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.