to be sorted and packed in trip boxes. The boats have to be loaded—”
Joe sat down on the porch railing. “I can do it this afternoon.”
“It’s a big job.”
Joe shrugged. “I’ll handle it.”
Mr. Cook looked up at Joe curiously. “You seem in an awful hurry to get
out of here.”
Now Joe became flustered. “No,” he stammered. “That’s not it. It’s just
that ... that every day you stay here is a day lost.”
Sandy remembered their appointment at Mormon Crossing. “What about Hank
Dawson? We’re not due to meet him for another five days.”
“Oh, that’s no problem,” Mr. Cook replied. “Hank’s probably there
now—getting in some fishing.”
“Then there’s nothing to hold you?” It was Joe again.
“No,” Mr. Cook conceded. “Just the problem of getting ready.”
Joe stared down at the porch flooring. “Well, suit yourself,” he said,
but it was clear he was not too happy about it.
“Why don’t we go!” cried Mike suddenly, bounding up from his hammock.
Mr. Cook was still unconvinced. “We have to check our ammunition and
sight in the guns. We haven’t had a chance to do that yet.”
“Why don’t you do it right now?” Joe suggested eagerly. “You go on
downriver while I get things organized here. We’ll be ready by morning.
I guarantee it.”
“Well,” Mr. Cook said dubiously. “What do you boys think about it?”
“I’m all for it,” Mike asserted.
“Sandy?”
Sandy nodded. “The sooner the better for me.”
Mr. Cook laughed. “Okay, Joe. You win. I’ll get the guns and you do the
rest.”
“Yes, sir!” Joe grinned as he vaulted down the steps. “I’ll go see about
the boats.” The next instant he was gone and running down the path
toward the river.
Mr. Cook watched him go and turned to the boys with a puzzled
expression. “Did you get the feeling there was something odd about all
that?” he asked.
“I sure did,” Sandy said emphatically. “It started when I began talking
about Mormon Crossing.”
Mr. Cook nodded in agreement and led the way into their cabin. “Let’s
take the guns a mile or two upstream and chew this thing over while
we’re walking. Frankly,” he concluded with a frown, “I don’t think I
like it much.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Sighting In
After half an hour of speculation, neither Sandy, Mike nor Mr. Cook
could come up with a reasonable explanation for Joe’s strange behavior.
But, as Mr. Cook said, that wasn’t too surprising. “We don’t have too
much to go on,” he pointed out.
The three of them were walking along the south shore of the Salmon
River, not far from Dog Leg Falls. The country there was perfect for
their purpose: it was clear of woods and reasonably deserted. Sandy was
carrying several boxes of shells and four or five sheets of white
plastic material, painted over with a red bull’s-eye. Mike had a small
bale of packed straw he had found in Mr. Henderson’s stable, and Mr.
Cook was lugging two gun cases.
“Let’s go over it once more,” Sandy insisted. “We know this much. Joe
wants to leave here in a hurry and Mormon Crossing means something to
him.”
“You _think_ it means something to him,” Mr. Cook corrected.
“We agreed that he began to act funny as soon as I started talking about
it. And besides, he seemed to be pretty sure about what happened to that
party of Mormons.”
“But, Sandy,” Mike protested, “they were massacred more than a hundred
years ago. How could that make any difference to Joe now?”
“That’s my whole point,” Sandy explained. “How did he know it was a
massacre? They might have died of starvation or any number of things.
Why was he so sure?”
The three of them walked on, lost in thought. It was Mike who finally
broke the silence. “This may be crazy,” he began, “but Joe could have
some inside information.”
“How do you mean?” his father asked.
“He’s a Blackfoot,” Mike explained earnestly. “This used to be Blackfoot
country. Maybe the story about the Mormon massacre was handed down
within the tribe—you know, from father to son—until it reached Joe.” He
shifted the bale of straw to his other arm and began to talk more
quickly. “I know that Indians are part of our life now, but the tribe
still means something to them.”
“You’re right.” Mr. Cook nodded. “They have a strong sense of tribal
identification. It’s quite possible that each tribe passes its own
legends along from generation to generation. Indians don’t keep any
records, so naturally it wouldn’t be in the library. Joe might have
heard about the massacre from his father or some of the elders of the
tribe.”
Sandy still wasn’t satisfied. “That doesn’t answer the question about
why he wanted to leave in such a hurry.”
“No,” Mr. Cook had to agree. “It doesn’t.” He started to say more, but
just then the path took a sharp turn and they came face to face with the
spectacle of the river gathering itself for its rush through Dog Leg
Falls.
Mr. Cook stood and watched the lashing water of the rapids with a look
of admiration. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said.
Behind his back, Sandy and Mike exchanged glances.
“That all depends,” Sandy ventured uncertainly.
Mr. Cook turned and smiled. “I guess it does, Sandy. I sure would hate
to try to battle through it on a raft, wouldn’t you?”
Sandy coughed and turned away. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he muttered.
“Er—don’t you think we’d better start to work?”
Mr. Cook tore himself away from the sight of the rapids and nodded.
“Good idea. Let’s look for a shooting range.”
“Over there.” Sandy pointed. “There’s a nice little hill and about fifty
yards of clearing.”
“All right,” Mr. Cook said, picking up the gun cases. “You boys set up
the target.”
“Wouldn’t dream of going through those rapids, eh?” Mike muttered out of
the corner of his mouth as he and Sandy walked over to the hill
together.
Sandy grinned back at him. “What did you want me to say? That I do it
all the time for laughs?” He watched Mike put down the straw bale and
prop it solidly against the side of the hill. “Besides,” he whispered,
“you know something?”
“What?”
“I’m afraid I may dream about it some night—and wake up screaming.”
“Come on!” a voice yelled. “You two fellows do more talking than a pair
of old ladies!”
“Okay, Dad!” Mike shouted. “We’ll be ready in a minute.”
Quickly he helped Sandy drape the plastic cloth over the bale so that
the concentric rings of the bull’s-eye faced Mr. Cook.
“Let’s weight it down with some stones,” Sandy suggested. “One or two
shots and it’ll probably fly right off.”
“Good idea.”
“Boys!” It was Mr. Cook again. “Pace off fifty yards toward me.”
They did as they were told, and in a few moments they were standing
beside Mike’s father, who was bending over the Remington .721. “There,”
he said, after the last shell slipped into place. “We’re all set.” He
held the rifle out to Sandy. “Care to try it?” he asked.
Sandy took the gun and ran his hand down the smooth wood finish of the
stock. Checking to make sure the safety lock was on, he cradled it in
his arms and turned to Mr. Cook.
“You know,” he said with a puzzled grin, “I’m not exactly sure what I’m
supposed to do.”
“Ever shoot one of these before?”
Sandy shook his head. “A .22 is about the only thing I’ve ever handled.
How does this gadget work?” He pointed to a telescopic sight mounted on
top of the gun stock.
“Just like a regular sight,” Mr. Cook explained. “It’s detachable, you
see. If you’re shooting short distances, you take it off and use the
notch sight right on the barrel. But if your target is—oh, let’s say 250
yards off, then you screw on this telescope. Take a look through it and
tell me what you see.” Sandy hoisted the gun up against his shoulder and
squinted through the round glass end of the scope. “Wow!” he exclaimed.
“That target looks as if it’s right on top of me.”
“Well, it’s a telescope, you know. What else do you see?”
“Two tiny cross hairs that intersect at right angles just about in the
center of the circle.”
“Right. Now what you want to do is line up the intersection of those
cross hairs with the target. Got that?”
Sandy nodded and, shifting his aim slightly, he focused on the exact
center of the bull’s-eye. “I’m on,” he said, holding the position as
best he could. “Okay,” Mr. Cook said. “Shoot.”
Sandy took a deep breath and curled his finger slowly around the
trigger. He braced himself for the blast and recoil, every muscle poised
and tense, concentrating on the circle of red that filled the sight.
Suddenly he felt an insistent tap on his shoulder. He jerked around to
find Mike’s grinning face staring into his.
“Hate to bother you, Daniel Boone,” Mike said apologetically, “but
you’ll do better with that thing off.”
“What thing?”
Mike reached out and flipped off the safety catch. “Okay, sport,” he
said. “Fire away!”
Sandy gave an embarrassed grunt and nodded. He brought up the rifle a
second time and tucked it into the hollow of his shoulder. Resting his
cheek against the curve of the stock, he closed down gently on the
trigger. The rifle bucked and roared in his hand. Sandy threw the bolt
and pumped another shell into place.
“How did I do?” he asked.
Mr. Cook peered at the target through a pair of field glasses. “About
five inches off center. Try again.”
Sandy brought the rifle up. “Want me to allow for it?”
“No, no,” Mr. Cook said quickly. “Aim for the target.”
Sandy spread his feet a little farther apart and took a comfortable
stance. “Here goes.”
The rifle barked again. “Same place,” Mr. Cook announced. “You sure you
were centered?”
“As far as I could tell,” Sandy said, a little annoyed with himself for
missing a second time.
“Let Mike have a try at it.”
Sandy handed the rifle over to Mike and stepped back. Two shots rang out
in quick succession. Mike looked over at his father questioningly.
“I guess that proves it,” came the answer. “Here, take a look.” He
ducked his head through the strap of the binoculars and turned the
glasses over to Sandy.
Sandy swung over to the target and focused in on four neat holes
clustered close together about five inches to the right of the
bull’s-eye.
“I don’t get it,” he said, lowering the glasses. “How come we’re
missing?”
“The sights are off,” Mr. Cook explained. “A little adjusting will fix
that.” He reached into a side pocket on one of the gun cases and pulled
out a screw driver. “Now, let’s see,” he said, glancing over at the
target. “At fifty yards, a minute of angle has a value of about half an
inch. Each click on this scope is equal to two minutes of angle. That
would make—” he pursed his lips as he made the mental
calculation—“ahh—five clicks to bring her in line.” He shook his head
and pushed his hat back off his forehead. “That’s too much. We’ll have
to adjust the windage screws on the scope’s mount.” Squatting on his
haunches, he began to manipulate two screws on either side of the sight.
“Hey, Dad!” Mike cut in. “You left me out in left field somewhere. How
about filling us in?” He turned to Sandy. “Do you know what’s going on?”
he asked.
“I think so,” Sandy said as he looked over Mr. Cook’s shoulder.
“According to what we saw through the sight, we were right on target.
The only trouble was, the sight didn’t match up with the barrel of the
gun. It’s just sitting on top of the gun and it must have twisted around
to one side. Right now your father is trying to get the two of them back
together so that what we see is what we shoot at.”
“That makes sense,” Mike conceded. “But how do you know which way to
turn the scope? Do you swivel it around to the left or to the right?”
“That’s easy.” Sandy grabbed a twig and drew a small rectangle on the
ground. “Here’s your scope. And there—” he ran a dotted straight line
out to a spot he marked with an X—“that’s the target. You see the
scope’s pointing right at it.” Mike nodded and Sandy went on.
“The four shots all fell about here.” He punched four holes to the right
of the X.
“Which means,” Mike added, “that the gun was over to the right in
relation to the line of sight through the scope.”
“You got it,” Sandy nodded.
“So,” Mike went on, “in order to get the scope and barrel lined up
together, we have to move the cross hairs over to the right.”
“And there are two ways of doing that,” Mr. Cook pointed out. “We can
move the cross hairs _inside_ the scope. Or we can move the scope
itself.”
“What’s the difference?” Mike asked.
“One is for fine adjustments.” He pointed to a knob on top of the
telescopic sight. “See this?”
The boys nodded.
“This,” he went on, “moves the cross hairs. And these—” he gestured to a
pair of screws—“turn the whole mount any degree you want.” He grinned at
them. “Simple, eh?”
“One more question.”
“Shoot.”
“How do you know how much to turn it? All that business about a minute
of angle having a value of about half an inch at fifty yards—that’s all
Greek to me.”
“You remember your geometry, don’t you, Mike? An angle cuts off an arc.
And you know how to measure an arc.”
Mike looked surprised. “In minutes and degrees,” he said, with sudden
comprehension.
“There’s your answer. Now I’ll grant you,” Mr. Cook added, “that I just
happen to know how big an arc an angle makes at various distances. But
that’s only because I’ve been working with guns for a long time. And if
I didn’t know, I could always figure it out. The rest,” he said,
standing up, “is trial and error. Let’s see how we did.”
With a single easy motion, he hunched over the rifle and, in rapid
succession, poured three shots into the bull’s-eye. “Well?” he demanded
as he straightened up.
Sandy peered through the binoculars. Three holes bunched together in the
space of a dime had perforated the plastic directly above the target.
“You’re right on,” he announced. “But a little high.”
“Good,” Mr. Cook replied. “We want to be high.”
“How come?” Mike demanded.
“Bullets don’t go straight forever,” Mr. Cook explained. “Gravity forces
them to curve down until they hit the ground. This rifle shoots a little
high at fifty yards. But it’ll be right on target at two hundred and
fifty—and that,” he pointed out, “will be about as close as you’ll get
to an elk.” He patted the gun with evident satisfaction. “She’s all
set,” he said. “Let’s get busy on the others.” Now that the boys knew
what they were doing, the work went faster. An hour and a half later,
they were finishing with the last rifle.
“One more shot, Dad,” begged Mike. “I’m still not happy with this one.”
His father shrugged. “Suit yourself. I think she’s fine.”
“You watching, Sandy?” Mike called out, slinging up the gun.
“Go ahead,” Sandy called.
Mike had just put his eye against the sight when Sandy yelled out a
warning. “Hold it! There’s somebody coming down the hill.”
“He sure is running fast, whoever he is,” commented Mr. Cook. “Take a
look through your glasses and see if we know him.”
“Sure we do,” Sandy said after a pause. “It’s Doug Henderson. He looks
scared—almost as if somebody’s chasing him.”
“Hey, Doug!” Mike yelled. “Over here!”
The boy scrambled down the foot of the hill and came sprinting up to
them. His face was pale and his eyes were unnaturally large.
“Is there anything wrong, Doug?” Mr. Cook asked.
The boy gasped as he struggled to catch his breath.
“It’s Joe,” he gulped. “Something’s happened to him.”
“What?” Mr. Cook’s tone was sharp and worried.
Doug swallowed hard and shook his head. “Don’t know,” he panted. “He’s
hurt. Dad says for you to come. It happened while he was loading your
trip boxes.”
CHAPTER SIX
Joe’s Story
Mr. Henderson was waiting for them on the porch of their cabin when they
arrived. “You can rest easy,” he called when he saw their worried faces.
“He’s not hurt bad.”
Mr. Cook leaped up the steps two at a time. “What happened?” he
demanded.
Mr. Henderson shrugged. “Can’t tell for sure. All we know is he got
himself a whack on the head an’ fell in the river.”
“Was he knocked out?”
“Colder’n a mackerel.”
“Then he could have drowned!” cried Sandy.
Mr. Henderson peered over at Sandy. “More’n likely,” he agreed.
“Who fished him out?” Mr. Cook wanted to know.
Mr. Henderson rubbed his jaw reflectively. “Now there was a lucky
thing,” he said. “’Bout four o’clock I told Luke—that’s my hired man—to
go down and check the calking on your boats. Seein’ as how they ain’t
been in the water since last summer, I figured ’twould be a good idea to
have a look at ’em. Well,” he continued, refusing to be hurried, “Luke
gets down to the place where I keep the boats and all of a sudden he
hears a kind of a yell and a splash. Being curious like, Luke decides to
have a look-see at what fell in. So he saunters on down to the river and
spots three fellers actin’ funny. They see him comin’ and start off the
other way. Luke hollers but they keep right on goin’. Injuns, he thinks
they were. Course, Luke’s gettin’ a bit old and his eyesight ain’t what
it used to be, so it might not be Injuns after all. You never can tell
about them things. I recollect once—it was in the summer of—”
“But what about Joe?” insisted Sandy impatiently.
Mr. Henderson shot him a reproachful glance. “I was just getting ’round
to that. Seein’ them Injuns, or whatever it was, made Luke move a little
faster and he gets down to the river just in time to see old Joe
a-floating away.”
“He was on top of the water?” Sandy asked.
“Well, no, not exactly,” Mr. Henderson admitted. “He was about three,
mebbe four feet down. But the current was carryin’ him along right
smart, y’see.”
“What did Luke do?”
“He hightails it over to another dock further downstream, grabs a boat
and, when Joe comes by, he fishes him out. That’s about all.”
“Do you think those Indians, or whatever they were, had anything to do
with it?” Mr. Cook asked anxiously.
“Hard to say. Best ask Joe.”
Mr. Cook moved to the door. “Let’s do it now.”
Mr. Henderson held out a hand. “Doc’s in there with him. He said to keep
everybody out till he’s through.”
“It’s all right,” came a voice from inside the house. “Come on in.”
The doctor had just finished and was buttoning his jacket as Mr. Cook
led the way through the front door. “Is he out of danger, Doctor?” Mr.
Cook asked.
“Yes, indeed,” said the doctor, reaching for his medical bag. “He’s got
a nasty bump on the back of his head, but nothing serious. There’s no
concussion. He may be a little sick at his stomach from all the water he
swallowed, but that’ll pass. The only thing he needs right now is a
little broth and a good night’s sleep.”
“He’ll get both,” Mr. Henderson promised.
“Good.” The doctor moved to the door and turned. “You know,” he said,
“Joe’s a mighty lucky man. If Luke had been a few minutes later, he’d be
finished.” He shrugged and pushed his way out. “As it is, I expect he’ll
be up and around by tomorrow. Goodbye. Let me know if he becomes
delirious or suddenly starts to run a fever.”
“We will,” Mr. Cook assured him. “Goodbye, Doctor, and thanks a lot.”
“Right.” The doctor smiled around the room and stepped out of the cabin.
“Well,” Mr. Cook said, after the doctor had gone. “I think we better ask
Joe a few questions. Where is he?”
“He’s in this room right here.” Mr. Henderson walked over to a door and
knocked gently. “Joe!” he called. “You’ve got company.”
“Come in!” answered a voice.
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.”