2

Someone gave a thin wail of horror; all dropped flat on the trail.

Each heard a sound or sounds which he afterward described differently. Buck James was the first to rid himself of his pack; Myron Retwig did the same seconds later. Together they sprang, crouching, for the cover of the trees. Sheltered, they looked at each other. Retwig’s owlish placidity was gone; he moved with feline alertness. Buck was white as a death’s-head, his eyes the color of cocktail olives.

They listened. All they could hear was Bob Vega’s whimper of horror.

Buck peered cautiously around the tree trunk. Seeing nothing, he slipped forward to the protection of another tree, with Retwig close behind. The ground sloped rapidly and became barren mountainside. Ahead the strip of forest continued. If anyone had fled, it was into the shadow of these dark firs.

Assured that no one stood nearby with gun poised for a second shot, Retwig ran back to where Genneman lay, half on his side. He peered into the ghastly ruin of a face. Genneman was dead. Retwig rose and returned to the grove. Buck was studying the ground. “He stood about there.” Buck pointed to a little copse. “You can see some footprints. He must have lain the gun down on that branch.”

Retwig motioned him back. “Let’s not tramp up the area. The police, or rangers, or whoever handles things will want to study all this.”

They went back to the trail. Kershaw, his back to the body, stood with tears streaming down his face. Vega was crouched by the side of the trail, scanning the hillside, mouth open.

Retwig said in a low voice, “We’ve got to notify the authorities as quickly as possible.”

“Who would do a thing like this?” asked Kershaw. “He must be some kind of lunatic! It couldn’t have been a hunter.”

Bob Vega kept whimpering. “Oh, Lord, what a terrible thing. What a terrible thing!”

Kershaw peered along the trail. “I have a queer feeling somebody’s standing close by. Watching, maybe picking out his next target.”

There was no sign of movement in the trees ahead, or along the precipitous mountainside above them.

“That was a shotgun,” muttered young James. “It must have been buckshot.”

Vega said in a hurried voice, “We’re none of us safe. We’d better get the hell out of here.”

“What about poor Earl?” demanded Kershaw. “We can’t leave him lying here in the trail!”

“We can’t carry him out,” argued Buck.

“Here’s what we can do,” said Retwig. “We can wrap Earl in one of the tube-tents and hang him under a tree. He’ll be—at least he’ll be off the ground.”

“But why? I can’t understand why,” protested Kershaw. “It’s got to be a madman.”

“Somebody who followed us in,” said Vega in a hiss so sibilant as to be almost feminine.

“Let’s get to work,” said Retwig shortly. “The police can figure out who did it and why. That’s what they’re paid for.”

Gingerly the pack was removed from Genneman’s body. Retwig and Buck did most of the work. From the pack they took the tube-tent and a spare shirt with which they covered the shattered head. Now came the stomach-turning job of pulling Genneman’s bulk into the tube. This was accomplished by lifting his legs, slipping the plastic under his hips, then tugging and sliding him back into the tube. Tied at both ends, the tube was dragged underneath a stout fir, and after much effort suspended from a branch ten feet from the ground.

Then the four men started south along the trail, the way they had come.

Back along the mountainside, up over the saddle, and down into Persimmon Flat, with Persimmon Lake gleaming in the center. Buck James, who was in the lead, turned to Retwig. “Do you think we’d better look over that camp across the lake? Maybe we might learn something.”

“Leave it for the police,” advised Retwig. “They won’t want us tracking all over the place.”

So they continued, past their own campsite of the night before, up over Dutchman’s Pass. Now the trail led downhill. With no need for rest-halts they went down at least twice as fast as they had come up. Still, it seemed an interminable trek to Suggs Meadow, the first night’s camp. They reached it at dusk.

At the stream they paused to rest and to take stock. Retwig said, “It took us about three hours to make it up from the car—” He stopped short. “The car! Damn it, it’s Earl’s car and he’s got the keys in his pocket.”

Red Kershaw said wearily, “He put the keys in the bumper-guard. I saw him do it.”

“It might be dangerous traveling the trail by night,” Vega said dubiously.

“Not that dangerous,” said Buck. “There’s starlight. I’ll lead the way, if you like. I’m for going in.”

“That’s my feeling,” said Retwig. “Everybody feel up to it?” He glanced at Kershaw and Vega.

“I’m game,” mumbled Kershaw. “I don’t want any part of these mountains.”

Vega nodded dumbly.

“I didn’t think of it till now,” said Kershaw in a sick voice. “Somebody will have to call Opal and break the news.”

“Let’s get going,” said Retwig brusquely. “The longer we wait the darker it gets.”

Once more they set out, aching with fatigue, back and forth down the switchback. In daylight they might have negotiated the distance in an hour; in the dark, it took them two.

Finally the trail made its last turn and swung out on the flat. Stumbling, the four men covered the last two hundred yards. Genneman’s big white Buick glinted ahead in the parking area; it grew large and substantial: a mocking symbol.

The four men dropped their packs with groans of relief. Kershaw found the key and unlocked the car.

Twenty minutes later they swung into the Cedar Grove compound, dark except for a single light on a pole and a few glimmers from tents among the trees.

The headlights illuminated a redwood sign: CEDAR GROVE RANGER STATION, a log cabin half-hidden under four tall cedars. Buck James pounded on the door, Retwig at his shoulder. Almost immediately a light sprang up inside. The door opened; a sleepy young man looked out. “Somebody got troubles?”

Retwig spoke in his careful voice. “One of our party was shot and killed from ambush a few miles past Persimmon Lake.”