by Robin Shaw
Chapter 5
CRAIG'S feet were sore. They were making good time. It was now eleven thirty, and they had already crossed Placer Creek. A third of their night-time march lay behind them, and it was the most difficult part,
Finding the trail had not been easy, despite their previous reconnaissances. It had been a matter of crossing a half mile of forest before running into the trail at right angles. They had never had trouble doing it before, but tonight, in their eagerness, they had stumbled over the path and kept on going. Luckily a creek about a quarter of a mile farther on had signalled their mistake, and with much cursing they had retraced their steps.
To Craig the forest seemed positively malevolent; branches would appear suddenly out of the night to rip at his face, the ground would abruptly dip beneath his feet and he would fall headlong, or some root would extend itself directly into his path. The moon, high above the trees, seemed only to compound the problem, casting deep shadows which might or might not be obstacles.
Martin was in a foul temper, cursing at Craig for his slowness, for his clumsiness. Eventually Craig could take it no longer. He stopped.
"Look. I don't give a rat's ass what you think. If you want to make your own damned way back to camp, go right ahead. You piss me off with your superiority. I'm going to walk at my own pace, and if that doesn't suit you, I don't give a shit."
"Oh, come on, Craig. I was just shooting off. I guess I'm really uptight about getting back. We have to stick together." Martin was obviously set aback by Craig's outburst. Craig was usually so quiet and so cooperative. It was the first time Martin had seen him really lose his temper, and he wasn't going to let his pride interfere with their chance of success.
Ten minutes later, having progressed at a more reasonable pace through the wood, they found the trail. Martin had recovered his good spirits and suggested they rest and have a cigarette.
As Martin struck a match and passed it to Craig he suddenly asked, "What are you in this for?"
"The money, of course. What else?" Craig laughed.
"Well, I don't know," said Martin, "but didn't you tell me that your folks had a big paper mill in the East? Surely they're loaded? Don't you just have to sit back and wait till it rolls in?"
Craig thought back to his last contact with his father over two years before, a wild shouting match full of anger and bitterness. It had begun as a heated argument over hair length and attitudes toward drugs and had erupted into an uncontrolled outburst that had left Craig weak with frustration. Somehow in Craig's adolescence he had grown away from his father. More and more his father had immersed himself in the business and more and more Craig had reacted by shying away from that world and despising its values. Now, as he looked back, he could see how he had purposely severed the ties by his career, by his chosen home in Seattle, and by his interest in mountaineering. They had never agreed since Craig had devoted his summers to climbing instead of working for the company, as his older brother had done. His father, too, had little respect for the arts, and to major in English—Romantic poetry, at that—was one short stage better than being a homosexual Communist.
"No, I don't think so. We don't see eye to eye, and anyway, Sam, my older brother, will collect. Whatever comes my way will take a long time, and there's lots that a hundred thousand would put right, like an ocean-going boat, for instance. But how about you?"
"Well, I sure as hell don't have no nest egg hatching." Martin ground his cigarette end out on his hoot, tested the stub with his fingers, and tossed it off into the brush. "Let's get rolling."
That was always the way with Martin: When he was ready, you had to be. He could ask questions about you but was like a lump of hard granite about his own past. Craig had a sudden premonition that he ought not to be here, that he ought not to be in a position of depending on someone like Martin, who never opened his soul. He had a deep core of being which he would never allow to be opened, no matter how gently one tried. Martin had obviously been hurt.
Off they went on the trail, with Martin leading and setting a scorching pace for Craig to follow. The trail was a good one, but it rose sharply to cross a stony pass to the next valley. Craig's walking became wholly mechanical. Inside his head melodies would keep rhythm for his feet, and his mind floated free with only the occasional return to reality when his foot struck an unexpected stone or wandered off the edge of the trail.
He thought of Baxter College, where he taught two sections of freshman composition and one of Romantic poetry. The freshman composition was just crap—required and boring. At first he had tried to make it interesting, abandoning term papers, with their footnoting and their regurgitation oI the second class thoughts of second class men. But he had been brought to heel.
"Your task, Mr. Hoyden," Dean Witts had informed him one afternoon in the fall semester, "is to ensure that our undergraduates write good scholarly papers, not become budding Hemingways or Wolfes. We have a great responsibility to the other departments." So Craig had knuckled under, consoling himself with his course in Keats and Wordsworth. Then that had gone stale too.
Gradually, these men who had said so much to him when he had first started to really feel poetry seemed to be dead. What could Wordsworth offer to the late twentieth century with its great metropolises, its plastic, its pollution, and its imminent nuclear holocaust? And Keats even less. Who could now care about the figures frozen in their eternal chase around the urn or the young poet's toying with suicide, in a world where humans died like flies without even a cause? At first, instinctively, Craig had felt that they had something to offer but it eluded him. To most of his students, it was just three credits; the few who really cared seemed like throwbacks to an earlier age. He had been at work on a massive study of Romantic joy, but the joy had faded. Conversations with scholars in his field and the reading of erudite papers in the quarterly journals had begun to raise only a cynical internal laugh in him, and Craig had come to despise himself for his continued association with the whole phony academic world.
His only solace had been the weekends and vacations climbing the mountains around Seattle. Thank God, he thought, I didn't get a post in the Midwest. But he was still there, still playing the old game at Baxter. True, he didn't have tenure, and he had twice written his resignation, but the freedom was too sweet, and he could see no other employment that would give him so much and ask so little. Now, if this venture came off, he would only need to spend another year and then he really could be free. Yet he had a sickening doubt that he might only be exchanging one set of chains for another.
"Oh for a draft of vintage that I might drink and leave the world unseen." Craig returned to the trail, to the pain of an incipient blister in his left heel, to the vague shape of Martin lumbering ahead. A chilling shudder ran down his spine.
"And fade away into the forest dim." He mentally completed Keats' line.
When they reached Placer Creek, he suddenly felt very thirsty and lay face down, sipping the cool mountain water. Martin stood around impatiently, and Craig, who would have dearly loved to sit awhile and remove his boot to bathe his aching foot, did not dare suggest it. Since Craig could remember, he had always been a peacemaker, ready with the soothing comment or the white lie, always eager to fall in with others' wishes to prevent friction. He looked up at the moon glowing along the waters of the creek, nodded to Martin and set off after him over the log bridge.
On and on, the trail seemed interminable with its ups and downs. They crossed long rocky stretches, where they had to select the path with care, occasionally having to retrace their step to find the trail. Over hummocky grass and waist-high ferns, Craig's tired limbs caused him to stumble more frequently, and his foot burned. Then the trail improved and became a well-trod path, silvered by the moonlight, as it climbed out of the forest toward a narrow pass hemmed in by steep rocky slopes. Walking became automatic again. No conversation, hard breathing, one leaden foot in front of the other toward the sharp dark edge above.
Craig h
ad just breasted the rise when he heard it. Martin was sitting on a boulder about ten yards ahead. Craig stopped dead. Perhaps his imagination was playing tricks. He was tired enough to be dreaming as he walked. But no! There it was again. The unmistakable bark of a dog over the crest, perhaps half a mile away. Martin had stood up, and Craig could see him dark against the sky and obviously straining to hear the sound. He joined him quickly and found himself whispering.
"Do you think—" Craig began, a tremor in his voice despite himself.
"I don't know, but it's possible. I never thought the bastards would have dogs. It might be a stray, or some forest service warden with his mutt."
Craig knew with an intuitive certainty that it was neither. For a moment he almost panicked, then his head took command.
"We must get back to the creek. Right away. We can't risk going on."
"You're right. The bastards! The bastards!" Martin looked white in the moonlight.
They turned around and began to descend the trail jarring and stumbling. The creek was a good five hundred yards back at the bottom of the climb, and they had to reach it before whoever it was came over the pass. The night was so still that the slightest sound would carry back up into the narrow funnel they were descending. Once or twice they stopped and listened, holding their breath. No sound.
"Perhaps we were wrong. What in Christ's name do we do if no one shows? We can't stay here all night and there's no way we can get over this ridge except through the pass."
"We can't take the chance. Let's get to the creek and lose our scent in the water. We can lie up there for an hour. If nothing shows, then we have to risk the pass." Craig was suddenly finding himself the decision maker. "Anyway," he added, "we still have plenty of time to reach camp before light."
From the creek, which was small but fast flowing, they could see the pass, but only in profile. The moon cast dark shadows down it, and unless whoever was coming used a flashlight, there was no way they could spot him. Or hear him. The creek was deafening; its continual though ever-changing rhythms obscured any noise that might signal a party descending the trail. A cool breeze blew up from the valley against the flow.
"We'd better go up the creek a bit so that we aren't stumbled on," Craig suggested.
The banks of the stream were heavily overgrown. Small hemlocks and yew joined with blackberries to bar their progress. The only way was up the bed of the creek itself. The rocks were slimy with moss thriving in its dark depths, and by the time they had made a hundred feet they were thoroughly soaked and beginning to chill.
They stopped at a small clearing where by climbing a rocky mound they could just see the pass. On the side of the mound farthest from the creek was grassy ledge. They sat down. The creek was only a faint murmur, its roar cut off by the mound. Craig pulled a chocolate bar from his pocket, peeled off the sticky wet wrapper, and broke the bar in two. Martin accepted it without a word, his eyes fixed on the crest of the pass.
They waited in silence. Half an hour before, thought Craig, we were so cocky, so convinced that we had nothing to worry about. Now we're sitting here, shivering and gripped with fear. There is something about man-hunting dogs that inspired a cold terror.
Why did we never think that they'd use dogs? It was so obvious, yet it escaped us. When Martin had explained the plan he had found it flawless. Now doubts began to seize him. Perhaps this was only the first of their mistakes to surface. Perhaps it would be enough. Craig had a mental image of a large black, snarling shape launching itself in fury through the undergrowth to leap at his throat. What a mean finale. Despite his recent immersion he felt dirty, and a wave of nausea swept over him.
Ten minutes passed, then fifteen. The luminous dial of Craig's watch showed twelve fifteen. Perhaps they had been mistaken. Maybe it was a trick of the wind. Once on a cliff in the wilderness of Washington, Craig had heard cries for help and with his friend abandoned their route to search. Only after twenty minutes of fruitless wandering had they realized that the sounds were not human but produced by the wind funneling up a deep crack. It might be the same now. Craig clutched mentally at the straw but then abandoned it. It had been a dog. He had heard it twice, and Martin had too.
A mile below the pass on the other side was a trail junction, and the path that came in there gave the quickest access to the central mountain area from the road near Roaring Fork. It was up that trail that pursuit might come, and perhaps it had arrived sooner than they expected. After all, it was four hours since the plane had dropped its load, and the police could not be expected to sit at their desks with a quarter of a million dollars at stake. Craig wondered what hurried and determined operations were being mounted as they had walked the trail.
Suddenly a sharp blow from Martin's elbow brought him back to the present. On the pass, right at the very crest, bobbing and dancing in unhesitating motion, was a light. Then, in quick succession, it was joined by three, then four others. Their ears hadn't deceived them. There was no doubt that that was no group of adventure-seeking hikers traveling through the Sawtooths by night.
"Shit!" It was the first thing Martin had said for twenty minutes. "Holy shit!" He sounded defeated. His voice had lost its edge, and there was none of the usual defiance present in the expletive. "What'll we do?"
"Get back in the stream. The wind's blowing up, and the water will destroy our scent. Come on! They'll stick to the trail. If we make a few hundred feet more up the creek, they won't know we're here." Craig was surprised at the confidence he heard in his voice, though he knew that his vocal chords were not mirroring his inner feelings. Confidence is necessary for effective action, and Craig had acquired the habit of being morale building on dangerous climbs, when the spirit of a companion was crucial for survival.
Back in the creek they scrambled from rock to rock, pool to pool, with greater and greater urgency as the uniformity of the stream and the unchanging nature of the bank belied their progress.
Finally, exhausted, they could go no farther. Martin crawled up the bank and lay panting. Over the steep bank the vegetation had thinned out, and through the scrub pine they could see the lights advancing down the slope, five minutes at the most from the creek.
A dog was barking loudly, a deep, chilling sound. Several dogs took up the cry. Out there in the dark they had picked up the fresh scent. Craig thought of his and Martin's naivete. They were up against professionals and had underestimated them. Thankfully, the trail lay for the most part over bare rock and springy grass and would not show many footprints. Moreover it was a fairly popular route through the mountains at this time of year, and their tracks would be mingled with many others. If the dogs did not catch their scent as they lay there shivering on the mossy ledge, they might be all right. If not, well, he hoped the police would get to them soon after the dogs. Perhaps they could still bluff it out. After all, they were carrying nothing incriminating. They could tell a tale of being lost on Sourdough Spire and descending into the wrong valley.
"Hey, Martin," Craig whispered urgently. "If we're caught, we have been doing the Owens route on Sourdough and got lost at the top. That might work."
The dogs were closer now, their voices rising more and more over the rush of the creek, drowning it out. Craig burrowed lower into the grass, his body stiff and wet. His only warm spot was where his shoulder pressed against Martin's thigh. Through the thin canvas of his parka he could feel Martin shivering. A dog gave tongue very close, and he felt Martin tremble. The pit of Craig's stomach felt empty and tightened into a hard knot. Waves of nausea swept over him. He tried to think of his warm apartment, of his writing, of the college, but his mind could not focus. Snatches of poetry came and went, but his thoughts always came back to the dogs, sniffing and snarling along their scent, drooling and eager for the kill. As one teases with an aching tooth, pressing and pushing it, so Craig rolled the dogs around in his mind, hurting himself with one ferocious image after another. His chest hurt, and his head ached, but the pain in his stomach swamped every s
ensation.
Gradually, it began to dawn on him that he had not heard a sound for some minutes except the rumble of the creek. Perhaps they had gone. Craig listened intently. No sound. Perhaps they were checking the creek, splashing their way up or downstream, flashing their lights for telltale scrapes on the mossy boulders. He held his breath and listened. No sound.
Suddenly, almost without warning, he felt himself begin to retch. Muscular waves caught at his stomach and chest, and bitter fluid rushed into his open mouth. After the first gasp and spew, nothing more came up, but he continued to retch and heave, forehead pressed against the black rock in agony. When it was over, he rolled back exhausted and felt the sweat trickle down his forehead and behind his ears. Martin was bending over him black against the sky.
"I'm okay," Craig said, forcing a grin onto his face. "I guess I just need a meal." Martin produced some glucose tablets and some nuts. Craig's mouth felt dry and bitter. He could not face the nuts, but the glucose tablet sweetened his saliva and eased the burning in his throat.
"Looks like they've gone." Martin was sitting up now and rubbing his arms to restore some warmth. We'll give them ten minutes and then start moving. My legs feel as though they've died."
Craig eased himself to a sitting position, his back damp against the rock. He felt strangely at ease now that he had been sick, as though he had dredged the poison from his system. His head felt light and warm, and his hand was steady as he reached for another glucose tablet.
The ten minutes passed without incident, but slowly. Neither of them felt like conversation. They were still too close to the events of the night to want to want to talk of them. Craig felt himself dozing off. It was an effort to keep his eyes open, but he knew that if he slept he would only feel worse when it was time to go.
Once on their feet, both Martin and Craig had difficulty in making their aching, stiff muscles respond. For a moment Craig thought that he was going to have to sit down again, but he fought the impulse, and after the first few staggering steps, the blood began to flow again through his muscles. Movement became a pleasure once more, and as they retraced their steps up the trail to the pass, a glowing warmth began to flow through Craig's body.
On the summit they paused again briefly. Behind them, a mile or so from the creek, they could see the faint glimmer of their pursuers' lights heading for the valley where the money had been dropped.
Craig ate some of the nuts as he watched them. As the lights faded from view behind a hillock or a clump of trees, they set off down the other side of the pass.
Going down was in some ways harder than ascending, especially in the dark. They descended fast, knees jarring and shins bruising against the rocks. There was no panic in their haste, only a concern to pass the trail junction before another party of searchers might join the trail they were on. Once past that junction, they could relax. No group would come in on the Elk Valley Trail. It was a long way into the central mountain area by that route, and with the police having to cover such a wide area of country, they would have to concentrate on the most direct trails.
The police must be spread thin tonight, thought Craig. About two hundred miles of road surrounded the area, and there were about seven good trails that would give access to the valley. Probably roadblocks would be set up at several points, hoping to catch the thieves on their exit from the area. Hopefully it might never occur to the law that the criminals might be at home in the mountains and choose to remain there.
When they passed the trail junction, it was two thirty. A small Forest Service sign indicated that it was eight miles to the road at Roaring Fork and fifteen miles to Stanley along Elk Valley, the way they were headed. It would take them a good hour to reach their camp, about four miles from the head of Redfish Lake. Once there, they would be safe for a while. A good four days' food was cached nearby, and they could stay around there till the heat died down. They had already camped there for three weeks and established good relations with the Forest Service warden who had dropped in for coffee frequently. So, if only they were back before anyone visited, they would be safe.
To Craig the trail was a blur. Hungry, and more tired than he could remember having been before, he stumbled along, oblivious to his surroundings. His stomach and throat still felt as though he had drunk acid, and he would have given anything for a mug of hot coffee. Martin seemed to have got a second wind and strode along without faltering. Strange, Craig thought, how alone we are, how cut off from even our close friends. I have no idea what is in Martin's head. All I see is the tall figure, out ahead of me, moving without rest or pause.
His spirits began to rise as they reached Bull Creek. It was only a short rise now, up the fork of the creek to the gentle green valley, where their tent was pitched in a chaotic landscape of great granite blocks. Please, God, Craig prayed, let there be no one waiting for us. I couldn't take any questions now. I need to be rested before my head can think fast enough.
Over the crest they staggered, into the valley. The moon was low now, and long shadows crossed the level grass. Over by the stand of pine, in the west corner of the valley, their tent was visible, its dark-blue shape merging with the trees. There was no sign of life around it. Inside, Craig could barely raise the energy to remove his sweaty clothes. When his boot came off, the pain of his bloody heel shot through him. He stripped the sock off to reveal a red-skinned and pitted heel. Martin had already reached behind his sleeping bag and drawn out a fifth of bourbon.
The warmth of the alcohol spread through Craig's body. All he wanted to do was to sleep. He slid his legs into his down bag and lay back with a deep sigh.
"Quite a day, quite a day," he mumbled.
"Most profitable of my life," replied Martin, drawing on the bottle. "More than I could have earned in a stinking lifetime as a mechanic. We just asked and it fell out of the sky. Holy Jesus, it was like taking candy from a kid. The most I ever earned was three fifty an hour, dropping timber for Georgia Pacific. Now here I am with a quarter of a million dollars just for the asking”
As Martin talked, Craig felt himself sink deeper and deeper into his bag. A slow smile creased his face. The last thing he remembered was Martin's voice, a long way away, saying slowly and reverently, "a quarter of a million bucks. Jesus, a quarter of a million."
