porch, feet braced apart, a rifle cradled in his arms. Even at that
distance, they could see there was an air of tense watchfulness about
him, almost as though he expected a sudden attack. When he saw the three
of them pounding down the hill toward the house, he vaulted down the
steps, waving his arms in an urgent message of warning. But they were
still too far away to hear what he was trying to tell them.
Hank broke stride briefly and levered a handful of shells into the
breech of his rifle. Without knowing why, Sandy followed suit.
Mr. Cook was now standing in the middle of what could be considered
Hank’s back yard. The two corrals—one for the dogs and the other for the
pack animals—were over to his right. Hank’s lean-to that served as a
feed barn was fifty yards over to his left. The dogs, especially Drum,
were wild with excitement, adding to the noise and confusion with their
sharp yelps of eagerness.
Sandy jammed the last shell into position and raced to catch up with
Mike and Hank. “Watch out!” he heard Mr. Cook cry. “He’s somewhere near
us.”
“Who?” Sandy shouted breathlessly as he braked to a stop beside them.
“There’s a wounded mountain lion around,” Hank said. The line of his jaw
was firm and his eyes looked grim.
“He came up to the house about five minutes ago,” Mr. Cook explained. “I
was inside, sitting by the fire, when I heard a terrific racket behind
the house. All the dogs were barking at once. I went out to investigate
and saw them scratching and jumping, trying to get out of the corral.
Then I saw the cat. I raced back into the house, grabbed a gun and tried
for a shot. I should have been more careful and taken a little time. But
I was rattled. My first two shots were wild. The third one, though, got
him. I’m positive of that.”
“Where was he when you hit him?” Hank asked.
“Right over there. Near the watering trough.”
“Let’s take a look.” Hank led the way over to the trough and crouched
down to examine the ground. “This rain’s coming down so fast it’s hard
to tell,” he muttered. He peered closely at the area around the trough
and then straightened with a grunt of satisfaction. “You got him all
right,” he said. “There’s a spill of fresh blood on the grass there.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t put him away,” Mr. Cook apologized. “I thought I was
a better shot than that.”
“Don’t blame you a bit,” Hank replied. “What with the storm and all,
this light’s tricky.” He turned to Sandy and Mike. “Well, you’ve got
your lion hunt, boys. We’re going to get that cat.”
Sandy wheeled and started for the corral. “I’ll let the dogs out,” he
said.
Hank threw out an arm to stop him. “Wait a minute. I don’t think we’ll
use them. We already know where he is.” He spoke to Mr. Cook. “Where did
you see him last?”
Mr. Cook pointed in the direction of the feeding shed. “He was headed
that way.”
“All right,” Hank said. “We’ll each take one side of the building. Check
your guns and make sure your safety’s off. As soon as you spot him,
start pouring lead. If you’ve got a side shot, aim right behind his
shoulder. If he’s coming at you head-on, blast him in the chest. Is that
clear?”
They nodded and started to move away. “One thing more,” Hank added.
“Don’t take any chances. He’s wounded and he’s dangerous. This storm has
made him nervous and he’s probably plenty mad. Sandy, you take the north
side of the shed. Mike, you cover the west.”
It was then that Sandy noticed for the first time that Joe wasn’t with
them. He started to ask why, but checked himself. There would be plenty
of time for that later. Thumbing the safety catch back, he curled his
finger around the trigger and moved cautiously into position.
The rain was letting up a little, but it was still difficult to see.
Massive dark clouds continued to roll overhead. Trees, heavy with
rainwater, bent and rustled under the force of a snarling wind that
slashed at loose leaves and stirred bushes into sudden motion.
Or was that the wind?
Sandy froze and took a closer look. The top leaves of a bush about
seventy-five yards away trembled slightly and then settled back into
immobility. Crouched under the tangled stems of the bush was what looked
like a long, lean shape, hugging flatly against the ground.
Sandy’s heart thumped under the pressure of pounding blood as he knelt
slowly to pick up a handful of stones. How long, he wondered, did it
take for a mountain lion in full charge to cover seventy-five yards? The
thought crossed his mind that he should shoot first, but he rejected it
almost immediately as being too risky. The first shot, Hank had told him
once, was the one that counted. Every competent hunter waited for his
quarry to present itself before he pulled the trigger. Shooting at
shadows was wasteful and dangerous.
Sandy took a deep breath and heaved the stones into the bush. As they
whistled through the leaves and branches, he yanked his rifle up to his
shoulder and tensed himself for a flash of yellow fury.
But nothing happened.
The long, menacing shape under the bush hadn’t moved. Sandy’s hand was
shaking as he lowered the rifle. Breathing in short, dry gasps, he
forced himself to relax. There was nothing under the bush more dangerous
than a dead, half-rotted log.
Feeling embarrassed and a little foolish, he turned to see how the
others were doing. Over to his right, Mike was sweeping carefully in
toward the shed, his body bent slightly forward in an attitude of
absorbed concentration.
Just as Sandy craned around to locate Mr. Cook, the corner of his eye
caught a lightning-fast motion. It happened so quickly and was over so
fast that Sandy wasn’t sure, at first, whether he had actually seen it.
Something vaguely earth-colored had dropped silently from a tree behind
Mike and was now hidden under a cover of tall grass that ran along the
border of the clearing.
Uneasily, Sandy swung around and moved closer to the waving grass under
the tree. He saw a flurry among the stems and then what looked like a
ripple of motion less than forty yards behind Mike’s back.
Sandy broke into a quick trot, narrowing the range to approximately
sixty yards. Mike was completely unaware of what was going on behind
him, and Sandy felt no inclination to shout. A startled cat might jump
before he was properly in position.
There was another rippling movement from the clump of grass. Then slowly
the tangle of underbrush parted and Sandy saw the mountain lion.
The big cat’s head was flat against the ground and his eyes were
fastened on Mike. Sandy sensed that the beast was gathering itself for a
spring, and suddenly he knew that he would have to fire quickly.
Now that the crisis had come, Sandy was surprisingly calm. He brought
the rifle up to his shoulder and nestled his cheek comfortably against
the stock. As the mountain lion loomed up into the field of his
telescopic sight, Sandy noticed that his eyes were thin slits of yellow.
They looked malevolent and deadly. Powerful muscles at the joints of his
shoulders gathered and hunched into hard knots. In another moment they
would uncoil, sending two hundred pounds of clawing death down on Mike’s
unsuspecting back.
Bracing himself for the gun’s recoil, Sandy took a deep breath and
squeezed slowly down on the trigger. The intersection of the two cross
hairs was centered on a spot directly above and behind the cougar’s
foreleg. Sandy could feel the trigger pressing harder into the crook of
his finger as he held the rifle steady. He closed down the last
sixteenth of an inch and held his breath.
The cat made his move a split second before Sandy fired. Then three
things happened simultaneously. Sandy’s rifle roared out, missing a
fatal spot, but slamming into the cougar’s side. Mike whirled around at
the sound of the explosion, saw the cat and backed away instinctively.
As he stepped back, his foot caught on a stray root and he sprawled
awkwardly to the ground, losing his rifle. The impact of the bullet
momentarily broke the lion’s charge. The force of the blow sent him
spinning into the earth with a spine-tingling scream of pain and rage.
By the time he clawed back to his feet to renew his attack, Sandy had
managed to pump another shell into the chamber.
This time he didn’t miss. He caught the cat three inches behind the
shoulder and could almost see the slug smack home. The lion lunged
through the air, jerked once and slumped to the ground, barely fifteen
feet from Mike’s frightened face.
Still holding his rifle, Sandy walked unsteadily over to Mike.
“You all right?” he asked huskily.
Mike gulped and nodded wordlessly. His face was completely drained of
color. He made no attempt to stand up.
The next moment, Mr. Cook was bending over his son, but Mike refused any
help and scrambled to his feet. He walked over to Sandy and extended his
hand. “Thanks, Sandy,” he said quietly. “I never expected to come out of
that alive.”
Sandy took the outstretched hand and gave Mike a friendly punch on the
shoulder. “That makes us even, Mike.”
Mike managed a weak grin of acknowledgment. “Let’s not do it again,” he
said.
Hank, who had been covering the south side of the shed, was the last to
arrive on the scene. When he was told what had happened, he frowned and
walked over to Mr. Cook.
“Listen, Arthur,” he said sincerely, “I’m sorry Mike had such a bad
time, but I guess it’s my fault. I should have stalked that lion alone.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” Mr. Cook replied. “The boys wouldn’t have let
you.”
“Anyway,” Hank went on, “I never expected to see a mountain lion attack
from cover. They don’t normally do that, unless they’re being deviled by
dogs. I’ve been going after them for more than twenty years and this is
the first time anything like that’s ever happened. I knew there’d be a
little danger, but I didn’t think it would be quite so serious. I was
confident the boys would have plenty of time to place their shots.”
“Well,” observed Mr. Cook with a smile, “they did. Or at least one of
them did.”
They walked over to the dead mountain lion. Hank bent down and lifted
one enormous paw. “Right where I told you to shoot,” he said. “Nice
work, Sandy. I’ll skin it for you and you’ll have yourself a fine
trophy.”
“I think Mike should have it,” Sandy said. “As a sort of reminder.”
“No, thanks!” Mike protested. “I’d just as soon never see that cat
again. I’ll bag one of my own. Joe guaranteed it—remember?” Mike stopped
and looked around with a puzzled expression.
“By the way,” he said, “where is Joe? You’d think he’d be here, with all
this shooting.”
Mr. Cook cleared his throat and looked at the three of them strangely.
“I’ve got some news for you,” he said, “and I don’t know what to make of
it. Early this morning—right after you left—Joe and I were sitting on
the porch, cleaning the guns, when suddenly I noticed him start and grow
pale. I followed his eyes and there—up in the mountains behind the
lodge—I saw a thin column of smoke. You three didn’t light a campfire by
any chance?”
They shook their heads.
Mr. Cook raised his eyebrows and nodded. “I was afraid of that,” he went
on. “About an hour later I noticed that Joe was gone. I looked around
and called, but he wasn’t in the house or near it.”
“What do you mean?” Sandy asked.
“Exactly what I said,” Mr. Cook slowly replied. “Joe has
disappeared—vanished.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Three Crows
“You don’t suppose,” Sandy suggested, and the words came out hesitantly,
“that he was killed by the lion? That he walked right across his path?”
“The lion came down from above us,” Mr. Cook pointed out. “There’s no
guarantee that Joe went in that direction.”
“But the smoke,” Sandy countered. “You said it was coming from the
mountain.”
“Yes, but how do we know he went looking for the men that built the
fire? It seemed to me he didn’t especially want to meet them. He
probably went back down the trail to Mormon Crossing.”
“That’s true,” Sandy admitted. “Except for one thing. It doesn’t sound
like Joe.”
“I go along with Sandy,” Mike asserted. “Joe isn’t the kind of person
who backs away from trouble.”
“Say, hold on for a minute,” Hank interrupted. “You people seem to know
an awful lot more than I do.” He turned to Mr. Cook. “What did you mean
just now when you said something about the men who built the fire? Have
you seen anybody on your trip upriver?”
Mr. Cook quickly filled Hank in on the story of Joe’s mishap back in
Salmon. Hank listened attentively, without unnecessary interruptions.
Mr. Cook told him Joe’s story about the three Crow Indians and ended up
describing Joe’s reaction the night above Cutthroat Rapids when they saw
the mysterious smoke on the horizon. “It’s all too much of a pattern for
me to believe it’s coincidence,” Mr. Cook concluded.
“But what kind of a pattern?”
“I haven’t the foggiest idea.”
“You left out one thing,” Sandy reminded Mr. Cook. “How he seemed to
know all about Mormon Crossing and the massacre.”
“I thought we’d settled that. It was tribal lore passed down from his
elders.”
“No,” Sandy insisted. “That’s still a theory. We don’t know for sure.”
“Hey!” Mike interrupted suddenly. “Did you take a look to see if his
stuff is still around?”
“I did,” his father replied. “And it is.”
“Then he didn’t go back down to the river,” Mike said triumphantly.
“Why do you say that?”
“If he planned to run away, he’d take his things with him. If he
intended to come back, he wouldn’t bother.”
Mr. Cook nodded in agreement. “You’ve got a point there.”
“That means,” Mike went on, “that he’s up there somewhere in the
mountains.”
“With the chances very good,” Sandy said, “of his being in trouble.”
There was a pause as the four of them stared thoughtfully at the jagged
range of peaks that towered above them. The rain had tapered off and a
weak sun was struggling to break through the clouds.
“Yes, you may be right,” Mr. Cook agreed. “But I’m afraid we can’t do
much. No sense in stumbling around without knowing where we’re going.”
“Would you help him if you could?” Sandy asked eagerly.
“Yes, I would,” Mr. Cook said with conviction. “I like Joe and if
there’s anything dishonest going on, I’m positive Joe’s not mixed up in
it.”
“All right, then,” Sandy said unexpectedly. “Let’s go.”
They stared at him in astonishment. “Where?” Mr. Cook said. “Where do we
start?”
“You said Joe left his things?”
“That’s right.”
Sandy addressed his next question to Hank. “Those dogs of yours—they
track lions by scent, don’t they?”
Hank granted that was so.
“If we give them some of Joe’s clothing to sniff,” Sandy went on,
“wouldn’t they follow his scent?”
“Like bloodhounds!” Mike cried.
“Exactly. What about it?”
“It might work,” Hank said slowly. “It’s certainly worth a try.”
“I’ll go and get an old shirt of Joe’s,” Mike said, turning toward the
lodge.
“Hang on a minute,” Mr. Cook ordered. “Let’s not rush out right away. If
we start tracking Joe, it might take some time. Overnight maybe. I
suggest we pack some supplies, get a good meal inside ourselves and then
go.”
Mike grinned over at his father. “Now that,” he said enthusiastically,
“sounds like a first-rate idea—particularly the part about food.”
“I thought you’d appreciate it,” Mr. Cook said dryly.
At first the dogs were undecided about Joe’s shirt. They sniffed it and
nosed it back and forth eagerly but refused to strike out on a course.
Instead they ran around in circles, some of them off in one direction,
others headed exactly the opposite way.
It was Drum who finally called the pack to order. He had been moving
purposefully around the clearing, keeping his nose close to the ground,
when suddenly he stopped and began to scratch the earth. After a few
minutes of furious activity, he looked up and trotted back to the shirt
for a second sniff. It seemed to satisfy him. Raising his head, he
barked commandingly. The dogs around him stopped their aimless wandering
and turned around. A series of deep-throated barks brought them
scampering up as he led the way over the trail that curved deep into the
mountains.
“That’s it!” cried Hank. “He’s got the scent! You can always tell.”
Hurriedly they formed a line behind the dogs. Hank was first, Mr. Cook
second, while the boys brought up the rear.
After nearly an hour of breathless climbing, Sandy saw they were
following the trail they had taken earlier that morning on the goat hunt
that had almost ended in disaster. “Look,” he said, pointing to a
tumbled pile of rocks spilled over the lower half of a peak. “Recognize
that?”
Mike glanced over and grimaced. “I won’t forget it in a hurry.”
Sandy stopped for a moment and peered up. “You can’t even see the cave
from here,” he remarked.
“That’s right,” Mike said. “No wonder Hank had a hard time finding us.”
“Hey, you two!” came a voice. “Stop admiring the view and keep moving.”
“We’re coming!” Sandy shouted. “Boy,” he said, panting, “those dogs can
really travel.”
Mike nodded. “Save your breath,” he advised.
They moved ahead in silence for another twenty minutes when suddenly
Sandy heard Mike grunt irritably. “Darn it!” he muttered.
Sandy turned to see Mike’s bedroll on the ground with his belongings
scattered beside it. “Strap broke,” Mike explained.
“Hank!” Sandy shouted. “Can you wait a minute?”
Hank turned and looked back. “What happened?” he yelled.
“A bedroll strap broke. We’ll have it fixed in a minute.”
“We’ll go on ahead to the top of this slope,” Hank shouted down. “We can
see a lot of the country from up there. I’ll collect the dogs and wait
for you.”
“Okay! We’ll be right up.”
Mike was hurriedly gathering together his equipment, frowning angrily as
he stuffed various articles into his blanket. “Everything happens to
me!” he said in an annoyed voice. “D’you think we can mend that strap?”
“I think so. It won’t take long.”
“Just when we’re in a hurry!”
“What’s that?” Sandy said suddenly.
“Where?”
“Behind you.”
Mike swiveled and made a grab for something lying on the ground. With a
sheepish grin he tried to tuck it into the folds of his bedroll.
Sandy laughed when he saw what it was. “That looks suspiciously like a
sandwich wrapped in waxed paper.”
“Wrong again,” Mike said cheerfully. “It’s two sandwiches. I thought we
might get a little hungry.”
Sandy shook his head admiringly. “Remind me never to go into the grocery
business with you. You’d eat up all the profits before ...”
But Mike wasn’t listening. He was staring down at a colorful patch of
red-checked cloth draped over a rock about three feet off the trail.
“What’s the matter?” Sandy asked.
Mike pointed to the patch. “Take a look at that,” he said.
Sandy walked over and picked it up. “It’s a piece of cloth,” he said.
“It’s more than that,” Mike said seriously. “It belongs to Joe’s shirt.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. Don’t you recognize the pattern? Big black stripes over the
red, with little yellow lines running through it.”
Sandy nodded. “It’s Joe’s all right. What do we do now?”
“Let’s get this strap fixed and tell Hank and Dad.”
“It looks to me,” Sandy mused as he glanced over the terrain, “as if Joe
broke away from the trail right about here.”
“What makes you say that?” Mike was busy tying a knot in his broken
strap.
“Look where the piece fell. I think he climbed up here and tore his
shirt doing it. Maybe we ought to do a little exploring on our own.”
Mike shook his head in disagreement. “Let’s stop being heroes. If Joe’s
in trouble, we won’t be able to help him alone.”
“I guess you’re right,” Sandy admitted. “But I sure would like to know
what’s above those rocks.”
“We’ll know in a little while,” Mike assured him, heaving the bedroll
over his shoulder, “soon as we can bring Dad and Hank down here.”
“I think,” Sandy said in a very quiet voice, “that we’ll know sooner
than that.”
“What do you mean?” Mike asked. He glanced at Sandy, and was surprised
to see the strange expression on his face. He followed Sandy’s gaze up
to the row of boulders above their heads, and suddenly he knew why Sandy
had frozen.
Standing on the rocks were three men. Two of them carried rifles which
they kept trained down at the boys. All three, Mike saw, had the dark
complexion and long, straight hair of Indians.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Captured
The middle Indian—the one without a rifle—was the first to speak. “Drop
your packs to the ground,” he ordered. His voice was hard and guttural.
“And do it slow.”
Mike stiffened in anger, and for a moment Sandy thought he was going to
try to make a break for it. “Take it easy,” he muttered out of the
corner of his mouth. “Better do what he says.”
Mike shook his head stubbornly. “They’re not going to do any shooting,”
he insisted. “The others are too close.”
The Indian gave a short, unpleasant laugh. “You think they’d get back in
time?” he asked.
“They’d be back in time to get you!” Mike flared.
“Try it,” the Indian invited. His voice became hard and menacing. “We
could pick you off and wait for the others to come running back. This
place makes a perfect ambush.”
The realization that Hank and his father might also be killed sobered
Mike considerably. He reached up and loosened the strap that held his
bedroll and rifle. Keeping his eyes on the rifles that stared down at
them, Sandy did the same.
“Now move back. And keep your hands up in the air.”
Sandy and Mike did as they were told. The two armed Indians vaulted
lightly down from their perch, approached the blankets, and took the
boys’ guns.
“All right,” the Indian on the rock ordered. “Pick up your packs and
climb up here.”
“Where are we going?” Sandy demanded.
“You’ll find out soon enough” came the answer. “Just keep moving—and
don’t try anything.”
For the better part of an hour, they moved silently ahead, climbing
higher into the mountains, avoiding what trails there were, keeping
close to the protective cover afforded by the thick stands of jack pine.
At last they arrived at a small clearing, perched high on the top of a
lonely, desolate peak. The clearing was admirably situated, with an
unobstructed view on three sides and accessible only by a single trail
that wound tortuously up through jagged piles of razor-sharp rock. Sandy
noticed the remains of a fire surrounded by three blanket rolls. It was
an uncomfortable but well-hidden campsite.
“Sit over there,” the lead Indian commanded. He walked over to a blanket
roll and rummaged through it. The other Indians stood to one side,
keeping their guns trained on Sandy and Mike.
“What’s all this about?” Sandy said irritably. “What do you want from
us?”
“Nothing,” the Indian replied. “Not a single thing. It’s Eagle Plume we
want—Joe, to you.”
“Then you must be the three Crows!” Mike blurted out.
The Indian straightened up from his pack and looked at them. There was a
flat, veiled expression in his eyes. “Yes,” he said quietly, “we’re
Crows. So Joe’s been telling you about us.”
Sandy glanced over at Mike to warn him into silence. “He mentioned you
once,” he replied. “Said there was some bad feeling between you.”
“What else did he say?” It was more of a command than a question.
“Nothing. Joe didn’t talk much.”
The Indian nodded. “I can believe that. He wouldn’t want you to know too
much.”
“About what?”
“Never mind,” the Indian said briefly. “I bet you never guessed that Joe
has been using you all this time.”
“Using us!”
“Sure. He had to find some way of getting to Mormon Crossing. You made
it easy for him.”
Sandy and Mike digested this piece of news in silence. Joe didn’t seem
like the kind who would deliberately “use” somebody and then disappear
without a word. But there was no effective reply to what they had heard.
“It’s too bad you had to poke your noses into this,” the Indian went on.
“But now that you’re here, you can be useful.”
“We wouldn’t lift a finger to help you!” Mike declared hotly.
The Indian threw him a disdainful look. “You won’t have anything to say
about it.” He reached down and drew a long rope from his pack. He tossed
it to one of the Indians with a rifle. “Tie them up,” he ordered. “The
dark one first.” Mike struggled to his feet and the second Indian moved
around to a point directly behind Sandy. “I wouldn’t try that,” the
leader advised Mike sharply. “Unless you want to see your friend shot. I
wouldn’t kill him—just a bullet in his leg, maybe. But I don’t think
he’d like it much.”
Mike stiffened, his mouth a grim line of anger, but he allowed the
Indian to pin his arms behind his back. The Crow worked quickly and
efficiently. In a moment Mike was helpless.