noisily down the slope outside.
“I’ll tell you in a minute.” Sandy crawled over the rocks and stuck his head out through the opening.
“What do you see?” Mike called.
“We got caught in an avalanche, all right,” Sandy said. “Half the mountain seems to be down there below us.”
“I still don’t see how we ended up in here.”
“There’s only one explanation,” Sandy said as he scrambled back to join Mike. “The slide was covering the mouth of this cave. When the rocks started to give way, the entrance suddenly opened up and we fell in.”
“And all that stuff passed right over our heads,” Mike said.
“Looks like that’s it.”
The two boys stared at each other in silence. “You know,” Sandy said quietly, “we’re a couple of pretty lucky guys.”
“I’ll say! If we had been any other place when the slide started to go....”
“We’d be down there at the bottom under a few hundred tons of rock,” Sandy finished.
“Let’s not talk about it.” Mike shivered.
“All right,” Sandy agreed. “Let’s talk about how we’re going to get out of here.”
Mike’s brows knit together in a frown. “Do you think Hank knows what happened?”
Sandy laughed. “One thing’s for sure,” he said. “He certainly heard us. That was a pretty big racket we set off.”
“Yeah,” Mike agreed. “But I wonder if he knows where we are?”
“I don’t see how he can,” Sandy replied. “Do you feel good enough to crawl up to the entrance?”
“Oh, sure,” Mike said. “I’m fine.”