smile.
Mike grinned back at him. “Right!” he nodded. “There speaks a man of
experience. Joe,” he said, suddenly changing the subject, “you ever been
in the mountains above Mormon Crossing?”
“Sure, a couple of times.”
“What sort of country is it?”
“A lot wilder than what we’ve gone through. In places it gets above the
timber line.”
“Good hunting?”
“The best. I can show you a rock bluff where you’ll see mountain goats
every morning.”
“What about mountain lions?” Sandy asked eagerly.
“You’ll get your cougar, Sandy,” Joe said. “Don’t worry. The Lost River
Range is full of game. A regular hunter’s paradise.” He shook the frying
pan and tested the johnny cake with a fork. “You know,” he said
meditatively, rocking back on his heels, “next to a little spot in
Montana I’ve got my eye on, I love this country best. It’s unspoiled,”
he explained. “It’s exactly the way it was when men like Jim Bridger and
John Colter first saw it nearly a hundred and fifty years ago.”
“Who were they?” Sandy wanted to know.
“Trappers. Guides, like myself. John Colter guided Lewis and Clark. He
traded with my people, the Blackfeet, and was the first white man ever
to see Yellowstone National Park. The Indians told him about it and he
went to have a look for himself. When he got back to his trading
station, nobody would believe him. A whole valley where the smoke comes
right out of the ground! They laughed in his face!”
“What finally happened to Colter?” Mike asked.
“He died, still sticking to his story. He was only about thirty-eight or
so. It was a hard country.”
“It still is,” Mr. Cook said.
“Yes,” Joe agreed. “But that’s what I like about it. Some day,” he said
softly, staring out at the setting sun in the west, “I’m going to settle
into that ranch in Montana and spend the rest of my life living with it.
Right in the back yard of the wilderness. I hope I never see another
city.”
“When will that be?” Sandy asked.
Joe laughed. “When I can save up enough money to buy it,” he replied.
“What happens if it gets crowded?” Mike asked. “Full of tourists like
us?”
“Not much chance!” Joe said. “Look at us. I bet we’re the first people
to come through here in months.”
“Well, we’re not alone,” Mike observed, pointing off toward the river.
“The joint’s filling up.”
The three of them swiveled around and followed Mike’s outstretched
finger. In the distance, behind a range of hills, in the direction from
which they had come, a lazy plume of smoke curled slowly above the
treetops.
Joe gave a cry of surprise and jumped to his feet. He stood watching the
smoke, every muscle in his body tense, his hands balled tight into hard
fists at his side. Sandy saw he was breathing in shallow, panting gasps,
like a runner after a long race.
Mr. Cook saw it too. He and Sandy exchanged glances. “What’s the matter,
Joe?” he asked. “You seem upset.”
Joe turned with a start. “What ... upset?” he stammered. “No,” he said,
forcing a thin smile. “I just didn’t expect anybody else to be out
here.”
“They seem to be following us downriver,” Mike observed.
“Pity we won’t be able to meet them,” Mr. Cook remarked. “But we’ll be
leaving the river at Mormon Crossing.”
As they were talking, the smoke suddenly stopped. It was as if someone
had thrown a bucket of water on the campfire. “That’s odd,” Mr. Cook
muttered. “I wonder why they did that? You don’t normally build a fire
and then douse it right away.”
“No, you don’t,” Joe said grimly. He looked even more disturbed than he
had the day of his accident on the Henderson dock. It was especially
strange since Joe had been in excellent spirits all through the trip
downriver.
There was an awkward pause that was broken by Mr. Cook bending over
their cookfire. “No sense in wondering about something that must be
fifteen or twenty miles away,” he declared. “Let’s eat.”
Dinner was a silent, thoughtful affair. As soon as the dishes were
scraped and cleaned in the river, Mr. Cook announced he was going to
turn in. “We’ll be up by dawn tomorrow,” he said. “So I advise you boys
to do the same.”
Mike yawned and said he thought it was a good idea. Fifteen minutes
later, the camp was quiet. But Sandy, who was stretched out near the
fire, found he couldn’t sleep. The excitement of his narrow escape from
the rapids was still with him. And now, added to that, here was Joe’s
odd behavior to worry about.
Restlessly he tossed and turned, dead-tired, but still awake. Finally—it
must have been nearly nine o’clock because he saw the moon was beginning
to rise—he opened his eyes with an angry shake.
Their clearing was in almost total darkness. The only light came from
the few embers that still glowed in the ashes. Suddenly Sandy became
aware of a figure on the other side of the fire. In the faint light
Sandy could just make out a face. It was Joe.
He was sitting with his arms crossed over his drawn-up knees, staring
into the red coals. His eyes were clouded with worry and there was a
heavy, brooding look about his mouth.
Sandy wondered whether to speak, but decided against it. Joe, he knew
from experience, was not a man who would willingly talk about his
troubles. All at once Sandy realized he was sleepy. He made up his mind
to forget about the mystery that surrounded Joe. He would think about
the cougar hunt tomorrow. And if he was very lucky, he would forget
about his experience in Cutthroat Rapids forever.
He finally fell into a fitful sleep that was streaked and shattered by
nightmares. Three huge black crows were chasing Joe, and he was trying
to help. As they ran together, they came to a quiet stream. But as they
started to cross, the stream became a roaring river and the three crows
turned into giant cutthroat trout. Sandy could see the red slashes on
either side of their lower jaws as they strained to catch him in their
razor-sharp teeth. Twisting himself around in a desperate attempt to
escape, he swam faster through the boiling current.
Suddenly he was awake, drenched with sweat and shaking like a reed. The
panic left him as soon as he knew where he was. Before he settled
himself back into his sleeping bag, he looked over at the fire.
Joe was still there, the troubled look still on his face. After a
moment, Sandy slept deeply.
CHAPTER TEN
Lion Country
“Listen!” Hank Dawson threw up one hand as he reined in his horse.
Behind him the column of riders plowed to a sudden halt. “Hear that?” he
called. Down from the mountain above them, through the lonely, windswept
stands of ponderosa and jackpine, drifted a yelping chorus of excited
barks.
“Dogs!” Sandy cried. “We must be nearly there.”
Hank nodded. “About twenty minutes,” he said. “Hear that deep-voiced
bark? That’s Drum—the leader. Best lion dog I ever had.” He turned in
his saddle and called back to the others. “Not far to go now. Think you
can hold out?”
They had been riding steadily since mid-morning, shortly after they
arrived at Mormon Crossing. Hank Dawson was waiting for them, as Mr.
Cook had predicted, with four pack mules and five saddle horses, ready
and eager to start the upland trek without delay.
Hank Dawson turned out to be a huge, raw-boned man who looked,
unexpectedly, as if he had just stepped down from the deck of a Viking
ship. His thick blond hair and reddish-gold beard were both worn
long—because, as he explained, he couldn’t find his scissors and he
never bothered to take a razor with him into the mountains.
Standing side by side, Joe and Hank Dawson made an odd contrast. Both
men had the same air of rugged power and quiet competence. But while
Joe’s strength was that of solid rock—planted firmly and unyieldingly in
the ground—Hank’s was that of a sturdy tree that towered high in the
clear mountain air.
It was a subdued party that had pulled up to Mormon Crossing to meet
Hank that morning. Joe, although he had regained some of his composure
after seeing the smoke from the mysterious campfire the night before,
was still thoughtful and quiet. As for Sandy, the experience above
Cutthroat Rapids was too fresh a memory for him to be his normal,
cheerful self.
But hard work quickly brightened the mood. The boats had to be beached,
turned upside down and covered with canvas tarpaulins. Trip boxes and
camping gear had to be unloaded, sorted, repacked and arranged evenly on
the backs of the sturdy, patient pack mules—bandy-legged little animals
that seemed to be willing to carry an incredible amount of baggage
without complaint.
Hank Dawson directed the entire operation with practiced efficiency. He
gave Sandy and Mike the job of weeding out excess equipment and storing
it away.
“That includes all your fishing tackle,” he told them. “You won’t be
needing that in the mountains. And the heavy camping stuff—like tents
and sleeping bags and cooking gear.”
“All the comforts of home,” Mike observed ruefully.
“That’s it,” Hank agreed. “Tents are too bulky. One frying pan apiece is
plenty, and a couple of blankets is all you’ll need for a bedroll.”
“What about an air mattress?” Mike suggested hopefully.
Hank brushed the idea aside. “That’s the trouble with most campers. They
go out on the trail with so much fancy equipment that they don’t have
time to enjoy what they came for. Why, I remember a party I guided
once—he came up here to get himself a mountain sheep.” Hank shook his
head in wonder. “That man was a walking sporting-goods store. Took three
mules for his equipment alone. It used to take us two hours in the
morning just to break camp. I tried to tell him right after dawn was the
best time to bag a sheep, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“Did he ever get one?” Sandy asked.
Hank smiled. “Sure,” he said. “I’ve got my reputation to think of. I got
up one morning while he was still in the sack and found me a real nice
ram. After I shot him, I propped him up against some rocks and went back
down to camp. ‘I think we’ll find ourselves a sheep today,’ I told him.
‘There’s a set of tracks near here that looks promising.’” Hank chuckled
and fished in his pocket for some cigarette makings. “Course, what he
didn’t know,” he went on, as he expertly rolled himself a smoke, “was
that no man alive ever saw tracks over solid rock. Anyway, he thought I
could and that was the important thing. I led him around for about an
hour and finally brought him to where he could see the ram I’d planted.
‘Go ahead,’ I told him. ‘Shoot before he gets away.’ Well, he rears up
his rifle and lets that sheep have it. The force of his bullet knocks
the sheep over just like I knew it would. I skinned it real quick so’s
he wouldn’t notice the second bullet hole and then gave him the head to
have mounted. He was the happiest man I ever saw. Guess he’s still
bragging about that shot.”
“Do all guides have that kind of trouble?” Mr. Cook asked.
Hank shrugged. “It’s bound to happen in this business. Ask Joe. He
knows.”
The Indian nodded gravely. “I’ve been at it for nearly five years and
you’re about the best party I’ve ever taken out.”
“Gee!” Mike laughed. “Can you imagine what some of the others must have
been like! We’re certainly not a prize bunch.”
“Yes, you are,” Joe insisted. “At least you let me do my job. The
arguments some people give me!”
“That’s it,” Hank cut in. “That’s exactly the trouble. People hire a
guide to tell them what to do—and then refuse to do it.”
“Or else they want a long explanation,” Joe added. “Which you can’t give
because there isn’t time.”
“Speaking of time,” Hank said, reaching into the bottom of one of the
boats to pull out a trip box. “We’ve got to get moving if we want to
make my place before nightfall. Start sorting that gear, boys.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” Mike said smartly. “No questions asked.”
Hank grunted approvingly as he brought the box up to his shoulder.
“Good. We’ll get along fine.”
After about an hour’s work, the boats were beached and secured under
canvas covers, the mules were loaded and they were ready to mount. “I’ll
take the lead,” Hank announced. “Sandy, you follow behind me. Then you
and your father, Mike. Do you think you can handle those mules by
yourself, Joe?” The Indian nodded. “Good. One final word of advice.
We’ll be going up nearly four thousand feet. The trails are hard to
follow and sometimes they’ll look dangerous. But these animals have made
the trip before. So don’t try to guide them. Just give them their head
and they’ll get you up safe and sound.” He looked around inquiringly.
“All set? Then let’s go.”
It seemed to Sandy that the trail led straight up, through narrow box
canyons and over barren stretches of rock fall where every step sent a
shower of loose stones cascading down the steep slope. Most of the time
he concentrated grimly on keeping his balance and breathed a prayer that
the wiry little pony underneath him knew what it was doing.
Occasionally, though, Hank would lead them across a relatively flat
plateau and let them stop to admire the view.
They were standing on one of these ridges—the silvery ribbon of Lost
River far below them and a towering panorama of snow-capped peaks all
around them—when Mike sighed deeply.
“What a perfect place,” he said, “for a picnic.”
“A what?” his father asked.
“Eats,” Mike explained. “Big thick roast beef sandwiches and a thermos
bottle full of cold milk.”
“You wouldn’t be hungry, would you?” Mr. Cook said with a smile.
“Oh no,” Mike assured him. “I’m not hungry, exactly. I’m just plain
starved. I’m so lightheaded from not having any food that I can’t stay
on the back of my horse. I keep floating away.”
“I’m afraid we can’t stop to cook a meal,” Hank told Mike. “These
mountains are no fun in the dark.”
“The death sentence,” Mike muttered gloomily. “I’ll never make it.”
“Oh yes, you will,” Joe called out. “Indians used to travel for days
with nothing more than a handful of dried corn. If they did it, so can
you.”
“I’m a little out of practice,” Mike pointed out. “Besides, I don’t have
any corn.”
“But, Mike,” Hank said, “there’s food all around you.”
“I know,” Mike replied gloomily. “I see it everywhere I look. Cold fried
chicken, hot buttered rolls, strawberry shortcake....”
“No, I mean it,” Hank interrupted. “A man could live for days on the
food that grows in the mountains.” He swung down from his horse and
walked over to a whitebark pine. “See these cones?” He reached up,
twisted one from a branch, and broke it open. A dozen tiny
reddish-orange pellets spilled out into his hand. “These are pine nuts,”
he explained, holding one up for Mike to take. “They’re like the piñon
nuts that grow in the Southwest.”
Mike took an experimental bite. “They’re delicious,” he announced.
“Help yourself. Plenty more where that came from.” Hank walked over to a
clump of grass that was laced with delicate-looking flowers. “Here’s
something else,” he called, bending down to pull up the blossoms. Up
through the earth came white roots that resembled onions. “Camass
bulbs,” he said. “You boil them in water and they taste like potatoes.
They saved the Lewis and Clark expedition more than once. If we looked
hard enough, I imagine we could find some puffball mushrooms.”
“What are they?” Sandy demanded.
“Just like regular mushrooms,” Hank explained, “but much bigger. Some of
them grow to be the size of a basketball. Two of them will feed a dozen
men. In the fall,” he went on, “these mountains are covered with golden
currants. Wild grapes ripen later in the summer. What more could you ask
for?”
“Nothing,” said Mike, munching happily. “Except maybe some more of these
nuts.”
“Tear some loose and let’s get going,” Hank ordered. “It must be nearly
three o’clock by now.”
For three more hours they plodded ahead, with Hank setting a steady,
tireless pace. The only sound that broke the mountain stillness was the
creak of saddle leather and the sharp, scraping noise made by the horses
as they carefully picked their way up the rocky trail.
The sun was just beginning to turn a deep orange at their backs when
Hank finally called the weary riders to a halt and pointed out the
faint, echoing chorus of dogs in the distance.
“How do they know we’re coming?” Sandy wondered. “Can they hear us so
far away?”
“They’ve caught our scent,” Hank explained. “They have a very keen sense
of smell.”
“How many dogs do you have?” Mike asked.
“About twenty. Real scrappers, every one.”
“I guess they have to be,” Sandy said, “to tangle with mountain lions.”
“Say!” Mike said. “That’s right. We’re in mountain-lion country now.” He
turned in his saddle and peered up at the bluffs of raw rock above him.
Hank nodded. “Yep,” he said. “They’re thick as fleas around here. You’ll
be close enough to shake hands with one before the week’s out.”
Hank’s prediction, it turned out later, was almost too close for
comfort.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hunting Talk
Hank Dawson’s hunting lodge, high in the Lost River Mountains of Idaho,
was the first house Sandy had ever been in where no woman had ever set
foot. In every way it was a man’s paradise—designed exclusively for male
society.
No chintz curtains cluttered the view. There were no pictures, prints or
china figurines on side tables, no hooked rugs underfoot, no attempt to
cover wooden walls with plaster or, even worse, with decorative
wallpaper. Hank Dawson had built himself a straightforward, sturdy
house. Massive, seasoned beams supported the roof. Half-rounded logs
formed the walls and the floor. All wood surfaces were scraped, sanded
and still fresh with the fragrant smell of the forest.
An enormous forty-foot main room looked out on a breath-taking view of
jutting peaks and misty valleys. Behind the lodge bulged a huge rock
bluff, dotted with clusters of vivid green jackpine and traced by a thin
finger of crystal-clear water that trickled musically down its rough,
gray surface.
One end of the living room was completely faced with a stone wall that
held the biggest fireplace Sandy had ever seen. Splendid heads of elk,
mule deer, mountain goats and pronghorn antelope filled up the rest of
the space. One animal, though, was significantly missing. Mike was the
first to notice it.
“How come no mountain lions, Hank?” he asked.
They were stretched out in front of the fireplace, deep in comfortable
chairs, relaxing as the stiffness of a hard day in the saddle drained
slowly out of their tired bodies. A full meal and the warm glow of the
fire had made them all pleasantly drowsy.
Mr. Cook and Hank Dawson were both drawing thoughtfully on their pipes.
Joe sat with his head thrown back against the stone wall, the smoke from
his cigarette curling lazily through his fingers. Mike was propped up on
one elbow, staring into the fire with glazed fascination. Sandy was
lying on a large, overstuffed sofa, one hand absent-mindedly scratching
the floppy ear of a big-chested tan-and-black dog.
The dog, Drum—Hank’s favorite lion hound—had adopted Sandy the first
moment they met. Ignoring everyone else, even Hank, he insisted on
padding around after him all evening and was now settled happily by his
side.
Mike’s question broke a contented, peaceful silence that had lasted for
nearly ten minutes.
“What’s that, Mike?” Hank said.
Mike repeated his question. “I see every other kind of trophy up there,
but no lion,” he added.
Hank tapped the bowl of his pipe reflectively against the side of the
fireplace. “Frankly,” he said, “I don’t think they’re worth mounting.”
Mike looked surprised. “I thought they were the best prize of all.”
Hank shook his head. “I don’t agree. Oh, they’re dangerous, all right.
Don’t make any mistake about that.”
“How big do they get?” Sandy asked.
“They vary,” Hank replied. “Mountain lions or pumas or cougars—they’re
the same animal, you know—are found all the way from British Columbia
down to the tip of South America. And the farther north you go, the
bigger they get. A full-grown male will weigh as much as two hundred
pounds. That makes them bigger than an African leopard.”
“Then why don’t you like to hunt them?” Mike asked.
“That’s just it. I don’t hunt them.”
“Huh?” Mike was confused.
“I kill them. There’s a big difference.” Hank shrugged and reached for a
match. “At least there is for me.”
Sandy slid along the bottom of the sofa and sat up. “I don’t get it,” he
said.
“Well,” Hank said deliberately through a cloud of smoke, “look at it
this way. If you had a vegetable garden and a woodchuck was tearing it
apart, what would you do?”
“Shoot him,” Mike replied promptly.
“You see?” Hank grinned. “I notice you didn’t use the word ‘hunt.’
That’s exactly the way I feel about a cougar. They’re destructive beasts
and wanton killers. I’ve known them to kill fifty sheep in a night just
for the fun of it. That’s why I’ve declared war on them.” He paused and
looked up at the trophy heads lined up along the wall. “There’s another
reason I don’t care much for mountain lions. They’re no challenge to me
as a hunter. It’s no good trying to match wits with them because,
essentially, they’re cowards. All you do is set the dogs on their trail
and they do the rest. You just follow the pack and, after a little
while, you come up against your lion crouched in a tree like a
frightened old lady. After that, it doesn’t take much to knock it off.”
“Couldn’t they kill the dogs?” Sandy asked.
“Oh, yes,” Hank said. “And they do. Old Drum’s been clawed plenty of
times, but, knock on wood, he’s still alive and kicking. A cornered
animal is always dangerous. I’ve had them charge me on several
occasions. If they’re hungry enough they’ll come right up to a house.
One of them tried to get into my corral once. I shot him just outside,
on the path as you come up to the front door.”
Mike shook his head in bewilderment. “I give up,” he said. “It sure
sounds like exciting sport to me. I wouldn’t exactly put it in the same
class as shooting woodchucks.”
Mr. Cook spoke for the first time. “I think I know what Hank means. He’s
the man with the gun. He’s got the advantage. The sport isn’t in the
killing—it’s in the stalking.”
“Right!” Hank agreed, leaning back comfortably. “I remember one time I
was hunting elk up in Thoroughfare Creek country in Wyoming. On the
first day, I spotted a real giant—oh, he was a beauty! He must have had
close to twenty points and a spread of nearly seventy inches. How I
wanted that head! Nothing else would do. I stalked that animal for ten
days trying to get into position for a shot. But he was a wise customer
and always managed to keep out of my way. Not that he got panicky or
ran!” Hank broke into a grin of admiration. “That’s the whole point. He
knew what I was after—I’m convinced of that—but he wouldn’t give me the
satisfaction of showing any fear. He was that proud. Well, as I say, we
played our little game for ten days and, finally, on the morning of the
eleventh, just as dawn was beginning to break through some gray clouds,
I stepped out into a clearing in the woods. I heard a noise behind me
and there was my elk. He was standing straight as an arrow, staring at
me—a perfect shot against the rising sun.” Hank threw up his hands. “But
I couldn’t do it. We stood looking at each other for about a minute or
two and then he slowly moved back into the woods—one of the most
majestic sights I’ve ever seen.” Hank found a twig and began to scrape
the bowl of his pipe. “I’ve never regretted losing that elk.” Hank
paused and corrected himself. “Actually, I didn’t lose him. He was
mine—in a way that no stuffed trophy will ever be.”
Mr. Cook looked over at his son and Sandy. “You boys still want to
bother with a cougar?”
Hank threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, come now, Arthur. Don’t
discourage them. Of course they do and I don’t blame them. I just hope
they’ll experience some real hunting, too.”
Mike, who had been listening to Hank’s story with a rapt expression on
his face, scrambled to his feet. The quick movement made Drum open one
curious eye. “Why don’t we start tomorrow?” Mike cried excitedly.
“Tomorrow?” his father said with a frown. “I’d just as soon wait a day
or two.”
“Why?”
“Well, for one thing, we’re up pretty high, you know. Before I go
scrambling around any mountain peaks, I’d like to get used to the
altitude.”
“I’ll go out with the boys,” Hank said unexpectedly. “You can loaf
around the house and take it easy.”
“How about it, Dad?”
Mr. Cook shrugged and put down his pipe. “As far as I’m concerned
there’s no better man in the world to take you hunting than Hank. You’re
sure you want to, Hank?”
“Positive.”