CHAPTER NINE

Smoke on the Horizon

“Care to talk about it, Sandy?” Mr. Cook asked as he threw three or four thick slabs of bacon into a frying pan. Sandy was sitting, wrapped in a blanket, propped up next to a roaring fire, a cup of steaming instant bouillon in his hand. Joe was squatting on his heels, Indian-fashion, in front of a flat rock, mixing up a batch of johnnycake. Mike was kneeling beside Sandy, busy opening two No. 2 cans of peaches. A casual visitor would have taken it for an ordinary camping party getting ready for a relaxed evening meal. Except for Sandy’s drawn face, there was no hint of their recent close brush with death.

Sandy took a deep breath and another swallow of broth before he answered. “Sure,” he replied. “But there’s not much to say. I kept following the trout farther and farther out into the stream until finally I realized I was too far.”

“You couldn’t get back?”

Sandy shook his head in disgust. “I shouldn’t really tell you this. It makes me look like such a dope. I was just about to head back for shore when suddenly this enormous trout finned out right under me. He must have been at least a foot and a half.”

“Whew,” whistled Joe softly. “That’s the one that always gets away.”

Sandy smiled wanly. “That’s the one that almost got me! I went after him.”

“And that brought you out still farther into the river,” concluded Mr. Cook.

Sandy nodded grimly. “I felt the raft give a heave and I knew I’d better get out of there. But I was in too much of a hurry, I guess. I grabbed for the paddle and it shot out of my hand. Next thing I knew I was being carried on down to the rapids. If it hadn’t been for Mike....” Sandy broke off and shook his head.

“You mean if it hadn’t been for the way you taught me to use that fly rod!” Mike interrupted with a grin. “Boy, was I scared when I made that cast out to you! I knew it had to be just right!”

“And it was,” Mr. Cook said with a smile.

“Prettiest cast I ever saw,” Joe admitted. “Bet you could thread a needle with that thing.”

Mike flushed and worked furiously at the second can of peaches. “Well,” he said, “it worked out okay, so let’s forget it.”

Sandy looked at the three of them and felt a lump rise in his throat. “Listen,” he said, and he noticed his voice sounded strained and husky. “I don’t know how to thank you—all of you—for what you did. I guess it sounds sort of foolish to say that you saved my life, and all. But I just....”

Mr. Cook stood up and moved over beside Sandy. “Don’t say any more, Sandy. There’s no need to thank us. We were very lucky, that’s all.”

“But it was all my fault!” Sandy muttered, staring into the fire. “What a bonehead thing to do!”

“Sure,” Mr. Cook agreed cheerfully. “You should have been more careful. But you weren’t.” He shrugged expressively. “Now that it’s all over and done with, let’s look ahead.”

After a moment’s silence, Sandy grinned up at him. “You’re right,” he said. “I’ve got my eye on tomorrow. What’s the schedule?”

Mr. Cook turned to Joe. “How about it? You’re the guide around here. Think we’ll make Mormon Crossing?”

Joe walked over and put the frying pan with its johnnycake batter on the fire. “We’ll be there before lunch,” he predicted. He winked over at Mr. Cook and Sandy. “If we can get Sleeping Beauty there on his feet bright and early.”

Mike, who always took a long time to wake up in the morning, ignored this remark. Leaning back comfortably, he began to chew thoughtfully on a blade of grass. “You know,” he said, “I read a book once that said that all the great thinkers of the world like to sleep late. Brainy fellows like us,” he explained, “just seem to need more rest. Besides,” he reflected, “we do most of our heavy thinking at night.”

“So that explains it,” his father remarked.

“Explains what?”

“That noise that comes out of your sleeping bag every night.”

“You thought I was snoring?” Mike seemed surprised.

“Yes,” Mr. Cook admitted. “I’m afraid I did.”

Mike laughed disdainfully. “If you only knew the problems I have to solve! Night after night I turn them over in my mind, searching for the right answer....” He paused and looked at them seriously. “I tell you, those problems are heavy. When I turn them over they make a big racket. That must be what you keep hearing, Dad,” he confided.

“Oh, oh!” Joe grinned. “Better stuff some cotton in your ears tonight,” he said.

“How come?” Sandy asked.

“Mike’s going to have a real problem to solve. How to portage around Cutthroat Rapids without doing any work.”

“Another portage,” groaned Mike.

“I wouldn’t advise trying to go through them,” Sandy remarked with a smile.

Mike grinned back at him. “Right!” he nodded. “There speaks a man of experience. Joe,” he said, suddenly changing the subject, “you ever been in the mountains above Mormon Crossing?”

“Sure, a couple of times.”

“What sort of country is it?”

“A lot wilder than what we’ve gone through. In places it gets above the timber line.”

“Good hunting?”

“The best. I can show you a rock bluff where you’ll see mountain goats every morning.”

“What about mountain lions?” Sandy asked eagerly.

“You’ll get your cougar, Sandy,” Joe said. “Don’t worry. The Lost River Range is full of game. A regular hunter’s paradise.” He shook the frying pan and tested the johnny cake with a fork. “You know,” he said meditatively, rocking back on his heels, “next to a little spot in Montana I’ve got my eye on, I love this country best. It’s unspoiled,” he explained. “It’s exactly the way it was when men like Jim Bridger and John Colter first saw it nearly a hundred and fifty years ago.”

“Who were they?” Sandy wanted to know.

“Trappers. Guides, like myself. John Colter guided Lewis and Clark. He traded with my people, the Blackfeet, and was the first white man ever to see Yellowstone National Park. The Indians told him about it and he went to have a look for himself. When he got back to his trading station, nobody would believe him. A whole valley where the smoke comes right out of the ground! They laughed in his face!”

“What finally happened to Colter?” Mike asked.

“He died, still sticking to his story. He was only about thirty-eight or so. It was a hard country.”

“It still is,” Mr. Cook said.

“Yes,” Joe agreed. “But that’s what I like about it. Some day,” he said softly, staring out at the setting sun in the west, “I’m going to settle into that ranch in Montana and spend the rest of my life living with it. Right in the back yard of the wilderness. I hope I never see another city.”

“When will that be?” Sandy asked.

Joe laughed. “When I can save up enough money to buy it,” he replied.

“What happens if it gets crowded?” Mike asked. “Full of tourists like us?”

“Not much chance!” Joe said. “Look at us. I bet we’re the first people to come through here in months.”

“Well, we’re not alone,” Mike observed, pointing off toward the river. “The joint’s filling up.”

The three of them swiveled around and followed Mike’s outstretched finger. In the distance, behind a range of hills, in the direction from which they had come, a lazy plume of smoke curled slowly above the treetops.

Joe gave a cry of surprise and jumped to his feet. He stood watching the smoke, every muscle in his body tense, his hands balled tight into hard fists at his side. Sandy saw he was breathing in shallow, panting gasps, like a runner after a long race.

Mr. Cook saw it too. He and Sandy exchanged glances. “What’s the matter, Joe?” he asked. “You seem upset.”

Joe turned with a start. “What ... upset?” he stammered. “No,” he said, forcing a thin smile. “I just didn’t expect anybody else to be out here.”

“They seem to be following us downriver,” Mike observed.

“Pity we won’t be able to meet them,” Mr. Cook remarked. “But we’ll be leaving the river at Mormon Crossing.”

As they were talking, the smoke suddenly stopped. It was as if someone had thrown a bucket of water on the campfire. “That’s odd,” Mr. Cook muttered. “I wonder why they did that? You don’t normally build a fire and then douse it right away.”

“No, you don’t,” Joe said grimly. He looked even more disturbed than he had the day of his accident on the Henderson dock. It was especially strange since Joe had been in excellent spirits all through the trip downriver.

There was an awkward pause that was broken by Mr. Cook bending over their cookfire. “No sense in wondering about something that must be fifteen or twenty miles away,” he declared. “Let’s eat.”

Dinner was a silent, thoughtful affair. As soon as the dishes were scraped and cleaned in the river, Mr. Cook announced he was going to turn in. “We’ll be up by dawn tomorrow,” he said. “So I advise you boys to do the same.”

Mike yawned and said he thought it was a good idea. Fifteen minutes later, the camp was quiet. But Sandy, who was stretched out near the fire, found he couldn’t sleep. The excitement of his narrow escape from the rapids was still with him. And now, added to that, here was Joe’s odd behavior to worry about.

Restlessly he tossed and turned, dead-tired, but still awake. Finally—it must have been nearly nine o’clock because he saw the moon was beginning to rise—he opened his eyes with an angry shake.

Their clearing was in almost total darkness. The only light came from the few embers that still glowed in the ashes. Suddenly Sandy became aware of a figure on the other side of the fire. In the faint light Sandy could just make out a face. It was Joe.

He was sitting with his arms crossed over his drawn-up knees, staring into the red coals. His eyes were clouded with worry and there was a heavy, brooding look about his mouth.

Sandy wondered whether to speak, but decided against it. Joe, he knew from experience, was not a man who would willingly talk about his troubles. All at once Sandy realized he was sleepy. He made up his mind to forget about the mystery that surrounded Joe. He would think about the cougar hunt tomorrow. And if he was very lucky, he would forget about his experience in Cutthroat Rapids forever.

He finally fell into a fitful sleep that was streaked and shattered by nightmares. Three huge black crows were chasing Joe, and he was trying to help. As they ran together, they came to a quiet stream. But as they started to cross, the stream became a roaring river and the three crows turned into giant cutthroat trout. Sandy could see the red slashes on either side of their lower jaws as they strained to catch him in their razor-sharp teeth. Twisting himself around in a desperate attempt to escape, he swam faster through the boiling current.

Suddenly he was awake, drenched with sweat and shaking like a reed. The panic left him as soon as he knew where he was. Before he settled himself back into his sleeping bag, he looked over at the fire.

Joe was still there, the troubled look still on his face. After a moment, Sandy slept deeply.