Slippery Slope

by Robin Shaw

  Chapter 7

  AS they descended into the valley, they smelled again the syrupy fragrance of the pine forest. It was dark and cool among the trees and the eye was soothed by numberless shades of green. After the bare mountain slopes, the scene was a fresh and exciting experience. They looked around, reveling in the lushness and the softness of the world, soaking in its peace.

  The three preceding days had been restful. They had made two leisurely climbs on easy mountains around the camp and explored a small valley they had not visited before. The outside world had hardly intruded into their lives. A helicopter had passed over while they were climbing Ashley Peak, but the beating of the rotors had soon passed away. They had seen nothing of police or even of other climbers.

  Now they were getting closer to civilization with every step down this winding, well-beaten trail. Below them, on their right, the falls of Elk Creek caught the sun, and a slight mist rose around the trees. Chipmunks scattered from their path, and at the bend before the river Craig caught a glimpse of a large marmot, his inquisitive eyes peering over a mossy bank.

  Despite the heavy pack containing their camping and climbing equipment jangling on his back, Craig was enjoying the descent. Though it was a pleasure to camp and climb in the high mountains, it was also a pleasure to return to the valley. We only really enjoy things by experiencing their absence, thought Craig. In many ways Baxter College makes my climbing vacations sweeter, and now, within limits, I'm looking forward to returning to the college. Food and drink are far sweeter after fasting, and even the pleasures of wealth are sharpened by poverty. Will death be an age of regret for a life we cannot regain?

  Ahead of him, as usual, Martin was moving rhythmically with an effortless grace, each foot placed in just the right spot on the trail. He was whistling, tunefully and in time with his movements.

  By the creek they halted, refreshing themselves from its clear water and gaining a short freedom from their heavy packs.

  "Two more miles to the roadhead at Redfish Lake. Hope we can get a lift down to Stanley."

  "I wonder if they're still questioning hikers in this area," said Craig. "It wouldn't surprise me if the road is crawling with cops."

  "I doubt it," answered Martin. "They would never dream that anyone with a guilty conscience would stroll down to the busiest part of the Sawtooths."

  "We'll soon find out. I wish it were all over and I were back in Seattle."

  "And I wish I were in Denver with rolls of these lovely greenbacks in my hand. It's going to be hard living through next winter, wondering if I can afford a six-pack of beer or a pack of cigarettes and knowing that I have a pile stuck on a cliff in central Idaho."

  "Never mind," Craig said. "The year will pass quickly enough."

  They crossed the bridge and came out of the trees into a long ribbon of green meadow, dotted with yellow and red Indian paintbrush. Craig's back was moist where the pack rubbed, and the sweat on his brow seemed to attract hungry mosquitoes. His heel, which had not yet recovered from its rubbing, began to smart again. They had still seen no sign of other walkers on the trail, which was normally a popular one.

  As they emerged from the wood and into the clearing by the road, Craig saw the reason. Stationed at the junction of the trail and the road was a police car, and lounging around it were several official-looking figures.

  "Here we go," said Martin.

  They walked toward the car. Obviously the police were preventing access to the area and were questioning all who came out. As he had occasionally looked forward to an examination while still an undergraduate, Craig now found himself looking forward to the coming interrogation with a mixture of fear and relief.

  It was a challenge to pit one's wits against the organization, whether it was the college or the police.

  The officer who approached them was polite.

  "Would you mind coming over here?" he said, moving to a table set up by the car. "We'd like to ask a few questions."

  They followed him over and dropped their packs on the grass. Martin pulled out his cigarettes and lit one.

  "How long have you been in the Sawtooths?"

  "About three weeks," Martin replied, "though we were out to Stanley about a week ago to get provisions."

  "What are your names and addresses, please?"

  They gave them.

  "Could I see some identification?"

  Martin drew his wallet from his hip pocket and passed it over to the policeman, while Craig rummaged in his pack to find his driver's license. The policeman noted details down on the sheet in front of him and passed the documents back.

  "What have you been doing all this time?"

  "We've been climbing various peaks and camping in Bull Creek Valley."

  "Where were you on the twenty-third?"

  "When was that?" Craig looked down at his calendar watch. It was the twenty-seventh.

  "That was Tuesday; four days ago."

  "Oh, we climbed, let me see, Martin, was it Tuesday we climbed Scimitar Peak?"

  "Yes, I think so. Yesterday we did Wilson, Thursday we went up the southwest on Elk Peak, and the day before that we lay around camp. Yes, it was on Tuesday we climbed Scimitar Peak."

  "By the Evening Wall route," added Craig. "But we gave all this information to two policemen who visited us on Wednesday."

  The officer ignored this. He leaned back in his chair and scratched at his shoulder. Craig could see the sweat form in small beads on his brow. He must be roasted inside that uniform, he thought. A mosquito was buzzing at his nose. The group of three stood by the car listening, drinking beers. One of them looked like a local hunting and fishing guide Craig had seen in the bar at Stanley.

  "Did you see anyone on Tuesday?"

  "No, not a soul."

  "When did you last meet up with anyone?"

  "Oh, Jim Bayles, the Forest Service warden, visited us on Monday, and we saw a couple of guys from Boise, I don't know their names, on Saturday. Apart from that, nobody for about ten days."

  The policeman made some notes on the pad.

  "Have you ever been in Lone Fir Valley?"

  "About two weeks ago," offered Martin, "we were climbing Atlanta Mountain. Haven't you caught the guys who held up that airline yet?"

  The officer ignored the question.

  "What are your plans?"

  "We're going into Stanley to clean up and eat, and then we're going home," answered Martin. "Any chance of a lift?"

  The cop ignored the question again, his head bent over his note pad.

  It's like communicating with a machine, thought Craig. They're afraid to show any sign of weakness, any trace of humanity. They have to preserve this mysterious hard exterior, to deny the idea that they might have foibles and errors like other people. God help us if we really get in their clutches. And then the thought struck him that Martin would fit very well into their society. He had the same robust shell, the same unwillingness to show any crack that could be levered open. Twentieth-century man and a paradigm for the future.

  "We'd like to search your bags."

  "Go right ahead," said Martin. "Hope you don't mind the smell."

  Two of the police left their stance at the car and began to open the packs. Clothes and remains of food, pots, and sleeping bags followed ropes and climbing gear onto the grass. They were not tidy, simply dropping each article as they were satisfied about its innocence. When they were finished, the scene looked like the aftermath of a garage sale.

  "Okay. You can pack up and get on your way," the officer told them. "Don't try to get back in. The area is closed to all hikers."

  As with all searches by police or customs, the victims were left to repack their belongings. It took Martin and Craig about ten minutes to find the right order that would get everything back in. They shouldered their packs and set off. No word of farewell came from the group, which had returned to the beer around the car.

  The road was hard and dusty. It was five miles to Stanley.

&
nbsp; "The bastards never even offered us a drink," complained Martin.

  "Well, we didn't tell them where we'd stashed the money," laughed Craig. "Those poor guys have probably been sitting out here in the heat for three days, getting all that shit down about where people have been, what they've done, and where they're going to."

  "You're too sympathetic. They're probably glad to get the opportunity to sit on their fat asses drinking beer and hassling hikers. Never have sympathy for a cop. They like their job, the sadistic bastards. They're just waiting for someone to run so that they can gun him down. It's all right for you, from your middle-class down East village where the cop tipped his hat and said, 'Yes, sir, no, sir, three bags full, sir,' to your father. If you'd been brought up on the streets olf Detroit you would think different."

  "Oh, come off it, Martin," said Caig. "What did the cops ever do to you that you didn't deserve? Without the police you couldn't have lived in Detroit. Without the police, society would disintegrate."

  "Your society would disintegrate; not mine," Martin growled. "Your fat cat of a father wouldn't have his paper mill and his workers to screw. You wouldn't have had your exclusive education and be a professor at a snot college. If you think the police are so great how come you're on the wrong side?"

  "Because I'm fucking stupid," Craig replied vehemently. "I'm off my head to have got myself involved in this crazy scheme with a bastard like you "

  "Well, get the fuck out. I don't need you. I can get the money myself. You can get back to your books." Martin had stopped on the dusty road, his face ferocious.

  "I'm sorry," Craig started. "I didn't—"

  "Too late!" Martin broke in. "Too damned late. I set up the plan. I do the organization. I give you the chance to get your hands on a pile of money, and you get cold feet. Well, I don't need you, not for a hundred thousand."

  "Look, I'm sorry," Craig stuttered. "We've got to stick together. It's too late for me to back out. I'm just not used to risking my freedom."

  "If you can't stand the heat, don't get near the fire," Martin tossed over his shoulder as he set off down the load. Craig joined him, and they trudged in silence along the shimmering, rutted road.

  The road seemed interminable. To come off the springy turf of the wilderness and the narrow, ever-changing trails onto this dusty ribbon was to exchange the living world of nature for the flattened, dead uniformity of civilization. I know why I admire the Romantics, thought Craig. It's because they recognised the touch of death in modern man, the Midas touch. Everything that he touches turns to lifeless matter, subjugated to the quest for gold. This road they were on would not exist were it not for the valuable forest which could be turned into wood for motels and toilet paper for their inhabitants.

  From this approach, Stanley seemed to have no reason for its situation. If it were lifted up and moved a mile or so in any direction, it would make little difference. It had an air of impermanence, as though it had been built yesterday and might be gone tomorrow. Several of the cabins at the entrance to the town were derelict, their roofs gaping and their walls at crazy angles. A few dogs roamed on the dusty roads, dodging the occasional car. A group of locals leaned against the rail outside the general store and looked belligerently at Martin and Craig. One of them whistled at Craig, whose hair was tied back in an untidy clump. He ignored them. They would have liked nothing better than some response, and Craig tried to avoid fights.

  They dumped their sacks outside the Strike Bar, a one-story structure with a hitching rail and an old cracked wooden sign, whose faded paint showed the image of a shovel and a gold pan.

  Inside it was cool. At the long bar several locals, in for their afternoon beer, turned to see the newcomers. Martin advanced to the bar, followed closely by Craig, and they ordered two beers. They were thirsty, and the refreshing beer slid down their throats. Craig ordered two more. Above the bar the massive head of a moose stared down. "You fellows come down from the mountains?" The barman set their beers on the counter.

  "Yes, we've been climbing."

  "See any sign of the hijackers?"

  "No, we hardly saw anyone."

  "Well, they say the police will catch them soon. It beats me how they haven't got them already." The barman wiped the copper bar top more as a gesture than as a necessity. "If you ask me, they must have used a helicopter to get away, but the police think the money's still up there. They're still checking everyone who comes out."

  "Yeah, we know," said Martin. "They've searched us twice."

  Craig was aware that the attention of everyone in the bar was focused on them. "Where do the police think the hijackers are?" he asked.

  "Well, Billings, the officer from Idaho City, was in here last night, and he reckoned that they must be climbers or hikers, and that they must have hid the money. He thinks they may still be in there, waiting for the heat to die down." This came from a bushy, short-haired man in dungarees about two stools down from Martin.

  "Now, Jim, I still say that they flew right out when they got the money. Stands to reason they wouldn't hang around there with a quarter of a million bucks and the whole country jumping." The barman looked around for support for his argument.

  "Except that Billings said that the minute the money was dropped they had the whole area alerted for aircraft and that no plane came out of the Sawtooths or went in. I maintain that it was some of them climbers." The thickset man ran his hand over his well-cropped hair and looked belligerently at Martin and Craig.

  "You know damn well they cause well-nigh all the trouble around here."

  There was a chorus of assent. A character from the end of the bar who looked like a grocer piped up. “Yeah you're right, Bill. There's been more shoplifting this summer than I saw in my life at North Fork. Only this this week we caught one guy sticking oranges up his shirt." Craig could feel the tension in the bar mount. The last time they had been in here they had been drinking with Jim Bayles, and his presence had made them feel at ease. Now they were outsiders and the scapegoats for all the problems climbers caused in the area. " Well we never stole anything, and I'll flatten the first guy that says we did." Martin was bristling with anger.

  "Oh for Christ's sake, Martin, knock it off. They didn't mean it" Craig started.

  "Yes I damn well do," said Bill. He pushed his glass back from the edge of the counter and wiped his hands on the tips of his faded blue overalls. "You fucking climbers are more trouble than a pack of coyotes. This town used to be a decent place to live, but now it's infested with all the long-haired thievin' scum of the earth."

  "Bill." The barman leaned across the bar. "Bill, I don't want no trouble."

  "Well, tell these creeps to drink up and get out."

  Martin was almost white with rage. Craig could see him clenching his fists, and he reached across to put a hopefully soothing arm on his shoulder. Martin shook it off and did not turn around.

  "I'd like another beer, barman."

  "Oh, come on," said Craig. "Let's drink up and get out. It's not worth a hassle."

  "We've as much right in this bar as that red-necked bastard."

  The bushy man shot off his stool and grabbed at Martin's shoulder. Martin swung at him, and they toppled backward, crashing with the stool to the floor. Craig was at a loss. "Stop," he shouted ineffectually and tried to separate them. Broad arms caught him and threw him back from the bar. He thumped into a table and caught himself.

  "Stay out of it," growled his assailant, who had been sitting with the group—a formidable-looking man, though he wore glasses. "Stay out of it, or you'll get yours too."

  "Easy, Bill, no trouble now," the barman was shouting. Martin was on his knees, struggling to his feet, his face white with rage. He swung wildly with his right fist, striking Bill on the chest, with little effect. Bill's large fist caught Martin on the side of the face, and blood started from his nose as he fell backward. Craig began to rush forward but was seized again by the man with glasses, spun off course, and held firm by a strong
grip from behind. The barman thrust himself between Bill and Martin, who was pulling himself up by the bar.

  “Leave the poor bastard alone, Bill," the barman said. "You've proved your point."

  A large man in denims had seized Martin and was pushing him toward the door. Martin was struggling and kicking, trying to break away and get back at Bill. He was thrust, protesting, through the door, and Craig was thrown after him, falling heavily against the rail on the porch.

  Martin was panting heavily, the blood on his cheek contrasting with his pallor.

  "You were some fucking help, you shit," he told Craig. "Some buddy you are."

  "You didn't need to pick that fight. We could have walked out without trouble."

  "No son of a bitch tells me where I drink. I'm going back in to belt that hick."

  "Oh, for God's sake, Martin, let's go. What would it prove? We can't take on the whole bar, and even if we could, we'd probably end up in jail for a couple of days. That would be just great." Craig shouldered his pack and started off down the street, praying that Martin would follow. After a few steps he looked back to the shade of the bar porch. Martin still leaned against the rail, wiping at his face with the back of his hand, his pack by his side.

  "Come on. Let's get to the car and find a place to wash up and eat."

  Martin swung his backpack onto his shoulder and came out into the dusty road. Craig could see a fly buzzing around his face. He waited while Martin joined him, sour-faced. In silence they walked toward the square where their cars were parked. When they reached Craig's Volkswagen, he had his keys ready.

  "Come on. Climb in and we'll go to Challis for a steak." He threw his pack onto the back seat.

  "Go yourself," Martin growled. "I'm going to Denver." He started toward the post office at the other side of the square, where his red Mustang stood.

  Craig hesitated, then went after him.

  "Hey, we can't split like this. Don't get so worked up about a stupid red-neck."

  "Go to hell!" Martin did not stop.

  Craig pursued him again, catching at the sack. A small knot of people by the post office watched the scene.

  "Look, we've got to work out our plan. We can't just go our separate ways."

  "I've had enough of you, you college punk."

  Craig stopped. "I'll write," he said to Martin's retreating back. "We can get together later."

  He heard Martin grunt as he turned and made his way back to his car. The sun was fiercely hot and the air shimmered above the dusty square. A brown dog ran out from the shade of an old truck to sniff at him. Craig drove it off with a kick. He was seething inside, both at Martin and at himself. He ought to have weighed in when Martin came to grips with the man in the bar. It would have meant some physical pain and wouldn't have achieved a thing, except that it would have salved his conscience and prevented his earlier rift with Martin from widening.

  He opened the door of the Volkswagen and eased himself onto the seat. The air was fetid and burning. The stale smell of old cigarettes permeated the car. He turned the ignition, put the car in gear, and setoff. The radio announced a special on hamburger at the Stanley Sooper Dooper as Craig drove onto the main highway and turned toward the river.