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.