SANDY STEELE ADVENTURES
Black Treasure
Danger at Mormon Crossing
Stormy Voyage
Fire at Red Lake
Secret Mission to Alaska
Troubled Waters
Sandy Steele Adventures
_DANGER AT
MORMON CROSSING_
BY ROGER BARLOW
SIMON AND SCHUSTER
_New York, 1959_
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
INCLUDING THE RIGHT OF REPRODUCTION
IN WHOLE OR IN PART IN ANY FORM
COPYRIGHT © 1959 BY SIMON AND SCHUSTER, INC.
PUBLISHED BY SIMON AND SCHUSTER, INC.
ROCKEFELLER CENTER, 630 FIFTH AVENUE
NEW YORK 20, N. Y.
FIRST PRINTING
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NUMBER: 59-13882
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
BY H. WOLFF BOOK MFG. CO., INC., NEW YORK
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
1 The Big Cats 7
2 White Water 21
3 Dog Leg Falls 34
4 Eagle Plume 43
5 Sighting In 55
6 Joe’s Story 68
7 Cutthroats 78
8 A Perfect Cast 88
9 Smoke on the Horizon 96
10 Lion Country 106
11 Hunting Talk 116
12 Rockslide 126
13 The Hidden Cave 138
14 Yellow Fury 147
15 Three Crows 158
16 Captured 167
17 The Secret of the Cave 175
18 The Story of Mormon Crossing 182
CHAPTER ONE
The Big Cats
“Why don’t you call them tonight? We’ve got to know pretty soon.”
The speaker was Arthur Cook, a deeply tanned giant of a man with
close-cropped graying hair, whose piercing blue eyes told of a lifetime
spent in open spaces. He was talking to a boy of sixteen who had wrapped
himself around a dining-room chair and was staring thoughtfully down at
a map on the table.
“What do you say, Sandy?” Mr. Cook urged. “Want me to ring the
operator?”
Sandy Steele looked up with sudden decision. “All right,” he said.
“We’ll get it settled right now.”
“That’s the ticket!” chimed in Mr. Cook’s son, Michael, as he shouldered
his way through the swinging kitchen door, a glass of milk in one hand
and an enormous slice of layer cake in the other. “Then we can start
making plans right away.”
“If you think you can spare us the time from your hobby,” his father
said dryly.
“Hobby?” Mike’s jaws closed down over the cake. “What hobby?”
“Eating. Or has it become a full-time job with you?” Mr. Cook turned to
Sandy. “Ever see anybody eat so much?”
Sandy shook his head in mock amazement. “That son of yours sure can
stash it away!”
Mike drained half the glass of milk in one gulp and grinned over at
them. “A long time ago,” he told them, “I made up my mind never to eat
on an empty stomach. That’s why I always have a snack before dinner.” He
finished the rest of the milk hastily. “That reminds me. Mom said to
clear all these maps out of the dining room. Soup’s almost on.”
Mr. Cook got up and headed for the door to the hallway. “I’ll just have
time to place the call. What’s your number, Sandy?”
“Valley 5-3649.”
“Thanks. Mike, you take care of things in here for your mother.”
“Sure ... and hey, Dad!” Mike looked earnestly at his father.
“What?”
“You can sound awfully convincing if you want, so make it good, huh?
It’d really be great if Sandy could come along.”
Mr. Cook laughed and disappeared through the door. A moment later the
boys heard him dialing the long-distance operator.
“Well?” Mike demanded as he gathered in the scattered maps. “What do you
think?”
Sandy shrugged. “It’s hard to say. I don’t see why not, though. School’s
out for the summer and we haven’t made any plans of our own.”
“Guess we’ll just have to hold our breath,” Mike said and started for
his father’s den with the papers he had collected. “Tell Mom the decks
are clear.”
“Okay, but let me see that map again.” Sandy reached out and took a
large-scale National Geographic map of Idaho from the pile Mike was
carrying. A rough red crayon circle had been drawn around the Snake
River country in the southern part of the state. An _X_ was placed
further north near the town of Salmon and a thin line followed the Lost
River down through a blue-gray area known as the Lost River Range.
Judging from the color of the map, the altitude there varied between
8,000 and 11,000 feet. There wasn’t a sign of a town or a road for
miles. It was real Rocky Mountain country, unspoiled, wild and
beautiful, exactly as Sandy had always hoped one day to see it.
And now, at last, he had a chance. Mr. Cook and Mike were planning a
pack trip along the Lost River and they wanted to take him along. In his
mind’s eye he already saw the rugged splendor of the mountains, smelled
the pungent smoke of a crackling campfire after a full day’s hunting or
fishing.
“Hey, wake up! You look as if you’re dreaming.” It was Mike, back from
his father’s den.
Sandy looked over at him, shook his head and sighed. “I was, Mike, I
really was.”
Mike clapped a sympathetic hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Worrying
won’t help. Why don’t you hunt up Dad and see how he made out? I’ll call
you when dinner’s ready.”
Sandy smiled back and nodded. He had known Mike and his parents for only
a little over ten days, but already they were like a second family to
him. He had heard about the Cooks for about as long as he could
remember. Mr. Cook was his father’s oldest friend. The two men had met
early in their careers and had worked on a number of projects together.
John Steele was a government geologist, while Arthur Cook was a mining
engineer—one of the best in the business, according to Sandy’s father.
Their work took both men away from home a great deal of the time, and
for years they had been trying, without success, to bring their families
together.
Finally, about three weeks ago, a letter arrived from Mr. Cook, inviting
all three Steeles to spend the first two weeks of the summer vacation in
Oakland, across the bay from San Francisco.
“Throw some camping gear into your car,” Mr. Cook had advised. “We might
all take a run up to Lake Tahoe for some fishing. Sandy and Mike have
never met, but I can’t think of a better way for the two boys to get
acquainted than in the middle of a trout pool.”
To Sandy’s intense disappointment they had to turn down the offer. His
father was snowed under with paper work at the office and he couldn’t
spare the time.
But by return mail a second letter arrived. Why not send Sandy alone?
There didn’t seem to be any objections, and so it was arranged.
Mike was a chunky, junior-sized version of his father, with dancing blue
eyes and a tendency to leap into things without thinking. Sandy was on
the slender side, with a strong, good-humored mouth and a shock of
unruly blond hair that never seemed to stay down properly. Despite their
differences in appearance and personality, the two boys hit it off right
from the start. And when Mr. Cook announced his plan for a month’s trip
through Idaho, it was assumed that Sandy would come along, provided, of
course, that he got his parents’ approval.
Mr. Cook appeared at the dining-room door. “Your father’s on the wire,”
he said. “Want me to talk to him first?”
Sandy nodded briefly and followed Mr. Cook out into the hallway. Mike,
who had overheard the exchange from the kitchen, slipped out and joined
them.
Mr. Cook picked up the receiver, winked at Sandy and spoke into the
mouthpiece. “Hello, John; how have you been?... Good. John, I have a
favor to ask. Mike and I are planning a camping trip up to the Rockies
and we’d like Sandy’s company.... Where? North of the Snake River
country, in the Lost River Range. It’s for a month, but I think it would
be four weeks the boys will never forget.... What?... Oh, don’t worry
about that. We have plenty of equipment.... Yes, we’d leave in three
days and be back about the tenth of next month.... What’s that? Well
here, why don’t you ask him yourself?”
Mr. Cook cupped a hand over the mouthpiece and nodded to Sandy. “He
wants to know how you feel about it.”
“Let me talk to him!” Sandy nearly tripped over the rug in his hurry to
get to the phone.
“Hello, Dad!” he shouted. “How do I feel about it! I think it’s a chance
of a lifetime!” There was a pause as Sandy listened carefully for
several minutes. “Sure,” he said at last, a grin of delight creeping
over his face. “You bet! Great, Dad! I’ll wire you as soon as we get
back. Goodbye and give Mom a hug for me!”
Sandy put down the receiver and looked at the Cooks with a dazed smile
of happiness. “It’s all set!” he breathed. “What a great guy!”
Mr. Cook beamed his pleasure as Mike bounded over to Sandy and walloped
him exuberantly on the back. “Attaboy, Sandy! I knew it all along!”
“Well,” said Mr. Cook. “Congratulations on becoming an official member
of the expedition. Soon as dinner’s over, we’ll go into the den and do a
little homework—draw up a list of the things we’ll need and talk over
the kind of country we’ll be going through.” He looked over at Mike with
a smile on his face. “But let’s wait till after we’ve eaten. If we get
to talking about it at table, your mother won’t be able to get a word in
edgewise.”
All through the meal, Sandy tried to put thoughts of the trip out of his
mind, but with little success. His attempts at polite table talk only
brought amused glances from Mrs. Cook. Mike, too, seemed preoccupied,
even to the point of refusing a third helping of fried chicken—an event
that so stunned his mother that she almost forgot dessert.
When they finally finished, Mr. Cook pushed back from the table and
stood up. “And that, I think,” he said, smiling gently, “was the
quietest meal ever eaten in this house. You fellows are a couple of real
sparklers in the conversation line.”
“Well, Dad ...” Mike began to protest.
Mr. Cook held up his hand. “I know. I know. You want to talk about the
trip. I don’t blame you. So do I. Come on in here and let’s get it off
our chests.” He led the way into his comfortably furnished den and
paused before a pipe rack. The walls of the room were hung with Mr.
Cook’s hunting trophies. Two whitetail deer flanked a stone fireplace,
and over the mantel loomed the head of a huge Alaska brown bear. At one
end of the room, rows of bookcases shared wall space with a gleaming
walnut gun cabinet.
Mr. Cook selected a pipe, fingered some tobacco into the bowl and
dropped into a chair near the fireplace. “Now,” he said. “Let’s have
some questions. The floor is open for discussion.”
Both boys started together.
“Do you think I’d better ...” Sandy blurted.
“How are we going to ...” Mike began.
They looked at each other and grinned.
“After you, my dear Alphonse.” Mike bowed solemnly. “You’re the guest.”
“Go ahead, Sandy,” Mr. Cook invited.
Sandy leaned forward in his chair. “I was going to ask if I should send
for my rifle. I have a .22 at home.”
Mr. Cook laughed and put down his pipe. “I don’t think you’d use it
once, Sandy,” he said. “This is big-game country we’re going into. We’ll
see mule deer and elk, pronghorn antelope and mountain goats. If we’re
lucky we may even spot a grizzly or a bighorn sheep. And we’re almost
certain to run into a mountain lion or two.”
“A mountain lion,” Sandy breathed. “What a trophy that would make. I bet
Pepper March never even saw a mountain lion!”
“Who’s Pepper March?” Mr. Cook asked.
Sandy scowled. “Somebody I know back home,” he said.
Mr. Cook smiled. “You don’t seem to like him much.”
“Oh, he’s all right,” Sandy explained. “It’s just that he gets under my
skin sometimes.”
“What would you do with a mountain-lion trophy?” Mr. Cook asked. “Do you
have room for him at home?”
Sandy thought a moment. “I guess you’re right,” he said. “But I know
what I could do.”
“What?”
“Start a trophy room at Valley View High. Jerry and I could build some
cases, and Quiz—he’s our brainy friend—could write up descriptions of
all the animals—like they have in natural-history museums.”
Mr. Cook nodded approvingly. “Good idea. A museum’s the perfect place
for a lion. But over a fireplace, I’d rather have a six-point buck any
day.”
“How do you rate big-game trophies, Dad?” Mike asked.
“That varies with the animal,” Mr. Cook replied. “An elk, for example,
is measured for spread between antlers, and the number of points—or
branches—growing out of each antler. If I remember rightly, the record
elk had a spread of nearly seventy inches and about seventeen points.”
“Whew!” Sandy whistled. “He must have been built like a truck!”
“He was a real granddaddy, all right,” said Mr. Cook and smiled at the
memory. “But to get back to your question about guns, Sandy. Here are
the cannons we’ll be taking along.” Mr. Cook got up and moved over to
the gun rack at the end of the room.
“For power shooting, we’ll use this Weatherby .300 Magnum. And I think
you boys ought to get used to this one.” Mr. Cook reached up and took
down a beautifully balanced bolt-action rifle. “That’s a Remington 721
in a .30/06 caliber. It’s lighter than the Weatherby but it packs quite
a punch.”
“Enough to bring down a mountain lion?” Mike asked eagerly.
Mr. Cook looked at the two boys and allowed a slight smile to play at
the corners of his mouth. “Since you both seem to have mountain lions on
the brain, I’ll tell you something I was going to keep a secret ...”
But before he could finish, the sound of a telephone bell tinkled softly
from the desk in the den.
“I’ll take it here, Julia!” Mr. Cook called as he reached for the
receiver. “Hello,” he said. He listened for a moment, then broke into a
beaming grin.
“Hank Dawson! You old son of a gun! Good to hear from you.” With the
telephone still cradled to his ear, he maneuvered the cord across the
desk and sat down in the chair behind it. “So you got my telegram....
Yes, we’ll be there. On the eighteenth. Oh, and Hank—bring along kits
for four. That’s right. A friend of ours is coming along. A lad named
Sandy Steele. Right. See you then. Goodbye.”
Mr. Cook put down the telephone with a chuckle and swiveled around to
face the boys. “Well,” he said. “Speak of the devil ...”
“Who was that?” Mike demanded.
“That, Mike, was about the best professional guide and hunter in the
Rockies. His name’s Hank Dawson and he has a honey of a hunting lodge up
in the Lost River Range. The three of us have a date to meet Hank on the
eighteenth. He’s meeting us with pack mules and horses at a place called
Mormon Crossing on the Lost River. I think you’ll like Hank. He shares
an enthusiasm of yours.”
“What’s that?”
“Mountain lions. His hobby is going after the big cats. He makes a good
bit of money collecting the bounty on their hides. Hank says he wants to
take us up in the hills for a cougar hunt.”
Mike jumped to his feet and gave a war whoop that rattled the windows.
“Where exactly is this place we’re going to?” he asked excitedly.
“What’s our first stop in Idaho?”
“Which question do you want me to answer?”
“Where are we going first?”
Mr. Cook spread the map over his desk. “Here,” he said, pointing the
stem of his pipe at the juncture of three rivers in central Idaho. “Near
the town of Salmon. We’ll stop there, hire some boats and a guide and
get you two fellows used to a little white water.”
“White water?” Sandy’s expression was blank.
“Rapids. We’re going to have to run dozens on our trip downriver.
They’re dangerous, too. We’ll portage our way around the worst ones, but
we’ll go through most of them. By the way, do you know what portage is?”
“Not exactly, no,” replied Sandy.
“Well, it’s simple enough. When you get to a part of any stream that
isn’t navigable for one reason or another, you pull in to land and tote
everything, including the boat, to the next navigable part.”
“‘Simple,’ he calls it,” groaned Mike.
“It’s hard work, of course; but you’ll both come back in better shape
than you’ve ever been in your life.”
Mike scrambled to his feet. “In that case,” he announced, “I’m going to
have to start preparing myself. I think I remember a little cold chicken
going back into the icebox, and that’s no way to treat chicken!” He
started for the door.
“But you just finished dinner,” his father pointed out.
“I know,” Mike shot back over his shoulder. “But I didn’t do a very good
job of it. Too busy thinking about the trip.”
Mr. Cook made a notation on the paper in front of him. “Item one on our
list. Hire the _Queen Mary_ as a provision ship so Mike will never have
to go hungry.”
“The _Queen Elizabeth’s_ bigger,” Mike called and disappeared into the
kitchen.
CHAPTER TWO
White Water
Four days later, Sandy and Mike stood on the pine-cloaked southern bank
of the Salmon River, looking down on a patch of foaming water that
boiled and hissed over jagged rocks, gleaming wet with spray.
The boys stared at each other wordlessly. Sandy was the first to break
the silence. “What did your father call this place?” he asked.
“Kindergarten Rapids,” Mike answered in an awed voice. “He said it was a
nice easy run to start with.”
The boys turned back to the river. From where they watched, they could
see a tiny flotilla of bright, orange-colored air rafts bobbing along in
the quiet water above the rapids. At first the rafts seemed to float
lazily downstream, but as they approached the rapids, they gradually
picked up speed until they looked like miniature beetles racing along to
certain destruction on the shoals ahead.
Within seconds the lead raft had entered the white water. At first
contact, it veered wildly to one side and was thrown roughly into the
air. Miraculously it landed right side up, but was immediately caught by
the relentless current and carried with express-train speed toward a
narrow ledge of rock.
Sandy started to raise his hand and strained forward. Beside him, Mike
cried out a warning. But before they could move, the tiny,
fragile-looking craft had skimmed past the edge of the rock, missing it
by inches, and was careening wildly down the last of the rapids toward a
quiet pool in the bend of the river. Scurrying gaily behind the leader
came three others and finally a fourth.
Mike sighed audibly. “Wow! So that’s Kindergarten Rapids! Where do I go
to get sent back a class?”
Sandy leaned down to pick up the raft and paddle he had brought with
him. “Come on, boy, might as well face the music and get our first
lesson.”
“All right,” Mike grumbled, reaching for his equipment. “Just write my
mother a nice letter. That’s all I ask.”
They trudged along in silence for a few steps. “Say, who is it we’re
supposed to look up?” Mike suddenly asked.
“Doug Henderson. He’s the son of the man who rented us the cabin. Mr.
Henderson said he’d be expecting us.”
“I sure hope he knows what he’s talking about!”
“According to Mr. Henderson, he’s been running these rapids ever since
he was seven years old.”
Mike shook his head. “What some people will do for fun!”
The boys scrambled down the side of a steep embankment and approached
the river. Crowded around a homemade dock directly ahead of them were
several boys about ten or eleven years of age. Except for the youngest
ones, who had on bathing trunks, all the boys were dressed in faded
dungarees and T-shirts. Sandy and Mike ambled up to the dock and hailed
a sturdy lad who was busy inflating his canvas raft.
“Do you know where we can find Doug Henderson?” Sandy asked.
The boy looked up and pointed. “Sure. Hey, Doug!”
A friendly face covered with freckles popped up from the other side of
the dock. “Hi!” he called. “You the fellows that Pop sent over?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Sandy saw Mike’s jaw drop. “That’s right.”
He smiled. “Think you can teach us to handle these?” He held out a raft.
The boy rubbed his hands along the sides of his dungarees and vaulted
over a wooden piling sunk into the ground. “Sure!” he cried confidently.
“Nothing to it!”
“So he’s been running these rapids ever since he was seven years old!”
Mike murmured. “That gives him about three weeks’ experience.”
As usual Mike was exaggerating. Doug, though small, was nearly eleven
and he had all the assurance of a qualified expert in his field.
“You’re going down the Lost River.” It was more a statement than a
question.
“That’s right.”
The boy shook his head in envy. “Lucky. It’s wonderful country. Have you
got a guide yet?”
“My father’s out arranging for one now,” Mike said.
“Hope he gets a good one. It makes all the difference.” He pronounced
this judgment with so much grown-up seriousness that Sandy had to fight
to suppress a smile.
“You’re right,” he acknowledged, “but it won’t make any difference to us
unless we can learn how to shoot some of those rapids.”
“All right, let’s have one of your rafts.”
Sandy handed over his and watched carefully as Doug Henderson flopped it
on the ground.
“Now the important thing to remember is balance. Sit in the middle of
the raft with your knees wedged tight against both sides—like this.” He
hopped in and demonstrated.
“Don’t tense your body but keep your legs firm. Make sure your middle is
loose so you can turn your shoulders in both directions. You want to be
ready to handle trouble no matter what side it comes from. Okay so far?”
Sandy and Mike nodded gravely.
“You fellows know how to handle a canoe?” They both nodded a second
time. “Good. Then we don’t have to go into steering. Come on over here
and I’ll tell you about the rapids.”
He led the way down to the end of the rickety dock toward the white
water and launched into a lecture that took nearly twenty minutes.
It turned out that Doug knew every ripple and wave in the Kindergarten
Rapids. He told them what to expect in the way of currents, where a
whirlpool was likely to form, how to fight clear of the rocks and what
to do if they got thrown into the water.
When he finished, he turned to them with finality. “And now you’re ready
to try it,” he announced. “You’ll get dumped but don’t let that bother
you. Everybody does. But you’ve got to remember to take it easy. If you
stiffen all up, you’re bound to tip over. Ready?”
Mike scratched his head and shrugged his shoulders. “Nope. But I guess
that doesn’t make any difference. Who’s first?”
“We’ll all go together,” their freckle-faced instructor ordered. “You
two go on ahead and I’ll bring up the rear. That way I can tell you what
you did wrong when we get through the run.”
“_If_ we get through,” Mike muttered, sliding his raft into the water.
“Oh, you can’t help getting through,” Doug called out reassuringly.
“Even if you’re dead, the current’ll carry you.”
“Thanks a lot,” Mike said as he got ready to cast off. “That takes a big
load off my mind.” The next instant the current was carrying him into
the middle of the river.
Sandy took a firm grip on the sides of his raft and followed. Even as he
scrambled to keep his balance, he could feel the river tugging
insistently at his tiny craft. Bracing his knees, he reached down
gingerly to grab his paddle. The current was much stronger than he had
imagined.
Suddenly a crosscurrent caught him amidships and sent him rolling
violently, like a cork on an angry sea. Every muscle in his body
tightened as he swayed back and forth to keep upright. Then he
remembered Doug’s advice: “Don’t fight the current. Ride with it and
relax.”
Sandy took a deep breath and forced himself to ease up. Almost
immediately he felt more confident. The rocking motion continued, but he
was on top of each swell, his entire body moving gracefully with the
raft and not against it.
Just as he was beginning to enjoy the ride, he heard the first rushing
noise of the rapids and he was catapulted forward. It crossed his mind
that this was like going off a high diving board; there was no turning
back. Then suddenly he was too busy to think. Everything became a series
of reflex actions.
The raft spun with a snap and he was shooting off to the right. Sandy
leaned back on his haunches and stabbed the paddle down into the water
at his left. The shaft bit into the river and slowly hauled him back on
course.
He heard a loud smack and felt himself flying through a curtain of white
spray. There was a sickening bump and he was back on the river, riding
furiously through a world of roaring noise and bone-jarring motion. A
long ledge of rock loomed up ahead. Sandy brought the paddle up and
pushed with all the strength in his shoulders.
His little raft bounced away and was flung sideways into a channel
between two ledges. Doug had told them that this was the fastest point
in the rapids and he was right. Sandy’s raft quivered like a live animal
as it shot through the funnel of rushing water, twisting steadily to the
left.
Further and further it leaned until water licked hungrily over the
sides. Sandy knew he had to right himself quickly and jammed all his
weight down on his right knee. As he did, an invisible hand seemed to
pluck at him and he felt himself pitch over. The paddle shot from his
hand, and in the next moment the waters of Salmon River closed over his
head.
The current carried him, bouncing him around like an old sock in a
washing machine, for another thirty yards. Finally he was swept into a
pool of relatively quiet water. He cut for the surface, blinked the
water out of his eyes and looked up to see a grinning Doug Henderson
sitting calmly in his raft, fishing for Sandy’s lost paddle.
“Nice try!” Doug nodded approvingly. “But you got too tense toward the
end. Head for shore and we’ll go through again.”
Sandy flashed the boy a grin and struck out for the near bank where
Mike, looking mournful and disgusted with himself, was hauling himself
out of the water. As Sandy reached shore, Mike leaned down and held out
a hand.
“I won’t need a drink for a week,” Mike announced, pulling Sandy up
beside him. “I just managed to swallow half the river. A couple more
tries like that and there won’t be any rapids to go through.”
Sandy ran a hand through his dripping hair and looked back at the
rapids. Half a dozen rafts were shooting through them with ease. He
shook his head in admiration. “Look at them,” he said purposefully. “If
they can do it, so can we.”
Mike nodded vehemently. “Now you’re talking. Let’s go!”
Two hours and over a dozen tries later, Doug was ready to graduate both
of them from the Kindergarten Rapids. “See,” he said, spreading his
hands in a gesture of finality, “all it takes is a little practice. You
fellows could get through there now blindfolded.”
“Maybe,” Mike admitted. “But I’ll wait for a while before I try it.”
They were standing near the dock, toweling themselves vigorously after
four successful runs in a row, pleased at having mastered a new skill.
The crowd had grown since early morning and, along with the younger
boys, there were a number of older teen-agers dressed in flashy cowboy
boots and sombreros. The older boys eyed Sandy and Mike from under their
hats.
“Who are the characters?” Mike demanded.
Doug squinted over at them and made a wry face. “Oh, those! Don’t pay
any attention to them. I guess they heard you were around and came over
to see the fun.”
“Well, the show’s over,” Sandy said as he picked up his raft. “We’ve got
to get back to your father’s.”
“I’ll go along with you,” Doug said. Suddenly he stopped and ran
forward. “Hey!” he cried. “That’s my paddle!”
One of the older boys was walking away with Doug’s ash-wood paddle. He
stopped when he heard the challenge and turned insolently.
“Prove it,” he snapped.
Doug planted himself in front of the boy and made a grab for the handle.
“There’s a notch up there on the hand grip. Give it to me and I’ll show
you.”
The older boy winked at his companions and held up one hand. “I’ll
look,” he said. Carefully shielding the handle so that Doug couldn’t see
it, he stared down at the wood. When he looked up, he was grinning.
“You’re wrong, kid. There’s no notch. Now beat it.”
Sandy felt a sudden surge of anger as he moved forward to stand beside
Doug. “Let me take a look at it,” he said slowly. He could feel his face
flush in an attempt to hold down his temper.
The older boy turned to Sandy and stared at him rudely. A faint smile
twisted at the corner of his mouth. “Well, well,” he drawled. “A real
river expert, now, eh? Know all about rafts and paddles and such. Little
Doug here got you through the course.”
“He did all right,” Sandy snapped. “Now, let’s see the paddle.”
“Are you going to fight for it?” The question came as a mocking taunt.
“If I have to.”
The older boy made a clicking sound with his tongue and shook his head
reproachfully. “That’s no way to act. Suppose we settle this with a
little bet.”
“What kind?”
The older boy dug the paddle into the ground and leaned on it easily.
“Now that you’re such an ace in white water, let’s you and me go through
some rapids. Whoever gets dumped loses. The winner gets to keep the
paddle.”
Sandy shook his head firmly. “The paddle doesn’t belong to either of us,
win or lose.”
“Afraid?” The question came like a slap in the face.
“No.”
“I think you are.”
Sandy breathed heavily, but managed to keep his temper. “All right,” he
said, biting off each word separately. “I’ll go through any rapids with
you. But we’ll settle the business about the paddle afterwards.”
“Done!”
Doug shook his head and grabbed Sandy’s arm. “Don’t do it!” he pleaded.
“He’s not going to take you down the Kindergarten.”
“That’s right,” the older boy nodded. “I wouldn’t ask an expert like you
to go down a playground for kids. We’ll try something more interesting.”
Mike moved up beside Sandy and grabbed his shoulder. “Take it easy,
Sandy,” he said softly. “Don’t get stampeded into anything.”
Sandy’s face was white and stubborn. He shook his head doggedly.
“Thanks, Mike, but this is the way I have to do it.” He turned to the
older boy. “Where is this white water of yours?”
“It’s right down the bend of the river near a place called Dog Leg
Falls.”
There was a gasp from Doug. “Don’t do it, Sandy!” he begged. “Forget
about the paddle. You don’t know that part of the river. Two men got
drowned there last year.”
Sandy looked steadily into the older boy’s grinning face, then walked
over and picked up his raft and paddle.
“I’m ready whenever you are,” he announced in a quiet voice.
CHAPTER THREE
Dog Leg Falls
The boy standing opposite Sandy grunted. “Okay, champ,” he said
mockingly. “Follow me.” He swung the paddle up over his shoulder and was
halfway up the embankment when Mike’s voice rang out.
“Just keep walking. We’ll find our own way.” Mike was amazed at the edge
in his words. He hadn’t realized he was so angry.
The boy stiffened in exaggerated surprise and turned. He did it so
slowly that it was more of an insult than an acknowledgment. A sneering
smile played over his face as he stared at Mike.
“Well, well,” he drawled. “Another county heard from. Maybe you’d like
to ...”
“Cut that kind of talk and get out of here!” Mike’s tone was curt and
hard. He took a few steps up to the boy and looked at him squarely.
The boy dangled the paddle carelessly from one hand and came down a few
steps toward Mike. “You wouldn’t be thinking about running out—now would
you?”
“I don’t think I’d ask that question if I were you.” Mike’s tone was
deceptively soft but there was no mistaking the fire in his eyes. He
glanced over at the boy’s paddle. It was swinging in a wider arc,
drawing closer to him with each step. “And I’d put that paddle down
before somebody gets hurt.”
For a moment Mike thought the boy was going to charge him. He shifted
his weight and got himself ready, but the attack never came. The paddle
suddenly stopped as the boy spun around on his heel and moved back up
the embankment, motioning for his friends to follow. Silently they
trooped along.
Mike took a deep breath and relaxed. Then he turned and joined Sandy and
Doug at the dock.
“Whew!” Doug whistled admiringly. “You really gave it to him!”
“It didn’t take much, Doug,” Mike replied, keeping his eyes on Sandy’s
worried face. “Hey, Sandy,” he said softly. “You sure you want to go
through with this?”
Sandy flashed him an amused look. “Want me to run away?”
“No, but ...”
“Then I guess that’s it. I’m in too far to back down now.” Sandy reached
out for his raft. “The only thing I need now is some information. How
about it, Doug?” he asked. “Do I get a briefing on those rapids?”
Doug shuffled over to Sandy, one toe digging into the piled-up sand
along the dock. “Sandy ...” he began in a troubled voice.
Sandy held up a hand. “That’s enough,” he said good-naturedly. “The only
lecture I want to hear from you is how to get myself through those
rapids I’ve let myself in for.”
Doug stared up at him in momentary indecision. “All right,” he said.
“But let’s wait till we get there.”
Dog Leg Falls was about a mile upstream from the Kindergarten Rapids, in
a wild and barren part of the river.
Mike took one look at the wild water, plunging noisily through the
funnel of rocks, and smiled weakly over at Sandy. “Wonder where you turn
off the faucet?” But it wasn’t much of a joke and nobody laughed.
Down by the falls—which weren’t really falls at all, but a series of
turbulent runs of water—the banks of the river closed in on the channel
like two jaws, wrenching it violently around in a sharp L-shaped turn.
Through this narrow trough, the water snarled and fought its way,
cascading over the rocks at the bend in towering sheets of spray.
On any other day, Sandy thought to himself, the rugged beauty and
awesome power of the river at Dog Leg Falls would make an exciting
spectacle. On this particular day, however, it looked vicious and
threatening.
Sandy tore his eyes away from the river and forced himself to listen to
what Doug Henderson was saying.
“... there’s really only one bad place. It’s just at the turn. See how
the river curves to the left?”
Sandy shaded his eyes and peered over at the spray. He nodded silently.
“Well, the current will try to pull you over to those rocks on the
right. You mustn’t let that happen. ’Cause if you get dumped too near
the rocks, there’s an undertow that’ll grab you.”
“Won’t it carry me along through the channel?”
Doug shook his head. “No, it won’t. It’ll tangle you up in the rocks.
They look solid from here, but they’re not. There are all sorts of
crevices and things, worn out by the water pounding against them. That’s
why it’s so dangerous.”
There was a puzzled look on Sandy’s face. “I don’t get it.”
“The crevices,” Doug explained patiently, “can catch you just like a
trap. You can put your foot in one of them and never get it out. It’ll
hold you under the water until you—” He faltered and looked away.
Sandy nodded in grim understanding. “How do I keep away from them?”
“When you enter the channel stay over to the left as far as you can.
Keep steering to the left no matter what the current does. If you’re
over far enough, you’ll make it with about three feet to spare. Think
you’ve got it?”
“I think so. Let’s get this thing over with.”
“You’re sure you’re all set?” Mike asked anxiously.
“Yep.”
Mike held out a hand. “Good luck, Sandy,” he said solemnly.
Sandy, who looked surprisingly cheerful, grinned confidently. “There’s
nothing to it. All I have to do is remember what Doug told me. Come on.”
Sandy led the way down to the water where about twenty silent boys were
gathered in tense expectation. Mike took a place near them and watched
Sandy wade a foot or two into the river. Standing by helplessly, he had
an overpowering urge to shout out, to stop the competition that was
about to take place. But before he could make a move, Sandy turned,
threw Mike a wink and swung into his raft. A second later he was
floating out from shore. The older boy pushed off directly behind Sandy.
With Sandy in the lead, the two rafts shot toward the narrow opening of
Dog Leg Falls. From where he stood, Mike could see that Sandy was
holding the course Doug had charted. The tiny raft trembled and tugged
to the right, but Sandy held her steady.
Mike felt a small hand grip his elbow with surprising strength. “He’s
going in just right.” Doug’s voice was breathless with excitement.
Mike nodded and leaned forward. “Come on, Sandy,” he heard himself
murmur. “You’re doing great.” Suddenly the two rafts disappeared in a
boiling cloud of white spray. His muscles stiff with tension, Mike
strained to pick out the bobbing rafts.
Doug spotted them before he did. “He’s okay!” he shouted. “That’s it,
Sandy!”
Mike saw them the next instant. They were both leaning into the
dangerous turn. Sandy’s raft hugged the left-hand side of the channel,
well away from the sharp wall of rocks to his right. In another moment,
he would be through. Mike felt his fingernails dig into the palms of his
hands as he mentally fought the white water along with Sandy.
“He’s rounding it! There’s room to spare!” Beside him, Doug was dancing
with excitement. “Look at him go!”
Suddenly there was a gasp from the boys crowded along the shore. Mike’s
eyes widened with horror. The boy behind Sandy had stopped steering his
raft. He had shifted his position and was leaning ahead recklessly, a
paddle in his outstretched hand.
“What’s he doing?” Mike yelled.
“He’s trying to tip Sandy over!” Doug shouted. His voice trailed off as
he watched the paddle snake out and jab at Sandy’s raft.
Mike stared with growing uneasiness as the two rafts slowly began to
spin. Faster and faster they whipped around, both boys now trying
desperately to keep their balance and stay on course.
At that distance, with both rafts floundering through towering walls of
water, it was difficult to tell which raft was Sandy’s. Mike fought down
an impulse to yell a warning when he saw one of the rafts steadily tip
higher in the water.
“He’s going to spill!” came a cry.
Almost as if that were a signal, the raft shuddered and flipped over.
There was a flash of a figure flailing the water and then, over by the
deadly rocks of Dog Leg Falls, a head appeared.
“He’s caught!” Doug’s face was white and frightened. “He’ll drown!”
The second raft, meanwhile, was still afloat and coming around the turn
fast. With a final leap, it shook itself free of the white water and
skidded to safety.
Mike forced himself to hunt for the figure in the water. Was it Sandy?
Or the other boy? There was a movement of color in the seething foam
near the rocks, and then out into the quiet part of the river popped a
paddle, an overturned raft and, following close behind, the head of a
swimmer, striking for the far shore.
Sandy wouldn’t do that, Mike thought to himself. He’d head for the near
shore. It must be the other boy! He swung around and squinted at the
lone raft floating safely in the middle of the river. Whoever was in it
was trying to fish something out of the water.
“He made it!” Doug yelled, dancing in excitement. “It’s Sandy! He’s all
right!”
Suddenly Mike was laughing. Despite the dirty trick at the end, Sandy
had won out. It was the other boy who had fallen in—not Sandy. It was a
lucky thing he escaped with nothing worse than a thorough soaking.
“Come on!” Mike yelled. “He’s coming in for a landing!” Together, Mike
and Doug sprinted down the bank of the river to meet the raft before it
touched shore.
“Hey!” yelled Doug, breaking stride for a moment. “What’s he got in his
hand?”
As Sandy guided his raft toward them Mike saw him grin and wave
something in the air. Then all at once he knew what it was.
“It’s your paddle, Doug,” he chuckled. “Sandy picked it up out of the
water. Don’t you remember? That’s what this whole thing was supposed to
be about. Your paddle!”
Laughing as they ran, the two of them splashed out into the river to
welcome Sandy.
CHAPTER FOUR
Eagle Plume
“Well, Mike,” Mr. Cook said as he settled down on a porch chair in front
of the cabin the Hendersons had rented them. “Think you can last till
dinner?”
Mike, who was stretched out contentedly on a hammock slung between
corner posts, opened one eye sleepily. “Depends on what day,” he said.
“I meant tonight.”
Mike held up a hand in protest. “Oh no, please! I won’t be able to touch
a bite till next Tuesday.” He sighed happily. “You know, it’s a real
pleasure to meet a woman like Mrs. Henderson. She never batted an eye
when I asked for thirds.”
“You sent her into a state of shock, most likely,” Sandy ventured. “She
couldn’t believe it after what you packed away.”
“I couldn’t believe it myself,” Mike agreed, stretching lazily. “I must
have lost my head. Oh, well,” he said, smothering a yawn, “I’m just a
poor kid who didn’t know the ropes. Give me another chance, officer.
I’ll go straight.”
“All right,” Sandy said severely. “Bread and water for three days. Next
case.”
“Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you. I’ll never forget you for this.”
“Say,” interrupted Mike’s father, putting his long legs up on the porch
railing. “If I can break into your act for a moment, I’d like to find
out how things went this morning. We were so busy talking about hunting
at lunch that I forgot to find out if you got your feet wet in some
white water.”
Sandy and Mike exchanged glances. On their way back to the Hendersons’
they had decided it would be just as well to skip over the experience at
Dog Leg Falls.
“Why, sure,” Mike replied casually. “We went through three or four
times.”
“Was Doug a good teacher?”
“The best.”
Mr. Cook groped for pipe and tobacco pouch. “I thought Doug acted sort
of funny all through lunch. Excited is more what I mean.” He cupped his
hand over the pipe bowl and began to fill it. “Anything happen this
morning?”
Sandy caught Mike’s eye as he shook his head. “No,” he said. “Nothing
special.”
“Hmmm.” Mr. Cook was drawing on his pipe. “You knew, didn’t you,” he
said between puffs, “that I’d hired a guide?”
Mike propped himself up on one elbow. “No, Dad, you didn’t tell us.”
“Well, I have. Fellow Mr. Henderson recommended.”
“Who is he? What’s his name?”
Mr. Cook pulled his feet down from the railing and stood up. There was a
look of amusement on his face as if he was enjoying a private joke. “If
you turn around, Mike, I’ll introduce you. He’s been standing behind you
for the last two minutes.”
The two boys whirled around in surprise. Standing near the porch was a
short, dark man with deep-set brown eyes. His straight black hair, worn
long, was carefully brushed back and held in place by a battered gray
felt hat. A red checked shirt, well-worn suspenders and a loose pair of
trousers tucked into high-topped shoes completed his outfit. There was a
feeling of relaxed strength and quiet power about his bearing that
reminded the boys of the mountains that towered in the distance beyond
the river. He looked as if he were carved out of the same stuff—solid
granite.
Mr. Cook shifted his pipe and extended his right hand. “Come on up and
meet the boys. Mike,” he said, “I’d like you to meet Chief Eagle Plume.”
Mike almost pitched forward on his face as he scrambled out of the
hammock. The Indian glided over the porch steps and suddenly he was
standing next to all three of them. Sandy had never seen a man move so
effortlessly.
“And this,” Mr. Cook went on, “is Sandy Steele, the third member of our
expedition.”
The Indian nodded gravely as he acknowledged the introduction. Mike, who
was clearly puzzling over what to say next, decided the proper thing to
do was bow formally.
“Heap glad you come with us,” he said solemnly. “We go trip together, we
catchum plenty—uh—” He glanced over at his father for some support, but
Mr. Cook was busy with his pipe.
Mike gritted his teeth and plunged on. “Catchum plenty—ah—”
“Scalps?” the Indian suggested helpfully.
Mike blushed furiously. “Yes, I mean—no—”
There was a flash of white as the Indian broke into an amused laugh.
“Sure hate to disillusion you, Mike. But that sort of thing’s a little
out of date.”
Mike stared at him with a dazed expression. “But I....” He grinned
sheepishly. “I thought you were an Indian. That name, Chief Eagle
Plume....”
“Oh, I am—a full-blooded Blackfoot. And your father got the name right.
It’s Eagle Plume, only most people call me Joe. It’s simpler.” He threw
Mike a friendly grin. “You wouldn’t guess it, but I even went to
college.”
“No kidding! Where?”
“Agricultural school in Montana.”
“So you’re a farmer,” Mr. Cook said.
Joe shook his head. “No, I studied animal husbandry. I figure on owning
a cattle ranch some day. Got one all picked out.” He gestured to a
chair. “Mind if I sit down?”
“No, no. Here.” Mike pushed over a chair.
Joe lowered himself comfortably and took off his hat. “Incidentally,” he
said, “last time I used that ‘Me heap big Injun’ routine was when I was
hired as an extra by a movie company.”
Sandy moved over to the porch railing and hoisted himself up against a
post. “Gee, a movie star! Were you a real bad Indian?”
Joe laughed. “I was a real dead Indian, that’s for sure. I got killed
eight different times in that picture. Some fun. The only trouble was
that I had to pretend to be a Crow Indian.”
“What’s bad about that?”
“Nothing really, I suppose. It’s just that Crows and Blackfeet never got
along too well together. Our ancestors fought over the same hunting
ground for years. We were always at war.”
Mr. Cook scratched another match along the arm of his chair. “But that’s
all finished now, isn’t it? There’s no bad feeling any more.”
Joe took a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and huddled over a light.
“You better not pay any attention to me. I just happen to know some
Crows I’m not too fond of.”
“But that’s personal,” objected Mr. Cook. “Nothing to do with the whole
nation.”
Joe hooked one leg over the other and frowned at the glowing tip of his
cigarette. “Yeah,” he said softly. “It’s personal, all right. And
mutual.” A look of hard anger clouded over his face, then disappeared
almost as quickly as it had come. “Well,” he said after a pause, his
good humor apparently restored, “so you’re going down Lost River to meet
Hank Dawson?”
Mr. Cook’s face lit up. “Do you know Hank?”
The Indian shook his head. “No, but I’ve heard of him. Where’s he
meeting you?”
“At Mormon Crossing.”
“Dad,” Mike interrupted, “I’ve been meaning to ask you about that place.
I thought the Mormons settled Utah—around Salt Lake City.”
“They did,” his father answered. “But some of them didn’t like it.”
“And moved on,” Sandy chimed in.
Mr. Cook turned to Sandy in surprise. “Right! How did you know?”
“That last day before we left Oakland, Mike and I went downtown to do
some last-minute shopping. Remember?”
“Sure.”
“When we finished Mike said he wanted a soda. With Mike, that’s a full
hour’s proposition. I didn’t want any, so I said I’d meet him at the
library.”
“Squealer,” muttered Mike.
Joe looked at Mike in amazement. “You mean it takes him an hour to drink
a soda?”
Sandy shrugged. “You know how it is. One soda leads to another.”
“I see.” Joe nodded gravely. “He drinks.”
Sandy sighed and nodded his head. “That’s about the size of it.”
Joe looked over at Mike sympathetically. “Poor fellow.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” cried Mike. “I’m not as bad as that. I can take
them or leave them alone.”
“That’s what they all say,” his father said. He turned back to Sandy.
“But what’s this got to do with you knowing about the Mormons?”
“Well, I went to the library,” Sandy explained, “and looked up Mormon
Crossing. I was just curious about the name.”
“What did it say?” Joe suddenly sat forward, looking watchful.
“It seems there was this party of Mormons on their way west from Ohio.
They didn’t stop in Utah, as so many of them did. They pushed on farther
west, planning to join the settlement in Nevada that was set up in 1849.
It’s not clear whether they never got there, or whether they got there
and turned back. The last anyone ever heard about them, they were in
Idaho. Mormon Crossing was where they forded the Lost River.”
“What do you mean—the last anybody heard of them?” Mike wanted to know.
Sandy threw up his hands. “They vanished. The theory is the Indians
massacred them. But nobody knows for sure.”
“They were massacred, all right,” declared Joe, staring off into space.
“Every last one of them was killed.”
Sandy frowned in bewilderment. “How do you know that?”
Joe looked up sharply. “What?”
“I said, how do you know? There weren’t any records. I asked.”
“Oh,” said Joe, reaching for another cigarette. “I mean, that’s the way
it must have happened. It was pretty wild country then, and it all
belonged to my people. I’m afraid they didn’t take too kindly to
strangers.”
“In any event,” said Sandy, changing the subject, “that’s how Mormon
Crossing got its name.”
“And that’s where we’re going,” said Mike, throwing himself back on the
hammock. “Sounds like a real garden spot. Any of your relatives still
hang around there, Joe? Let me know and I’ll keep out of their way.”
Joe grinned and shook his head. “We’re all nice and tame now, Mike,” he
said.
“You never go on the warpath any more?” Mike made it sound as if he were
disappointed.
“Just little ones. We kinda yell in whispers.”
“To keep in practice, you mean?”
“That’s it,” said Joe, throwing back his head in a laugh. “Then we’re
always ready in case another movie company wants to hire us.”
“Don’t take any jobs for a month, Joe,” Mr. Cook said as he leaned over
to knock the ashes out of his pipe. “You’re all booked up.”
“Suits me.”
“When do we start, Dad?” Mike asked idly.
“I thought in about two days.”
“Two days!” The Indian was suddenly on his feet and over by Mr. Cook.
Again it crossed Sandy’s mind that Joe moved with the grace of a cat. “I
don’t mean to speak out of turn or anything,” he said, “but why waste
all that time?”