DEAD END
The party wormed its way up Crazy Mountain, gingerly testing the
crumbling rock lest it give beneath their feet. Tortuously, they made
another five hundred feet. Then Warner, who was in the lead, halted.
“Boys,” he said, “I’m afraid we’re in a pocket. This can’t be the way to
the pass.”
No one spoke.
“Wait here,” he directed them. “I think we’ve come to a dead end. If I
can get up to that next ledge, maybe I can see a way on, but I doubt
it.”
Feeling along the wall, he secured a firm hand grip and, with Mr.
Livingston’s help from below, attained the ledge above. He crept along
it and vanished from view. For a long while the Scouts waited, uneasily
watching the darkening mountains. Their situation, they knew, was
rapidly becoming precarious.
Finally, Craig Warner reappeared and lowered himself back onto the
narrow ledge where the Scouts waited. His face told the story.
“No chance of going on?” Mr. Livingston asked.
“None.” Warner nursed his bruised hands. “We’re at an absolute dead end.
We’ve reached a cul-de-sac.”
His words fell like a shroud upon the weary, footsore group.
“We can’t camp here,” Jack said at last. “What’ll we do?”
“There’s only one course open to us. We’ll have to return the way we
came.”
“Return?” Ken echoed flatly. “Not all the way back to the ghost town?”
“Maybe half that distance,” Warner advised. “There’s no water here or
fuel. Not even a place to pitch a tent. Temporarily at least, Crazy
Mountain has licked us!”
Completely disheartened, everyone sat down on the rocky ledge to discuss
the situation.
Night was fast coming on. A descent along the narrow trail would at best
be a risky undertaking, but to remain where they were was out of the
question.
“There’s no possibility of going on?” Mr. Livingston asked the rancher.
“None whatsoever?”
Warner shook his head. “The ledge above us plays out entirely, and the
one beyond can’t be reached. We’re in a pocket.”
“Then we’ll have to accept the situation,” the Scout leader said,
getting wearily to his feet. “Let’s go.”
Nearing exhaustion as they were, it seemed to Ken and Jack that they
could not trudge another mile. But they forced themselves to follow
Warner. Knowing that their safety depended upon reaching the wider
ledges before darkness completely enveloped the mountain, he took them
at a brutal pace.
The Scouts were discouraged, footsore, and desperately hungry. Their
only sustenance since noon had been a small piece of chocolate which had
provided a little quick energy.
In less than an hour, darkness closed in. To add to their troubles, it
began to rain. The fall was not hard, but it came steadily. Soon the
Scouts were chilled through.
It seemed to Jack and Ken they never could make it. Every step had
become an agony. Minds and bodies had become half paralyzed. Yet
automatically their feet kept plodding on.
Warner seemed to have an instinct for making his way, even in the dark
and rain. His flashlight guided them at the dangerous turns.
Then gradually their route became easier, the slope more gradual. They
reached a shelf and a little wooded area beside a fast-rushing stream.
It was not the best camp site, but by this time none of them was too
particular.
Dropping their packs, the Scouts went in search of firewood. Jack found
dry kindling material inside a log. Ken, after hard chopping, gathered
enough wood to get a little blaze going. By that time, Mr. Livingston
had the pup tents up.
Everyone huddled near the fire, waiting for tea water to boil. Some of
their misery began to fade.
The rain had practically ceased. The air, however, was damp, and a mist
shrouded everything.
Little by little, the Scouts began to dry out and relax. Hot tea revived
their spirits. By the time Warner had prepared oatmeal and bacon, they
were feeling almost normal again. But no one spoke of plans for the next
day.
After the simple meal the Explorers chopped more wood. Then they rolled
into their beds and slept soundly.
By morning, the unpleasant experience on Crazy Mountain was only a dim
memory. Ken and Jack, even Mr. Livingston, awoke feeling only a little
tired and muscle sore.
Once they were astir, most of their aches disappeared. The day was
bright and sunny. Warner had risen early to whip the eddies for a few
trout and these were cleaned and in the pan, delicately browning for
breakfast.
Over the food, the group discussed procedure. A full day had been lost
in the futile search for the pass. There was no assurance that, if they
went on, it ever would be found before their skimpy food supply became
exhausted.
“I’ve been looking over the map again this morning,” Warner said,
spreading it on the rocks. “There’s another way up, and it may lead us
through—that is, if you’re game to tackle it. I’m leaving the decision
to you fellows.”
Ken glanced first at Mr. Livingston and then at Jack.
“After that mess of trout, I could tackle anything,” Jack declared.
“Let’s go!”
“Those are my sentiments,” Ken echoed. “No mountain is going to lick
me.”
“We may run into another cul-de-sac,” the rancher warned. “It’s a chance
we have to take.”
Breaking camp, the party set off once more. This time, they chose a way
which at first was more difficult than the one they had taken the
previous day. Nevertheless, as the day wore on, they became hopeful it
might lead them to their objective.
“It’s queer we’ve seen nothing of Walz or Ranier,” Jack remarked as the
group paused to catch breath after a particularly steep stretch.
“We may run into them yet,” Warner said. “With Old Stony’s map, they had
a better chance than we of reaching the pass without trouble.”
As the party climbed higher, a sharp wind whistled eerily around the
crags. At times, Jack imagined he heard hollow laughter, as if the
spirit of Crazy Mountain were chortling at some secret joke.
“This place gives me a queer feeling,” he confessed to Ken. “Ever since
we left the ghost town, I keep thinking we’re being watched.”
Ken did not laugh as Jack had expected him to do. Instead, he said: “I
know. I’ve been having that same feeling. I figure it’s because our
stuff was stolen, and then someone shoved that rock down on us.”
“It could have been an accident—”
“Sure, but Warner isn’t the kind to make a mistake like that.”
“No, he’s levelheaded,” Jack returned soberly. “I figure if we do find
that pass today—well, we may run into rugged going beyond that point.”
“You think someone besides Walz wants to keep us out of the valley?”
“It’s a possibility, isn’t it? I was thinking about it last night, Ken,
before I dropped off to sleep. Maybe someone stumbled onto Old Stony’s
secret long before we came here.”
“A prospector?”
“Possibly.”
“In that case, the gold’s gone—if ever there was any.”
“Maybe not,” Jack replied thoughtfully. “If the gold had been toted out,
word of it would have spread like wildfire. Beside, wouldn’t the
discoverer have cleared out of the valley as fast as he could, once he
had the cache?”
“It’s all too deep for me,” Ken answered with a shrug. “My bones tell
me, though, that we’d better be prepared for a dose of trouble before
we’re through.”
“Double trouble,” Jack added with a grin.
By two o’clock doubt again began to assail the climbers. The going was
hard once more, and the pass seemed as elusive as ever. The prospect of
having to retreat a second time sent shivers of weariness down the
spines of the Scouts.
“If we don’t make it today, we’ll have to turn back to Elks Creek,” Mr.
Warner announced.
Presently, from a high point which gave a clear view of the surrounding
peaks he made another careful survey. Impatiently, the others awaited
his verdict.
“I think I see what might be called twin peaks,” he said finally. “If
so, we’re close to the pass.”
His words cheered everyone. Jack even hummed a little tune as he tramped
on. The heavy pack actually felt lighter on his back.
The feeling of exultation grew as signs gave increasing encouragement
that this time their way would not be blocked. Soon the Explorers came
out on the round top of the mountain.
While the others drank in the view, Warner and Jack searched for a way
down into the green valley.
“You can see the tiny lake from here,” the rancher pointed out. “We
ought to reach it before nightfall. And if all goes well, the plane
should soon drop our supplies.”
After careful consideration, Warner selected a route down which did not
look too difficult. Mr. Livingston and Ken were willing enough to leave,
for the bald dome was wind-swept and uncomfortably chilly. Patches of
snow lay in the more protected crannies.
In crossing an open space to join Jack and the rancher, Ken abruptly
halted. He directed the attention of his companions to moccasin prints,
plainly visible in the snow.
“And we thought we were the first to reach this pass!” he exclaimed.
The prints, the Scouts decided, had been made within a short time—but by
whom? They were fairly certain that Walz had been wearing shoes and not
moccasins.
“Any Indians living on Crazy Mountain?” Hap Livingston asked the
rancher.
“Not that I ever heard.”
Led by Warner, the Scouts started soberly down through the pass. Now
that their objective was close, they wondered all the more at the
dangers. Walz and Ranier, of course, were known hazards who, even though
they might be hostile, could be dealt with. But what of the unknown
inhabitant of the mountain?
Thoughts were tumbling without pattern in Jack’s mind, when Warner up
ahead suddenly halted. Pulling himself up short, Jack saw that the
rancher was staring fixedly at something.
“What is it?” he demanded.
Without replying, the rancher moved aside so that the others could see.
A stunted pine was growing out of a rock at a rakish angle and dangling
from its twisted lower limb was a skeleton.