Mr. Cook turned to Mike and Sandy. “What do you think, boys?”
“Maybe he is mixed up in something, but I still vote we stick with him,”
Mike declared.
Sandy nodded his head. “I’ll go along with that.”
“All right,” Mr. Cook said decisively. “That’s decided. We’ll leave as
soon as Joe’s ready.”
“Better do what he said,” Mr. Henderson advised, “and set your alarm
clocks for five-thirty.”
“You think he’ll be ready then?”
Mr. Henderson nodded. “He’s a pretty tough customer, is old Joe. When he
makes up his mind to do a thing—well, it gets done.”
Mr. Cook grinned and threw up his hands in defeat. “Okay. I’m
convinced.” He turned and started back into the cabin. “Let’s get
going,” he said. “We’ve got some packing to do if we’re leaving for
Mormon Crossing in the morning.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Cutthroats
Lying in the prow of the lead boat, with his head pillowed on a
rolled-up sleeping bag, Sandy watched the towering stands of green pine
glide smoothly by. This was their second day on the river and they had
yet to see a sign of human life. The clear, sparkling river wound
through what seemed to be an endless wilderness of mountain peaks and
sweet-smelling fir forests.
The fast-flowing current carried them effortlessly ahead, deeper and
deeper into the wild, tangled beauty of the Lost River country.
Occasionally, Joe, who was stationed at the tiller in the rear of
Sandy’s boat, would yell, “White water ahead!” This was the signal for
Sandy to take up his paddle and brace himself firmly against the prow.
Then, as Joe steered skillfully through the suddenly turbulent water,
Sandy’s job was to keep the boat well away from potentially dangerous
rocks by pushing out with a heavy river paddle, whose shaft was almost
as thick as his wrist. Behind the first boat, Mike and his father tried
to follow the course Joe set.
Only once—when Joe announced that the rapids ahead were too risky—did
they have to portage. It was a long, hot job.
But most of the time they simply floated. Mr. Cook and Joe kept a hand
on the tillers of their boats, while Sandy and Mike watched the scenery
or sprawled lazily on their backs, drinking in the sun and the bracing
mountain air.
As Sandy stretched and shifted into a more comfortable position, he
could hear Mike singing in the other boat.
“‘Oh, give me a home where the buffalo roam, and the deer and the
antelope play! Where seldom is heard a discouraging’—Hey, Joe!”
“What?”
“Ever see any antelopes?”
“Sure.”
“What do they play?”
“Baseball mostly” came the reply. “And a little tennis, sometimes.”
“Thanks. Just wondered.” Mike took a breath and plunged ahead. “And the
deer and the antelope play! It’s baseball at night! A discouraging
sight! After watching the tennis all day!”
Sandy grinned and hoisted himself up to a sitting position. “I like the
original words better, Mike!” he shouted.
In the other boat, Mike assumed a posture of dignified disappointment.
“That’s the trouble with people like you,” he replied haughtily. “You
never appreciate an original talent. Why, I predict in a hundred years,
they’ll be singing my songs from—”
“Quiet, Mike!” The sharp command came from Joe, who was sitting
motionless in the stern of his boat. Slowly, he raised one hand and
pointed to the shore about a hundred yards ahead. “Look!” he said in a
low, urgent voice. “Look what’s over there.”
Sandy turned and followed Joe’s finger. At first, all he saw was
restless motion in a grove of trees growing close by the river. Then, as
he watched, the underbrush parted and a head appeared. An instant later,
a huge mahogany bear was standing on the narrow strip of beach that ran
along the water. Cautiously, the bear lifted up its snout and sniffed
the breeze. Apparently satisfied, the animal waddled out to the edge of
the river.
“Boy!” Sandy breathed. “Think we can get in a shot?” Keeping his eyes
glued on the bear, he reached around for a rifle.
“No shooting,” ordered Joe. “It’s against the law.”
“How come?” Sandy asked in surprise.
“Can’t shoot bears from a boat,” Joe explained. “You have to be on dry
land. Besides,” he added, “that’s a sow bear.”
“A what?”
“A female. I bet she’s got cubs with her.”
Joe’s guess turned out to be right. In a few moments, the big bear
turned around and was pushing something out from behind one of the
trees. Two little balls of fur tumbled out on the beach and began
wrestling near the water. The mother bear gave them both a cuff that
sent them streaking around behind her broad back.
“Never shoot a sow bear, Sandy,” Joe was saying. “The cubs still need
her and would die without her. Every time you shoot a female, you’re
killing three animals. Bears, you see, usually have two in a litter.”
Sandy forgot about the rifle and turned back to watch the family outing
on the beach ahead. Suddenly, when they were about fifty yards away, the
mother bear caught sight of them. With surprising speed, she snatched
her cubs and tucked them between her legs. Growling fiercely, her huge
snout wrinkled and her teeth bared, she backed slowly into the bushes.
But just as she was about to disappear into the trees, one of the cubs
broke away and scampered back out into the open. Exactly like any irate
mother, the bear let out a shrill scream of warning as she jumped to cut
him off. Growling and snarling, she scolded her tiny runaway and gave
him a slap that sent him spinning head over heels. The little bear
scrambled back to its feet and raced for the protection of the
underbrush. Still scolding and snarling, the big bear followed. Sandy
could hear the tirade go on for several minutes until, at last, it died
down.
“Now there,” Mike observed, “is a mother who doesn’t believe in spoiling
her child. Did you see the spanking that little cub got?”
“I sure did. I wonder if he knows why he got it.”
“I think so,” Joe said. “Wild animals have to learn fast. She’s probably
giving them both a lecture right now.”
“Speaking of lectures,” Mike called out to Sandy, “when are you going to
give me that lesson in bait casting?”
“Soon as we find some fish,” Sandy replied. “I thought you said this
river was full of trout,” he said, turning to Joe.
“It is. You’ll have your chance tonight after we make camp. I know a
pool ahead that’s a regular hangout for cutthroats.”
“Cutthroats! Never heard of them.”
“They’ve got a red slash on both sides of their lower jaw. I think this
is the only part of the world where you’ll find them.”
“That’s right,” agreed Mr. Cook. “The Lewis and Clark expedition was the
first to describe them. They’re greedy fish and fighters.”
“Hey!” Mike shouted. “Sounds good. How do they taste?”
“You _would_ think of that,” his father commented. “But, for your
information, they’re delicious.”
“Great!” answered Mike. “Put me down for three or four.”
“Got to catch them first.”
“Sandy’ll take care of that.”
“How far away is that pool of yours, Joe?”
“About five miles from here we’re going to run into the worst rapids on
the river. I call them Cutthroat Rapids because the trout run is just
upstream.”
“Are they worse than Dog Leg Falls?”
“Much worse. You can’t get through them. The river drops about six
feet—right on a row of razor-sharp rocks.”
“Oh, oh!” cried Mike. “Sounds like another portage!”
“You’re right. Feel the river picking up speed? That’s Cutthroat Rapids.
We’d better move over a little closer to the shore.”
An hour later they were tied to the roots of a stranded drift log. Mr.
Cook and Joe were busy unloading gear for the night, while Sandy and
Mike inflated two small rubber rafts and checked over their fishing
equipment. When Mr. Cook saw the rafts, he raised an eyebrow. “How
come?” he demanded.
“I thought we could move up and down along the shore a little easier
with these,” Sandy explained.
“I guess you’re right. But isn’t it a little dangerous? We’re just above
Cutthroat Rapids.”
“We’ll be careful,” Mike assured him. “Don’t worry about that.”
“All right,” Mr. Cook agreed reluctantly. “But wrap a length of rope
around your middles. In case you start to drift, it might come in
handy.”
“Okay,” Mike said breezily. “But now it’s time for us fishermen to go to
work. We’re bringing back tonight’s supper, you know.”
“I’ll go grease up the frying pan right now,” Mr. Cook said, grinning at
his son. “It won’t take you more than ten minutes, will it?”
“Give us fifteen.”
Mr. Cook laughed and went back to help Joe build the fire.
It was nearly five o’clock in the afternoon by the time Sandy and Mike
got down to the river with their fiberglas casting rods. Taking a
position opposite some broken currents about three quarters of a mile
above the roaring cataracts of Cutthroat Rapids, Sandy unhooked the
catch of his reel and made ready for his first cast.
“A good caster,” he told Mike, “can hit a leaf floating in the middle of
a stream.” He pointed to a small twig moving in their direction.
“That’ll be my target,” he said.
Sandy placed his right foot in front of his left, almost as if he
intended to walk out into the water. He held his rod in front of his
body with his right hand. With an easy, swinging motion, he brought up
his rod until his thumb reached eye-level. The rod quivered back in an
arc, then lunged forward. The line snaked out and soared gracefully
through the air.
A moment later there was an almost imperceptible splash about three
inches from the twig. Sandy kept a gentle pressure on the reel with his
thumb and allowed the bait to be carried along by the river for eight or
ten feet before he began to reel in.
Mike whistled in admiration. “Pretty fancy. Let’s have a lesson.”
“Okay,” Sandy said, putting down his rod. “Now hold your thumb against
the reel like this. Bring the rod up so that the tip is just about level
with your eyes. That’s it. Now, keep your elbow away from your body. No,
no. That’s too far. Just a couple of inches or so. Use your elbow as a
pivot and bring the rod up. Stop it when your thumb comes up even with
your eyes and then snap forward with your wrist as you come down with
your arm.”
Mike nodded. “All right. Let me try.”
Sandy stepped back and watched as Mike concentrated on his first cast.
The light rod whistled back and sprang forward. But instead of coming
out in an even play, the line fluttered from the reel and flew
erratically over the water.
Mike shot a glance over at Sandy. “What did I do wrong?” he demanded.
“Just about everything,” Sandy said, laughing. “First of all, relax.
You’re snapping the rod instead of swinging it. You just need a little
twist on the downstroke. In the second place, you’re not using your
thumb right. When the line begins to play out, make your thumb act like
a brake. Here, let’s try it again.”
After forty minutes of Sandy’s expert coaching, Mike managed several
reasonably accurate casts. “Okay,” Sandy said approvingly. “You’re on
your own. I’m going to take the raft and drift downstream a little
ways.”
“Watch the current,” Mike warned as he set himself for another cast.
“Like a hawk,” Sandy said, pushing off from shore.
But Sandy had underestimated the treacherous power of Lost River.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A Perfect Cast
The first hint that he was in trouble came when Sandy felt his raft give
a trembling lurch to one side and swing sharply out into the channel. He
had been casting for about fifteen minutes without success, keeping
close to the protection of the rocky shore as he searched the water
around him for the telltale ripple of a surfacing fish. Once or twice,
when he had strayed out toward the middle of the stream in pursuit of a
silvery flash, he quickly realized his danger and paddled back to
safety. But now he had gone too far. He was nearly ten yards away from
the near shore, moving at an ever-increasing rate of speed toward
Cutthroat Rapids.
Still, he thought to himself, there was plenty of time to get back. The
rapids were a good half mile away and the river was not yet white with
lashing foam.
In the end, it was a cutthroat trout that very nearly caused his death.
He was a big fellow—at least eighteen inches, Sandy figured—and he chose
that particular moment to break through the water with a twisting leap
that nearly sent him into Sandy’s lap. The sight of that magnificent
fish momentarily drove all thought of danger from Sandy’s head. Just one
cast more, he decided, and then he would head back.
But Sandy never had a chance to make that cast. The river, in one of its
unpredictable shifts, suddenly grabbed his raft and sent it skimming and
twisting out into the main current. Dropping all thoughts of landing the
cutthroat, Sandy leaned hastily over to pick up his paddle.
How it happened, Sandy never knew. One moment he had the paddle; the
next instant he saw it shoot out of his hand and land in the water out
of reach. He was helpless, caught in the grip of Lost River, minutes
away from a bone-shattering fall over Cutthroat Rapids.
Fighting down the panic that threatened to overwhelm him, Sandy twisted
around to call for help. Mike was standing just about where he had left
him, patiently practicing his casts, unaware of the terrible danger that
had suddenly overtaken Sandy.
“Mike!” Sandy screamed, realizing, as he shouted, that nobody could help
him now. “Mike!”
Mike looked up with a start. A look of surprise and horror passed over
his face as he took in the situation. Sandy saw him turn and shout
something to his father and Joe. Then he was running along the side of
the river, his fly rod still clutched in his hand.
Cutthroat Rapids was closer now. It sent up a deep, angry roar as
hundreds of tons of water thundered over its rocks. Sandy’s fragile raft
swayed and shook, tossed in every direction by the seething current.
Clinging desperately to the slippery sides of his raft, Sandy could feel
a cold spray lash at his face. Shifting his weight to ride out the
bucking river, Sandy leaned to one side, then the other. Suddenly the
raft leaped out of the water, gave an agonized shake and fell back on
its side. The force of the fall threw Sandy from the raft and he was
swept along into the remorseless current. The raging waters carried him
for about fifteen feet before they slammed him, dazed and shaken, into
an obstruction that clogged the river just above the rapids.
At first Sandy thought he had hit a rock. But as his groping hands
clawed for a grip, he felt the sharp scratch of a branch and the rough,
comforting scrape of a tree trunk.
Miraculously, the current had deposited him on the upriver side of a log
jam that trembled less than twenty yards above the rapids.
Gasping for breath, Sandy shook the water out of his eyes and took a
closer look at his island. He knew almost immediately that this was
merely a reprieve. Already the tangle of trees groaned and shifted under
the insistent tugging of the current. Here and there a few branches were
tearing free, too frail to withstand the pounding pressure of the surly
river.
He glanced over at the nearest shore. Only about twenty feet. He hadn’t
realized he was that close. The distance gave him an idea. The rope
around his middle! Would it reach? Would he be able to throw it? Hardly
daring to believe he had a chance, he took a tight grip on a stout
branch and, with his free hand, began to unwind the line.
When he looked back at the shore, the rope dangling from one hand, he
saw that Mike had arrived and was trying to wade out into the water
toward him.
“No, Mike!” Sandy shouted. “You’ll be carried away!” He held his rope
over his head. “I’m going to try to throw this!” he yelled.
But even as Sandy reared back to heave the line, he knew the light rope
would never carry all the way to the shore. He felt the log jam shudder
and move a few inches closer to the rapids. He put every ounce of his
strength into the throw, but the rope didn’t even reach halfway.
Sandy’s mind raced over the possibilities of escape. There had to be a
way out. There just had to!
“Sandy!” It was Mike calling out to him. “Get ready and watch your
eyes!” Sandy saw that Mike had taken up his fly rod and was about to
cast. Suddenly, as he realized what Mike had in mind, his heart gave a
leap. It might work!
“Go ahead!” he shouted, ducking underneath a branch. Following the
instructions Sandy had given him, Mike brought up his rod in a free and
easy motion. The line hummed through the reel and floated above Sandy’s
head. As the lure hit the water a few feet to Sandy’s left, he reached
out for it blindly, ignoring the risk of a ripped finger. But the
current carried it in a mocking dance, just out of reach.
Back on shore, Mike patiently reeled in his line and set himself for
another try. The log jam was breaking up now. Sandy could feel it sway
and give with each push from the river. He knew there wasn’t much time
left.
Mike’s rod snapped forward and, as Sandy watched, the glittering lure
flashed through the air to settle lightly on the coarse bark of a branch
six inches from his head.
Sandy felt the blood hammering in his temples as he maneuvered himself
over to the hook that seemed to hang there by a thread. With a trembling
hand, he reached out and snatched at the line. As his fingers closed
around it, he allowed himself a gasp of relief.
“I’ve got it!” Sandy cried hoarsely.
“Hurry up!” came a deep voice from the shore. Sandy looked up to see Mr.
Cook and Joe standing tensely beside Mike. “The jam’s about to give!”
Even as he worked the end of his rope through two of the barbed hooks,
Sandy heard a noise that sounded like a piece of heavy paper being
ripped down the middle. A large branch—it was more like a small
tree—suddenly tore away and was swept down to the rapids by the surging
current.
Sandy looped the rope once around the lure and signaled to shore. “All
right!” he shouted.
The line gave a tug and began to inch toward Mike. Carefully Mike reeled
in, making sure that no sudden movement would shake the rope free. It
was halfway there now. Joe and Mr. Cook splashed into the water, ready
to grab it as it came within range.
Sandy wanted to yell out at Mike to reel in faster, but he realized Mike
knew what he was doing. He couldn’t take a chance of a slip this time.
There wouldn’t be a third try.
With agonizing slowness, the end of the rope crawled toward shore.
Another two or three feet. The log jam gave another sickening lurch, but
Sandy hardly noticed it. He was watching the rope.
Suddenly it was there. Joe leaned over and grabbed the end. Mr. Cook
moved in beside him and, together, they pulled.
“Come on!” Mr. Cook shouted. “We’ve got you!”
Sandy filled his lungs with air and kicked off from the pile of logs
that had saved his life. The rope jerked once and then he was in the
water, being drawn along like an enormous, awkward fish. The river
fought to tear the rope out of his numbed fingers, but Sandy held on
desperately. The world around him had long ago ceased to be anything but
foaming water and crashing noise. There was an almost unbearable strain
on his arms as he was tossed back and forth like a prize in the deadly
tug of war between life and the river.
Just as he thought he couldn’t hold out another second, he felt a strong
hand grip his arm. Fingers reached out and grabbed his belt, and the
next moment he was being supported by Joe and Mr. Cook. Mike was
standing on the shore ahead of him, his face white and shaken, his
casting rod still in his hand.
“You’re all right, Sandy,” Mr. Cook was saying. “You’re safe now.”
He tried to speak, but the words stuck in his throat and refused to come
out. Panting heavily, he was led up the beach and finally allowed to
rest. As he threw himself down on the ground, a crashing noise filled
the air. Sandy forced himself to look around.
The tangled hump of tree branches was rising out of the water. As Sandy
watched with a dazed expression, it seemed to give a heaving sigh before
settling back into the river. There was a grinding roar and suddenly the
trees were gone, claimed by the howling fury of Cutthroat Rapids. A
minute later, and Sandy would have gone over too.
CHAPTER NINE
Smoke on the Horizon
“Care to talk about it, Sandy?” Mr. Cook asked as he threw three or four
thick slabs of bacon into a frying pan. Sandy was sitting, wrapped in a
blanket, propped up next to a roaring fire, a cup of steaming instant
bouillon in his hand. Joe was squatting on his heels, Indian-fashion, in
front of a flat rock, mixing up a batch of johnnycake. Mike was kneeling
beside Sandy, busy opening two No. 2 cans of peaches. A casual visitor
would have taken it for an ordinary camping party getting ready for a
relaxed evening meal. Except for Sandy’s drawn face, there was no hint
of their recent close brush with death.
Sandy took a deep breath and another swallow of broth before he
answered. “Sure,” he replied. “But there’s not much to say. I kept
following the trout farther and farther out into the stream until
finally I realized I was too far.”
“You couldn’t get back?”
Sandy shook his head in disgust. “I shouldn’t really tell you this. It
makes me look like such a dope. I was just about to head back for shore
when suddenly this enormous trout finned out right under me. He must
have been at least a foot and a half.”
“Whew,” whistled Joe softly. “That’s the one that always gets away.”
Sandy smiled wanly. “That’s the one that almost got me! I went after
him.”
“And that brought you out still farther into the river,” concluded Mr.
Cook.
Sandy nodded grimly. “I felt the raft give a heave and I knew I’d better
get out of there. But I was in too much of a hurry, I guess. I grabbed
for the paddle and it shot out of my hand. Next thing I knew I was being
carried on down to the rapids. If it hadn’t been for Mike....” Sandy
broke off and shook his head.
“You mean if it hadn’t been for the way you taught me to use that fly
rod!” Mike interrupted with a grin. “Boy, was I scared when I made that
cast out to you! I knew it had to be just right!”
“And it was,” Mr. Cook said with a smile.
“Prettiest cast I ever saw,” Joe admitted. “Bet you could thread a
needle with that thing.”
Mike flushed and worked furiously at the second can of peaches. “Well,”
he said, “it worked out okay, so let’s forget it.”
Sandy looked at the three of them and felt a lump rise in his throat.
“Listen,” he said, and he noticed his voice sounded strained and husky.
“I don’t know how to thank you—all of you—for what you did. I guess it
sounds sort of foolish to say that you saved my life, and all. But I
just....”
Mr. Cook stood up and moved over beside Sandy. “Don’t say any more,
Sandy. There’s no need to thank us. We were very lucky, that’s all.”
“But it was all my fault!” Sandy muttered, staring into the fire. “What
a bonehead thing to do!”
“Sure,” Mr. Cook agreed cheerfully. “You should have been more careful.
But you weren’t.” He shrugged expressively. “Now that it’s all over and
done with, let’s look ahead.”
After a moment’s silence, Sandy grinned up at him. “You’re right,” he
said. “I’ve got my eye on tomorrow. What’s the schedule?”
Mr. Cook turned to Joe. “How about it? You’re the guide around here.
Think we’ll make Mormon Crossing?”
Joe walked over and put the frying pan with its johnnycake batter on the
fire. “We’ll be there before lunch,” he predicted. He winked over at Mr.
Cook and Sandy. “If we can get Sleeping Beauty there on his feet bright
and early.”
Mike, who always took a long time to wake up in the morning, ignored
this remark. Leaning back comfortably, he began to chew thoughtfully on
a blade of grass. “You know,” he said, “I read a book once that said
that all the great thinkers of the world like to sleep late. Brainy
fellows like us,” he explained, “just seem to need more rest. Besides,”
he reflected, “we do most of our heavy thinking at night.”
“So that explains it,” his father remarked.
“Explains what?”
“That noise that comes out of your sleeping bag every night.”
“You thought I was snoring?” Mike seemed surprised.
“Yes,” Mr. Cook admitted. “I’m afraid I did.”
Mike laughed disdainfully. “If you only knew the problems I have to
solve! Night after night I turn them over in my mind, searching for the
right answer....” He paused and looked at them seriously. “I tell you,
those problems are heavy. When I turn them over they make a big racket.
That must be what you keep hearing, Dad,” he confided.
“Oh, oh!” Joe grinned. “Better stuff some cotton in your ears tonight,”
he said.
“How come?” Sandy asked.
“Mike’s going to have a real problem to solve. How to portage around
Cutthroat Rapids without doing any work.”
“Another portage,” groaned Mike.