CHAPTER TWELVE

Rockslide

The urgent jangling of the alarm clock woke Sandy first. The room was icy cold and pitch-black, but the soft glow of the dial read four-thirty. Sandy forced himself to grope free of the blanket and shut off the insistent clamor. He leaned over and gave Mike’s shoulder a shake.

“Hey, Mike!” he called.

Mike groaned, opened one eye, and then turned back to the wall, muttering something under his breath.

Sandy shook him a second time. “Wake up, Mike. Let’s go.”

The figure under the blanket heaved up and settled back down on the mattress. “Whazzamattawhyuh, huh?” it said.

Sandy sighed and swung his feet down on the cold floor. “A brilliant conversationalist,” he observed, reaching for his trousers. “May I quote you on that?” A bulge under the blanket made a tempting target. He gave it a friendly whack. “Rise and shine, boy. We’ve got a date with a goat.”

There was a sharp yelp and a flurry of movement. Slowly a tousled head appeared from under the covers and regarded Sandy with a baleful look. “No self-respecting goat is up at a time like this,” he said bitterly. “So let me go back to sleep. What time is it, anyway?”

“After four-thirty. I’m going to go out and see about breakfast. See you in the kitchen.”

Mike reached for the covers. “Good,” he grunted. “That gives me another fifteen minutes.”

Sandy stood over Mike’s bed threateningly. “You want the cold-water treatment?” he said.

“You win.” Mike struggled up and peered out at the morning. “Looks like the middle of the night,” he said.

“The sun’ll be up pretty soon. I’ll throw on some bacon and eggs while you get dressed.”

“Lots of eggs!” Mike shouted as Sandy opened the door and went out into the main room.

Hank was already up. A fire was going in the fireplace and Sandy could hear noises coming from the kitchen. He pushed open the door to find Hank mopping up a plate of eggs. He was dressed in a heavy flannel shirt, a pair of corduroy trousers and high-topped, sturdy-looking climbing shoes. A leather jacket, a bedroll and a rifle were propped against the far wall.

“I put out some bacon and eggs for you two,” he said when he saw Sandy. “Got your gear all packed?”

“We’re all ready. We did it last night.” He threw half a dozen thick slabs of bacon into the frying pan and sat down beside Hank. “Doesn’t look as if it’s going to be much of a day,” he said.

“’Fraid not. We’re due for some rain.” Hank got up and scraped his plate. “Hurry up with your breakfast and meet me outside. I’d like to be up in the peaks by dawn.”

Later that morning, they stood on a narrow, windswept ledge of rock, nearly ten thousand feet high, watching a pale, watery dawn touch the tops of mountain peaks fifty miles away. It was an experience Sandy would never forget. One moment they were in darkness; then gradually the world around them began to take shape. First the tops of the ridges loomed up out of the gray mist. As the sun rose higher, faint fingers of light streaked down into the valleys far below, probing the shadowy pools of night that still huddled there.

Sandy and Mike stared at the scene wordlessly, lost in the wonder of the view. Finally Mike sighed deeply. “It must have looked like this a million years ago,” he said softly.

Sandy nodded. “Not a living thing in sight. Just the mountains and the wind....”

“And the rain,” Hank said suddenly. “Here it comes.”

The first spattering gusts of rain lashed the rock outcropping above them. In the east, dirty ragged clouds scudded over the sun. “Want to go back?” Hank asked.

Sandy and Mike both shook their heads. “Not unless the rain drives the goats away,” Sandy said.

“Don’t worry about that,” Hank replied. “I told you they’re tough. Weather like this won’t stop a goat.” He dropped the pack from his shoulder and reached into a pocket for a pair of binoculars. “Here,” he said, offering the glasses to Sandy. “Start looking.”

Sandy brought the binoculars up to his eyes and started to scan the neighboring peaks. “Where do I look?” he asked.

“Notice how the south sides of all the peaks are covered with trees?” Hank asked. Sandy nodded. “That’s because they get most of the sun.”

“The sides facing north are practically all rock,” Sandy observed.

“Except for a big yellow pine here and there. See them?”

“Sure. And there seems to be something that looks like snow at the base of each tree.”

“Right.”

“Snow!” Mike said. “At the end of June?”

“It never had a chance to melt,” Hank explained. “The shade of the tree keeps the ground cold until the middle of July. Now take a close look at every patch of snow you can see. That’s where you’ll spot a goat.”

Sandy swept back and forth across the peaks with his glasses. “Not a thing,” he announced.

“Let me look.” After a moment or two, Hank stiffened and leaned forward. “There’s your billy goat,” he said.

“Where?” Sandy cried. “I just looked there.”

“Well, you didn’t look hard enough.” He turned the glasses back to Sandy. “Try another peek.”

Sandy focused in on a tiny white spot that stood out against the gray granite. At first he thought it was a faint smear of snow. But then, unexpectedly, he saw it move. “I’ll be darned!” he breathed. “You’re right!”

“Let me take a look!” Mike cried. He stared through the binoculars and nodded his head excitedly. “I see him,” he cried. “How do you know it’s a billy?”

“I don’t think it’s a nanny goat,” Hank said. “This one’s all by himself and nannies mostly stay together.”

“Just like women!” Mike observed with a laugh.

“That’s right.” Hank grinned. “I guess they like to gossip. And then you’ll usually see some kids around if it’s a nanny.”

“Anything else?” Sandy asked.

“One more thing. Nannies are snow-white, but billies get dirty. From the color, I’ll bet that goat’s a billy.”

“Okay,” Mike said. “Now how do we get him?”

They were separated from their quarry by a deep box canyon whose sides plunged almost straight down from the narrow ledge at their feet. To reach the goat, they would have to work their way down the sheer rock wall, cross over a small stream that flowed along the canyon floor and then climb up the far side.

But instead of heading directly into the canyon, Hank Dawson led them along the narrow ledge, around to the other side of the mountain.

“We can’t climb right up under his nose,” he explained. “He’d spot us for sure. We’re going to have to get behind and above him.”

“Is there a trail up there?” Mike asked.

“I doubt it. You all set for a rough ride?”

The boys tightened their pack straps and nodded.

“Then let’s go. We’ll have to move fast. He’s not going to stay up there all morning.”

Hank set a fast, sure-footed pace over a ledge that curled around the peak like a vine. Sandy and Mike followed as best they could, concentrating on keeping their balance as they worked their way over rain-slippery rock, inches away from about 700 feet of space that yawned emptily to their left.

As they came puffing around the first turn, Hank was waiting for them, a tree branch in either hand.

“We’re in luck,” he said, pointing down. “A rockslide.”

Sandy peered over the edge. Hundreds of small pieces of rock had spilled down the side of the mountain, forming a steep pathway to the floor of the canyon below.

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Mike asked. “Won’t the whole thing give way?”

“It’ll slide, if that’s what you mean,” Hank replied. “But it won’t all come tumbling down at once. It’s sort of like running down a long sand dune. The particles of sand keep slipping downhill, but the hill itself holds together. Use these branches for balance and you’ll get down without any trouble. Here, watch me.”

With a carefree abandon that made the boys gasp, Hank flung himself down on the river of rock. The force of his leap made the slide slip forward about six feet. Rocks about the size of a man’s fist clattered and grated downhill in a sagging wave with Hank riding on the crest. When it stopped, he plunged his branch down and leaned on it to catch his balance. Lifting one leg free, he used his makeshift alpenstock like a pole vault to propel himself forward a second time.

“Look at him go!” Mike said admiringly.

“We’d better get going ourselves,” Sandy said. “Or he’ll be halfway up the other side.”

“What we need for this maneuver,” Mike said as he braced himself for a take-off, “is a little armor for the seat of our pants. I have the feeling we’re going to need it.”

Sandy grinned at him, took a deep breath and jumped. His feet ground into a bed of pebbles and suddenly he was sliding downhill. Clawing wildly to keep upright, he felt the rocks brake to a halt. Before he fell he managed to catch himself and push off for another short spurt.

Their progress was remarkably fast. They made the 700-foot descent in a matter of minutes, arriving at the bottom shaken, bruised, but triumphant.

“Good for you,” Hank said as they came hurtling down to join him. “You made that like experts. It’s a little like skiing, isn’t it?”

Mike managed a lopsided grin as he shook out a pocketful of pebbles. “Think we’ll make the Olympics?” he asked.

“Not this year, Mike,” Hank answered.

“Good,” grunted Mike. “I can wait. Where to now?”

“We’ll follow the canyon down to the other side of the peak and go up there.”

The south face of the peak was covered with scrubby pine that somehow managed to grow despite a fifty-degree slope. Burdened by their rifles and full packs, they began to haul themselves up, using tree trunks, rock outcroppings and anything else that came to hand. Slowly they inched along, scraping on their stomachs through soaking wet, sharp pine needles that cut their faces and dripped water down the backs of their necks.

“Brother!” Mike muttered. “This is work!”

“We can always go back if you don’t think it’s worth it,” Hank called back. He was almost fifty yards ahead of them, moving through the tangled underbrush with comparative ease.

“Wouldn’t dream of it!” Mike replied. “I just wish I could get one hand free. I’ve got a terrible itch on my right shoulder blade.”

“You would think of that at a time like this!” Sandy said.

“Just keep moving, please,” Mike said. “That’s a beautiful boot you’ve got on, but not in my face.”

“Hey, boys!” It was Hank calling from up ahead.

“What?” Sandy said.

“I’m going on and spot the goat,” he said. “I want some time to figure out the best stalk for the shot. It’s a little clearer up ahead, so you won’t have too much trouble. Just keep coming as fast as you can and I’ll meet you at the top.”

“Okay,” Sandy yelled. “We’ll see you up there.”

“You’re sure you can find the way?”

“Positive,” Sandy assured him.

Hank waved a hand and scrambled out of sight. Behind him, Sandy heard Mike mutter, “We’re a fine pair of hunters! Here we are—stuck on the side of a mountain in the middle of a cloudburst like a couple of flies caught on flypaper.”

“Well, at least we can move,” Sandy said philosophically, shaking the water out of his eyes. “Looks like another seventy-five yards or so. Think you can make it?”

“Carry on, old man.”

After another five minutes of hard climbing, they broke through to a clearing that led in one direction to another clump of trees. In the other direction was another rock slide, similar to the one they had just negotiated, but smaller.

“Which way?” Mike wondered.

“Hank said it was easy going from here on,” Sandy reasoned. “He must mean up the slide.”

“He certainly can’t mean through those trees,” Mike agreed. “Let’s try it your way.”

Moving along on all fours, Sandy started to scramble up the slippery rock. He was surprised to find the going was much easier than he had anticipated.

“Hey!” he said. “This is a cinch.”

“A real pleasure,” Mike echoed.

They were halfway up when, abruptly, the rock slide gave an ominous lurch. Both boys froze as they felt the tremor and heard a grinding rumble beneath their feet.

“I don’t think I like this!” Mike’s voice sounded shaky.

“Me either,” Sandy said. “Let’s go back—quick!”

“Right!”

Sandy could hear Mike backtracking down the slide. There was a clatter of loose rolling stones, a second, more violent tremor, and then a sharp cry.

“Sandy!” Mike shouted. “It’s giving way! I’m falling!”

Forgetting his own balance, Sandy whirled around and grabbed for Mike’s arm. Below him the entire slide was slowly caving in. Sandy’s fingers tightened around Mike’s wrist but he could offer no support.

Suddenly, the sliding surface gave way with a rush, and he was plunged with sickening force through a roaring avalanche of grinding rock.