 
# Slippery Slope

by

Robin Shaw

Print edition originally published as

Running

G.P. Putnams's Sons, New York

# Chapter 1

IN fifteen minutes, if all had gone well, the airplane would arrive and a parachute supporting a quarter of a million dollars would descend slowly to earth.

To Craig it seemed as if the valley was holding its breath. He and Martin lay, cramped and impatient, behind a jumble of gray rocks. Before them the greens of the meadows and forest, which gave life to this do- main of barren mountains, seemed to be laid out in areas which pointed wedge-like at their hiding place.

The air was still: The small lake, a few hundred feet below Craig, reflected the steep granite walls of the valley, still rose-tinted from the hidden sun.

A shiver ran down Craig's back. The austere beauty of the surroundings, the drop in temperature caused by the altitude, and the disappearance of the sun joined with the fear that he felt at the hazardous nature of the enterprise whose genesis was near.

He glanced over at Martin, whose attention was riveted down the valley up which the airplane would shattering the peace of the mountains and perhaps also of their lives.

There was still the possibility of retreat. Martin had explained that carefully as the crowning glory of the plan when he had first disclosed it to Craig's incredulous ears, nine months ago and two thousand miles away They had sat over a birch fire in the womblike cabin on the icy slopes of Mount Katahdin in northern Maine.

By the strange chemistry of memory that scene was more alive, more present to Craig, than the one in which he now found himself: the mingled odors of wood smoke and the chicken just eaten, the way in which the coffee and brandy were mellowing the muscles, tired after the demanding ice climb they had descended from two hours before, the quiet tones of Martin's voice at odds with his proposals of extortion and theft.

"It won't be easy, but the risk will be minimal if we plan carefully. The trouble with most hijackings and demands for money is that they involve contact between the two sides. They involve violence, and though I don't object to that, I don't want to be on the receiving end.

Craig's interest at first had been an intellectual one. Who has not toyed with the idea of removing a large sum of money from some impersonal corporation? Its shares would drop briefly on Wall Street, perhaps. Its profits would decline for a short period, but there would be no individuals hurt, or only those who could well afford it and had achieved their riches at the expense of others.

So, when Martin had first broached his idea, Craig had listened respectfully, though treating it more as a game to be played in his head without risk or consequence.

What had translated the idea from game to reality? Everybody speculates about committing a crime, but most people are held firmly to the straight and narrow path by the guardrails of their upbringing and their fear of disgrace. It's not enough to say that I've been sucked into this, like a swimmer into a whirlpool, thought Craig. If you stick to the banks of a river you run no danger from whirlpools. Of course there was the boat, a thirty-foot sloop with the lines of an ocean racer, which he had first seen in the dirty little harbor in Seattle. With a boat like that he could wave goodbye to the pettiness and boredom of Baxter College, where more and more he had felt himself to be trapped and deadened. Life so far had been a succession of frying pans and fires, and he had that sickening feeling that never, not for one of his twenty-six years, had he ever been in control. Climbing had once seemed to have been the answer. On rock faces Craig had experienced for the first time the feeling of being totally in control of his destiny, of being able, by this move or that, either to preserve his life or extinguish it.

And Martin. At first he had swept over Craig like a great wave, carrying him along with enthusiasm and joy, thrusting him from the mundane world into an existence where adventure succeeded adventure. That too had paled. Despite their many shared experiences, despite the days they had spent hazarding their lives together in the high places, they had never achieved real closeness. And in the year since Martin had persuaded Craig to become part of this criminal plot their relationship had cooled even more. Yet the plan had continued

And here I am now, he thought, lying on this deserted slope carefully hidden by boulders, gazing down on this Eden in the fading light, waiting for a small plane to drone over and drop a quarter of a million dollars in my lap.

Martin had said that they could always back out, right up to the moment they laid hands on the money.

He had believed him, but he knew now that to watch that vast sum swing gently down to the ground and to walk calmly in the opposite direction was beyond him. Not that I'm poor, thought Craig.

Just that I have been raised in a society that equates happiness with material possessions, and though I know in my heart that the equation is false, I can't resist putting it to the test. Of course I won't spend my money on the usual middle-class junk. I won't buy a house on Long Island or Westchester County and fill it with portraits of astronauts and Presidents, reproduction Louis Quinze chairs, and plastic flowers. What I'm buying is freedom from all that, a simple, rugged sailing boat and enough money to go anywhere.

I've almost convinced myself it's all over, Craig thought. He laughed.

"What's so funny?"—the first words Martin had said for half an hour. He was obviously tense, his brown eyes nervously cold, his right hand scratching at his ear in a gesture that reminded Craig of moments of doubt on the climbs they had done together.

"I was dreaming and I returned to reality. I'm not at all sure I want to continue with this."

"Bullshit!" growled Martin. "We can't back out now."

"Don't get me wrong. I'm not backing out. I'm just not happy. Are you?"

"No. But I will be when I see that parachute float down and I see the plane disappear over the ridge. Don't worry. Nothing can go wrong."

"Except that three or four FBI gunmen may drop on us in place of the money."

"Nonsense! They wouldn't dare. No airline can afford to jeopardize the safety of a hundred passengers for a mere quarter of a million bucks. Everything's going to be all right, provided Jean has done her side of it. Of course all hell will break loose here about two hours after they drop the money, but by that time we'll be far away."

There's no doubt who's the strong man in this partnership, thought Craig. I only hope I'm strong enough to survive.

Martin had returned his gaze to the valley, and the uneasy silence had returned. As yet no sound of an engine. Perhaps five minutes more, fifteen at the outside, then it should be here if everything had clicked into place. The entire plan was Martin's. Craig had merely helped him refine it, to point out minor flaws here and there. He had no illusions as to his place in the undertaking. He was an appendage, a stick to help the monkey reach the banana and perhaps to be discarded when the fruit was in the monkey's paw.

As Craig looked back over their relationship he realized that Martin had never been a friend. Friendship demands openness and love, and Martin had a hard core that preserved itself by resisting these qualities. But they had achieved comradeship, that condition of mutual respect and reliance which is developed by danger. The tragedy of the last few months was that the affection which had grown out of their experience had been replaced by a more utilitarian relationship. Everything had focused on the plan, and the greeds and fears attached to it had slowly perverted the comradeship forged previously on difficult mountains and in the wilderness. Respect was still evident but little affection, as though affection could not bloom in an atmosphere of self-interest.

Martin had become harder. The change appeared to have almost physical results; his eyes appeared less warm and more metallic than when they had first met, his features seemed to reveal more of the underlying bone and his lips had a certain tightness that had been absent before.

Perhaps I too have changed, mused Craig. Certainly, over the past year he had made no new friends and he sensed a growing apart in old relationships. Never before had he had to be guarded in conversation, to hold himself back, even among friends. Sometimes he had hugged his secret like some warm animal, and it had spread comfort through him. But more often it had been a chilling and unpleasant part of himself which he had been reluctant to probe.

His hip had begun to ache from his enforced idleness. He rolled onto his back for a moment and examined the rock a foot or so from his nose. Their hiding place had been chosen well. It afforded a clear, uninterrupted view down the valley but was impossible to detect from above and behind. The patch of moss on which they lay was not thick but did cushion them to an extent from the hard rock. He was cold and uncomfortable, and the inaction had made him feel slightly sick. Waiting was the hardest part. Once the action started there would be no time to think, only to move quickly and carefully, each movement deliberate and predetermined.

He rolled back. Martin was still motionless, his whole being straining for the glimpse of the plane in the fading twilight, for the beat of its engine. It must come now. In twenty minutes it would be too late. It would be dark and they could not hope to find the bag. Had Jean bungled? Were the police even now closing a ring around them? Craig ran back over the details in his head looking for flaws. There were several, but they were minor and necessary. If only Jean kept her head and followed the instructions that had been gone over so many times, then all would inexorably follow from that point.

The valley seemed to darken with every passing minute. Already the ridges of trees running up to the shoulder of Grays Peak had merged into a uniform black mass, and the small lake below gave only a glint of light to distinguish itself from the rocks, grass, and scattered trees around it.

"Is it going to come?" Craig asked.

"Shut up! Listen! It must come now."

Perhaps it won't come, thought Craig. Then I can return to normality, to teaching Wordsworth and Keats to uncaring students and to living life to the full on mountains, rivers, and the sea on vacations. It's not such a bad life that I should be willing to gamble it against a prison I know would kill me.

"Here she comes! Here she comes!" Martin was smiling for the first time that day, excited and likable in his excitement. He leaned out from the rock and fired a green flare from the pen-like pistol that had been lying ready on the grass before him. It soared into the sky, bright as an alien sun then landed close to the lake, burning an eerie green in the twilight.

Craig looked out over the valley and the forests to where in the cold sky above Grays Peak a speck was growing larger each second and bringing with it a steadily increasing drone, reverberating from the sides of this rough basin, echoing and re-echoing, an alien invasion into the stillness. As the plane began to circle over their heads, its silver wings catching the last of the light, Craig felt an explosive rush build up in himself. As before a difficult and dangerous move on a climb, the adrenalin began to rush into his system, keying up nerves and muscles for the big effort. Perhaps I'm an adrenalin addict, he mused, and that's why I risk my life and liberty in these ventures.

An object detached itself from the plane, dropped fast, and then blossomed into a swinging parachute, sedate and unhurried in the calm air. The plane completed one last circle, its occupants obviously straining for a glimpse of those below, then continued on its course over the shoulder of Mitre Peak behind them.

The violence of its engine faded to a whisper, then to nothing. Silence descended on the valley again. The parachute was going to land about three hundred feet from the lake. It was the only moving object in the valley. The green flare had died to a glowing ember.

"I hope the bastards aren't dropping cops in the next valley," Craig said, more to break the silence than from a wish to make conversation.

"Let them. They won't find us in the dark, and come morning we'll be miles away and just innocent climbers. Anyway, they still need, or think they need, our last phone call. There is too much at stake for them to take the risk. But, sure as hell, they'll start putting a cordon around this area by morning."

The bag on the small parachute hit the ground on a rocky stretch near the edge of the meadow east of the lake. The white fabric, like some shot animal, crumpled gracefully and subsided around its cargo.

The valley held its breath. There was no sound but a scraping of a boot as Martin drew himself onto his knees.

"Let's go," he said and shuffled out of their hiding place.

They stumbled and fell as they ran down the rocky slope, limbs stiff from an hour of remaining prone behind the boulders.

As they reached the bundle, careful to keep off the soft grass, Craig felt an excitement and a delight spread through him. It had worked so far. Up till now he had not really believed in the idea, not believed that a large airline company would follow every direction given to them by a woman's voice and drop a quarter of a million dollars in this remote mountain valley in Idaho's Sawtooth Mountains.

Martin was already cutting the bag loose from the parachute rigging as Craig panted, recovering his breath. The parachute flopped uselessly over the rocks, a tangle of nylon and cord. Martin pulled the zipper of the strong canvas bag.

"It's here! It's real!" he exulted, rocking back from the bag with a wad of green bills, laughing and bubbling now. Craig bent forward to look.

"Give me the sack." Martin's jollity did not last long. There was a lot to do before they could feel safe. It was five minutes since the plane was overhead. Within two hours it would all be over; the airline would know the secret of the bomb on the 707, and their last card would have been played. As Martin had said, all hell would break loose then.

Quickly Martin began to unpack the bundles of dollar bills from the canvas bag, occasionally rippling his fingers through a wad. "There's some twenties and lens here. You can't trust these bastards to do what you ask," he growled. He passed the green bundles to Craig, who stuffed them into an open backpack. Suddenly Martin gave a sharp exclamation. "Take a look at this." In his outstretched hand Craig saw a small metallic disk the size of a checker. A miniature transmitter. If they had not unpacked the canvas bag, the FBI would have found the money without difficulty. Martin laid the transmitter on a flat rock and smashed another rock on top of it. The crunch echoed eerily in the stillness. By the time they had emptied the bag, the backpack was bulging. Craig tied off the string at its top and buckled the flap over it.

Martin reached over and took the backpack from Craig. With a smooth movement he swung it onto his back, slid his arms through the straps, and set off. There was no need for words. They had rehearsed the remainder of the night five times in the month they had spent in the Sawtooths.

The light had all but gone, yet they moved fast up the steep bouldered slope toward the center of the Mitre Peak's west face. Craig had his head down, concentrating

on his footing, delighting in his fitness and in the feel of his muscles in motion after the day's idleness. He could hear Martin breathing heavily and regularly just ahead of him, but there was no slackening of his pace. Craig cursed under his breath as his foot slipped on a rock and he momentarily lost his balance. There must be no slips on the face, he thought. The first time he had done it in the dark he had been petrified at one or two points. It was difficult after one left the confines of the gully and swung onto the bare slabs a third of the way up the face. Without the ropes they had left in position the moves would be impossible, and even with them the sensation of five hundred feet of emptiness beneath one's heels was daunting.

Suddenly Craig became aware that Martin had stopped and was removing the pack. He moved up beside him at the foot of the black cliff and leaned back against it, waiting for Martin to pass him the backpack. He saved his breath. He could feel his stomach knotting up slightly at the thought of the climb ahead, but he almost welcomed the sensation. It was better to focus one's fears on the known and almost familiar cracks, slabs, and walls of the face above rather than on the widespread police activities that must be mounting all over the West. By now the small plane must have reported the drop site; the only thing that was holding the enemy off was the need to receive that last phone call. Martin had argued that it was not necessary to make it, but Craig had insisted. If the airline were driven into a corner of desperation, then they might take measures which would lead to disaster for the airplane and its passengers. Craig did not want any lives on his conscience. Martin had laughed and called him tender-hearted but had agreed without too much argument. So the last call to the airline would be made an hour and a half from now, and the floodgates would open, spewing police, FBI, and even troops, perhaps, over this area.

"Here, let's go," said Martin, handing over the backpack. Craig slipped his arms through the straps and reached up for the first hold on the climb. A hundred feet of moderately difficult rock had to be negotiated before the gully was gained and the first fixed rope was reached. Craig felt that he knew every hold on that hundred feet, every ledge for the toe, and every sharp edge for the fingers. The afterglow in the sky cast a pallid light on Craig's features as he climbed smoothly and rhythmically. They were committed now. There was absolutely no going back. Everything depended on speed, on ability, and on abandoning of caution. The whole mind and body had to be focused oil the immediate problem: how to place the foot there and raise the body seven inches, how to reach the hand for the ledge above. Any other thoughts were a luxury that neither of them could afford. The mountain screened out all but essentials, and Martin and Craig were united in a rebirth of comradeship as they struggled upward together.

# Chapter 2

"LISTEN carefully. There is a bomb on Consolidated Airlines flight number 536. Repeat flight number 536, Consolidated Airlines; Kennedy International to Los Angeles airport. Have you got that? The bomb will be detonated by a drop in altitude below ten thousand feet. Relay this message immediately to Consolidated Airlines. Further instructions will be given later."

Jean replaced the phone, lit a cigarette, and stepped from the booth into the crowd moving through the plaza at Rockefeller Center. She needed a drink. Though she had gone over her part time and time again with Martin until she did not need the sheaf of instructions in her bag, she was still apprehensive.

"You overestimate the police," Martin had told her. "If you make the call each time from a different coin box and call only travel agencies, they will not trace the calls for weeks, if ever. None of these agencies we have listed have recording apparatus. You could be one of a million New York City women, and that's as close as they'll get to you."

Still, Jean felt conspicuous. As she came out of the plaza onto Fifth Avenue she tried not to look guilty or to avoid passing the policeman who stood at the corner of Fifty-third Street. She hailed a cab. It was early evening and still hot, but the traffic was light.

"Westbank Hotel, Forty-sixth and Madison," she told the driver and opened her copy of Harper's. The last thing she wanted was to get into conversation with the driver. Her palms felt moist and she was sure her thoughts were showing plainly on her face. Calm down, she told herself. You're just another New York girl out for an afternoon's shopping.

Jean paid the driver; she had already sorted out the right amount with a generous but not too large tip before the cab drew up outside the hotel.

The cocktail bar of the Westbank Hotel was a large, dimly lit room popular with the Madison Avenue crowd, more because of its location and its quiet, roomy atmosphere than for its charm, which was nonexistent. Already about twenty people were scatterered in the room drinking, Jean was pleased to note, in groups of two and three. Luckily there were no singles on the prowl—she had chosen the bar for that reason; it had an atmosphere that discouraged roman- tic contacts. Also outside on the street was a pair of telephone booths.

She looked at her watch. Forty-five minutes to the next call. Ordering a whiskey sour, she leaned back on the comfortable chair in the rather hidden corner near the door. She paid for her whiskey when it came, opened her Harper's and tried to give an impression of unapproachableness. Behind the magazine she was anything but calm, but she was more confident than she had been earlier.

The most nerve-racking part was over. She hoped the overworked clerk at the Consolidated Airlines desk in Kennedy had been sufficiently harassed not to remember her. The wait in line had strained her nerves to the utmost. The tall man behind whom she had sheltered until the last moment had been impatient and had given the clerk a bad time, demanding obscure changes of plane at O'Hare and Denver for New Mexico. At least he hadn't wanted to go nonstop to Los Angeles and, with luck, the clerk wouldn't remember her or her destination.

A ski cap had obscured her auburn hair, and rather severe glasses had taken the place of her contact lenses, which she was now wearing. She had tried to behave normally, though passing over one hundred and seventy-five dollars in cash was not really normality in credit card city U.S.A. Yet the clerk had hardly looked up, as if grateful for simplicity in a day of trials. She had taken her ticket and gone immediately to the baggage hatch to pass over the nondescript brown suitcase that Martin had given her. He had stolen it several months before from a careless passenger in Grand Central, so there was no way it could be traced to her.

When the bag was safely on the conveyer she turned and made her way across the spacious terminal, out through the swing doors, and into a cab. She felt as though she had stopped breathing in the building, dreading that she be asked back to the counter for some oversight, or more dangerously, that she run into some acquaintance who would recognize her and ask embarrassing questions. It had not happened, but on the way back to the city she was far from at ease. In fact, she doubted if she would ever be thoroughly calm again. She had never before found herself on the wrong side of the law, and if it had not been for Martin she never would have been. She had, however, been surprised at her excitement when he had described the plan.

Raised in a small Midwest town, Jean's life had been confined by the grocery store that her parents, now dead, had struggled to keep profitable against the onslaught of the supermarket. Her father's death, a short year after her mother's, now seemed to Jean a blessing though i had hit her hard at the time. A vague love of mountains she had only dimly seen in childhood had taken her West to Denver rather than to the more conventional haven of her peers, Chicago. The same undefined and unacted-on love of mountains had made of Martin an attractive, exciting character when he approached her in the small restaurant beneath the monolithic cliffs of Boulder. She had been unable to resist his bubbling enthusiasm and his close knowledge of peaks she had only gazed at in awe from her car. Since they both lived in Denver, that had been the start of regular meetings and a growing intimacy.

There had been little talk of marriage until the last few months, almost two years after their first meeting. She had introduced the subject after a long weekend, idyllic in comparison with her dreary weekday existence as a secretary to the vice-president of an insurance company. Martin had been enthusiastic but vague, and Jean felt in the core of her being an uneasiness born of a deepening knowledge of the wild nature of Martin's ego. He scorned the normal conventions of middle America—a steady job, a bank balance, and a nicely furnished home. These were not Jean's ideals either, but she sensed that Martin's abhorrence of stability ran deeper than her own. He seemed to her like a cougar they had once seen together as they crested a ridge in a high valley. It had loped away over the green pasture toward the rugged hillside, where its tawny coat blended to an invisibility among the granite rocks. Shy, powerful, and worshiping the solitary freedoms of the high places—that was Martin—and the empathy in his eyes as he had watched the cat betrayed his ideal.

Nevertheless, she hoped. Without that hope she would never have found herself in this situation, outside the law, immersed in a plot to extort a quarter of a million dollars.

Martin held the bait of marriage behind his request for help. He had talked of "us" and what "we" would do with the money, of his wish to open a climbing store and become a guide in Idaho, and as she listened, it had seemed her only chance. Martin was not likely to take a normal, steady job and support her as a wife. Her meagre salary could not keep both of them. He had always been a rover, a lumberjack, a ski instructor, a fruit picker. He never spoke of his roots and rarely of where he was headed. He lived for the day, and the farthest he would go into the future was the next expedition, the next climb.

Jean had never taken to hard rock climbing. Mountain faces were more attractive to her at a distance than when she found herself on them. She had persevered due to her wish to get close to Martin, but she could sense frequently that he would rather be with a male companion of more equal ability. Yet she was drawn to Martin and knew she was the only woman who had managed to touch something in him.

So that was why she was here in this rather plastic hotel bar, miles from any place she called home and feeling very alone and vulnerable. She glanced at her watch. Five minutes to go. The bar was filling up. She rose, put her cigarettes and the unread Harper's in her bag, and pushed through the swing door, almost colliding with a laughing couple coming in from the street.

The telephone booth was occupied, but she still had a few minutes to go. She leaned against the shop front, lit another cigarette, and tried to control her impatience. When the day was over she would take the train to Chicago and then fly back to Denver to await Martin. New York was such an impersonal city. Few in the crowds hurrying past her glanced in her direction. She drew confidence from this thought.

The man in the phone booth was obviously finishing his conversation, glancing at his watch and drumming his fingers on the glass. She moved closer to establish her priority.

"Sorry to keep you waiting. Some people will talk forever."

He had an open, friendly face and would obviously welcome asking her to have a drink with him, Jean surmised, and she defeated any such possibility with a businesslike "thank you" and a firm movement into the booth. She shut the door, put her handbag on the ledge, and removed her sheet of instructions. This was the most important call, and she must get it right. She lit another cigarette and dialled the number typed on the second page of her notes.

"Good afternoon, Trans American Travel Agency."

"Listen carefully. This is vitally important. Relay this message without delay to Consolidated Airlines."

"We are not a branch of—"

"Don't interrupt. Listen. This is a life or death message. The bomb on Consolidated Airline's flight number 536, Kennedy to Los Angeles, nonstop, will explode unless you relay these instructions."

"But—"

"Shut up and listen!" Jean could feel her tension rise and threaten to overcome her. Her pulse was heating wildly, and she could hear its throb through the receiver clasped to her ear.

"Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars must be placed in a dark-colored canvas bag and loaded on a light plane in Boise, Idaho. The bills must be used, of one-dollar and five-dollar denominations. The plane must fly on a bearing of seventy-four degrees magnetic, repeat seventy-four magnetic, at an altitude of twelve thousand feet. It will sight a green flare. When it does it must circle the location once and drop the bag by parachute. The plane must immediately return to Boise. Two hours after the drop, if there has been no deviation from these directions, complete instructions on how to defuse the bomb will be relayed. Have you got that?"

The icy cold voice of the travel agent asked for the repetition of the instructions, and Jean stumbled her way through them again. "Do you understand now?" she asked as she finished.

There was silence on the end of the line, then the voice said, "Yes, you bastard."

Jean dropped the phone on the hook, dizzy and quivering. She could hardly push the sheet of instructions back in her bag. The voice of the travel agency girl had been cold and full of hate. Jean leaned back against the booth wall for support, her knees weak and her heart pumping. Through the glass she became aware of a short man inspecting her with a quizzical stare. The booth suddenly felt exposed and threatening, an island of glass in a sea of people. She felt her breath constricted, claustrophobia adding to her already unbearable tenseness. With a desperate motion she pushed at the door. It wouldn't open. She almost surrendered to panic, remembering only in time that it opened inward. She burst onto the sidewalk.

"Are you all right?" The small man in the Homburg moved toward her, one hand extended to support her. Frantically she ignored him and, oblivious to everything but her need to get away, rushed off.

She did not see the cab until it was too late. Her vision was a blur of people and cars, strange, disembodied faces and colors. She heard the shriek of brakes and felt herself lifted up without pain and thrown down the street over and over. Everything happened slowly, and she felt detached from the experience. There was no pain, and only as she came to rest, after what seemed like an eternity, did she comprehend her situation.

Instinctively she felt for her bag, which was still hung around her arm. Her coat, she noticed, was torn, a gaping, ragged slit, and below it blood was beginning to ooze from her scraped arm.

I'm going to faint, she thought. Oh, God, don't let me pass out. She struggled to rise. Her left knee was red and sore. She felt an arm press her back.

"Don't get up, lady. Sit still. I didn't see you. You just dashed out in front of me."

"You should be more careful, driver," said another voice, that of an elderly woman.

Several faces hovered over Jean, filling the sky. She felt herself losing consciousness but fought against it with all her strength.

"I'm all right. It was my fault." She managed to get to her feet, breathing deeply. The scene began to focus. I must get out of here, she thought, terror of having to give identification swelling inside her.

"I'm all right. Truly I am. Please let me go. I have an appointment."

"No, lady, you'd better rest here till a cop comes." The driver was taking no chances on later lawsuits.

"I've called an ambulance. It won't be long."

Hemmed in by well-wishers, their numbers growing every minute, Jean was desperate. What if they traced the call she had made? What if they took her to the hospital and detained her there until they put two and two together?

"Here's the cop now."

The crowd parted in anticipation. Jean, her freedom fading fast before her eyes, threw herself at the gap, swerved to avoid a large, heavy gentleman who made to restrain her, and ran for the corner. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the lights of the police car drawing up where she had been and the group that had clustered around her still motionless in amazement.

Around the corner, her knee hurting but not slowing her, she ran, cannoning from passerby to passerby. Had she been a man someone would most probably have grabbed and held her, but people stepped aside, fearful of involvement with this wild, dishevelled woman.

Where was she to go? It could only be minutes before the police gave chase. She risked a dash across on a red light, turned hard right the wrong way on a one-way street, her sharp wits racing, improved by the adrenalin being poured into her system. She was near Grand Central Station. A left and a right would bring her there. It was the ideal place.

She gained the main entrance with no sign of a pursuit. Once inside she slowed her pace to a walk, trying to appear unhurried and covering her torn coat arm with her other arm and her bag.

Jean made her way across the great hall and into the ladies' room. She ignored the curious glances of passing commuters. Her knee was beginning to ache terribly, and she could feel the congealed blood on her stocking.

When she reached a mirror she saw that her face was unmarked, though white, its color drained, accentuating her dark eyelashes and the underlying bone structure.

She shrugged off an offer of help from the attendant, mumbling something about having tripped. Inside the cubicle she removed her tights and washed the blood off her leg. It was ugly, red and blue with grit embedded in the raw flesh, but it had stopped bleeding and was not too noticeable. Her coat and arm were a different matter, but she bound a scarf around her arm and fixed the tear, at least presentably, with a safety pin from her bag.

She sat on the seat and lit a cigarette. A strange calmness had taken her over. She had had a narrow escape but had coped. She would take pride in telling Martin of her actions.

Now she had only one last call and she could get out of this city. She must buy a new coat and get something to eat, though she didn't feel in the least hungry.

She had done her part. The last call, Jean knew, was not essential, only for the peace of mind of the crew of the jet at this moment flying toward Los Angeles and wondering if they would ever make it.

"Bastard" the girl on the phone had called her. She had never thought of the other side of the matter, of the airline officials responsible for the safety of the airplane, of the crew trying to conceal their fear from the passengers and wondering if at any minute a blinding flash would end all. Of course she knew that there was no bomb on board, but the crew had no such knowledge. All they had was the information relayed by the phone calls that an altitude detonating bomb was aboard and the corroborating knowledge that a Miss Wendy Stark's baggage was being carried on the flight, though she had failed to board.

She thought of that great jet high above the clouds, three hours in the air by now, with fuel for five more, and of the crew's feeling that these might be its last hours of existence.

She left the toilet and walked again into the main hall. She looked at the large clock. Ten before eight. Perhaps she was a bastard, Jean thought, but perhaps you need to be in this world.

# Chapter 3

THE black wall stretched upward. The foreglow of the rising moon etched its eastern face against the sky but as yet threw little light on the route. For the last twenty minutes Craig and Martin had fumbled in the dark, adrift in a strange limbo world of touch and sound, always moving upward, fingers reaching and caressing the rough granite, boots finding the next ledge by instinct and practice. They exchanged little conversation, but an almost tangible human warmth united them. Desperate adventures force one into a dependence on one's companion which breeds love and respect. When life balances on your partner's decision to move or not to move, on his extending a hand at the right time, or his cautionary word, even important differences are forgotten. Your every thought and every move are focused on your need to survive, and since you cannot make it alone, nor would you want to, on your companion's safety.

A tremendous irrational joy grew inside Craig. He had almost forgotten the implication of the load he carried on his back, and except for his consciousness of its weight, he was totally in the present.

They had passed the first fixed rope in good time. It had been impossible to see when they had reached it, but Martin had put his hand on it as though they were climbing in broad daylight. The rope, about ninety feet long, led out of the gully up a wall that overhung for its first fifteen feet and then leaned back on smooth slabs to a capacious ledge. They had placed it the previous week to save time and effort on this difficult section.

Martin went up first, grunting and scraping, and Craig was thankful of the rest while he waited his turn. Still, waiting there in the dark was not good. Thoughts that had been repressed by the last half hour's action began to demand attention again. Though Craig had successfully surmounted this obstacle five times in the previous month, and once in the dark, he was by no means happy. Once you swung up on the first grip you were committed. You could not retreat, for to do so was to lose strength. Over the lip of the overhang, ten feet of steep rock remained to a resting place. It required a supreme effort; yet energy had to be conserved for the even more difficult manoeuvres later on the face. With luck they would have some light from the moon in about half an hour, but that would be a mixed blessing. The yawning drop below their feet would become apparent, and more important, any pursuit would be aided. Still, the advantage would be theirs; they could move faster and, with their

knowledge of the area, could surely outdistance and outfox any police.

Craig heard a soft but clear whistle. Martin was up. It was his turn now. Craig knew that there is only one way to do something that is dangerous and committing—to attack it without hesitation. The body must be allowed to take charge, using the mind to its purposes. It must not be inhibited by fear and doubt.

He swung up, taking his full weight on his arms, held on with one hand, reached up with the other, got a good grip, and repeated the sequence. He could feel the nylon of the rope bite into his fingers, and as he swung upward he could see nothing. Like a man who has leaped off a high bridge, he seemed to be out of contact with solidity for an interminable time. Then his feet scraped the rock, got some purchase, and he was over the lip, climbing rapidly to the small ledge. Craig leaned against the wall, panting but exhilarated. The rest was easy, his feet finding rough spots and ledges to assist his progress.

"Good work! You came up like a bird." Martin greeted him on the capacious ledge with a warm hug.

"Let me take the sack."

Craig could make out his features now and the black wall stretching above his head. He passed over the sack, thankful to be rid of it and feeling light and powerful. He began to coil the rope he had just climbed. No trace of their progress must be left. There were two more ropes to collect, the one giving access to the cave and the last one, which would take them out of the cave and onto the easy ridge.

"Let's go." Martin turned and seemed to flow away from the ledge. Up they climbed, easily at first in grooves and cracks, then with more difficulty as the cracks gave way to a smooth face on which the holds were far spaced. In full light it had not been difficult, and even on their previous night climb it had not posed serious problems. Now with the tensions imposed by the necessity of speed it seemed a different climb.

Ahead of Craig, Martin reached a small ledge and seemed to be having difficulty leaving it. Craig heard him curse in impatience as he tried first one way, then another. The moon had risen low in the east but as yet was not bright enough to afford much help. Craig joined him on the miniscule ledge where there was barely room for both of them. He remembered this spot. About one hundred and fifty feet above was the piton for the second fixed rope.

Below him, as he stood on the ledge, Craig could see the small lake near which they had lain that afternoon glint in the moonlight. The face spread out above and below them. It seemed an age since they had waited in the hot sun, yet his watch showed that they had only been a half hour on the climb so far. This was a different world and one they had to leave soon if they were to be successful.

Martin tried the moves again, made about five feet, and faltered, searching for the hold that would lift him farther. Craig could see his hand groping, white against the dark rock, creeping over the slab in fluid, unhurried movements. Then he was descending, panting and obviously in bad humor.

"Christ! What's the matter with me? I walked up it last time."

Craig had suggested earlier leaving a fixed rope at this spot, but Martin, supremely confident, had brushed the suggestion aside.

"Let me try." Craig edged along to where the first hold, a small ledge at full stretch, gave access to a steep groove.

"Let's put on the rope." Craig reached over to Martin to take the coil.

"It's a waste of time. I'll make it. We have to hurry." Martin was impatient, his pride hurt by his failure to surmount the problem.

No go," said Craig. "One slip and we've had it. Even the one who doesn't fall. Your body down there means that I go to prison. Similarly if I fall. The stake's too big to take a risk like that. Give me the rope."

Martin shrugged and surrendered the coil. In a moment Craig had it uncoiled and tied a bowline around his waist. Martin tied on and found a spike where he could belay himself to the cliff. When the rope was around Martin's waist and in a position to be paid out, Craig set off. Quickly he gained a few feet, keeping in balance, using his strength as little as possible. He would need it later. Feet wide apart, he felt upward for the vital hold. He edged his hand way over to the right toward a shadow, and his fingers curled around a small rough grip. That would have to do. He couldn't hold on much longer in this position. Looking down, he could see Martin's black hair silhouetted against the lake. He raised his left foot to a small sloping ledge about knee level, pulled with his right hand, stood up gingerly and, with his left arm at full stretch, reached an excellent hold like the handle of a jug. With a sudden effort he was up and over the hard part, heart beating and a moist sweat on his brow.

On he climbed for fifty feet farther, cautiously as the gap between Martin and him widened. If he fell now he would go a good hundred feet, like a bat in the night, swooping and howling, before the rope would come taut. And Martin would almost certainly be plucked from his stance on the thin ledge to follow him to the boulders below. But he knew he would not fall. He had never climbed better, hand and foot had never been so well coordinated, and he exalted in his fitness.

On another ledge, broader this time, he quickly found a good spike of rock to tie onto and took in the rope. Martin came up with ease, and when he arrived, Craig made light of his earlier failure.

There was no place for rivalry on a great cliff where each depended on the other.

They pressed on now, eager to get off and to be free of the money on Craig's back. Above them the slab they were on swept upward to their left to disappear into an edge, steep and stark against the night sky. At the top of the slab began the most desperate section of the climb. Around the ridge that lay bare and sharp above them lay the cave.

Martin had first discovered it a month before, as he swept the face with high-powered binoculars looking for just such a spot. It lay off any natural line up the cliff and so would not be stumbled on by later climbers

Also it was small and insignificant in the overall chaos of the face, with its cracks, ridges, and overhangs. When he had pointed it out to Craig, the latter had laughed in disbelief. It was surrounded by rock that looked blankly impossible, and Craig was all for seeking out some more accessible and less dangerous place. But he had underestimated Martin's dedication and his skill. It had taken them two days to gain the cave for the first time, but Martin had approached the problem with a patience and ingenuity born of a long acquaintance with the most difficult North American climbs.

The secret of gaining access to the cave was to get above it and descend to a ledge running into it using the rope.

They were now at the piton that they had driven in on that first attempt. Craig had chosen a long one of hardened steel and had driven it fully to the hilt in a tight crack. There was no chance of its coming out. Already hanging from it was a doubled rope, about one hundred and fifty feet of nylon, thin but strong.

"You go first, Craig. I'll see you on the ledge."

Out here on this exposed edge the situation was incredible. Below them the slab curled away in the pale moonlight, its near edge jutting out toward the ridge, and a deep gash of shadow following its entire length. Around the corner of the edge the wall fell away in great sweeps of slab and overhang, and the eye was drawn inexorably downward to the boulders, the meadow, and the lake. To trust oneself to the rope in that fearsome situation was an act of faith, and as Craig wound the rope around his body, he prayed that it would not prove too difficult to reach the ledge.

"See you." With a smile that was rather forced, he swung off the ledge and began to lower himself down the rope, paying it out over his shoulder with his right hand and searching out the rock below. Once on the vast face Craig felt very alone, the only sound that of the rope running around his chest and over his shoulder. He was swinging free of the rock about five feet out. His destination was a slight easing of the angle about seventy feet below, where he could build his impetus for the moves left to the ledge, about twenty feet away.

Swinging in space, sometimes facing the cliff, sometimes looking out over the mountain ranges stretching west to Boise and civilization, Craig felt strangely disembodied, a soul adrift in a surrealistic landscape. Over there the small plane must now have landed and, if all was going well, the police would be awaiting the information in Jean's last phone call. Then, with nothing to lose, they would swarm over this area, searching and pursuing, angry at having been restrained so long, like a pack of dogs who have got the smell of game but have not been unleashed.

Craig felt his feet come into contact with the rock again and was able to take some of the weight off his shoulder, which was smarting with the friction of the rope. A few feet farther down he stopped. This was the place. He now had to swing himself across twenty feet of unbroken face to gain the ledge he could see. Once on the ledge, the rest was easy to the cave.

He launched himself off, running and scrambling in the opposite direction from the ledge, muscles working hard to give himself enough momentum to swing back and reach the ledge. Gradually slowing down, he reached a point at which the rope was pulling him back harder than he could press forward. As he began to swing backward he fought to turn. The rock was rushing |past. Craig passed the starting point and began to kick at the rock, scratching and pulling with his hands, throwing everything into the desperate attempt to reach the ledge. At the edge of the ledge nearest him was a large spike of rock pointing upward which he had to reach. He could see it coming, but he felt his swing slow down with every foot gained. It would be close. Reaching, pulling and thrusting frantically, in a despairing effort, almost crying out in apprehension, he grasped the spike, slipped, lost his balance, and grasped it again more firmly. Panting and sobbing, belly flat on the ledge, he lay like a fish fresh from the creek, gripping the spike till his fingers hurt. Cautiously, he edged himself farther on and then stood up. The rope, like a fragile thread, stretched up and away to where Martin waited. Craig unwound the rope from his body, made it fast to the spike, and gave a strong, clear whistle.

It did not take Martin long to descend the rope. Now that it was attached to the spike he could come directly to the ledge.

"Great! You were great." Martin was chortling and smiling as he arrived. "Jesus, that's quite a bit of trapeze work. We could earn an honest living in a circus."

Their spirits were high again. All that remained was to remove the rope, make their way along the ledge to the cave and then down the rope again to get off the face. Craig took one end of the rope and began to pull. Nothing happened.

"Christ! The rope's jammed. Give me a hand."

Martin lent his weight to Craig's, but still the rope would not budge.

"Try the other end. It must come." They transferred their efforts to the other end of the rope. Sweat was breaking out on their faces, both from the effort and from the mounting fear that one of them would have to climb back up to free it. The rope could not be left. Remaining, it would point clearly to the hiding place.

"It must have jammed on the edge. I should have checked it more thoroughly before I left. I guess I'd better climb back up. We must retrieve it."

Craig did not reply. He took one end of the rope and began to flick the slack back up the cliff in an attempt to free it.

"Come on, we can't waste time." Martin was getting impatient and eager to exchange inaction for motion again, even if it meant climbing the pitch again.

"Just a minute. I think this might do it." Craig worked his arm hard, flicking his wrist and causing the line to snake in great curves up into the dark. The rope shifted position. He stopped flicking and pulled.

"It's coming! It's coming! Here, pull with me. Keep it coming." The rope began to ease toward them, slowly at first, then more easily, and finally the free end disappeared from view with a rush. The line cascaded about them, hissing like some great snake, and plummeted past to drop into the abyss below, jerking on Craig's wrist with a sudden and unnerving force.

Martin took the end from him and began to coil the rope by his feet, like a sailor removing a mooring line from a windlass.

Along the ledge they inched cautiously, yet with all possible speed. If the path had been three feet above the ground they could almost have run, but stuck out here between heaven and earth, they moved slowly, one hand on the wall to their right, settling one foot before moving the next. It was an incredible formation, this ledge about three feet wide, beginning in the maze of walls and overhangs and leading slightly upward without a break about thirty-five feet to the dark shadow of the cave.

"Cave" was almost a misnomer. Its floor was no bigger than an average-sized table, and the roof sloped upward to merge into the great overhangs of the face above. It was almost impossible to stand inside it. At the back was a depression into which the sack would fit neatly, and two loose rocks could be pushed back to cover the spot from all but a determined investigation. And, God knows, thought Craig, it's a million to one against anyone getting here for pleasure. The cave did not lie on any possible route up the cliff. The face above it was blankly impossible, overhanging and crackless. The ledge which had led to it ended there, and below them nothing could be seen of the rock until the broken boulder slope, five hundred feet down. It was an amazing situation. The only way in was by the ledge, and the only exit was to swing down a long rope for about one hundred feet to a series of ledges and cracks, leading leftward to the easy ridge.

As he removed the sack and passed it to Martin in the cave, Craig thought forward to the time about a year from now when they would return to the face to regain the money. By then any pursuit would have cooled off. The loss would have been absorbed by the airline in the many ways a large corporation preserves its profit. Probably no one would remember the incident except themselves and Jean. By now Jean would plucking up her courage for the last phone call, the one telling the airline how to defuse the nonexistent bomb. Craig laughed out loud. That was the beauty of the plan. It involved no violence, no danger except to themselves. He would not have been a party to anything causing death or injury, no matter what the profit. But to trick the airline into passing over a quarter of a million dollars gave him a pleasure that did not depend on personal gain. He would almost have done it for the sheer pleasure of pitting himself against the large organization.

Martin, he thought, was a different breed. The money meant a lot to him, and Craig felt that if necessary he would resort to violence. There was something in Martin's background that he never talked about, that gave him a core of bitterness against society. Craig remembered Martin's incredulity when Craig had objected to his stealing a bag of food from a supermarket in Seattle on one of their early climbing trips. Martin had not needed to steal, and the value of the food balanced against the risk was infinitesimal. He had done it, Craig thought, just because that was the way he operated. If you want something, take it. If someone gets in your way, push them aside. And yet, on a personal level, he was kind. He would share his last sandwich or give away his last cigarette and on a climb would risk his life to save his companion's. But, with equal dedication, he would steal from any anonymous organization. He revelled in the risk and delighted in the gains, however small. Perhaps he was a descendant of pirates, Craig mused. His last name was Gould, perhaps a corruption of "gold" that his ancestors had fought for.

Martin emerged from the cave, regaining his feet and brushing his hands on his gray climbing britches.

"Well, that's over. It's like getting rid of the albatross. We can move faster now, and if we're caught we can bluff it out. What do you mean money? No, we never saw anyone. You must be crazy! How could we get any money out here twenty miles from the nearest road?" Martin was gesticulating and mimicking, his face creased in an irrepressible grin.

"It's all over, Craig. The rest is as easy as catching snails."

While Martin had been hiding the money, Craig had uncoiled the large rope and hung it from a piton on the wall. Now he wound the rope round his body and launched himself into space again. Above him, the rope stretched taut over the lip of the cave floor, and below him and around him was nothingness. Without the umbilical cord of the rope he could not exist here. Only a bird could. Perhaps this was the great inspiring spark in mountaineering—to break into an alien element, to exist and be in command where no one had been before and few would ever come.

He reached a capacious ledge, unwound the rope, whistled, and soon saw Martin appear over the lip, gyrating like a sycamore seed as he floated down to join him.

The rope came free quickly and easily this time, and it was soon coiled. Martin led off up a series of ledges and short walls. The ground was easier now and they could see the broken black outline of the easy ridge a few hundred feet ahead. They were burdened with three heavy ropes, but without the sack of money Craig felt free and light. It had weighed on his shoulders more than its true weight warranted.

As they gained the ridge, the country to the west opened up before them like a fairyland, silver and gray in the moonlight. The ridge cast a dark shadow, but beyond it Craig could make out lakes, forests, and mountains, softened by the pale light, stretching for mile upon mile. There was no sign of civilization, no indication that humans had ever touched the land. Away to the north, Craig could see the deep valley where their camp lay. There were two high passes to cross and twenty miles of rugged mountainside to negotiate. But they knew the trail well, and in this light they could move fast. Still, if the police were efficient, paratroopers might be dropped around the area even at night, and they might find themselves cut off. Certainly, by morning it would be unwise to be anywhere in the vicinity of the valley where the money had been dropped.

Craig glanced at his watch. It was nine fifty, a mere two hours since they had collected the money. It seemed like an age ago, so much had happened on the great face that stretched behind them. By now the airline would have received the last call, and the great jet would finally be able to start its descent to Los Angeles, its fuel supply down to the last essential gallons and its crew still tense, hoping that their information was correct.

Martin and Craig climbed the broken back of the ridge, searching for the easy gully that would lead them down on the other side. When they reached the gully, it lay below them, dark and sinister, its walls like great jaws of a monstrous animal ready to engulf the unwary. Down this gully, however, lay freedom from the barren and desolate world they had existed in for the last two hours. Through it was access to the softer world of trees and grasses, of streams and meadows.

They descended it slowly at first, on a moving surface of small stones, then as their confidence increased, with great leaps and slides. The deafening noise of rocks set in motion by their progress echoed and re-echoed from the steep dark walls of the chasm, and it was with relief that they burst into the silence of the steep grassy slope below.

Craig subsided on a hummock of grass, revelling in the contact of soft vegetable matter after the hard, unyielding granite of the mountain. Martin joined him, laughing and exuberant, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. They each lit one, shielding the match and the glow of the cigarette from any possible observer, though, as they gazed over the unreal mysterious landscape before them, it was incredible to think of any other human traversing it.

"I told you it would be a cinch. All we have to do now is walk twenty miles on a trail we know well and get some well-deserved rest." Martin was bubbling over with enthusiasm and confidence.

"Yes, if they don't have all the trails covered within an hour or two." Craig could not resist voicing his fears. So far everything had seemed to go too smoothly. Though by nature an optimist, he could see some very big "ifs" that stood between them and success.

Still, they had made it thus far. As they set off down the soft turf toward the woods, it seemed impossible Thatthey would be intercepted, or that anything could prevent them from living happily ever after. Yet as they dropped down the silvered slope, closer and closer to the deep shadows of the trees, Craig felt his stomach tighten and a slow shiver spread down his spine. What lay ahead would in reality be more difficult and dangerous than the cliff. There, at least, problems were familiar and predictable, and their long experience had fitted them to cope with almost any challenge. The world they were entering, one of questioning, of deception, of lying, was not familiar to Craig, and he dreaded his responses to it.

As they stepped into the trees he turned briefly and looked back up the grassy slope, up the great black cut of the gully to the ridge and the moon behind it. He was leaving a world of purity and light for the dark complexity ahead. Craig turned away and followed the sounds of Martin, already crashing through the dry wood of the forest.

# Chapter 4

WHEN the first telephone warning was relayed to Consolidated Airlines, it was passed immediately to Tom Foley's desk. Over the past few years he had almost become vice-president in charge of hijackings and ransom demands. His instructions were simple: Do everything that the hijacker demands until the passengers and crew are safe, then move heaven and earth to get whoever is responsible. The policy had worked out so far. Fifteen planes had been hijacked in the past two years, and not one had crashed.

It irked Tom to have to accede to the demands of the misfits and cranks who had commandeered the aircraft, but he realized that one tragedy would lose the airline more than the inconvenience and extra expense involved in going along. So far eleven planes had made detours to Cuba, three attempts had been foiled at airports when the plane had landed to refuel, and one lone hijacker had been gunned down by FBI men on his way to his car with half a million dollars. Hijackers, when they were interested in money and not free transport, always thought in fractions of a million dollars. They were at heart romantic, not practical, men and their plans were usually sketchy and not very well thought out.

Now here was another one on flight 536 for Los Angeles. Would this one be different?

Foley reached for his phone. This one had started off smarter by not calling the airline direct. For three years now they had taped all incoming calls.

"Operations control? We have a bomb warning on 536. Relay a message to the captain. It is an altitude detonating device that will explode if the plane drops below ten thousand feet. Warn him to conserve fuel and delay his approach to Los Angeles. This one wants money, and you can tell him we'll play ball. No, we have no further information at this time."

He replaced the phone. Out of his window he could see a large silver jet taxiing for takeoff. They were so fragile, despite their apparent strength.

He buzzed for his secretary. She came through the door, smiling. Foley did not feel very happy and the smile annoyed him.

"Laura, I want the passenger list and the booking list for flight 536. Immediately. And I want to know if any cases or passengers were searched. Right away."

He turned back to the window. The roar of the great jet muted by the thick double-pane window buzzed in his head. Lighting a small cigar, he sipped at the dregs of his coffee. It could be a long night.

When the lists came, it did not take Foley long to discover that one passenger had bought a ticket for the flight but had not boarded. It happened not infrequently, but the passenger would usually have his ticket changed for another flight soon after the departure of the first. He looked at the name: Wendy Stark.

A quick call to flight booking revealed that the flight had not been changed and the ticket had never been surrendered. Foley's intuition gave him the answer to the next question, even before Baggage confirmed it. Yes, the lady's luggage had been checked aboard flight 536. No, there had been nothing suspicious about it. Yes, it had passed the metal detection device without incident.

These bombers were becoming more sophisticated with every month. This one was obviously a technical genius. A bomb had to be constructed with very little metal and with a device that would not trigger on the takeoff as it passed through the ten-thousand-foot level. Foley was at a loss. He had not encountered one like this before. Usually the hijacker was there on the flight, prepared to blow himself up if necessary if his demands were not met. Here was a bomb in the air and the hijacker on the ground. How could it be defused? What information would they receive in return for the ransom demand that was bound to come that they could use to render the bomb harmless?

Foley picked up his direct line to the FBI. They were as usual efficient, not wasting time in red tape and department buck-passing. The vice-president quickly explained the situation and asked that his queries be referred to their technical branch. He also asked for information on Wendy Stark, description and age unknown.

There was little else he could do but wait. Waiting was the hardest part of these attempts. Those bastard s never thought of the lives they were putting in jeopardy, only of their own selfish interests. Even now, the captain and crew of that jet, family men, young stewardesses, must be experiencing the stomach tightening realization that the next few hours might be their last. This hijacker had nothing to lose. He or she or they were safe on the ground. Yet they would be caught, and perhaps bloodily. They must be mad to think they could interfere with the operation of a great airline and escape with a fortune when they had to contend with the modern resources of the FBI.

When the next phone call was relayed, Foley did not hesitate. Ai least the game was going to be played according lo the rules. A quarter of a million was a modest demand, but it might as well be ten million or ten dollars for all the good it would do them. He was careful to relay to McCarron at the FBI the necessity of not alarming whoever was waiting for the drop. Money was only money, but the lives of Consolidated's passengers were of the highest importance. There was no record of Wendy Stark. It would of course be a pseudonym. The technical department thought such a bomb would be feasible. It might be defused by a time device or by a certain altitude change if it had been well constructed. But there was no knowing its secret for certain, so the money would have to be handed over.

A call to Boise finalized the arrangements there, and the FBI provided a pilot and an observer to fly the light plane. Thank God, the weather was clear out there. Idaho was a mountainous area, and the drop might be anywhere. The plane would be in direct contact with the FBI regional headquarters, and as soon as the last message was passed on, the agents would descend on the area en masse. McCarron had already alerted the National Guard in the area, and everything was set for a mass encirclement of the extortionists.

Foley had the information relayed to the captain of the jet. It was now over New Mexico and taking its time. It still had four hours of fuel left, so there was no panic yet, if everything went on schedule and the crooks continued to be true to their word.

Foley pushed back his chair and walked into the outer office. Laura was not smiling now and did not ask any questions. She crossed to the coffee machine and poured a cup of strong black coffee.

"Well we've given them the money. They should be pretty happy for a while. It's so futile. One almost sympathises with them. They have so little chance ol living to enjoy it." Foley shook his head. He could never envisage himself in the situation the extortionists must be in now. Money just didn't mean that much to him that he would jeopardize his good conscience and his liberty to acquire it. Throughout the history of mankind there have always been outlaws, and yet we know so little about their psychology. But they, sure as hell, cause a lot of grief.  
Foley shook his head unconsciously and made his way back to the solitude of his office to play out the closing moves of the game.

# 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 had 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 sensation.

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."

# Chapter 6

CRAIG was on the steep bare face alone. A great force was pulling his pack away from the cliff, and he was holding on for his life, his fingernails scraping and scratching at the holdless rock.

From inside the rock, deep and far away, a voice was shouting at him. "Get up! Get up and get out here!"

Craig struggled harder, flailing upward for holds but finding none. Instead his arms felt confined and hampered.

"Get up!" the voice roared. Suddenly Craig realized that he was fighting in his sleeping bag and the voice was coming from a large figure at the open tent door. By his side Martin was still immobile, head deep inside his bag.

"Who's there? What do you want?" asked Craig, now awake and his heart pumping wildly.

"Police. Get out here right away."

Craig let out a gasp.

"OK. Wait a minute," he replied, shaking Martin as he rose. He prayed that Martin would say nothing revealing as he woke and kept a hand ready to clasp on his mouth.

Martin's head emerged from his bag, looking sour. "What the fuck is it?"

The police are outside. They want to speak to us." Craig kept his voice low and calm.

"What the fuck for?" Martin came awake quickly and was thinking fast.

"I don't know, but they sure are impatient." Craig pulled on his jeans, found his sweater beneath his sleeping bag, and began to crawl to the tent door. It was fifteen minutes after ten. Outside in the meadow waited two men, one of them enormous. On the chest of his denim jacket was a badge, and for further confirmation he had a forty-five hanging by his hip.

"You boys is sleeping late," he drawled. "Get your friend out here and we'll have a chat."

Over in the rich grass of the meadow the heavy dew glinted on the ground. Two horses, heads low, cropped steadily.

"What do you want, officer?" Craig asked, fully aware from campus demonstrations that politeness paid dividends. The enormous man sat down on a stump near the fireplace. His thin companion stood behind him and to the left, watchful and wary.

"We'll let you know, boy," said the big one, "just as soon as your friend gets his ass out here." They had obviously ridden hard and were not to be mollified by politeness.

Craig bent his head over the fire, breaking twigs and piling them into a small pyramid. He reached into his jeans' hip pocket for a match, aware of the fixed gaze of the two policemen. He smiled.

"Want some coffee?" he asked. "I could sure do with some breakfast myself. Would you like some bacon?" Craig was starving. I must have something before they get down to business, he thought. He raised his voice.

"Hey, Martin, for Christ's sake, hurry up and help me fix some food."

Martin emerged from the tent, stretching and yawning. It was a glorious morning and the sun made his black hair shine. He rubbed his eyes and came toward the group.

Craig lit the bundle of twigs and blew on it until it began to roar. He threw on some bigger sticks, filled the pan from the water bag, and set it on the grill.

"What's the matter?" Martin asked. "Is somebody lost?"

"We'll ask the questions," said the big cop. The thin one grunted.

"Where were you boys last night?"

"In our tent. We bedded down about ten," replied Martin.

"You sure slept well for guys who hit the sack at ten." Obviously the big one was going to ask the questions. He had the air of a full-time police officer, while the thin one, picking his sharp nose at the edge of their small group, looked like a deputy.

"Well," said Craig, "we were climbing yesterday, and we were bushed last night."

"Where was you climbing?"

Craig turned. At the head of their valley Scimitar Peak caught the morning sun. "See that big one up there? We were on that face to the left—the Evening Wall route."

"You guys do that for fun?" The officer looked around at his companion, who still picked his nose, a disbelieving look on his face. "You're shitting me."

Martin smiled. All seemed to be going well.

"No, we've been here for three weeks climbing all the peaks around here, some of them two or three times by different routes."

The water was boiling. Craig went back to the tent and pulled out the coffee and sugar. When he got back, Martin was being asked when they had left for the climb.

"About nine in the morning," Martin replied. "It took us about two hours to get to the bottom of the face. It's a steep climb."

"You want some coffee?" Craig lifted the bubbling pot from the fire. "You'll have to share a mug."

"No, we've too much to do." The officer produced a notebook and a stubby pencil from his breast pocket. "What are your names?"

"I'm Craig Boyden and this is Martin Gould."

"How do you spell that 'Boyden'?"

Craig spelled it out and reached to take a steaming mug of coffee from Martin.

"Where are you boys from?"

"Seattle."

"Denver."

"I'm a teacher at Baxter College in Seattle," Craig volunteered. It was a mistake. The big one turned to the deputy with a sneer.

"They're college boys."

"I'm not," said Martin quickly. "I've worked lumber and I'm a mechanic just now."

"How does a mechanic get the money for a month's vacation? You on welfare too, or something?"

"No. I save it. I don't believe in working my ass to the bone," said Martin heatedly. He took a gulp of the hot dark coffee.

There's not much they can ask us, thought Craig. They obviously don't know a ridge from a face, and they probably didn't know Scimitar Peak from Elk or Raeburn.

"When did you get back?"

"About dark," Craig said.

"That's a hell of a long time to be climbing. How did you get down?"

"We came down the northwest ridge and back by the Stimson Trail."

"Why didn't you take the Bear Creek Trail?" The deputy spoke up for the first time, spitting on the ground, and advancing a pace or two toward the fire.

"It drops too much before it climbs to the ridge," Craig replied quickly. Maybe he knows the country well, he thought. The Bear Creek Trail was certainly the shortest.

"You guys see anyone else yesterday?" The officer was scratching at his thin, lank hair.

"No, not a trace."

"How about on the Stimson Trail? There was a fishing party up there"—the deputy again, a sharp one. His steely eyes looked straight into Craig's.

"No, we didn't see them. There was some horse shit and hoof marks though." A calculated risk. Few fishing parties here traveled on foot. They liked their beer and steaks too much.

"Any life around the Davies cabin?" The Davies cabin was an old abandoned structure, the home twenty years ago of an unsuccessful gold prospector.

"No. We stopped there for a rest," Martin replied. It was a good bet that no one was camping there. It was a gloomy, marshy area, mosquito infested and miles from good fishing. Still, Craig did not like the way the questioning was going or the fact that the cop was making notes as they spoke. They were playing it too much by ear. They had reckoned on having a full day to go over their story, telling and retelling it to each other, eliminating the flaws and sinking it into their memory, till they believed it fully. Now the chances of a slip were increased. Despite their appearance and their John Wayne drawls, these men were no fools.

'Who was the last person you saw?"

"Jim Bayles, the warden from Stanley," Craig answered. "He was here two days ago. Friday. He had some coffee and spent a couple of hours." This was a good point, and the deputy was obviously favorably impressed.

"You know Jim?" he drawled.

"Yes, he's been here about four times in the last three weeks. We had a couple of beers with him at the Strike Bar last time we were in Stanley."

The tension began to relax.

"Any of that coffee left? I could sure take a mug."

"Here. Like something to eat?" Craig poured a mug and passed it over. "There's the sugar."

"Naw, we ate down the valley. You're the third we've visited this morning."

"What's up?" Martin ventured.

"Some bastards tricked an airline into dropping them a quarter of a million bucks in a valley about twenty miles from here last night. Lone Fir Valley—you know it?" His eyes narrowed slightly.

"Sure, we've been over there. About a couple of weeks ago to climb Atlanta Mountain. How did they manage to get the airline to do that?"

"Oh, they told them a bomb would go off in one of their planes if they didn't. Jesus Christ! I don't know what the world is coming to. When I was young a guy made his keep by sweating. Now everybody has his hand out, and if you don't watch your wallet it's gone." The big cop shook his head. "And drugs. Shit, only last week a punk was picked up in Boise with a bag of heroin. Boise, for Christ's sake, Boise, Idaho."

"Yeh, it's the same in Seattle," offered Craig. "You can't walk the streets after dark."

"It's these fucking Communists," said the deputy, "and these college students. All the bastards should be made to work instead of sitting around on their asses protesting."

Martin grunted approval.

"How long are you going to stay here?" The officer still held his notebook and pencil.

"Oh, about three or four days," said Craig.

"There are one or two peaks we'd still like to climb."

"Let me have your addresses. We might need you later."

"705 Northwest Avenue, Seattle."

"1267 Lincoln Way, Denver."

"Well, before we go we'll just take a look in your tent to see if you have the greenbacks stashed away."

Craig rose. "Go ahead."

The two men advanced to the tent. Craig noticed that the little one was still very alert and walked to one side, keeping an eye on them. He stationed himself outside, while his partner lowered himself to his knees and began to pull their belongings out of the tent. They were taking no chances. Obviously, anyone who got his hands on a quarter of a million dollars would not hand it over without an argument.

The officer was thorough. Craig thanked his lucky stars that they had smoked their last joint several days ago. If the cops had found dope, their recent friendliness would fade rapidly.

"Guess you boys is clean." The big cop struggled to his feet. "Thanks for the coffee. If you see anything of that money, let us know." He leered and winked at his deputy.

"So long." They strolled down toward the meadow where their horses still chewed at the grass. The deputy gave a whistle, and the horses approached them slowly, reluctant to abandon the lush pasture.

The big one swung himself into the saddle of a large piebald and set off down the creek, followed by the deputy on a roan. He raised his hand in an undemonstrative farewell.

Craig sat down and began to stoke the fire to life. Martin stood watching as the riders made their way through the pasture. He did not speak.

As the horses reached the crest of the descent to the valley, the large cop, enormous even at two hundred yards, turned and looked back up at them. Martin gave him a wave. The big man turned back to the trail, and slowly riders and mounts disappeared from view. The silence of the valley was accentuated by the gentle tinkling of the stream and the soft crackle of the fire.

Martin and Craig looked at each other and wan grins began to spread on their faces.

"No sweat! No sweat! Holy Jesus! I thought the end had come when you woke me, but it couldn't have been better." Martin was shaking with laughter, reaching out to pull Craig to him, breaking into an impromptu jig, narrowly missing the fire and collapsing in a laughing heap on the grass.

"We screwed them, Craig. It was a cinch."

"That deputy had me worried," said Craig, still a bit on edge from the experience. "We could easily have been caught out in a lie. I hope that fishing party didn't camp in the middle of the trail at the Davies cabin."

"Oh, come on. Quit worrying. Everything's going our way."

Craig had to agree. They had made no slips. As long as they remembered what they said and stuck to it, surely nothing could go wrong now. After all, they had climbed Scimitar Peak by the Evening Wall. They had descended the northwest ridge, and they had indeed rested at the Davies cabin. Only that was four days ago. Still, they could talk intelligently to an expert about the route, and he could see no way they could be tripped up. The area they were in was not popular enough to attract many climbers. They had only seen one pair, a couple of locals from the University of Idaho at Boise. They had been camped at Redfish Lake and had come up for one climb out of Elk Valley. That was the beauty of their situation. It was remote enough to give them privacy but not too remote to be suspicious. About four miles down the valley, near the head of the lake, was the best climbing area in the Sawtooths, and there were at best fifteen pairs of climbers down there. So, to an outsider, they were simply two fish in a school, a little apart from the rest perhaps, but still fully accredited members of that rather bizarre (as far as the locals were concerned) breed, mountaineers and rock climbers.

Craig sorted out some bacon and put it in a pan on the fire. Martin still lay on the grass chortling.

"It's these fucking college students," he mimicked, in the tones of the fat cop. "Communists and work dodgers. When I was young we had to work. Now you just hold your hand out and greenbacks fall from the sky." He was rolling about on the grass, still damp from the dew, almost hysterical with laughter. "Communists," he croaked. "College students."

Craig was laughing as well now. The smell of the bacon and the good spirits of his companion combined to take his mind off his rude awakening and the subse+quent questioning.

"Want some pig?" he asked, and Martin seized on the possible pun.

"No more pig today. I couldn't stand it. Christ, wasn't he big?" he asked. "Reminded me of my dad. Six foot three and two hundred and fifty pounds. But I'd rather tangle with him than that skinny runt with the cougar's eyes. He was mean."

They devoured the bacon and cooked some more. Craig was ravenous. It was twenty-four hours since they'd had a decent meal. Yesterday had been all nuts and chocolate. His stomach felt as though it had shrunk.

"Any bread over there?"

Martin produced a half loaf of rather stale white bread and some butter. That followed the bacon, and they washed it down with fresh coffee.

Craig hadn't felt so good for a long time. Eating in the city is an overrated pastime compared to simple food cooked over an open fire after hard exertion.

"What'll we do today Martin?"

"Oh, I fancy lazing around, washing, and going over our story till it's perfect. Probably that won't be the last we see of the police. They'll almost certainly question us when we get to the valley. I'd love to know what's going on down there at the moment." Martin leaned back against the stump and lit a cigarette.

"How long do you think we should wait before we pick up the money?"

"Now look, Martin," Craig replied, angry at the reopening of this subject he thought had been settled. "We decided we would pick it up next summer. Don't let's start arguing that one again."

"It's all right for you. You have a steady job and can just sit on your ass at that college for a year. I have to sweat to get my bread, just like that cop said."

"I have to sweat, too," said Craig angrily. He resented the way Martin assumed that only physical labor was masculine. "I want that money just as much as you. But it would be suicide to try for it earlier. We've gone through this back and forth, again and again, and I'm sick of it. The heat will be too great for the next few months, and then the snows will come."

"Heat!" snorted Martin. "A posse of two bowlegged cowboys. In a week or two everyone will have forgotten this little incident, and those that remember will think that the money was spirited out by helicopter alter the drop. I'm all for going back next month."

"Well, I'm not!" replied Craig emphatically. "The money is ours without trouble if we wait till next year. If we go in next month we'll probably have ten years to regret it in the federal prison. Cops aren't fools. They're going to keep tabs on whoever was in the area and they're going to think it mighty suspicious if we appear again in a month."

"We don't need to tell them," argued Martin, grinding the butt of his cigarette out with the heel of his boot. "We can slip in by Atlanta and be back out again in a day."

"It's no go," said Craig, shaking his head. "I'm not gambling my freedom just for the sake of getting the money nine months earlier."

"Well, I just might do it myself."

"You bastard, just you try. What makes you think I'd let you? An unsigned letter to the police would do the trick." Craig was heated and not thinking clearly.

"It would fix you, too," said Martin, "but knock it off. I don't mean it. We started together, so we can finish together. There's no point in falling out at this stage. I still think we should lift it earlier. Someone might just find it. Still, I'll go along with our plan. Next July it is. But I'll sure be looking forward to it."

That disagreement over, they relaxed, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. The valley began to get hot in the midday sun, and Craig was glad of the shade of the trees they had camped under.

They polished and refined their story, shaping it to account for the time they had been in Big Fir Valley. First Martin, then Craig, acted as interrogator, delving deeper and deeper into the other's telling of the events on the day of the crime.

By late afternoon they felt fully confident of being able to withstand any questioning. They had rehearsed small points of difference between their stories, which would give an air of truth to their fiction if they were questionned together. There was no doubt in either of their minds that they could deceive anyone, no matter familiar the area.

All that remained now was to rest up, do a climb or two in the next few days, then stroll down from the mountains to Stanley to make their way back home at the end of their vacation. Once in Stanley they would go their separate ways. Martin was heading directly for Denver, while Craig intended to spend a few days fishing on the Salmon River before leaving for Seattle, where he had made arrangements to climb in the Glacier Peak Wilderness with some friends in the college mountaineering club. There were still three weeks before the old round of freshman composition and Romantic poetry began again.

As the sun dipped over the ridge behind the camp, they had just finished a monstrous meal of rice and dehydrated chicken. Craig revived the fire, pushing dry pine cones into the depths of the embers and breaking some fir branches on top. The flames warmed his face, chilled by the light, cool breeze that blew up the valley. It had been a great month. The weather, except for three or four days at the beginning, had been perfect. For most of the time he had forgotten the purpose that lay behind their activities. It was not until the last descent to Stanley, when after checking the weather forecast they had called Jean to set everything in motion, that the vacation had turned sour and he had begun to regret being here with Martin. Still, it was all over now, or nearly, and in a few days he could forget about the money lying in its cave on the barren mountain. Craig almost longed to be back at Baxter and to have the security of the freshman class around him, their predictable responses and their eagerness to please. He could understand them even at short acquaintance. Martin was a different matter, a question mark, an enigma. Craig had known him—though "known" was an overstatement—for two years now.

They had met in a climbing hut in the California Sierras, and Craig had been instantly attracted by the animal vitality and confidence that Martin had radiated. They had agreed to climb together and had made a highly successful team, getting together at every possible opportunity, in Idaho, Oregon, Washington, and last winter in Maine. Despite a total of perhaps forty big climbs together, Martin was still something of a mystery to Craig. Craig's whole background made him open; he talked freely about his past, his ambitions, his feelings. Martin, on the other hand, would avoid reference to his past and kept conversation on a practical, immediate level. Perhaps, thought Craig, he resents my education and my sheltered childhood. If he only knew. Even during this month in the Sawtooths, the longest period he had ever spent with anyone, Martin had not unburdened himself, and Craig felt as if he had met him only a few days before. He knew that once this was over he would not climb with Martin again. To climb with someone who holds back on you is to miss a great part of the richness of the experience. Craig sought more in mountaineering than the gaining of barren cold summits or the gripping excitement of a difficult stretch of rock. He sought true companionship, and over the past month he had found that he could not achieve it with Martin.

He raked the embers of the fire, yawned, and rose.

"I'm off to my bag," he announced. Martin was still sitting there, smoking and looking into the dying embers looked up.

"What'll we climb tomorrow?"

"Let's discuss it over breakfast. I'm too tired to think"

Martin suddenly looked very lonely, and Craig's heart went out to him. He could not think of anything to say to bring them closer. As he walked over to the tent, for the first time in his life he felt inadequate. He had always prided himself on an easygoing disposition and an ability to make people talk and feel comfortable in his presence. Perhaps it was that he had been too long with Martin, but his resources were at an end. Like a climber meeting an overhanging wall, bare and crackless, there was nowhere to go but back.

# 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.

"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.

# Chapter 8

SEATTLE, like all modern cities, is a plant whose heart has died but whose leaves continue to flourish.

Families, fleeing with their wealth from the dirt and i linger of the center, had flowed over the surrounding countryside, each attempting to mark out a little kingdom that might prove secure in the final crisis, which all subconsciously knew to be inevitable. Seen from the air, their efforts appear to be no more than a minor blot in an otherwise majestic countryside. From leu thousand feet, the great expanse of Puget Sound stretches as far as the eye can see, its sparkling water masking their inner sickness. Back from the city in a long sweep, the great snowcapped mountains seem to have everything under control.

On the ground the view is different, and more frightening. The houses, all very neat and spruce in the suburbs, loom larger than the mountains, and their cancerous growth strains toward Vancouver in the north and Portland in the south. One day soon the great megacity will be born.

Seattle, unlike Chicago or New York, is an easy city to get out of. In half an hour one can be sailing among myriad islands of Puget Sound or climbing on the slopes of one of the icy giants that lie nearby.

However, Craig was as happy in Seattle as a hobbit in a trailer park. Baxter College was situated about three miles from the center of the city, on one of the hills overlooking it, and Craig lived a short walk from the campus.

The campus was pleasant but not remarkable, a product of the post-Sputnik years of educational hysteria, when any nation seemed doomed whose garbage men did not have a liberal arts degree. Now that Boeing's great network of installations had stopped expanding, many of the city's garbage men did have degrees, and the financial pinch was being felt up the hill at Baxter. Applications outnumbered available positions by hundreds, and as the dean was fond of pointing out with scarcely veiled blackmail, it was a buyer's market. An air of nervousness had hovered over the younger teaching faculty for almost a year now, and praise bestowed on teachers by their colleagues, who were in competition with them, had noticeably declined in quantity.

Craig found the whole struggle for power, prestige, and scarcity distasteful. But he had to admit to himself that he had gone along with it to a small degree. From now on, no more, he thought to himself, as he sat by his desk in his small office drinking coffee from the communal urn and working through a sheaf of freshman English papers.

Within a year, he mused, twirling his pencil idly, I'll be rich enough to walk out of here and do what I want. He found it difficult to concentrate on the poorly thought-out critique of Thoreau's Essay on Civil Disobedience that lay before him. The writer, a somewhat pompous individual, could not follow Thoreau's distinction between justice and law, and Craig found himself ceasing to care.

He lifted the mug of coffee to his lips and set it back again on the ring of stain it had left on the table. Warm Sawtooth sunlight flooded his mind and, with it, the scent of pine forests and the rough feel of granite. The mind rarely focuses on the unpleasant experiences of the past. Memory prefers the joy to the pain; the delightful days spent on warm rock loom larger than the terror of the desperate move for a small hold.

It was two months since Craig had left Martin on the dusty space in Stanley. His three letters to him had gone unanswered, and now with the fall vacation approaching, he wondered if he ought to make the journey to Denver.

Certainly something had to be done. They were irrevocably joined in the enterprise. It would be supremely difficult for any one of them alone to recover the money, and despite their rift, Craig did not think that Martin would ask anyone else to accompany him. Though he did not know Jean well, he could not believe she was enough of a mountaineer to be of any use to Martin. There was no urgency to meeting up with Martin again. Martin would not be foolish enough to try to collect the money so soon after the event. The police were still vigilant. Only a couple of weeks ago they had inquired about him at the college. A shiver of fear had run down Craig's back when Margaret, the president's secretary, had told him.

What have you been doing wrong?" she had asked, laughing.

"Oh, nothing much," he had replied. "A few rapes, a burglary or two, and selling a few bags of smack. Why do you ask?"

"Well, the police phoned up yesterday and asked if you worked here and where you lived."

Craig had tried not to show his fear and had mumbled something about probably having an unpaid parking ticket. He knew that the inquiry was probably routine, but it had worried him. The police were obviously keeping an eye on anyone who had been in the Sawtooths during the hijacking. There could not have been more than a hundred or two people in the area at the most, climbing, fishing, and walking. So the police would probably continue to check on them for a few months more.

Martin would not be foolish enough to try for the money so soon, he hoped. If he did, it would be disastrous for him, and for Craig also. If Martin were caught, then Craig could not escape. But he was foolish even to think of the possibility. He tried to dismiss it from his mind and return to the neatly typed paper on his desk, but the thought was persistent. He would have to get in touch with Martin again and warn him of the police interest. He hoped that the two months had mellowed Martin and that he would be able to laugh over the fight in the Stanley bar. Martin's temperament was a mercurial one, and Craig had seen him flare up in a vile temper and be the best of friends later in the same day.

Yes, he would have to go to Denver and make peace. A quarter of a million dollars would make their differences seem petty.

There was a knock at the door, and as Craig looked up, Sam Meek thrust his head in.

"Why don't you knock that off and come for a drink?" he suggested.

"Well," hesitated Craig, "I've got to get these papers back by tomorrow, and I've only done seven."

"Oh, screw it," replied Sam. "Do you think they care? How many times did you get a paper back on the dot when you were at school? What are you trying to do? Reform the profession?"

Craig pushed the papers back on his desk, gulped the last of his tepid coffee, and took his coat from the back of the chair. He was glad of the excuse to get out of this box and to enjoy Sam's company.

"Come on then. Do you want to go to the Faculty Club?"

"Are you kidding?" Sam pulled a face, his features contorting to give the impression of an aged pedant admonishing a student. "And sit around with old Jones and Weingarten discussing the latest American Professors Conference? I have my car by the library. Let's go down to Willy's or the Starlight."

They left the office and made their way down the carpeted corridor to the stairs, past the central office, with a wink and a blown kiss for the secretary. Then more silently past Dean Ritter's office, where the head of the English faculty seemed to live his entire life.

The traffic was light at this time of the afternoon, and the city was bathed in a gentle autumnal light. Craig could just see the great bulk of Mount Rainier to the south through a web of power lines and tall buildings. It would be good to break out of this existence, to escape from the noise and the bustle to the peace of the high country. Craig looked at Sam as he concentrated on getting through the next traffic light on the green or orange. Sam didn't feel this tension between country pleasures and city life. He liked towns, and to settle him down in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, or Bend, Oregon, would be to inflict on him a cruel and unusual punishment. It's incredible how quickly some men adapt to this concrete-and-steel environment, Craig thought, as an impatient driver behind them leaned on his horn. Sam had been born at Bakersville, a small town in the center of Washington, surrounded by rivers and mountains, yet the closest he got to nature now was an occasional trip to the Skagit River to fish for steelhead. His pleasures were those of the bar, the concert and the theater. And yet Craig found him good company. They did not lack subjects of mutual interest. Just as well that many people love cities, he thought selfishly. Otherwise there would be no wild country left for me.

Willy's Bar was busy. Sam had managed to slide into a parking place two blocks away, and Craig had enjoyed the walk to the bar. They found a booth away from the noise and ordered beers. When it came, the ice-cold Olympia seemed tasteless to Craig, and he wished he had a whiskey.

Sam leaned back and lit his pipe. The fragrant aroma of Balkan Sobranie filled the booth, and layers of opaque smoke hung like morning clouds over the table.

"How's your study on Romantic joy coming?" he asked, without removing the pipe from his lips.

Craig grunted and grimaced.

"I see, little romanticism, and no joy." Sam laughed.

"Aren't you worried about tenure? You know we have to produce at least a hundred pages of bullshit a year to survive."

"I don't know that I want to survive here," confessed Craig. "In fact, I can't think of anything worse. Can you see yourself climbing these stairs up to the cells for the rest of your life?" He knew that Sam could, and probably would, but he was in a particularly bitter mood and did not feel like sparing his friend's feelings.

"Well, what else are you going to do?" Sam, pleasant as always, ignored the thrust. "Why else did you go through that hell in grad school?"

"Oh, it seemed like a good idea at the time. But I guess I'm not cut out for the academic life. I love the poetry, but it gets destroyed in teaching it. Perhaps I'm just a bad teacher. Anyway, let's not talk about my problems. How's Sally?"

"Oh, she's no problem," laughed Sam. "It's just that her fat cat of a father thinks I'm after the money. He can't imagine what she sees in a poor English instructor, when there are so many young executives from his electronics factory floating around their house. Still, it doesn't seem to worry Sally. How's your love life? Are you still seeing Claire?"

"Yes, occasionally, but not seriously. She was too keen on marriage, and I'm not about to commit that folly yet."

"You'd rather make love to your rock faces, I suppose. A clear case of Oedipal love for Mother Nature. One conquest after the other, each one bigger than the last." Sam was in full stride now, chortling and poking his pipe at Craig. "Virgin summits, eh? Where man has never been before, eh?" His eyes lifted above Craig and he waved his pipe. "Hi, Tony. Come on over here. This young man's in trouble; he's searching for his lost mother on the mountaintops of the world."

"Oh, knock it off," laughed Craig. "Nice to see you, Tony. What'll you have?"

"Beer, thanks. Jesus, it's busy tonight. It's time to buy stocks in booze." Tony eased his large bulk in beside Craig. Craig waved for the waitress and ordered two beers and a whiskey for himself.

Tony was short and fat, and an enormous mustache clung to his upper lip. His face was pallid and unhealthy, and his black-rimmed glasses gave him the air of an overworked librarian. He was, in fact, a mathematician, some said a brilliant one.

"Boy, there's nothing like Willy's Bar for driving home the fact that we have a population explosion," Tony said, licking the beer-moist hairs of his mustache. "Soon they'll remove all the tables and we'll have to stand up to drink. It'll become illegal to spend more than five minutes for each beer."

"No," countered Craig, "they'll just build more abominations like those wood and plastic drinking shacks that are lining the roads out of Seattle. Soon it will be impossible to drive to Portland without being able to spit on plastic, if you have a good supply of spit."

"Oh, come on," laughed Sam. "It's not that bad. You're just a people hater. You've spent too much time in the forests. You're an anachronism. Where was it you spent your last vacation—the San—eh?"

"The Sawtooths," corrected Craig.

"God, its not even English," hooted Sam. "You mean the Sawteeth."

"No, I don't. The Sawtooths are a mountain range in Idaho."

"See what I mean, Tony?" wailed Sam, rocking back and forth on his seat. "Idaho, for Christ's sake. Idaho. Christ! Famous potatoes. If Idaho had been any good no one would've reached Seattle."

"And then Seattle would have been worth coming to," Craig laughed. "Right, Tony?"

Tony peered through his glasses.

"Give me Seattle any day," he responded. "I would get lonely in Idaho. Say, wasn't it the Sawtooths that airline dropped all that money in? When were you there?"

"Actually I was there when it happened," said Craig, "though I didn't see anything except police."

"Well, they really got away with it, whoever they were," said Sam. "The police were pretty confident they had them, but I guess that's typical cop talk."

Tony looked over at Craig, his dark eyes glinting behind his glasses. "How do you think they managed it?" he asked.

"Me? I don't know. Maybe they had a helicopter and took off the minute they had the loot."

"Yes, but they had a tight ring around the area the minute the money was dropped. A helicopter can't just vanish into thin air." Tony sucked thoughtfully at his pipe. "No, the money must still be there, don't you think, Craig?"

"I don't know any more than you guys. Just because I was in the area doesn't make me an expert." Craig's response sounded forced to his ears.

"Well, how would you work a job like that?" asked Sam.

"I wouldn't," replied Craig. "I wouldn't risk my freedom for money." He was beginning to feel very uncomfortable and hoped that he wasn't showing it. He lit a cigarette and lifted his whiskey, trying to think of some way to change the subject.

"Oh, come on, George Washington," laughed Tony. "You would just love to get a quarter of a million for nothing. Where did you hide the money—up one of your beloved cliffs?"

Craig felt himself flush and covered his embarrassment with a laugh. "Do you think I'd tell you and then have to pay you off? An experienced crook like myself?"

"Well, now we know your game, we expect a cut," said Sam, leering at him. "Or we'll get you fired from the English faculty," he added with a laugh.

"Big deal," responded Craig. "Go right ahead."

The conversation turned to the rising crime rate in the city fueled by the desperation of heroin addicts, to the psychology behind addiction, and to the so-called British system where addicts are treated as sick, not criminal.

Despite the change to less dangerous topics, Craig did not feel at ease. If two untrained and not very criminally conscious individuals, such as Sam and Tony could jump to the right conclusion, what was preventing the police? Probably nothing, he had to admit. Undoubtedly, his name, along with another fifty or sixty others, had been scrutinized and filed away for close watching. Perhaps fifty or sixty was an exaggeration. When all the clues were assembled the figure might be nearer five or six, and any approach of these individuals to the Sawtooths would trigger off renewed police interest. If they did nothing, they would be perfectly safe. Craig was sure of that. If they had left any trail or any suspicion behind them, it would not have taken the police two months to close in. They must be waiting for the next move. Perhaps their earlier plan of waiting a year was too risky. Two or three years would be safer. He must have a conference with Martin— that was top priority. He must demand that Martin make no move for at least a year. If only there was some way to dissociate himself from Martin. Why the hell had he got himself into this mess?

"You're very silent." Tony broke into his thoughts.

Craig responded quickly. "I was wondering how intelligent people knowing what they do about heroin can get themselves hooked."

"Well, I guess there are some people who just force themselves into situations where they will punish themselves. It's not unusual. Most drunkards know they're killing themselves; so do most smokers. Why lay it all on the heroin addict? How about guys who climb or drive cars like maniacs? They're hooked in a certain way. Or take me," added Tony. "I eat too much, and I know what it does to me, but I can't resist."

Sam looked at the table. "Like another whiskey?" he asked Craig.

Craig had had enough, both of the company and of the drink.

"I'd better be getting back to my papers," he said, rising from the table. "No, I'll get back myself. Why don't you guys have another? See you."

He gave a wave and made for the door. Outside dusk was falling and the street lights had just come on. The air felt cool and sweet. In two weeks the fall vacation would set him free from this city and he could head east to see Martin and get out into the mountains around Denver. A panhandler asked him for a cigarette, and Craig, against his better judgment, gave him a couple. The man then began some tale about a job on the other side of town and how he needed a dollar to get over there. Craig cut him off rudely and walked off. You have to be hard in cities. Any sign of weakness or humanity, and you become an immediate prey, Craig thought. The poor bastard obviously needed a buck, but if I'd given him one, he'd have wanted ten.

He walked a block to the bus stop and waited about five minutes before the right bus came along. When he reached his apartment and let himself in, the room was dark and cheerless. The morning's dishes still lay on the table, and the odor of fried egg was in the air.

He sat down on the chair by the telephone. Martin couldn't refuse to answer a telephone call, as he had done with the letters. He searched the pad, found the number, and dialed. The number rang once, twice, then a female voice, uninterested and flat, broke in.

"This is a recording. The number you have dialed has been temporarily disconnected. For further details you may call the correct exchange."

A call to the exchange produced the information that Martin had not paid his telephone bill. No, they didn't know if he still lived there.

Craig returned the phone to its hook, lit a cigarette, and leaned back. Martin hadn't answered his letters, his phone was disconnected, and he lived a thousand miles away. The only other hope was Jean, but he couldn't remember her name. He had visited her once, with Martin, at her neat apartment near the center of Denver. But what her name was, or her address, he could not think. It was in his brain somewhere, but he could not find the right trigger. If he were in Denver he could find his way to her door, but he wasn't in Denver and couldn't possibly be for two weeks. Craig could just imagine Dean Ritter's face if he were to ask him for two weeks' leave of absence. There was no hope. He would just have to relax until vacation came and then see if he could meet up with Martin, either at his apartment, if he was still there, or at Jean's.

Craig stubbed the cigarette out on the shell that served for an ashtray. He began to clear the table of its dirty plates, on one of which the bent remains of his breakfast cigarette mingled with the dried egg.

I don't really want money, he thought. What I need is company. Even if I got one hundred thousand dollars, I would still be alone. I would still be returning to a smelly room to watch television or read.

He dropped the dishes into the basin and picked his coat off the chair. Even his college office was better than this. A shudder shook him as he closed the door and headed for the stairs.

# Chapter 9

THE telephone rang. Craig had just returned from teaching his freshman English class and had slumped into the large swing chair in front of his book-and-paper-laden desk. It had been a flat class, no enthusiasm, no life. The end of term was only ten days off and even the eagerness to please of the freshmen had worn thin.

He picked the telephone off its rest. It was Helen, the secretary at the English Department office.

"Craig?"

"Yes."

"There are two gentlemen here to see you. Shall I send them along?"

"Sure. What do they want?"

"I don't know. They don't look like publishers' representatives, but they didn't say."

"OK. Send them along."

As he replaced the telephone, Craig felt an uneasiness growing inside him. Two men to see him. Police? He pushed the books lying on his desk into a pile at the back and drew forward the sheaf of papers to be corrected. The knock on the door was short and crisp.

"Come in." Craig pushed his chair back and rose to the opening door. A tall, thin man with slightly graying hair held the handle. Behind him Craig could make out a younger man smartly, though conservatively, dressed.

Craig held out his hand. "Craig Boyden. Please come in, though you can see there's not much room. What can I do for you gentlemen?"

The tall man took his hand briefly as he moved into the office. "I'm Allan Smith, and this is Bob Godfrey." He put his hand in his coat pocket and extended it again with a plastic card. "We're from the FBI. We'd like to ask you a few questions if you don't mind."

"Not at all," replied Craig. He glanced briefly at the card, a blur of black and white. "Have a seat." He indicated the two most comfortable chairs as he retreated to a third chair beyond the desk. "I suppose it's about that hijacking?"

The second agent closed the door and they sat down facing him. Smith fingered his neat mustache. When he spoke, it was with a delicate, attractive Southern accent.

"We realize, Mr. Boyden, that it's a long time since the extortion incident when you were in the Sawtooths, but we want to ask you some questions about your movements in that area and about anything suspicious you may have seen."

"I'm happy to help you," Craig answered, "but I don't see how I can add to what I've already told the policemen who questioned us at the time. Still, go ahead."

Smith opened a slim attache case passed to him by Godfrey and drew out a sheaf of typewritten notes. Craig could feel his heartbeat speed up and with it a lightness of his head. He reached to the desk for his cigarettes and lit one in a purposely unhurried movement.

"Well, Mr. Boyden, I see that on the day of the crime you were climbing with a Mr. Gould from Denver, Colorado."

"That's correct."

'Now, according to your earlier statement, you were climbing a mountain called Scimitar Peak and you were late on the climb, arriving back at your campsite about ten in the evening. During the day did you meet any other walkers or see anything that was unusual?"

"No. Not a thing. We were the only people on the mountain."

Did you see any signs of helicopters or other aircraft, especially in the evening?"

"No, not that I remember. We were off the mountain by evening and in the valley trails." Craig suddenly realized that the plane that had dropped the money would have passed over their route on its way luck to Boise. Should he risk a lie? He hesitated.

"Well, I do sort of remember hearing a plane at twilight, but I didn't see it. At least I think so."

"Where were you when you heard it?"

"Oh, I don't know. It's so long ago and it had no significance. Planes are fairly common. All the ranchers have at least one."

"It was a plane? It couldn't have been a helicopter?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Have you been in Lone Fir Valley? That's where the money was dropped."

"Yes," Craig replied, "about twice. I think the last lime was about two weeks before the crime."

"Did you see anything unusual when you were there? Did you meet anyone or come across anything out of the ordinary?"

"No, I don't remember anyone. We climbed Atlanta Mountain, camped over there for one day, and came back. I'm sorry I'm not much use to you." Craig laughed.

"No matter, Mr. Boyden. You'd be surprised what's of use to us. You're a part of the jigsaw. So is Mr. Gould." He stroked his neat mustache. "Have you seen him since you were in Idaho together?"

"No. I've not had a vacation since then. It's a long way to Denver." What's he leading up to, thought Craig. Has Martin blown it? No, if that were the case, they wouldn't have beat around the bush. It would have been, "Good afternoon, Mr. Boyden. We'd like you to come with us."

"Have you been in touch with him recently?" Smith leaned forward over the desk. Behind him Godfrey, head bent low, wrote on a large pad.

"No—well, I did write him a letter about a month ago, but I've had no reply." Could they be opening Martin's mail, Craig thought with a sudden panic. What had he written in those letters? God! Why had he got himself in this crazy mess? He should have stolen a boat, if anything. At least that wasn't a federal offense.

"Well, should you be in touch with him, we'd be obliged if you could let us have his address."

"But you have it," said Craig. "1267 Lincoln Way, Denver."

"Ah, yes," said Smith, looking at his notes. "But he doesn't appear to be there at the moment. You don't know where he might be?"

"No, I'm afraid not. But then we're not really close friends. We only climb together occasionally."

"You were with him during the whole time you spent in the Sawtooths?"

"Yes, that's correct. So he couldn't add much to what I've told you."

"We would still like to speak to him. Call us if you should hear from him." Smith slid a card across the table. "You can reach me at this number." He rose and passed his notes to Godfrey, who put them in the attache case and snapped it shut. "Thank you for your help, Mr. Boyden."

"Not at all," Craig replied. "Are you any closer to catching those responsible for the crime?"

Smith paused and a light smile played around his lips. "We always get closer, Mr. Boyden. All criminals make mistakes. We're trained to notice these mistakes."

Godfrey nodded in Craig's direction and opened the door. Loud laughter from the graduate assistant's lounge opposite swept into the office. Smith held out his. hand.

"Thank you once more, Mr. Boyden. Perhaps we'll meet again."

As the door closed behind them, Craig lowered himself into the chair and lit a cigarette. The lungful of smoke did not calm his thumping heart. He felt exhausted and a shiver of nausea ran through him. What had he said? The conversation of the last fifteen minutes had no clarity for him. He could vaguely remember some of the questions and some of his responses, but he could not assess the impression he had made. Had he appeared guilty? Had his lip trembled or his hand shaken as he answered?

And Martin. Where was he? Perhaps just off on a climbing trip. Or, perhaps he had decided to get out of Denver. There was little to keep him there, except Jean. He must find him and let him know of the FBI's continued interest.

That should stop him from doing anything rash. Any move to recover the money too soon would be suicidal. Martin was not unintelligent. Once he knew that the police were still active, he would curb his impatience.

Craig lit another cigarette from the butt of the first. He was feeling better now. They had made no mistakes yet. If they never attempted to retrieve the money, they could not be trapped. There might be clues pointing in their direction but nothing that could lead to their arrest. Provided Martin did nothing foolish. Suddenly a shiver ran down Craig's back, the sort of shiver he had experienced once during the opening chords of Beethoven's Fifth. One false move and that would be it. By either of them. The office suddenly began to feel hot and stuffy. To spend one's life in a cell would be unendurable. Especially for me, thought Craig. His moist hand slipped on the metal door handle as he let himself out.

Seattle to Denver was thirteen hundred miles, a good two days' drive. Craig had driven it twice before, each time taking three days and breaking his journey at Boise, Idaho, and Salt Lake City, Utah. In the latter city he had an acquaintance, Steve Denny, teaching at Brigham Young University and living in middle-class splendor among the righteous. Craig had enjoyed the hospitality of Steve and his young wife, but on this trip he had no intention of staying with them.

He was tired of lies and half truths, and to visit a community where even the drinking of tea or coffee was considered perilous to the soul would subject his conscience to an intolerable strain.

Craig had left Seattle very early on that Saturday morning. He had considered leaving after his last class, which had finished at three on Friday afternoon, but had had to get too much together before his departure. Rope, pitons, climbing boots, tent sleeping bag, cooking utensils, all the paraphernalia necessary to survive in the mountains. Food he would buy in Denver, once he got together with Martin and decided where they would go to climb.

The road sang by, long straight highways, boring but fast, requiring little skill. The weather was clear, with only a few white clouds breaking the monotony of the blue sky. In a week it would be October, and despite the glory of the day, there was a chill in the air.

Craig had watched the sun rise over the white summit of Mount Hood an hour after he had left. To leave Seattle before dawn and drive through the sleepy Saturday suburbs was always for Craig a thrilling experience. He felt like a convict creeping from his prison after years of internment. There was little traffic on the road, and he made good time at first, enjoying the driving.

He felt confident that once he met up with Martin, all would be well. He could not believe that five minutes' rancor could destroy the bonds they had forged in their many common experiences. Martin knew he was no coward, and surely mature reflection would have convinced him that Craig had been right not to get involved in the fight in Stanley.

Through small Western towns he drove. Breakfast at Haches; coffee at Wapato; Umalbitta, with its garish growth of neon; through Echo, Meachan, North Powder—villages less than a hundred years old, singing to him of the wagons that had rumbled West.

Now, with the sun beginning to dip behind him, he was in the valley of the Snake River, rising up toward Boise. On the horizon he could just make out the tips of the Sawtooth range, their profiles softened in the eastern sky. He would drive for a few hours yet to shorten tomorrow's journey.

It was strange to be driving past these mountains that he knew so well, to be turning his back on the gray cliff of Mitre Peak, where the money waited. By stealing the money he had sealed himself off from the pure pleasure of traveling and climbing in that area. It was irrevocably linked to the act, and whenever he returned he would be on edge, suspecting the casual conversations with forest wardens and feeling twinges of fear whenever he encountered the local police.

Craig switched the radio on and drowned his thoughts in the plethora of slick tunes and local temperatures, in the cigarette advertisements and the shallow reports of world news. He began to feel very tired. His weary eyes searched the road ahead for signs of a motel.

It was a half hour before he found one and carried his pack into the small, characterless room. Driving exhausted him more than a day's climbing, and he fell asleep shortly after his head touched the pillow.

He was up early the next morning, packing his car in the frosty half light. It was still six hundred miles to Denver, but with luck he would reach the city that night.

The high desert of Idaho and Utah was soon left behind. Great vistas of bare mountains opened up before him, and the roads became more tortuous. Craig held his Volkswagen at sixty-five, stopping only when pangs of hunger or his emptying gas tank forced him to.

It was nine when he reached the outskirts of Denver, and the lights of the city cast an orange glow into the sky. Gas station, cafe, and motel blinked a neon welcome. Craig toyed with the idea of getting a good night's sleep before he tried to find Martin, but, tired as he was, he knew he would have difficulty sleeping before he resolved his doubts.

The street where Martin had his apartment was quiet and dingy, even more so by night than when Craig had visited it last. He had little difficulty recognizing the block where Martin lived. It was probably useless seeking him at this address since the FBI had told him Martin had left, but it was possible that he had returned or sent a forwarding address. Anyway, Craig had to try, if only to eliminate the possibility.

At the door, Craig scanned the names. Martin had been in 4B, but now the label read Wilson. Craig rang the bell anyway and waited. Down the stairs, beyond the glass door, came a middle-aged man, shirt-sleeves rolled up. He opened the door a little, peering suspiciously.

"Yes?"

"I'm looking for a Mr. Gould, Martin Gould."

"Don't know him." The man started to close the door.

"Wait a minute, please. He lived in four-B the last lime I was here."

"Well, I live here now. Don't know him."

"How long have you been here?"

"Three weeks. I never met your friend. But the police were here looking for him." He closed the door and began to ascend the stairs, dragging his slippered feet from one to the other.

Craig stood at the door, looking at the cards and bells. Someone must know where Martin is. He must have left a forwarding address. He debated whether to ring again but decided against it. If he could not trace Martin through Jean, then he could return again tomorrow. It was already ten fifteen, and he would have to be quick if he wanted to find Martin tonight.

Craig got into his car again and drove toward the center of the city. Jean's apartment was only a few streets away from City Hall, and once he found that, he knew he could find his way.

It took him half an hour to find the right street. His memory was not as good as he had thought. He parked his car on the opposite side of the street from the apartment block, locked it, and began to walk toward the entrance. If Jean no longer lived there, he would have to abandon his search for tonight. His muscles ached and he suppressed a yawn. It was four hours since he had eaten or drunk, and he hoped that Jean was at home and would prove hospitable. In their limited acquaintance he had found her friendly and good company. Of course, he had always been with Martin, but Craig sensed that she liked him.

Jean's apartment was much newer than Martin's had been, and the street on which it stood was much pleasanter, tree-filled and well lit.

At the door, Craig again looked over the names until his eye caught one which read Jean Allbright. Yes, that was her name. He remembered now that Martin had joked about it. At least she was still in the apartment. Perhaps Martin was living with her.

He rang the bell and waited. After a few seconds a voice from a small speaker above the door made him start.

"Who's there?"—a woman's voice made thin and crackly by the speaker.

"It's Craig, Craig Boyden, Martin's friend from Seattle."

There was a pause, then, "OK. Come on up." A buzzer sounded and the door opened. Craig climbed the stairs to the fifth floor, where Jean's apartment was. At the door he knocked. He was aware that he was probably being scrutinized through the peephole and smiled. The door opened two inches, still on a heavy chain, and Craig could make out Jean's auburn hair and the right side of her face.

"Hello," he said. "Sorry to disturb you at this time"

There was a rattle as the chain came off and the door swung open. "Come in."

There was Jean, smiling, in her long floral housecoat with blue slippers poking out beneath. Craig had forgotten how dainty she was and how pretty.

"Nice to see you again," he said, holding out his hand. "It's been quite a time."

"You look tired. Have you just driven from Seattle?"

"No I stopped last night at Pocatello."

'Would you like something to eat? I don't have very much but you're welcome to some bacon and eggs and coffee. Here, sit down and I'll fix some."

Craig let himself subside into the large armchair facing the stove.

"I could really use some coffee first, please. My eyes are dropping."

He lit a cigarette, more to keep himself awake than because he wanted to smoke. His mouth tasted of old food. and his teeth were furry to his tongue.

He wanted to have a wash, but he could not persuade his tired muscles. Jean brought the coffee over to him, her delicate arm extended from the voluminous sleeve of her housecoat.

"Sorry it's only instant."

Craig smiled and took the mug. The coffee was hot and bitter.

"I'm looking for Martin," he started.

"Oh, he's out of town. Didn't you know?" Jean looked puzzled. "I thought it was all arranged. Didn't vou work it all out with him?"

"Work out what?" Craig was bolt upright in his chair. "Work out what, for God's sake? Where is he?"

Jean turned and pushed at the bacon in the pan with a fork. It was spluttering and spitting and a blue smoke was beginning to rise in the air.

"What's the matter? Where is he? Leave the damned bacon for a minute. What do you mean he's out of town?"

Suddenly Craig realized that Jean was crying, her mouth tensed in a vain effort to force back the tears. She dabbed at her eye with the back of her hand. "He's gone." A sob choked her words.

Craig eased himself out of his chair, still holding the mug, and reached his free hand out to turn her around.

"Here, come on now. No need for tears. Sit down. Would you like a cigarette?" He drew her to the chair and she sank into it. She looked white, and the bright colors of her robe emphasized her pallor. Craig pushed the bacon off the heat and sat on a kitchen chair, towering over her as she slumped in the low armchair. He lit a cigarette and passed it to her, waiting for her to continue.

"Well, he said it was all arranged, and that he would be gone about a week, picking up the money. He's been so tight recently." Her voice faltered and the tears began to flow in a wet stream down her cheeks.

Craig went to the kitchen counter and returned with a box of Kleenex. Jean was still crying, silently and peacefully, as though all the fight was out of her. She blew her nose quietly and daintily.

Craig looked at her. Well this is it, he thought. The stupid bastard has stuck his neck out. And ours will be chopped along with his.

"When did he go?" Craig's voice came out calmly, though he felt a desperation growing inside him, threatening to overwhelm his reason.

"He left Friday night about seven, the day before yesterday. He said he was going to Billings, Montana, to look up a friend there."

"Did he say who?"

"No. All he said was he would be back in a week. We weren't talking much at the end."

Craig lit another cigarette. He felt no tiredness now. His mind was racing, but without concentration. Disjointed thoughts. Half-formed ideas. His head felt light and insubstantial, the sort of feeling one gets above fourteen thousand feet. Billings, Montana, was a day's hard drive from Denver, and Martin had left Friday night. Probably arrived in Billings yesterday, late. So today he might have seen his friend and already be on his way to the Sawtooths, if not already there. Craig looked at his watch. Eleven fifteen. Even if he left Jean's apartment now, he could never make the Sawtooths before tomorrow night. He would have to sleep, and he might as well sleep here as on the road. But was it worth pursuing Martin? He rose and put the pan back onto the stove, pushing the crisp bacon to one side. He broke an egg into the pan and watched the jelly whiten and set. Turning to where Jean still sat, immobile, sunk in the enveloping chair, he asked, "Did Martin discuss his plans, or why he was doing this alone?"

Jean raised her head. "No. All he said was that you had chickened out and asked him to do the pickup. He said we would go to Brazil when he returned, and that we would mail your share. Didn't he ever discuss it with you?"

Craig shook his head. "We haven't been in touch since we were in Stanley, two months ago. We were supposed to wait a year before going back. Now he's going up there alone, with the police still crawling around, and once he gets caught they're not going to need Dick Tracy to realize who was in it with him. The cops have my name from their questioning when we came out of the mountains. And they're going to be looking for the girl who made the telephone calls. Doesn't the stupid bastard know that the FBI is interested in us? They questioned me at the college about a week back."

"I wish I'd never got into it," said Jean. She had stopped crying, but her cheeks retained their blanched look. "I never really cared about the money. It was only Martin." She gave a small sob. "And now I'm not sure he'll be back. He gave up his job about two weeks ago, and he's been living here for a month." Jean laughed, a short, cynical, dry laugh. "We were closer when we were apart. He just lay around brooding, and he wouldn't talk. What happened in the Sawtooths, Craig? He seemed so unhappy when he came back, but he wouldn't say why. He only said it had gone OK."

Craig eased the bacon and eggs out of the pan onto the plate. He sat down at the table, pushing aside a couple of magazines.

"We fell out. I guess it was the strain of all the lies we had to tell."

"What are you going to do now?"

"Christ only knows," Craig replied. "Perhaps the best thing is to run. He's sure to be caught. The cops are bound to be waiting for someone who was there in August to return. If he's caught, we've had it."

"I don't want to run," said Jean. "Where could I go, anyway? Mexico? I've been there. Dirt and flies and poverty. It's great for a month, but prison might be better."

"Well, you could go to another city. Chicago, or perhaps San Francisco. They won't be able to pin much on you, and they certainly won't have a nationwide hunt on the off chance you might be the mystery voice on the phone. In fact, maybe you don't need to run anyway. Unless Martin tells them, they may suspect it but they'll never prove anything. As for me, once they have Martin, I'm through. They already have my statements, and they know that I was with Martin all the time when the money was dropped."

"Couldn't you stop him? You've nothing to lose now. Perhaps you could persuade him to wait."

Craig mused. There was an outside chance he could get to Martin before the police. He tried to get into Martin's head and work out how Martin would approach the area. He was no fool. He must be aware that he was running an enormous risk and would not simply dash straight to the face and retrieve the money. He certainly had guts if he was going to attempt that climb alone.

Perhaps he would take the friend from Billings along. No. Martin must be after the money for himself; otherwise he would have used Craig, despite his anger at him. So he must be intending to do it alone and if successful would probably never return to Denver. Jean must have sensed that, Craig thought. Why did it never cross my mind?

"Do you mind if I sleep here? I have a sleeping bag in the car and I don't mind the floor."

"What are you going to do?" asked Jean.

"I think I'll try to stop him," replied Craig. "As you say, I've nothing to lose and a lot to gain. I'll leave early tomorrow. Martin will probably take his time in approaching the money, so I may get there first. Did he tell you where we hid it?"

"No. I never asked him. And I don't want to know. As far as I'm concerned it's a bad dream, and I just want to forget my part in it."

"Me too," said Craig, "but I'm still in the dream, .and I've got to wind it up." He yawned.

"You can sleep on the couch if you like. And I have a bag in the closet to save you going to the car. When do you want to leave in the morning?"

"About six thirty. I want to make Atlanta in the Sawtooths before dark tomorrow."

Jean rose and went to the closet, returning with a blue down bag.

"I'll get up and make your breakfast," she said as she retreated to the door of the bedroom.

"No need. I can get myself out," replied Craig. "Thanks anyway."

"No trouble. I need to be up early, anyway. Good night." She smiled at him, the first time she had smiled for an hour; a cautious, somewhat sad little creasing of the mouth.

"I'm sure everything will work out," she said, closing the door.

Craig stripped off his pants and unzippered the sleeping bag. The couch was not quite long enough, but he was so tired he didn't care. In the bag, with the light out, he could hear the traffic still moving in the street below. Somewhere Martin must also be bedding down, alone and excited, thinking of the pickup perhaps tomorrow or the next day.

Craig let his head sink back into the cushion, the down bag pulled up around his neck. His thoughts seemed to be the only part of him with life. His body, somewhat cramped by the couch on which he lay, was nevertheless utterly relaxed. He was conscious of nothing save a slight latent panic that forced him to jump from idea to idea. What can I do? he thought. Is it worth pursuing Martin, or should I just disappear? There were so many ways to approach Mitre Peak that the chance of his meeting up with Martin was slim. And even if he did, would Martin listen? He no longer wanted the money. In fact, it seemed ridiculous that he had ever considered Martin's crazy scheme. Yet he had. And here he was. He alone was responsible. He could not plead the desperation of poverty or a criminal upbringing. It was not the extension of any thread he could recognize in his life. Now his act would determine his future no matter what he chose to do, flee or pursue. He had laughed at the poor middle- class fools who were locked into a nine-to-five existence and had seen himself to be a free creature, though a temporary prisoner at Baxter. Now he was held by a shackle of his own making, and his tired brain could not produce a key.

# Chapter 10

THE whistling kettle woke Craig. It entered his consciousness as a puzzling sound, which he attempted to integrate into his dream; then as it continued, its high pitch insisted that he wake. Jean was at the stove, lifting the kettle from the heat and pouring boiling water into two mugs.

"Good morning. Did you sleep well?"

Craig nodded and yawned.

"What time is it?"

"Six fifteen. I was getting breakfast ready before I woke you. You looked so peaceful lying there." She brought a steaming mug to him, and Craig sat up to receive it.

"Will a boiled egg do?" she asked.

"That's fine," Craig replied. "It's really good of you to do this."

"No trouble. I'm glad you came. I'm getting things straightened out now." Jean was bustling around, setting the kitchen table, her dressing gown sweeping the floor.

Craig gulped down the coffee and eased himself out of the bag. His shirt still smelled of yesterday's journey as he pulled it over his head.

"Shall I make you some sandwiches for the journey?"

Craig shook his head. "I'll need to stop to buy some provisions. Anyway, I hate eating in the car."

"What'll you do if you catch up with him?"

"I don't know." Craig raised his head from tying his bootlace. "I guess I'll try to persuade him to leave the money and wait until when we agreed. Actually, I'd like him to leave it forever."

"And if he won't, or if he already has the money— what then?" Jean dropped two slices of white bread into the electric toaster. She seemed much calmer this morning, almost divorced from the events that tied the three of them together.

Craig took his mug of coffee to the table and sat down. He felt a real sympathy for this dainty woman who had been sucked into this vortex of danger.

"I don't know. I wish I did. Perhaps I'll stop him. Perhaps I'll take the money from him and burn it. Or perhaps I'll help him to get it out safely."

"Don't do that, Craig." Jean was looking at him intently. There was a sharp ping as the toaster ejected the toast. She ignored it. "Don't do that. We can't use it. If he gets it out it will destroy him—and us. If you can persuade him to leave it or get rid of it, do that. You don't think we could use it? I was a fool before. What sort of happiness do you think we could have if we laid our hands on it?"

"I'll do my best," Craig said. "But don't be too hopeful." He chopped at the egg Jean had placed on the table before him. "Martin seems pretty dedicated to getting the money. And what I say won't carry very much weight with him."

They ate in silence, each lost in thought. When Craig was finished, he rose and went to the window, pushing the heavy curtains back. Outside, the street-lights were still on but the sky was a pale opal. A light wind stirred the few remaining leaves on the trees below the window. A dog strolled aimlessly in the center of the road.

"Well, I must be going," he said, still looking out over the rooftops to the black hills rising in the distance, their peaks lightened by the dawn. He turned back toward the table. "Thank you very much for everything. I'll call you when I know what's happening. But don't expect anything for a week."

Jean rose and wiped her mouth on the napkin. She smiled. "Good luck. I know you'll be successful." She moved to the door and began to draw the chain. "Please take care, Craig."

He held out his hand. She took it and allowed herself to be pulled close. Craig bent his head and brushed his lips on her cheek, his free hand pressing her to him. He released her and opened the door. She was smiling, her cheeks a rosy hue. "Take care," she said, "and come again."

Outside, the air was brisk, and by the time Craig reached his car, he was chilled. He climbed in and skirted the engine. As he drew away from the sidewalk he caught a glimpse of Jean at the window, waving. He raised his hand briefly, and then changed gear, turning left out of the street toward the approach to the interstate, leading back west.

The day went quickly. Mindless fast driving. The miles slipped by as Craig puzzled his course of action. Four main valleys gave access to the little hanging valley, Lone Fir Valley, at the head of which lay Mitre Peak. Martin, approaching from Montana in the north, would have to circumvent the area in order to gain access to the shortest trail, that beginning at Atlanta. Apart from that trail, there were two from the north, one from Roaring Fork and one from Stanley. Both of these were long, normally two days' hard walking, and they also had the disadvantage of beginning in populous areas, where the police watch might be more intensive. The only other feasible route was from Lowman, and it too was long, a gradual climb up the valley of the South Fork of the Payette. Martin might well choose that one, as it was less frequented and saved a long drive. Craig decided he would start from Atlanta, which he had visited once before. By taking the shortest route in, he would perhaps reach Mitre Peak before Martin. Also, he remembered a deserted sawmill about two miles from the village, where he could hide his Volkswagen. In fact, he could reach the start of the trail without passing through the village.

He stopped at Heber to buy provisions: rice and bacon, six eggs, powdered milk, and some dehydrated meats. Soon he was dropping down the long decline to Salt Lake City. In the distance, the Wasatch Mountains had a light dusting of snow on their summits. If the snow were to come early in quantity, it might stop Martin, but he could not depend on it. Should it snow while they were in the Sawtooths, the situation could become desperate. He remembered three or four years ago when a group of three on a deer-hunting trip up the Payette Valley had perished in the snow. There had been a massive search, but the hunters had not been found till the following spring. Craig was glad he had packed his winter equipment but knew that even the best of equipment was no match for an Idaho winter. Once, in the White Clouds, the mountain range over the Salmon River from the Sawtooths, he had almost died in a December blizzard. Luckily, he had just managed to reach the shelter of the forest before he had succumbed. Only a fool underestimated the power of snow to sap energy and endanger the mountaineer.

Craig stopped for a late lunch in Salt Lake City at a Howard Johnson's, just off the freeway—clean hygienic, identical in every respect to hundreds of others. Craig felt he could close his eyes and find his way to the rest room or to the check-out counter. He had a turkey sandwich, swilled it down with coffee, and left. He ached all over with sitting and would have loved to take a walk in the park behind the restaurant, but he had to press on. He must reach Atlanta before dark to find the trail. It was still three hundred miles, and he would have to drive fast.

It was already twilight when he turned off the main road at Bliss to cover the forty miles of dirt road to Atlanta. Bliss was a small village of wooden shacks, one gas station, and a post office. Half a mile from town was the only tavern, ramshackle and neon-lighted. The West was full of unfulfilled dreams, little towns, founded in a spirit of hope and gradually allowed to deteriorate, unpainted, uncared for, like last year's Christmas toy. Or like me, thought Craig. Paradise and Loveland. Eden and Paris, Hope and Future. Their founders had hoped the name would cast a spell, but the magic had worn off.

The road was rocky and full of holes, and several times the Volkswagen bottomed. Craig continued to drive fast, a fine dust obscuring his rear view. A soft light mellowed the meadows and the approaching mountain, and here and there grazing cattle would lift their heads at his approach. In the forest the road was dark, and he had to turn his lights on. Chipmunks raced across the road, frightened by the lights, and once a deer leaped from in front of the car into the dark wood.

In one large meadow a new sign proclaimed that a large acreage was for sale for building lots through a firm in Boise. The Old West was gone, and realtors had inherited the earth. Craig had a vision of the future in which these superb green open spaces, the threshold to the mountains, were neatly parceled up, each with its ranch-style home, its two or three cars, snowmobiles, and camper trucks. He thought of the old fur traders who had wintered in these hills, solitary and close to nature. I was born too late, he mused. I'm really a child of the eighteen hundreds when "bliss it was to be alive, and to be young was very heaven."

He took the left fork of the road at Hill City. Smoke rose from the few cabins on both sides of the road. On the porch of the house, at the crossroads, a tall man stared at Craig as he drove past. The road was obviously little used and hardly by strangers. A Volkswagen stood out like a hippy at a rodeo. Most of the cars by the side of the road were old Fords or Chevys, station wagons without exception, and Craig had not met anyone on the road. Obviously when dark fell there was nowhere to go, and the locals huddled around the television sets.

As he approached Atlanta, Craig peered through the windshield, seeking the cutoff that would enable him to avoid the town. He had come on it by accident on his only previous visit when while driving for Boise after a weekend in the mountains he suddenly realized that he had missed Atlanta. It had been no great loss, as Atlanta boasted only two bars and a grocery store. In addition, there was a police station in the town, and Craig had no wish to be questioned as to his intentions.

The road became even more rocky, and Craig had to slow to a crawl in places to avoid deep ruts. At one point the road crossed a bridge over the Davis River, a narrow wood and wire affair which hardly looked as though it would support a motorcycle, far less a car. A sign announced that it was unsafe for loads over five tons and that the county would take no responsibility for any accident.

Craig drove gingerly over the bridge. Suddenly he became aware of the lights of a car in the meadow on the far side. As he approached he could see several figures around the vehicle, a pickup truck, which was some twenty feet from the road. "Shit," he said aloud and kept his foot on the accelerator, going as fast as he dared, hoping against hope that he might pass unnoticed. He passed quickly, not daring to look directly at the group, and in a few seconds he was around the corner, bouncing and banging on the rutted road. Perhaps it was a fishing party finishing up for the night or a deer-hunting group drinking a few beers before heading home to their wives. Whoever they were, he had no wish to become an object of interest.

When he reached the old wood mill, the last glow of evening had given way to the black of night. He was past it before he realized his mistake and had a difficult time turning the car in the narrow lane. He drew up, just off the road, inside the drive that led down to the abandoned working. Its derelict buildings were etched against the sky. A few stars were out but no moon, and the air was cold as he eased himself out of his seat. The grass that grew high on the drive was wet with the dew, and Craig felt the moisture seep through the legs of his pants. He reached back into the car and took a flashlight out of the glove compartment. Around behind the main building of the mill was a lean-to shed, its roof broken in several places. It was in an ideal situation, obscured from the river by a thick stand of fir and hidden from the road by the main buildings. As he walked around the corner to inspect it, he was aware of his tension, unreasoning and primeval. Something about old buildings at night struck more chords of fear than even the most remote mountain valley. People were the enemy, not nature, and wherever people had built or lived, they left their atmosphere of dread. A rustling and scampering came from a pile of wood and machinery under the eaves of the largest building as Craig passed. He half laughed at his start of fear but still moved on quickly.

The shed was serviceable; the Volkswagen would fit in easily. Craig moved a few old boxes, straining to raise them from the dirt, until he had an area large enough to drive into. He hoped that no inquisitive local children would explore the mill. He could see no signs of recent use, no bottles or the usually ubiquitous Coke cans.

He wiped his hands on the seat of his pants and began to move back around the buildings toward the car. He was beginning to feel more comfortable with the atmosphere and felt lucky at having such an ideal hiding place for his car. A good night's sleep and he would be on the trail, with no trace of his having arrived. An owl hooted in the wood over the river, a soft, melancholy sound. Then, suddenly, Craig could hear the drone of a car gradually getting louder and more insistent. He was just by the door of the last building before the road, a great cavernous dark cave. He stepped back into its shadow, then realized that that would solve nothing. His car stood in plain view just off the side of the road, and already he could see the glow of the headlights through the trees. Whoever it was would certainly stop, if only to look at the Volkswagen. Craig ran for the car, his feet slipping in the moist grass. He was beside it as the lights came on him, and he remained standing by the door, turning his head from the approaching glare. As the vehicle came alongside it stopped. It was the pickup truck, and Craig could make out three men cramped together on the seat. The driver opened the door, and the interior light revealed a gun rack with three rifles mounted on it behind the men. One had a beer in his hand. All three looked suspiciously at Craig, and the driver, a formidable, broad-shouldered man, wearing a thick tartan shirt and a cap of matching material, swung his legs to the ground.

"What are you doin' here, fella? You lost?"

"Naw," said Craig, broadening his accent in an attempt to seem less of an outsider. "I was just takin' a leak."

"Where're you goin'? There ain't nothin' up here. You're no hunter." He peered over Craig's shoulder at the car. Craig felt like asking him what business it was of his, but the last thing he wanted was to be remembered. "I'm just heading for Elk Campground to bed down for the night." Elk Campground was a small plot at the foot of the trail leading up into the Sawtooths—a few picnic tables and a rest room.

"What's your name?"

Craig thought fast. This was more than just the casual questioning of a hunter. Perhaps this was the local policeman in his off-duty clothes. He was aware of the intent stares of the other occupants of the pickup. The nearest passenger, stubble-cheeked and red-faced, had moved himself over to the door, legs dangling out of the cab.

"Tom Johnston," said Craig quickly, extending his hand. The large man took it in a firm handshake. No one can resist an outreached hand. "I've been looking over some real estate down the road. I live down in Twin Falls and I'm looking for a place where I can come out to on a weekend with my wife and son and get some fishing and hunting." Craig kept up a steady stream of information, forestalling any questions. "I decided I would drive up here to look over the river. I was here briefly in the summer. But I wanted to have another look. What do you think of that land they're selling between here and Hill City?"

"Pretty good. It's got fine drainage and there's a good herd of deer winters in that meadow. Williamson is asking a steep price, though. Where do you work in Twin Falls?"

Craig took a risk. He had an acquaintance in Twin Falls who ran river trips as a guide. He had met him on the Green River and had visited him for a few days two falls ago.

"I'm with the mayor's office. A desk job, but at least I get plenty of time off. Still, I've got to be back for lunch tomorrow. There's a big meeting coming off on rents. I'd better be getting along. I'm dog tired after tramping that land. How far is it to Elk Campground?"

The hunter removed his wool cap to rub his head. He seemed satisfied with Craig's explanations. "It's not above a mile and a half, the way you're facing. We're headed that way to Joe's place." He indicated the now grinning man astride the gearshift. "You can follow us if you like. This road loops back to Atlanta." He swung himself back into the cab.

"Thanks a lot," said Craig and opened the door of the Volkswagen. The truck set off, and Craig gave it a few seconds to clear the dust before he followed. That had been a narrow escape. He hoped they would not be suspicious and check on his story. The big man had seemed to accept it without question.

Ahead, the red tail-lights of the truck bounced up and down through the dust. They were going fast, and the jolting made Craig's behind ache. The truck slowed down and flashed its lights. There in the wood, off the road, was a Forest Service campground sign, and Craig could see the box shape of the latrine. He flashed his lights in response, and the truck set off, disappearing from view after a few seconds. Craig shut off the motor as the car drew alongside the first picnic table. He sat in the car, watching the fine dust settle in the beam of his headlights. What should he do now? There was a chance that they might return, and if he were not here, they would want to know why. He decided to light a fire and make some coffee. He was parched, both from his fear and from the dust that had crept into the car. That would give them an hour to return. If they hadn't come by then, he could drive back to the mill and bed down. The chances were good they would return to Atlanta, and he would be gone up the trail before they had breakfast tomorrow. It was nine twenty, and he still had time to get a good night's sleep.

Craig got out of the car and reached his pack out of the back seat. Inside one of the pockets he found a pot and a cup and, after a bit of searching, discovered the coffee and sugar. He soon had a fire going in one of the concrete fireplaces, and the red and yellow flames created a world of light, surrounded by the black blindness of the forest. The coffee tasted good, and he settled back at one of the rough wooden benches, smoking what seemed like his thirtieth cigarette of the day. He felt disoriented. One day Seattle, the next Idaho, then Denver, then back to Idaho. Crappy eating and little sleep, the anonymity of highway America. Sitting here, his back against the hard picnic table and his legs outstretched toward the fire, Craig felt the warmth seep into him. He wished he could relax and let events just flow over him. This driving necessity for action made him feel frustrated. All he wanted to do was lay back and feed the fire, savoring its colors and sounds, relishing the primitive delights of a circle of warmth and light in a world of darkness and cold. He had allowed himself to be sucked into the twentieth century, into greed and acquisition, when he knew that his real happiness lay in simplicity and deprivation.

Jean was right: The money was no good. In fact, it was a negative entity and had already forced him along paths he did not want to take. It was not the illegality of his actions that distressed him, it was their futility. You do something that seems like a good idea at the time, and you spend months trying to mop up the mess. Once, cruising off Cape Cod in a large sloop he and some fellow students had rented for the summer, he had discovered, after the second day, that someone had left a light meter next to the magnetic compass. Instead of heading for Nova Scotia, they had been steering across the Atlantic toward Ireland. It took several days beating up against the northerly that was blowing to get back on course. A small mistake with a big effect. Craig had blamed himself, as the most experienced sailor, though it was not his light meter. He had got himself out of the mess that time, but only because he had discovered the error soon enough. Perhaps in the present it was already too late. Perhaps he was so far off course he could never return. But he had to try. All his previous experience, all his trials on steep cliffs and stormy seas, forced him to that decision. Life was the meeting of challenges and, because one had been a fool, didn't allow one to sit down and be passive. In action lay hope.

The fire was dying down, and Craig's coffeepot was drained. The pickup truck had not returned, and the night was quiet. Craig went over to his car and unloaded his pack. He took the brown bag of groceries and fitted them into the large front pocket, placing the eggs on top. When he had leaned the pack against a large fir on the opposite side from the road, he got back in the car and drove slowly along the road to the sawmill.

It did not take him long to manoeuver the Volkswagen around the weathered abandoned buildings and into the shed. Once inside, Craig cut the engine and switched off the lights. He locked the doors and then searched around with his flashlight until he found a suitable hiding place for the key, under a sheet of metal. There was no point in carrying it with him in the mountains and running the risk of dropping it. As he made his way back to the road, the long grass he had driven over to the shed was already beginning to spring back into position. Within an hour or two there would be no trace of his entry. He walked fast back up the road to the campground, glad to be on his feet again and using his legs. Without the flashlight he could just make out the light-gray of the road once his eyes became accustomed to the meager illumination of the stars. As he walked he listened, ready to take to the woods if a car should come; but none did. At the campground he shouldered his pack and, using his flashlight, found the start of the trail up the Elkhorn Creek. The great trees hung over him and flanked his path. The trail rose steadily, crossing and recrossing the small stream. After about a mile and a half, Craig reached a small plateau above the stream on the edge of a clearing. He dropped his pack and opened out his sleeping bag by the edge of the trail on a bed of old pine needles. Craig was tired, and the few lumps under him did not disturb him. Above his head the Great Dipper hung, pointing at the North Star. The air was cold, and Craig pulled the sleeping bag hood up around his head. His thoughts drifted from the whereabouts of Martin, to the day ahead, and finally to his parting from Jean that morning. She cared, or seemed to care, what happened to him. It seemed so long since he had met anyone whom he felt cared for him. He had avoided relationships of that sort, like a soldier off to a desperate war who does not wish to weaken himself with love. Now he felt he needed someone, some fixed North Star to steer by. He was floating on a dark-gray sea, gentle but malevolent. For a while he struggled against the motion, then relaxed and succumbed.

# Chapter 11

IN Boise Police Headquarters it had been a quiet day. Sergeant John McKay was idly shifting papers on his desk, awaiting the six o'clock shift change. Bill Tentchoff had left his radio in the corner to fetch two coffees. A breaking and entering on Tenth Street and a drug-peddling incident on the University of Idaho's campus had provided the only excitement. There were some days when John thought he didn't earn his money, and this was one of them.

Bill returned with the coffee and put one of the white plastic cups on John's desk.

"Anything happening?" he asked.

"Not a thing. The whole state's given up crime. By next year we'll be out of a job."

Bill laughed. "No such luck. We'd be put on traffic duty. There will always be a need there." He returned to his seat by the radio.

McKay scratched idly at his left arm, pushing his rolled-up sleeve back to get at the itch. The Boise climate was so dry that some days he itched all over. He had moved to Boise eight years ago and had never got used to it. On his desk was a list of the numbers and descriptions of the week's stolen cars, which Tentchoff had relayed to all stations twenty minutes before. Just routine. Ninety percent of his job was just that—routine. He and Marg had been pleased at his promotion to sergeant two years ago, but now he half regretted the move. Longer hours and less exercise. Already he was developing a policeman's paunch. McKay furtively patted his stomach, feeling its roundness and hoping that Bill would not notice. He had become increasingly sensitive over the last few months. Marg had been ill with a bladder infection in the summer, and he had foregone his customary fishing trip to look after Paul.

The only real exercise he had had in the last few months, apart from walking to the station in the morning, was when he had had a call, two hours after he had gone off duty, to join in the hunt for the group who had taken that airline for a quarter of a million. He had cursed when he got the call. There had been a good movie on television, and he was just settling down in front of it with a beer. Secretly, he had been glad. Boise, though a fair-sized city, was generally law- abiding, and any excitement was worth having. So he had gone off into the wilds to set up a roadblock on some God-forsaken back road. Where it was he couldn't remember now. Still it had been good to get out and moving. Not that they'd achieved much. The only person he'd questioned that night had been a rather drunk logger. He had considered giving him a ticket, but it would have just meant getting a doctor and blood samples. Anyway, he had been after bigger game. But whoever it was had slipped through the net. Everyone had been very jumpy for about a week, then interest had died away. Sure, the entire Idaho force was still supposed to be on the alert, but McKay knew what that meant. About the same as the week's stolen car list. If it bumps into you—book it. About ten "suspicious character" calls had been dealt with, but to the locals out there in the boondocks a suspicious character was someone from the next village.

McKay looked across at Tentchoff and smiled. Standards were changing. Eight years ago if he'd looked like young Bill, mustache and sideburns, he would have been told to go back to Oregon. Five years from now the super would probably have hair to his shoulders. But not me, thought McKay, not me.

"Car five-oh to HQ." The radio roared into life, filling the small room.

"Come in five-oh," Tentchoff replied into the mike, flipping a switch with his right hand.

"I'm on Route 80 going north, three miles from Parma, blue sixty-seven or sixty-eight Ford station wagon, license plate Utah B 6705, speeding. Have just pulled him over and am going to investigate. There are three occupants. Over."

"Roger. Will await your clear." Routine, twenty times a day. Ever since three years ago, when a patrolman had been gunned down when he stopped a car, the rule was that patrols had to report when they stopped anyone.

McKay ran his eye down the stolen-vehicle list. Nothing on the car. He sipped at his coffee and looked at the wall clock over above the radio. Five forty. Twenty minutes more and he could return to Marg and Paul and a decent meal. Perhaps there was a good movie at the new Plaza out by the interstate.

"Car five-oh to HQ. Everything OK. Gave the driver an on-the-spot fine. Proceeding to Nyassa."

"Roger, five-oh. Good night."

Bill flipped the switch and turned to McKay. "Can I have a cigarette, John? I'm all out."

McKay tossed the pack of Marlboros over to him.

Tentchoff was lighting a cigarette when the radio crackled.

"Lowman to Headquarters. Lowman to Headquarters."

"Come in, Lowman." Bill's radio voice had certain distinct differences from his normal speaking voice. It assumed a crispness and a calculated calmness that was normally absent.

"Yeh, hi. This is Travers here at Lowman." McKay could see Tentchoff pull a face. The police out of the city had no sense of radio procedure.

"Go ahead. We're receiving you clear."

"Well, there's this guy who has set off up the Payette about two hours ago. Dick Rogers, the forest warden at South Fork, saw him pass. He looked as though he was going camping. A tall guy, about five eleven, maybe a hundred and eighty pounds. Dick said he was definitely alone. Anyway, what I want to know is, well, what should I do?"

"Roger, Lowman. Please await instructions." Bill turned to McKay. "Well, Sergeant, what should he do?"

John pondered. He knew that Lowman had only one policeman, and to ask him to set off up the Payette at this time of day would not be popular. Still, it was unusual to find anyone setting off into the Sawtooths in October, and especially alone. He couldn't just ignore it. Sure as hell it would be another idiot whose idea of fun was to shiver alone in the mountains.

"Ask him how soon he could get a group together to follow the guy. He probably won't go very far, and if they can take horses, they might meet up before he breaks camp tomorrow."

Tentchoff relayed the question.

"Well, I guess we could get on the trail at daybreak tomorrow." McKay could hear the reluctance in Travers' voice.

"How many deputies can you muster?" Tentchoff asked.

"Oh, three, or maybe four. I guess we could get horses, though they're more trouble than they're worth in the upper Payette. Dick Rogers can guide us."

"Okay, let us know—" started Tentchoff, his radio manner breaking down under Travers' influence.

"Hey, wait a minute, Bill," McKay broke in. "Ask him if he has a list of the people who were in the area when the money was dropped."

Travers' reply was in the affirmative.

"OK. Tell him that if he meets up with the guy to ask him for identification and check it out. If the name tallies with one on the list, do nothing. Go back down the trail, wait up a bit, and then follow him. We've no proof if we don't get the money."

Tentchoff passed the instructions.

McKay was not finished. He moved over to the radio and took the microphone.

"Sergeant McKay here. If you don't meet up with him, keep looking. If he's just a walker, he won't go too fast, and he won't be trying to evade you."

"Do you want us to stay out overnight?" Travers was obviously not too happy.

"Yes. Make sure of him before you return. Any chance of your getting out tonight?"

"None at all. It'll take us at least a couple of hours to get our gear together. And we could walk past him in the dark."

That made sense, thought McKay. He had an intuition that this walker was more than he appeared.

"OK. Well, be careful. Don't arouse his suspicions, if possible. Make out like a hunting party. That's all." He left the radio and returned to his desk.

Tentchoff signed Lowman Station off and entered the call in the log.

"Poor bastard," he said. "Now he's got to get his ass in motion and chase off into the wilderness."

"You know, Bill, I envy him. Underneath, he probably enjoys it. Get a few of the boys together, take along a couple of bottles of rye, and head up the hills."

McKay stretched and yawned. The atmosphere in the small office was smoky. Through the only window he could just see the hills of the Boise River Valley. The first settlers had come that way, dropping down out of the lower slopes into the fertile plain, tired and dusty, eager to build and settle. Deep inside, though, they had not wanted to stop and grow fat, and some of them never had. They had continued west on the Oregon Trail. And I've come back East, thought McKay, looking for something. But it sure isn't here.

The clock said five to six. Another shift over. Back tomorrow at ten. Paul would be home from school and dinner would be waiting. Perhaps he would take the family out to Lucky Peak Reservoir for the weekend.

It was time he started getting out more. McKay lit another cigarette. Life was shitty at times. You get into something, and by the time you realize that it's not for you, you're trapped.

Tentchoff had finished his writing. He went to the door and took his coat off the peg.

"Aren't you going home tonight, John?" He laughed. "You look stuck to that desk."

McKay eased himself up. He smiled. "I thought I'd begun to grow roots." He could hear Evans, his replacement, in the outer office chatting to the stenographer.

He came in smiling cheerily.

"Hi, John. Hey, Bill. Well, you guys had a busy day? Lots of excitement?"

"It's all there," said McKay, pointing to his desk. "Just routine. I'll be glad when the students get back and we get a bit more trouble on the campus." He picked up his hat. He stood in the doorway, half in and half out, about to mention the call from Lowman, then decided against it. It was all in the notes. "Just another routine day," he said, and with a wave he left the office. Passing the stenographer, who was powdering her face, he came out into the dull, tiled corridor leading to the exit.

# Chapter 12

BY the time the sun had risen, Craig had already covered two miles of the steep, rocky trail The dawn had been cold and gray, and he had huddled over his fire, cooking oatmeal and brewing coffee, soaking in the warmth. No wind had stirred the smoke, and it rose into the grayness above, a long thread to the sky.

The forest was still. Great Douglas firs, hundreds of years old, formed walls for the trail, and under their canopy little vegetation existed, only here and there a small group of struggling hemlocks. A green desert, quiet and almost lifeless. The only sound that broke Craig's concentration was the cool, clear note of a hermit thrush and the occasional rustling of a chipmunk as it scampered from one tree root to another. There were no clearings. The trail had left the stream now and climbed a steep slope, its angle broken only by short steps of rock on which the moss grew damp in the morning dew. As Craig gained altitude, the vegetation changed subtly and slowly, the trees diminishing in height and girth and relinquishing their shortness for a more stunted and gnarled growth.

It was nine before Craig broke out of the gloomy forest into the mountain pastures. A light wind stirred the grass, and the late autumn sun provided little warmth through the heavy clouds. The cloud cover was high, only occasionally masking the mountaintops ahead. The valley up whose flank Craig was climbing rose twenty miles into the Sawtooth Range and shared a watershed with the South Fork of the Payette, which ran down the other side toward Lowman and Idaho City. He kept a cautious eye open for other travelers, but there were none. Fall was not a popular season in the mountains—too late for clear weather and too early for snow in any quantity. The deer season was almost over and, anyway, the deer had mostly moved down to the lower ground in preparation for winter. Occasionally on the path Craig would notice the droppings of horses, dried up and at least a week old. But as far as Craig could see, looking over the hillsides brown with the dying grass and dotted with small pines, he was the only moving feature of the landscape.

All around him the great mountains reared up, barren and forbidding in the gray light. Steep, rocky slopes plunged into the dark trench of the valley, here and there broken by deep ravines. The entire landscape was a study in browns, blacks, and grays, an uninviting and hostile environment.

Craig struggled upward. His muscles were tired and his breathing was heavy. Days of sitting in cars had taken their toll. His pack, loaded down with all the necessities of mountain living and six days' food, weighed heavily on his shoulders. Despite the cold, he could feel the sweat running down his back, soaking through his shirt and into his sweater.

Once, about halfway up the slope, he stopped, dropping his pack on a small, level place and collapsing beside it on the turf. He felt drained, empty. Above him the thin clouds moved across the sky soundlessly. A light breeze cooled him, moving his hair gently over his upturned face. Craig felt no enthusiasm for what he was about. The mountains seemed drab and lifeless, like great refuse heaps left by some previous civilization. He did not even have that sense of excitement normal to him when he was in the mountains alone. Nor did the dangers of his situation energize his feelings. It was as though he had surrendered control and was doing what he had to do without any expectation of benefit. Craig was aware that the chances of his meeting Martin were slim. Martin might already have collected the money and cleared the area, or he could have had second thoughts about the enterprise. Conceivably the police already had him in custody and were mounting a search for Craig. Was it worth continuing? Could he hope to achieve anything? He sat up and looked back down the way he had come. The tops of the trees undulated downhill, like a great sea moving in on a shore. Wave upon wave, they stretched out toward the horizon to merge with the Idaho plain, dark and menacing, a green threat, as though barring his retreat.

Craig slung his pack on his shoulders again and resumed his climb. Once over the ridge, the trail would drop again to meet the small creek that ran out of Lone Fir Valley to join the Elkhorn. As Craig crested the ridge, the great peaks of the Central Sawtooths rose up to meet him, jagged and forbidding. Douglas Peak and Warbonnet, Payette Mountain, and there, at the head of Lone Fir Valley, half hidden behind the shoulder of the ridge of Atlanta Peak that he stood on, lay Mitre Peak.

The small pass, on whose summit Craig stood, was a jumble of boulders thrown down without order. Occasionally a mist would sweep down over the air, and rocks as large as a ship would loom eerily up beside the trail. Should the mist continue, there was no chance of being able to inspect the face of Mitre Peak, and Martin might come and go as he pleased. It was cold up here, bitter cold and damp, and the grayness of the clouds suggested snow. To be caught in a blizzard in this hostile spot meant death, or at least a desperate fight for life, a fight that Craig felt ill-prepared to make. As yet there was no sign of snow, and the glimpses he had of the surrounding peaks revealed no white. Still he quickened his steps as much as he could among the boulders, following the scratch marks of previous feet.

He passed a small mountain lake, its surface broken by short, evil-looking ripples, and began the long, gradual descent into Lone Fir Valley. He considered leaving the trail and striking directly toward Mitre Peak, but dismissed this alternative. On a fine day it would have been sensible, but with the unpredictable mist and the threat of a storm in the air, he chose the longer route. It would cost him half an hour but might save him. He had a map and compass in his pack, but the country between the pass and Mitre Peak was so un- featured and indeterminate that it would be easy to get lost and descend into some strange valley.

It took him forty-five minutes to reach the junction of the Elkhorn and the secondary creek from Lone Fir Valley. The creek dropped over a rocky shelf and fell into a wide pool of the main river. On a fine day it was a beautiful spot, full of color and life, but today even the movement of the river seemed subdued and leaden and the fall lacked its customary sparkle. Craig paused long enough to scoop up several handfuls of the cold, refreshing water. A small trout darted from under the bank and shot for the shelter of the deep pool.

As he followed the small trail winding its way up the creek, the cliffs of Mitre Peak loomed above him, gradually revealing their features. At first the cliff was a dark curtain, swept at intervals by fragments of light cloud, but as he approached, cracks, ledges, and overhangs took shape before him. There, up on the left of the face, though he could not see it, lay the cave containing the money. Had Martin reached it yet?

The sun showed briefly through a gap in the clouds, as Craig reached the small lake below the mountain. His stomach ached with emptiness. Since breakfast he had only eaten a bar of chocolate, and he felt weak with hunger and exertion. He set up his temporary camp in a group of firs to the south of the lake perched on a rocky knoll which afforded a clear view up to the mountain but was protected from the view of anyone coming up the valley.

Quickly he built a fire, collecting dried twigs and piling them on a scrap of paper from his pocket. They caught with the first match, crackling into life, smoky at first but clearing as its heat increased. He filled a pan with water and set it on top of the blaze. Taking some sausages from his pack, he put them in a pan and placed it at the side of the fire, where it would cook slowly.

Soon Craig was lying back, resting against his pack, eating the sausages, drinking hot, sweet coffee, and inspecting the face. He had allowed the fire to die to smokeless embers. It was important that he remain invisible. So far luck had been on his side, but it would be foolish to publicize his presence with a large fire, much as he would have liked the cheerfulness of the blaze.

He scanned the face. There was no sign of any movement. In fact, he doubted that he could see anyone at this range and cursed that he had not thought to pack a pair of binoculars. Perhaps he would have to move his base onto the ridge, where he would be closer to the face. To do this, however, would mean his abandoning the cover of the firs for the bare curve of the ridge. Moreover, there was no water there, and he could only last a short time. To move up and down would be to invite discovery. This would have to do. If he moved to a spot where he could have a close view of the cliff, he would be obvious to anyone watching.

Craig scrutinized the cliff, searching out features that he recognized. As he watched, the night two months before came back to him. There was the long crack disappearing into the face from the top of which they had roped down toward the cave. He searched for the ledge that terminated at the cave, and at first he could not identify it. Then he saw it, a thin thread of lighter rock in the black mass.

Suddenly, Craig became aware that something moved on it. No! He was mistaken. A trick of his eyes. But there it was again, more a change of light than a movement. Craig could hardly believe his eyes. He tried to look for some feature that would be obscured by anyone moving. Some way ahead of the supposed movement was a light patch on the rock. It was difficult to estimate the size of the patch, but it looked as though it might be twice the size of a man. Craig waited, watching, eyes riveted on the area of the light patch that was close to the cave. He could see no movement now. Perhaps his eyes had deceived him. Some scraps of mist swirled across the cliff higher up, and it could be that what he had seen was nothing but a fragment of cloud. He hoped the cloud would not descend and hide the lower part of the face. Then he would be left in a state of limbo, not knowing whether to remain or pursue what perhaps was his imagination over the ridge. As he watched the gray area with anxious eyes, he suddenly saw its shape alter and shrink, as though the darkness of the surrounding rock had flowed into it. He could feel his heart race. There was no doubt now. Martin was on the cliff and almost at the cave. That it was anyone else was inconceivable. Craig saw the patch of light increased in size again as the figure passed.

Martin must have roped down the cliff to the ledge. He could not possibly have climbed the way he and Craig had gone before, unless he were a mad man. Perhaps he is, thought Craig. One has to be mad to take the risks we have taken, and now Martin is pushing it one step farther. As yet, Craig had no idea what he could do if he managed to catch Martin. He wasn't optimistic enough to believe that he would listen to reason.

Craig got up from his couch on the grass, drew a small pack from his larger frame sack, and began to repack a selection of his possessions into it. There was no point in carrying his entire load in pursuit of Martin. He would never catch him carrying that. On the other hand, he did not dare leave everything. Without fbod and a sleeping bag he might not survive if he could not complete the business this afternoon. It would take Martin perhaps three-quarters of an hour to collect the money and escape from the face. Craig reckoned that he could not reach the place where the cliff merged into the ridge in under an hour, so he would have to chase Martin into the valley on the oilier side. It was already two thirty, and that left perhaps three hours before dark. He was almost certain to have to spend a night out, and it was important that he be well equipped. He threw bars of chocolate, two rice and beef dehydrated dinners, the remainder of the sausages, and some sugar and coffee into the small pack. On top of it all he thrust his waterproof parka and a sweater. That would have to do. He tidied everything else into the large pack and carried it away from the campsite to a rocky area that sloped up from the grass. Craig pushed the pack under the shelter of a large rock and, prizing up surrounding rocks, covered it over. Making sure he could recognize the hiding place again, he hurried back to his small pack and set off.

He walked fast, springing over the turf. His determination had returned. He had to stop Martin. He had to make him see reason. If he could persuade him to find another secret place for the money until the next summer, that would be enough for the present. Any more would be too much to hope for.

Striding out, he cut across the valley and passed through a belt of trees that slanted down the stream. Above him the hillside was bare and rock-covered, but against its drabness he would be invisible. He kept his head down, watching his footing. Martin would have to leave the cliff at the same point as before, so there was no point in keeping a watch on the face. The important thing was to get there first, if possible, or if not, soon enough after him to be sure of catching him on the descent. Craig's tiredness had left him, despite his strenuous day. He knew Martin must also have covered a lot of ground, but he would lack Craig's urgency, provided he did not suspect pursuit. And there was no reason he should. He would be cautious rather than rapid. His main concern would be lest he attract the attention of the police. That Craig might be following him he could not suspect; far less that he could he within a mile.

He reached the ridge, puffing and panting but feeling good. The cliff was hidden behind a rise of the ridge above him. A cloud blew over from the east, momentarily reducing his view to a hundred feet or so. He pressed on up the ridge. Provided he went uphill, he could not lose his way even in mist. When it cleared he was almost at the top of the rise, before the point at which the cliff met the ridge, a fast ten minutes ahead

At the top he sank quickly to his knees on the damp grass. There, at the edge of the cliff, was a figure bent over something on the ground. The shape straightened up. It was Martin, without a doubt. Even at this distance Craig could recognize the characteristic set of his shoulders. He almost cried out, then checked himself in time. A cry would make Martin aware of the pursuit and he would be off. Craig knew that Martin would beat him in a race. He had to be close enough to count on surprise, to allow him to reason with Martin.

Martin swung a sack onto his back and set off across the ridge, disappearing quickly from view onto the slope leading down to the valley on the other side.

Craig ran, leaping from rock to rock, the small pack bouncing on his shoulders and thumping him in the small of the back. Down to the dip in the ridge he raced, knees jarring as his calf muscles responded to the jolting. Then across the short pass to where the slope fell away into the valley. There, perhaps five hundred feet below him, Martin was slanting his way across the grassy incline, heading for the valley. It was obviously not his intention to be making for Stanley, the escape route they had used in the summer. He must be making for the upper valley of the Payette, or for the next river valley over, that of the South Fork of the Salmon River. Craig doubted that it was the latter. The trail that followed the South Fork of the Salmon River was the longest. It was rocky and difficult and even dangerous in the lower section, where a steep canyon barred the way. No, the Payette was more likely, unfrequented and, more importantly, arriving at the road some miles from the nearest village, which was Lowman.

But the urgent question for Craig was how to get close enough to Martin without his taking off. Certainly if he were to charge down the steep, open, grassy slope, Martin would take fright like a startled deer. He must somehow get ahead of him.

Craig began to retrace his steps rapidly along the ridge on the Payette Valley side, looking for a gully that would lead him down out of sight of Martin and would intersect with his route. Once, after a few minutes, he thought he had found one, and descended into its gloomy depths. Slithering and jumping down its steep, grassy floor, he found that the slope ended in a cliff that dropped about a hundred feet before rejoining the slope below. For a second he considered climbing down it, but it looked difficult and loose. So, with his heart pounding and sweat drenching him despite the cold, he climbed quickly back to the ridge, pressing hard with his hands on his knees to assist his climb.

Another few minutes down the ridge he found the ideal descent. A small stream, hardly more than a trickle after the dry summer, had cut and grooved its way down the slope in a uniform gradient. Its sides were eroded rock, and a shute of small rocks followed the course of the stream. Down this Craig leaped, scattering the pebbles before him and riding at times on a moving platform of rounded rocks worn smooth by countless centuries of wind and rain. He swooped and crashed in acrobatic movements down the gully for about two-thirds of its length. The rocks on which he moved became gradually larger and more static, until he had to begin to pick his way awkwardly from one to the other.

The side of the ravine was about a hundred feet high, sloping on both sides of the stream in a wide wedge. Craig climbed up the side that he knew Martin must be approaching and cautiously inched himself over the edge. At first he saw nothing of Martin. Over the tip was a small rock knoll with a flat top, like a miniature castle, unique in the mountain slope. From below, it would merge into the hillside. On its flat top, like crockery on a giant's table, rested several large boulders surrounded by smaller rocks. Craig moved up over the tip of the gully to take up a position by the side of the largest and highest boulder. When he stood up beside it he could just look over the top. There was no sign of Martin. Perhaps he had already passed or changed his route to drop more directly to the trail below. Craig surveyed the hillside, which fell to the trail three hundred feet below. Over the trail there was a band of trees, and Martin might have gained them. Across that trail and over a small pass lay the watershed of the Salmon River.

Behind him there was the sudden sound of a boot scraping on rock, then a soft, intermittent thumping as a rock rolled downhill onto the knoll. Craig froze. He crouched, pressing himself hard against the boulder, his whole being focused in his ears straining for the slightest sound. Martin was obviously descending to the hillock. A foot struck rock again, this time only a few feet on the other side of the large rock, and there below him, descending quickly but steadily, was Martin.

"Hello, Martin," Craig said, straightening up and stepping from the shelter of the rock. The flatness of his voice surprised Craig. Martin turned quickly, his face whitening, his mouth slightly open.

"Craig, what the hell are you doing here?" His eyes, a steely gray, fixed themselves on Craig. He stood immobile, his arms slightly away from his body and his legs spread out. Craig made no attempt to advance on him.

"I could ask you the same thing," he said slowly. "I thought we had an agreement."

"I'm doing what you were too chicken shit to try," replied Martin. He eased his pack slowly to the ground without taking his eyes off Craig. "I'm collecting the money."

"You're out of your mind, Martin. Do you think the cops are so stupid? Do you think you can just pick that up and drive off? They must be watching every approach to this area."

"Bullshit! I got in, didn't I? And I'll get out. They can't keep a lookout over the entire area." Martin was regaining his composure after the shock of seeing Craig, but he did not relax his stance. He looked like a large cougar, muscles on edge, coiled up in themselves, awaiting the signal to spring. "What's your game? Who told you I was here? That bitch Jean, I suppose. Well, what do you think you're going to do? If you think you're getting any of it, you're mistaken."

"I don't want the fucking money, Martin. I haven't wanted it since they dropped it in our laps."

"For Christ's sake, you expect me to believe that! So you chase me half across Idaho to tell me you don't want the money." Martin laughed, a cold, cheerless laugh. "You despise me, don't you? You think just because you were raised as the son of some fat cat and brought up in a snotty Eastern prep school that you're better than me? Well, you have another think coming." Martin spat the words out at Craig, his face twisted with rage. "It was my idea from the beginning. I did all the planning and thinking. You just came along for the ride, and your ticket isn't worth a hundred thousand dollars."

"Martin, I don't want the money." Craig lowered himself to a sitting position, hoping to ease the tension. Martin did not relax. A look of disbelief was on his face. "Look," Craig continued, "I don't care if you have all the money. It's yours. But I don't want you caught, and you will be. Even if you get away from here, where will you go? You can't put the money in the bank. You can't spend it, except in small amounts. They may have the numbers, and anyway, even if they don't, they have our names and addresses. You can't believe they won't keep checking on us. Just before I left Seattle, a couple of FBI men called on me and asked a lot of questions. All I ask is that we hide it again, or if you don't trust me, that you hide it again until it's safer. If you're caught, I'm caught, and Jean loo, probably. And the way we're heading, that won't be long."

A sneer appeared on Martin's lips. "Chickenshit Craig, again. What the fuck did you get into this for if you didn't want the risk? It's all right for you, with your daddy's money, but I intend to enjoy mine now. They won't get me in Brazil or Chile. And I don't give a damn if they get you."

"Why are you doing this, Martin?" Craig fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette. "Didn't our relationship mean anything? Doesn't the fact that I've risked my life for you, and you have for me, mean anything to you? Remember that storm on Mount Washington? Shit. We never thought we'd get out of that. You wouldn't be here now if I hadn't held the rope as you fell. You know I'm not chickenshit. You know I would die to save you, but I won't stand back and watch you throw your life away—and mine too. All to lay your hands on the money nine months earlier."

He tossed the cigarettes to Martin, but the latter made no attempt to catch them. The carton bounced beside Martin's boot and went a few feet on the grass. He's mad, thought Craig. He's out of his head. Nothing that Craig had said had softened the look on Martin's face or put any warmth into his icy eyes. Like an animal, timid but fierce, he stood there, tousled black hair against the gray sky.

"I've learned one thing from this life," he said. "You give what you have to give and take what you need. The law of the jungle, Craig. You don't really give a fuck for me. I'm alone, and I always have been. You saved my life because you had to, because you wanted to for your own reasons, and I'm taking this money because I've earned it. You want to know where I came from, who I am? Well, I'll tell you. My father was a brutal drunk and my mother screwed for a living. That shocks you, doesn't it, Craig? You didn't know people existed like that, did you? You thought the whole world was old colonial homes with maids and a nurse to change your diapers. Well, I don't intend to listen to any of your bullshit about comradeship or honor. I have this money, and I intend to keep it. If you want it, come and take it from me. That's the rule of the game, Craig. And if I go down, I'm going to take you with me. I won't keep my mouth shut. If the police get me, then you're in it too. You were right about that. So don't get any ideas about anonymous notes. I'm going with this money, and if you want to stop me, you'll have to kill me."

Craig opened his mouth to reply and shut it again without a sound. That was it. There was nothing he could say. No way he could pierce Martin's shell. He considered rushing him but dismissed the idea. Martin was more than a match for him. Craig was no fighter. His family had fostered his head rather than his body. Martin would smash him without difficulty. He was defeated without a contest. A profound disgust at his impotence began to creep through him, followed by a submission to fate. Resignation was comfortable, at least for a while. His life seemed to waver between passiveness and action and, he thought, always the wrong state at the wrong time. He had subconsciously sunk his head from Martin's gaze, and as he looked up again to where Martin was bent over his pack, suddenly he sat upright. Over Martin's shoulder, on the trail three hundred feet or so below, just coming into view, was a group of horsemen.

"Martin! For God's sake! Look!" Craig gasped. Martin stood, a wary, suspicious look on his face. Craig pointed to the valley, and Martin slowly turned so that he could look in the direction indicated and still keep an eye on Craig. When he saw the horsemen he dropped to the grass. There were four of them, riding slowly. Even at that distance, Craig could tell they were searching. The first rider had his eyes on the trail, while those behind him sat half-twisted in the saddles, looking at the surrounding slopes.

Martin fumbled in the side pocket of his sack, and his hand emerged clasping a large long-barreled pistol. There was a sharp click as he broke it open and inspected the chamber. Craig looked on with horror, unable to speak. Martin snapped it shut again and slowly raised his head to get a clear view of the trail below.

"Martin," Craig hissed. "Martin." He could feel the arteries in his temples thundering, and a cold sweat sprang out on his brow. "Put that crazy gun away." "Shut up." Martin waved the pistol in his direction. "Lie quiet."

"For Christ's sake, Martin. If you shoot, we're done for"

"We are anyway," said Martin, his voice icy cold, "if we're caught."

Craig began to crawl down slowly to join Martin. With a rapid movement, Martin swung the pistol round to point directly at Craig. "Stay where you are," he said.

Craig froze. Martin wouldn't think twice about shooting him or anyone else. To Martin's left was a table-sized rock, and Martin sidled into a sitting position beside it. In the valley the horsemen were proceeding still not directly below them. At the stream the Craig had descended they stopped, and the horses' heads dipped to the water. They seemed to be having an argument. One was pointing up to the high ridge behind Craig and Martin. The last rider swung himself from the saddle and bent to the stream.

Craig was in a turmoil. By trying to extricate himself from this stupid venture he had only succeeded in enmeshing himself further. If they were discovered now, and if Martin were to shoot, which he certainly would, no way out was possible. Craig could see the long rifles in their scabbards hanging from the saddles. Should the group start up the hillside toward them, even unaware of their presence on this rocky knoll, a bloody battle would ensue. Martin would not surrender, and Craig would not have a chance to. Several feet below him Martin sat, his attention riveted on the group below. Craig slowly bunched his legs under him, keeping his upper body as immobile as possible. Time seemed suspended. A still from an old Western. The air was leaden and cold. The hillsides seemed to fall in great sweeps to focus on their position. A few flakes of snow began to slip through the air, slowly, reluctantly vanishing as they met the grass.

Craig sprang. Half slithering, half falling, he launched himself on Martin, thundering his arm into the rock. The pistol seemed to float from Martin's fingers to roll over on the turf. It came to rest by the pack of cigarettes. Martin was taken by surprise and was winded as Craig's knee hit his chest. He threw up his arms over his face. Craig caught him by the neck and forced his head back on the rock. He was almost on top of him, panting and scrabbling with his feet to get purchase on the grass. His only hope was to knock Martin out. They fought soundlessly, like wrestlers on a television with the sound turned off. Suddenly, Martin's knee drove hard into Craig's loins, making him gasp and retch. Martin twisted quickly and was out from under Craig, flinging himself at the gun. Craig rolled sideways and grabbed at his foot, bringing Martin back to earth with a thud. A sharp pain ran through his shoulder as Martin flailed at it with his free foot. He was weakening. He could not hold onto the ankle for long. Martin twisted and seized his hair, dragging him toward him. Craig almost screamed with the agony. They rolled over together, Craig flailing at Martin's face in a desperate attempt to make him lose his hold. Through the pain, he was aware of the pistol, black and sinister on the turf, its barrel pointing toward them, about a foot from Martin's right shoulder. In panic he grabbed at Martin's face, his nails raking a long scratch down the tan. Martin had twisted Craig's lace down to the grass by his knee, one leg thrown across his back. With his free hand he reached for the gun. Struggling and lunging despite the pain, Craig forced his head and shoulders off the ground. Suddenly he saw the pistol swing through the air, butt first, and then a blinding agony seemed to split his head, rolling in his brain like thunder in a deep valley, flashing in fiery reds and blues, to pinks and grays, and at last, to black.

# Chapter 13

HIS right eye opened easily, but his left seemed gummed down. His hand reached slowly up and tested it gingerly. The light was brilliant and blinding. Craig shut his eye again. His limbs were immobile but comfortable. He opened his eye again, and a shaft of pain darted through his head. The dazzling light revealed nothing, and it was a strain to keep his lid open. A world of white without relief forcing tears into his uncovered eye.

Slowly, gradually he became conscious that he was cold, a deep, chilled iciness that ate at his bones. His left eye came unstuck a little, revealing the same whiteness. Craig shifted slowly and carefully, rotating on his shoulder. An area of black wavered into his vision and suddenly came into focus. He fumbled his hand toward it and, as his stiff fingers brushed against the object, they signaled the roughness and texture of rock. "Rock," his brain said to him. "Rock." "Rock and snow," it shouted. Craig rolled again, and trees and sun replaced rock and snow. He struggled, pushing with his sticklike arms till he had attained a sitting position. The landscape swayed, trees, sun, and mountains. It took shape and steadied.

Craig found himself lying, half in, half out of the shelter of an overhanging rock. Around him, black and gray stones stuck out of the snow like islands in a Chinese sea. Below him the valley, white, scarred with dark green, and beyond the mountains, cold and desolate. Suddenly he realized, as though he had needed sight to inform him, that he was thoroughly chilled. The sky was clear but the sun was a low flesh- pink ball casting no warmth. Over the far eastern forests it stood.

Craig raised his hand to his eye again. A growth appeared to be on his upper cheek and his brow. He followed it upward to his hair, which was matted together. Blood. Abruptly it came back to him. Martin. Where was he? Of course. The fight. He tensed involuntarily, as though in expectation of another blow. But no one was there. He was all alone; "alone on a wide wide sea," his brain said incongruously. He must get some warmth into his body. He raised his hands to his mouth to blow on the stiff fingers. The wristwatch said seven fifteen. The second hand still swept unconcernedly around.

Craig stood up slowly, feeling like the morning after his first fraternity party. His breath hung in the air like pipe smoke. The large rock felt hard but comforting against his shoulder. Without its shelter last night, he must surely have died. Under his feet the snow was not deep, reaching just over the sole of his boot. The only color on the immediate landscape was his dark-blue sack lying about five feet away and below him the red edge of the cigarette pack, like some flower thrusting through the snow. Tentatively he stumbled toward his pack. The first priority was warmth. His fingers felt lifeless as he reached for the pack, and he was astonished at their pallor.

Below him the forest invited. Wood. Fire. Heat. Slithering and falling, sliding in the wet snow, limbs aching and head bursting, he descended. The trail by the stream was virgin. The horsemen and Martin had gone, leaving no trace, as though they had never existed. A cold, obliterating blanket of snow lay over everything. Nature's death shroud for the year. Mine too, perhaps, Craig thought. Feeling no pain, he snapped twigs and piled them on a patch of ground he scraped bare of snow. In the bottom of his pack he found the waterproof watch container and a new pack of cigarettes. One match served for both fire and cigarette. He knew he was being foolish. Nicotine constricts the blood vessels to the extremities, but he did not care. He needed psychological comfort even at the expense of physical well-being.

The dry twigs snapped from the dark underside of the firs crackled and broke into life. Somehow, he mused, we have forgotten that the real joys of existence lie in the essentials. In fire, in warmth, in food and drink. Not in money or power or possessions. He piled more and more wood on the fire, watching the flames leap around the branches and feeling the warmth seep into his flesh. His circulation began to move again and his hands thrust out to the fire smarted intensely with the rush of blood. Soon he had bacon and sausages crackling in his pan. He was passionately hungry and weak through his hunger. A moist mist rose from his pants. He had exchanged his sodden shirt and sweater for dry ones from his pack, and as the warmth seeped into him he began to come to life again.

What had happened to Martin he had no idea. Most likely he had waited till the police had ridden on or turned back, then set off, leaving Craig still unconscious from the blow lying on the ground. His last conversation with Martin came back to him—the unreason, the hate, and the madness of it. There was some germ in Martin, growing over the years, nurtured by his experiences, that was dangerous to all who came into contact with him. Craig had succumbed to it, briefly but almost fatally. Luckily his mind had developed the antibodies before it was too late. But the germ was still dangerous. Craig realized that he stood at a crisis point in his life. He was at the threshold of something, vague, undefined, and as yet highly vulnerable.

The only way he could move on was to extirpate the old. He would have to destroy the money if he were to survive. It was as simple as that. The realization hit Craig almost by surprise, squatting there like some aboriginal hillman over his fire, solitary amidst the snow. He had been groping toward this discovery, but when it came, it was so simple that the decision seemed to extend backward in time. It was the only act that would free him. Martin was beyond the reach of reason. The time for reason was past. That was the trouble with the academic world—it had divorced itself from action. And as a child of that world, Craig had suffered. Only action would suffice now. It would have to be single-minded. When he had approached Martin before, he had not known what he wanted to do. Get Martin to delay? Persuade him to abandon the venture? Somehow dispose of the money? And he had been smashed to the ground, impotent, useless.

He threw some more branches on the fire. The sun had risen higher in the sky, and around him the snow dripped steadily from the trees. The question now was where Martin had gone. Here at the hub of this great mountain range many possible escape routes existed. How was he to decide which one Martin had taken?

Craig began by eliminating the least likely alternatives. The group of police on horseback had obviously come up the Payette Trail and had been going toward Roaring Fork. So that trail was out. A horse party moved fast and the trail was exposed. Martin had been heading north when Craig had intercepted him. And he had been slanting away from Stanley. Since he had been unsuspecting, it was reasonable to assume that he was going where he wished to. That left the Payette, the South Fork of the Salmon River, and the Ollallie Trail. Even if he had been heading for the Payette, Craig felt sure that he would have changed his mind because of the pursuit. The Ollallie was a possibility. It was a little-used trail, an old Indian path that led through magnificent country but was long and tiring as a means of getting back to the road. Moreover, it exited very close to the Forest Service Headquarters near Lowman and, because of its numerous meadows, was popular with bear hunters, especially in the lower reaches.

That left the South Fork of the Salmon River. It was a long walk though a beautiful water trip. The advantage of surprise was on its side. It would be the least expected exit. The trail was treacherous, through the canyon of the river, and the only sensible way to do it was by boat. Still, at this season it was protected from the elements.

Craig could not decide between the Ollallie and the South Fork of the Salmon River. He poked at the fire. Even in the short time he had sat by the trail, the day had warmed considerably. He drew his sack over beside him and began to take an inventory of his food supply. Still enough for three days, if he was sparing. Craig did not have a great appetite when in the wilderness; he tended to live off his reserves. He succumbed to the temptation of some peanuts and munched as he thought.

Suddenly he remembered that Martin had been enthusiastic about using the Salmon River as an escape route from the scene after caching the money. He had suggested leaving a canoe near the head of the river and using it to put distance between them and the drop area. The river was a fast-flowing one, and a canoe could pass down it in two days. Craig had talked him out of it. Most of the early rapids on the river would be dangerous to negotiate in the dark. Perhaps Martin now had a canoe hidden on the river. He dismissed this idea. Martin had not had enough time since leaving Denver to make the arrangements. Maybe he hoped to steal a canoe from one of the summer ranches that occupied the land at the head of the river. That could be it. About three ranches existed in the upper stretches as summer playgrounds for the wilderness-minded rich. They could be reached only by small airplane and closed their operations at the beginning of September. All of them had several boats and canoes, and their boathouses would not be too secure. Martin had been down the river before and was an expert canoeist. Craig had only walked most of its length. The point where the South Fork flowed into the main river was so remote from Lone Fir Valley that there would be no watch there. A lone walker, though unusual, would not excite suspicions. That must be it. Craig was convinced that Martin had chosen the South Fork. He began repacking his sack and preparing for the walk. He lit a cigarette from the embers of the fire before extinguishing it. Speed was essential. Martin had had a good start, and if he were to surprise him, he had to move fast.

Craig slung the pack on his shoulder and set off through the melting snow toward the low pass leading to the river. He felt much better now, physically and mentally. He had come to his final decision. He must destroy the money. It would not be easy. Martin was armed and he was not, but he was resolute and prepared for the conflict. Martin could not suspect that he would follow him, could not imagine that he would be so foolish. It was nine fifteen. Martin could not have covered a great distance last night. The snow would have impeded his progress, and there was no clear trail to the river. A wild stretch of rocky, featureless hillside had to be climbed to the narrow pass that gave access to it. To commit yourself to that landscape at night with a blizzard brewing was not the act of an experienced mountaineer like Martin. So he must have camped in the forest to wait for first light.

Craig's head ached a little as he struggled upward. That had been quite a blow from the pistol butt. Next time he would have to take Martin by surprise and overpower him before he had a chance to use the gun. Next time Martin would shoot, probably to kill.

The top of the pass came quickly, and Craig paused briefly on the summit. There, winding below him, silver in the early morning light, a shining thread in the landscape of white and green, lay the river. Craig crunched through the snow, firmer at this altitude. He was still stiff from his beating, but internally he was at peace. On a climb, once you commit yourself all fears and tensions seem to ebb away in the action. Now that the doubts and indecisions of the previous days had been replaced by an act of will, Craig's path seemed to him to be as well defined as that of the river flowing clearly and strongly in the valley below. It was such a relief to be single-minded that Craig thought little of the danger that lay ahead. For a few moments on the pass, with the earth laid out before him, he became godlike, aware that if anyone was to solve his problems, it could only be himself. There would be no deus ex machina available to lift him out of his dilemma. Below him, somewhere, scurrying for safety, was Martin, carrying with him Craig's freedom. There was no alternative but to stop him.

# Chapter 14

CRAIG approached the buildings cautiously. Apart from a central group of three larger buildings, the ranch consisted of some ten chalet-like structures along the riverbank. The large buildings were obviously the kitchens and lounges to accommodate the guests. Beyond them in a long meadow was the airstrip, its grass still lightly dusted with snow. The settlement had the atmosphere of a ghost town. Heavy shutters covered all the windows, and the only sound was the drip of water from the eaves as the snow melted in the heat of the sun. Still, there might be a caretaker left to protect the ranch during the winter. Until a few years ago that would not have been necessary, but with the growing popularity of the snowmobile, no area was too remote to remain safe. So it was possible that the ranch was not as empty as it looked. It was a ranch only in a limited sense of that word. It raised no livestock and had not for twenty years. Instead, the ranch catered to the wealthy who wished to combine the pleasures of the wilderness with the comforts of a Playboy club. The guests hunted, fished on the clear waters of the river, and went on carefully guided short trips into the hills.

When Craig reached the boathouse it looked impregnable. It was a sturdy wooden building on the bank of a deep pool with a concrete ramp sloping into the water. The windows had plates of sheet steel fixed over them, secured from the inside. The large doors that faced the river were closed with two large iron bars heavily padlocked. The green paint on the door showed no signs of recent scratches. Obviously no one had tried to force it. Perhaps he had been wrong as to Martin's intentions. It had been a shot in the dark. It was possible that he had arrived before Martin, but he did not think it likely. Martin would be moving fast. Maybe he intended to walk out along the river rather than obtain some boat. No. That did not make sense. If he came this way, he must have intended to steal a boat.

Craig sat on the concrete ramp, his back against the stout doors, absently regarding the river. It seemed to flow so surely, so unconcernedly sure of its path, certain of its destiny. Yet here am I, thought Craig, scurrying over the countryside, never quite sure of what I ought to be doing or where I'm going. A fish broke the surface briefly and was gone, leaving a small ring that moved slowly down with the current as it widened.

Had Martin known which of the three ranches to head for? Did one of them have a boathouse that could be easily entered? Craig could not make up his mind. If he could not find a boat, it would take him four days at least to walk out, and he would be hungry before he reached the end. In the canyon at the lower third of the river walking was difficult and dangerous. Craig had enjoyed making his way through it three summers before, but he had not been in a hurry then. If he could not make good time now, he might as well admit defeat and climb back over the ridge and down to his car at Atlanta. Anyway, the decision had to be made quickly. It was already eleven thirty, and Martin must by now be well on his way. Craig made his decision. He would inspect the other two ranches, and if he found nothing at either of them he would return up the river and abandon the pursuit.

He got to his feet and turned the corner of the boathouse. The building was built into the overhanging bank, the relic of the earlier course of the river. The side that now faced Craig was identical to the one at the other side, with the same heavy shutters. He left the boathouse and began to slant his way up through the birch trees to reach the ranch plateau. Suddenly he noticed that at this side the boathouse stopped short of the bank. From above he had not realized that, but now as he looked across it was plain. He crossed quickly to the back wall, and there in the shade of the sleep bank was a door. His heart pounded as he approached.

At first glance he could see no sign of entry. A large padlock was visible where the door met the wall. He almost turned away, disappointed. Then something about the way the gray steel padlock hung caught his eye. He stepped over to it. Hanging from its hasp, the padlock was shattered. The bar of the lock was now jagged metal, and behind the hasp the wood of the door was splintered. Martin had obviously found his pistol useful. Craig lifted the useless padlock from the hasp and pushed the door. It swung open, and he stepped into the boathouse.

For a second he could see nothing. Then, as his eyes accustomed themselves to the dark interior, he could make out several rowboats on the floor. One of them would have been the ideal craft to negotiate the river, but, regrettably, the door was too narrow to get a row- boat out. Craig prayed that he would find a canoe. He groped forward and to the left of the boats. Against the wall oars were stacked, and as his shoulder brushed against them, they toppled to the floor with a crash which made Craig jump. He pushed them back against the wall, and as he stood up, he saw that there was a rack of canoe paddles above the oars. So there must be canoes.

He continued his progress toward the large door, his left hand outstretched to the wall. Just before the door he came upon a large wooden rack with spaces for four canoes. The rack held three, their aluminum hulls gleaming dully in the dim light. Craig drew one out. It slid easily and clanged onto the concrete floor. It was about twelve feet long. Craig would have preferred a shorter one, which would be easier to handle in the rapids. Still the canoe looked fast and fairly indestructible. He dragged it along the floor toward the door and then struggled with it through the narrow opening. For a moment he thought he would not manage to work it around the corner past the overhanging bank.

In the open again, his eyes half closed against the bright sun flashing against patches of melting snow, Craig pulled the canoe over the grass to the concrete ramp. Then returning to the back door, he groped his way in again and emerged with two of the long- handled canoe paddles. Craig replaced the lock as he had found it. It would at least prevent the winter snows from swirling inside.

He felt a distaste for his act. Not since childhood had he stolen anything—and that only a penny candy from a store. He remembered how his heart had thumped and how he had lived in terror for a week. While he had rejected his family's ethic of work, he received their honesty by osmosis. He smiled to himself. Honesty, indeed. Here he was, a collaborator in the extortion of a quarter of a million dollars, a fugitive from the police (though they probably were unaware of that), and now guilty of the theft of a fine aluminum Grumman canoe and two paddles. A fine example of the Protestant ethic. He rationalized the theft. as a mere borrowing. He would leave the canoe where it could be found at the foot of the river. The extortion he was trying to rectify, though only selfishly, he thought. There was no way he could return the money. Strangely, he felt greater uneasiness at the theft of the canoe. It was not the immorality of the other affair that distressed him; it was the perversion of his happiness.

He loaded his pack into the bow of the canoe, pushed one paddle under the center seat, and slid the canoe onto the pool. The water was cold, and he knew he would have to be careful on the river. A spill without a life preserver would mean rapid exhaustion and exposure. Craig remembered from his walk down the river that some formidable rapids existed on it, especially in the lower section. Martin had the advantage over him of being an expert canoeist and of having made one trip down the river previously. He would be moving fast, with at least a three-hour start. As Craig paddled, sitting back in the stern of the canoe, he thought about how he could seize the money. It would probably be best to get close to Martin's camp and creep in in the dark. If only he could get himself in a position where he could watch to see where Martin put the money before he fell asleep.

The river was flowing more swiftly now. Craig felt the canoe rise and fall more rapidly on the small waves, which signaled an uneven bottom. The banks were thickly wooded and the river was still narrow at this point. It wound its way through the forest, turning sharp corners every two or three hundred yards, so that it was impossible to predict what the river was doing.

Once Craig came around a bend to find himself at the head of a complex rapid. He had no opportunity to make for the shore and inspect the rapid. The water was flowing too quickly, swirling around boulders that stuck up in its path and crashing about in the shallows. Craig straightened the canoe and began paddling backward to slow the canoe down. In a boat on a fast- flowing river it is important either to move faster or slower than the current in order to be able to steer. By moving slower than the flow one can gain time to make changes of direction. The rapid was complicated, demanding a sudden shift from the right to the left about halfway down. Craig strained at the paddle, forcing the boat to obey his wishes rather than the rivers'. It had been a mistake to load his sack up front. Water was continually slopping over the bow and landing on it as the canoe bobbed and danced its way down. As he neared the end of the rapid a cross current swept the bow around, and he broadsided for a moment. Craig paddled furiously, driving the canoe with all his strength for a gap between two large rounded rocks. If he fetched up against a boulder with the side of the canoe, that would be the end. The canoe would tip instantly, and he would probably be trapped against the rock by the force of the water. With a resounding clang the bow struck the nearest rock, almost upsetting him, and then, with a rapid stroke of the paddle, he was through, splashing into a standing wave where the river bottom dropped away.

As the canoe swept into the calmer water, Craig felt a queeziness in his stomach and a weakness that flowed over him. He had a lot to learn about canoeing. He had done some easy rivers around Seattle, and once Martin had given him some instruction on a very difficult river near Aspen in Colorado. He remembered how he had spent most of that day swimming his upturned boat to the shore and drying himself out. And then he had had a life preserver and the comfort of other canoeists with him. Now he was on his own and he would have to learn fast. There would be few second chances here with this crystal cold water. Craig made for the bank. He must eat something and would have to reposition the rucksack, fastening it and the spare paddle to the boat. Should he lose his food here, it would not be a pleasant death.

He resisted the temptation to start a fire and cook and instead munched some chocolate and nuts and some cheese. His pack had been thoroughly doused by the spray, but the contents had remained dry, except for where a few trickles had run onto his sleeping bag. Craig smoked a quick cigarette as he repacked the canoe and then pushed off onto the river again.

As he paddled, the sun dropped ahead of him in the sky. It glinted off the water, making Craig squint his eyes against it. At times his vision consisted wholly of little sparkles of dancing light, hypnotizing him with their motions. It was impossible to see more than fifty feet or so ahead, and he was constantly on edge in case he should run into Martin, perhaps stopped for a meal on the bank. Anyone downriver of him would, of course, have perfect warning of his approach. The silver-colored canoe would flash back the light of the sun.

Still Craig forged on, occasionally banging off rocks in his progress. The rapids were the greatest strain. He would come into them without warning, and his eyes would be assaulted more than ever with flashes of white. He learned to rely on his ears to tell him of the proximity of fast water, and he found his techniques improving. He could now place the canoe where he wanted most of the time, and none of the rapids were too difficult. However, he knew that he would have to improve greatly before he was competent enough for the heavy water in the bottom stretch of the river.

Already the flow was greater. Small streams appeared at frequent intervals, emerging mysteriously from the forest to slide into the main current.

The solitude pressed in on him and seemed to increase with every mile he covered. He had seen no living creature, not even a squirrel or chipmunk. On both sides the forest skirted the river, limiting the view, while ahead the steep slopes of the hills seemed almost unchanging. He had rarely felt so utterly alone and so dependent on his own resources. The sun, already beginning to dip toward the hills ahead, reddening with its descent, seemed to beckon him mockingly, while underneath the river gurgled and chuckled, hissing and grumbling in innumerable yet repetitive patterns of sound.

Craig wished that it were all over. He had committed himself, and there was no turning back. He knew what he had to do—but not how. Life is a succession of risks. Once we make a choice we have to accept the consequences in a sealed bag. He was convinced that what he had chosen to do was right, but when he tried to project himself into the future he could not. He felt that he could not return to Baxter College. The thought of that seemed ludicrous. In fact, the thought of anything beyond this river was too much for his brain to grapple with. Everything must focus on the successful destruction of the money. Somehow he could not think of the contents of the bag as money—money that might be translated into anything having meaning in his life. Sure, he would love to own a boat, one that could be sailed across oceans, but money acquired as he and Martin had acquired it could not be spent that way. To Craig the money was not a collection of one- and five-dollar bills but an indivisible object, a weight, an albatross.

As the sun slid below the hills ahead, spreading a red glow along the crest, the temperature of the air above the river dropped quickly. Craig shivered. He had been working hard all day, and his shoulders and back were damp with sweat. A few inches of water slopped noisily in the bottom of the canoe, and his feet were cold in his sodden boots. Soon he would have to slop. It would be impossible to continue after dark, and at this time of the month the moon was only a pale shadow.

There had been no sign of Martin; no discarded garbage or smoking remains of a campfire. A gray squirrel, the first creature he had seen, flashed from the bank into the wood. Craig let the canoe drift while he lit a cigarette, enjoying the quiet as the boat slid along with the stream. He leaned back, tired and muscle- weary, allowing the boat to turn now broadside, now bow first while he looked around him. He reached over and scooped some water to his dry lips. A light breeze drifted up the river. Everything was calm, and the river sounded benign. Above in the sky a few stars had begun to show. He would have to camp soon.

He tried to savor the experience, attempting to lose himself in the flow of the water and the trees as they moved past. But relaxation would not come. He could not forget Martin or his wild hate. He thought he had known Martin well. Of course there was his past, which he never talked about, but to Craig it appeared that strong bonds had been growing between them. Now they were two individuals both on the same river but as apart as strangers. More apart, he thought, since hatred rarely exists among strangers. And there was no going back. Nothing could wipe out their enmity and return them to happier days. Time could only heal so much. If Craig were successful in what he planned to do, Martin would hate him with an even deeper passion. If Martin were successful, he would never wish to meet Craig again. Their criminal operation had raised a mountain between them.

Craig dug the paddle into the stream and swung the canoe toward a sandpit. He had to eat and sleep. The hull crunched its way over the sand and came to rest. Behind him the river moved silently, inexorably running to its end in the sea.

# Chapter 15

THE country had changed. Thick, curtainlike forest had given way to open hillsides dotted with pines rolling into the distance. It was the type of landscape down which wild bands of Indians charged in Westerns. The river flowed peacefully now, its youthful energies spent, as though it was gathering itself for its final fury in the canyon that lay ahead. Craig paddled strongly, working his arm and shoulder muscles rhythmically. In—draw—feather—out. A thousand times since breakfast, each stroke pushing the boat further toward the end of his journey. In the last day he had felt his muscles grow. He had become a part of the canoe, reveling in its motion, delighting in his increasing skill. Ahead of the canoe, the water split and lifted up to foam backward along the hull, and the boat hissed like a thing alive.

Craig had wakened early, bustling about in the chill before dawn lighting the fire, fetching water, and brushing the frost from his sleeping bag before he rolled it into his rucksack. It had been a cold night, and he had slept fitfully. At one point he had awakened suddenly, roused from a dream where his father had been pushing him into a large whirlpool while Jean looked on screaming helplessly. Shivering both from the cold and the lingering terror of the dream he had lit a cigarette and lain back on the hard sand, gazing at the stars. That had been no comfort. The stars had glittered, diamond-hard and impersonal, framed by the dark trees. The night was still and the branches hung motionless above him.

Once, several years before, Craig had had a dream that he had died and his soul had been released into the universe. The terror of the dream had been that he existed in a complete void where, though he was acutely aware of the passage of time, nothing happened—and nothing, he knew, would ever happen.

He had awakened screaming to an empty house, and the experience had etched itself on his mind. He had sought happiness in the mountains and on the sea, while his heart had cried out for companionship. He felt more alone than ever, lying there with the river gently babbling to him and the depths of space above his head. Despite the cold, morning had been a relief. His body and his mind craved action, and the tedious little tasks of preparation seemed almost pleasurable.

There had been no sign of Martin. Water, unlike earth, leaves no trace of passage. In the early morning, with the sun slanting low behind him, he had become aware of the wildlife that shared the river with him. He had pursued a flock of fish-eating ducks, greens and grays, fluttering for fifty or sixty feet, then plowing the water again, heavy with fish. After a mile of this they had huddled into the bank and allowed him to pass. Perhaps Martin had done the same. But he was surely unaware of Craig's presence and must be pushing hard down the stream. Around one bend he had come upon a deer, head bent low to the stream, drinking peacefully, as though it were the only creature in God's universe. With a start it rose up, swung its head from the water, and was off with a great leap. Craig valued these fleeting contacts. They drew him out of himself and into his surroundings.

He was canoeing through a paradise. Violet hills rolled up, their summits capped with snow and their sides broken with solitary pines, like the work of some eighteenth-century landscape gardener. Capability Brown would have approved. So would Wordsworth.

As he paddled, verses from the Romantic poets rolled in his mind. They too had been solitaries, reaching out to each other through Nature. And eventually the mountains and the rivers had let them down. Or they had grown beyond empathy with the wild. A glory had passed away from the earth, and the cares of the world had begun to press in upon them. Perhaps what the poets had to tell him was that Nature, even with a capital N, was not enough. A retreat into Nature was a selfishness that mankind, either as individuals or collectively, could not afford. Adventure in the wilderness could bring people together, force them into a realization of their dependence on each other. But it was strong wine to a solitary man nurturing his egoism and his selfishness. Looking back, Craig could recognize how he had sacrificed people to Nature, how he had put it before everything.

The river was sweeping into a narrow stretch forced between rocky cliffs. He slowed the canoe to seek a passage. Ahead he could hear the crash of the water as it poured over the drops in the river bottom, and he could see the white foam as it sped into a curve below. He let the canoe slide into the vee at the head of the rapid, making the boat respond to the thrust of his paddle. The splashing of the river reverberated from the walls of rock bordering it, thundering and rolling in Craig's ears. The canoe bucked and danced like a wild horse. A rock loomed up, half covered by a haystack of water. He pulled right once, twice, with full-strength strokes dragging the canoe bodily sideways through the water. Great sheets of spray broke over the bow blinding him for an instant and drenching him to the skin.

Ahead the full force of the river piled up against a ledge of rock. Suddenly, in amazement, Craig saw that sitting on the ledge was a bear, its paw extended to the water, fishing. He roared down upon it, unable to take a different course. For a moment he thought he was about to land on the bear's lap. Then, as the current swept him toward the ledge, Craig leaned almost out of the boat to the left, pulling desperately at the water with the blade of his paddle. With a swoosh, he was through and into the calm eddy on the left of the stream. The bear still regarded him, a quizzical look on its long brown face. It remained immobile, staring in awe at the strange being that had descended into its world. Craig sat still. Never before had he seen a bear this close. The great creature seemed almost human, a wild man, timid and alone among the hills. Craig could stand the eerie stare no longer. He took the wooden paddle and struck it hard on the hull of the canoe. The sound echoed and reechoed in the narrow gorge. The bear shot upright, stood for a second, and then dropped to all fours and was off up the steep hillside. Once near the top it paused and looked back down to where Craig still sat, mesmerized by his experience. Then off it went again, over the crest and into the trees.

Craig paddled slowly out of the eddy and downstream to a long shingle beach. The canoe was half full of water and would have to be emptied before he could proceed. The hull grated on the stones, and he stepped out. He was still bemused by his meeting with the bear. Its gaze had sent a shiver of awe down his back. He tipped the boat on its side and watched the water slop over onto the pebbles. Reaching into the pocket of his sack, he brought out some dates and sat on the beach while he munched. He was wet and cold, and his legs felt atrophied with lack of use. He lit a cigarette, replacing the packet in a waterproof bag with his matches.

Getting to his feet, he began to stroll down the bank, his feet clinking the stones. His foot struck something metallic among the pebbles. It was an empty sardine can. Stooping, he lifted it up. The inside still had the remains of sardines clinging to the sides, and a little oil lay in the bottom. It was fresh. There was no sign of any dew in the can. The oil looked quite undiluted. Obviously it had been discarded that day, perhaps only a few hours ago. There was a depression on the beach where someone had sat, and when Craig walked to the water's edge he saw a long trough in the pebbles where a canoe clearly had been dragged. Martin could not be too far ahead.

He returned to his canoe, stubbed out his cigarette with his heel, and pushed off into the current once more. He would have liked to remain to savor this magnificent country, and better still, he would have given anything to have someone to share it with. He seemed to be doomed to be always running. Since the August night when the money had arrived from the sky, he had never been at rest. The mountains had held no joy for him, forced to be continually on the move, and now on this superb river he was still running. It would not be long now. Martin could not be far ahead. The river only had some thirty miles to run before it merged with the main Salmon River. Below the junction it was called the River of No Return, a name given to it by the early pioneers, and Craig felt sure that Martin would leave the river at the junction. A dirt road made its way into that point, and it was not a long walk back to the busy main road. Civilization. Company. Through rocky narrows he paddled, rhythmically, steadily, negotiating the minor rapids that the river placed in his path. He hissed along through great limpid pools, watching trout scatter at his approach. Scents of sage and fir filled the air, sweet and refreshing. Craig was driving the canoe fast, wasting little effort with his economical strokes. The water fell back from the bow in a rising and falling wave. The memory of sun-dappled days in fishing harbors in Maine swept into his head. Boat races with his brother, each vying to row farther and faster, recklessly darting their boats across a crowded harbor. Looking back, one only remembers the good times, not the painful moments or the divisions in the family, thought Craig.

A dull, roaring sound brought him out of his reverie. The sound of a rapid—growing louder every second. A monster waterfall? Then his ears told him again what his brain had refused to believe. That was no rapid. The sound rose and fell, bouncing off the hills that sloped steeply toward the river. An airplane! For a second Craig sat bemused, his tired mind struggling to assimilate the information. Then it screamed at him—police!

He swung the canoe toward the bank. The bushes were thin but provided the only cover available. He must not be seen. The roar of the engine filled the valley with the unmistakable sound of a helicopter.

Then, just as the bow of the canoe crunched in among some slender older bushes washed by the river, Craig saw it. About a quarter of a mile away and a hundred feet up. Following the river. Hunting.

The bushes were not thick enough to prevent detection from above. As the canoe came to rest, its stem still jutted out into the stream. It could not be missed. Craig panicked, his heart beating wildly. As he twisted to look in horror at the approaching helicopter the canoe almost tipped, and only a sudden movement of the paddle averted a capsize. In a flash it came to him. His only chance was in the water. Craig rolled quickly sideways and fell into the river, holding onto the canoe. Scrabbling at the hull, he dragged the craft down into the water. It seemed an age before the water closed over the hull, and the roar of the helicopter's motors seemed almost overhead as Craig ducked under and into the silent world of roots and grasses. Holding firmly onto an alder with one hand and the canoe with the other, he raised his head up under the upturned hull. Some air was still trapped in the boat, and by arching his neck far back he could get his mouth out of the water. He could not last long in this position. He could feel the cold of the river eat at his strength, and to breathe in his constricted position was agony. Either the helicopter would move over quickly, or all was lost anyway. He could not stand it much longer. If it was all over—well, it was all over. Craig ducked from under the submerged boat and broke water with his head. Nothing above. As the water cleared from his ears he heard the beat of the rotors again, but farther away and receding. He floundered and struggled to the bank, dragging the leaden canoe behind him. Violent shivers rocked him as he strained to empty the boat. For one ghastly second he thought he had lost the paddle and would be stranded, but then he saw it wedged between two alders.

At last Craig was ready to move again, stiff and aching from his exertions. His mind was in a fearful turmoil. The police were searching. The net was closing in. Perhaps they had seen Martin from the helicopter and were at this moment radioing to organize his interception. Surely the close search of the river was not routine. Something must have alerted them.

As he paddled downriver Craig felt very near to the end. Physically, mentally, he could take little more. Should the helicopter return, he would accept his fate. Resignation brought a kind of peace, and he needed peace.

When evening came Craig was still paddling, his arm muscles aching and tired. The helicopter had not returned, but that had failed to raise Craig's spirits. He was despondent. Ahead in the pale evening light he could see the dark slit of the canyon that enclosed the last fifteen miles of the river. He would have to stop on this side of it. It would be folly to paddle on into the canyon's dark depths in the failing light. In the long canyon lay the most difficult rapids in the length of the river, and they would be impossible at night. The trail left the river about a mile before the gorge and wound its way up above the cliffs, so Craig had not seen this stretch of the river. But he had heard Martin talk about it in excited, awed tones. "Christ, Craig, it's the most scary set of rapids I've been down. Not that they're the most difficult, but the great cliffs fall right into the water. If you come out, well, brother, you stay out. There are only a few places in the first five miles where you can stop, and there's only one spot to camp, about one mile in. You'd love it."

Craig could feel his stomach tighten as he thought of what lay ahead. He had been through a few rapids of severe difficulty already, but the bank had always seemed close and accessible in the event of a spill. No, money or no money, he could not chance the canyon after dark. Perhaps his whole chase had been in vain. He did not see now how he could creep up on Martin unawares. In the narrow canyon there would be no way to get ahead or to surprise him. The only way would be a frontal attack, and Martin had the pistol. Perhaps it was better just to let him get away with the money and hope that he made it. No. Martin was not the type to spend it carefully and secretively. His newfound wealth would make him reckless and conspicuous. Stop him or run himself seemed the only alternatives to Craig. And he was tired of running.

Just before the dark canyon was a grassy field on the right sloping gently to the river. Craig drew slowly into the bank beside a small group of pines. He dragged the canoe ashore and walked stiffly up, away from the water. Around him everything seemed drained of color in the twilight. He spread out his bag. He was almost too tired to eat but knew he must. Stumbling about almost in a daze, he collected twigs and set them in a fireplace built of rocks and left by some earlier party. Down the gorge the river rolled, dark and threatening. Tomorrow would be the crux. Craig hoped his courage would be adequate for the challenge. And his skill. It would be the supreme test. Suddenly, gazing into the cavernous jaws of the gorge, his tired eyes caught a glimmer of light. It was on the opposite bank from him. Moving. Or was it? No. It was a fire. A campfire down in the canyon. Martin must be there, a mere mile ahead, cooking his dinner and thinking of the end of the river. Now Craig knew he had two challenges to face in the morning: the river and Martin.

# Chapter 16

THE voice of the river swelled, growing from a hushed rumbling to a confused and deafening roar, as Craig paddled toward the jaws of the canyon. His whole body felt tight and afflicted by that indescribable lightness that apprehension brings. He had been unable to eat that morning. The greasy sausages had stuck in his throat, and he had come close to retching. Two cups of black coffee and innumerable cigarettes had served to awaken his tired body in the half-light. All night the river had spoken to him, a sound track to his sleep. There's no turning back, it told him, there's no retreat. A fatalism had overtaken Craig; but it gave him little comfort. None of his fears were removed. But he would do what he had to. So he had packed his belongings into the canoe and launched it onto the oily black stream.

The sun had not yet cleared the mountains upstream and the sky was a pale gray. The great canyon walls reared above his head, gloomy and threatening. The Gates of Death the Shoshoni Indians called this place, and in this light it justified the title. The river sped him downward, unbroken as yet but flowing fast, its surface dark and shining. Little, evil-looking whirlpools would appear and seem to flow independently of the main current, like the suckers of some deepwater creature.

With a crash the canoe hit the first wave of the rapid, a great foaming bulge of water that extended in an almost unbroken line across the river. The bow reared skyward, and the boat seemed for a moment to be about to topple backward. With a hard stroke Craig drove it through, icy water cascading off his head and cutting through his parka. The canoe swept on, colliding with a half-hidden rock and almost tossing Craig from his seat. As yet he was not in tune with the boat or the river. His body was cold, and tension interfered with the technique he had acquired in the past two days. Craig worked hard, forcing the bow of the canoe away from rocks that seemed to rush at him out of the foam.

The rapid was like a maze, and if the wrong path was taken, death would result. Craig had faced death many times, but the thought of meeting his end in these icy waters chilled his soul. He was canoeing abominably, striking the water at the wrong time and in the wrong place; but, miraculously, he was staying upright and avoiding obstacles. Spray from the never- ending fury of the rapid struck him repeatedly in the face. His face felt numbed and his mouth twitched in cold and fear. Insidiously the water crept through his anorak and spread through his shirt. Ahead he could see a gigantic standing wave. If he hit it, all would be lost. It would stop the boat dead and catapult him into the foam. Desperately he paddled, driving the stubborn boat away from the boiling mass of water. The current tugged at him, but he fought it hard. With a thunderous roar, the huge standing wave broke a foot from the canoe, cascading a wall of foam upstream. Over the gunwale of the boat it surged, awesome in its fury, forcing a scream to Craig's lips. In fear he thrashed at the river with massive strokes of the paddle, his body working to its limit in desperation to right the swamped canoe. Miraculously it came upright, a great sea beast sounding from the depths, gray water sliding from its back. And he was through, teeth chattering in misery and his blood pounding in his ears.

Working hard to keep the canoe on an even keel, he hurtled down the river. On both sides black walls towered, split by slimy, moss-filled cracks. Great blocks of gray rock hung out over the torrent, and far above his head was a strand of blue sky. A view from the grave. Craig had little time to inspect his surroundings. Fifty feet ahead the current dashed itself against the rock on his left and swept around in a great curve to disappear from view on the right. The curve had been undercut by aeons of time, eaten away by the continual voracity of the river. Now the cliff overhung the river by at least ten feet.

Into this wall the great river threw itself. Craig knew that if he were dragged in there, the boat and he would be crushed in an instant. Furiously he paddled for the right shore. The boat was heavy with water, and the current pulled him inexorably toward the jaws of the cliff. Suddenly by the right bank, a low shingle beach, he caught sight of an eddy. A haven. He must reach it. Throwing all his strength into a last effort, he fought against the stream, driving the paddle into the river, his muscles aching under the strain. Down he swept on the rock. He was almost crying in his panic, eyes blurred, mouth gulping air. At the last possible moment the bow of the canoe pounded into the eddy. The boat lurched as it met the strange current, but Craig righted it by slapping the surface of the water with his paddle. The eddy was like a different world. The water was calm and flowed gently, while outside the eddy the river foamed and crashed like a mad pack of dogs snarling and snapping at the smooth cliffs. The noise was deafening. It seemed to block out thought, and Craig felt himself surrender to its mighty power. Its force was awesome, and it stirred a primeval horror in him. What lay ahead, God only knew. But he could not stand this. He beached the canoe and emptied it rapidly, then pointed the canoe toward the corner and paddled gently to the edge of the eddy.

Suddenly he slowed. There on the opposite bank just before the rapid was a wooded shelf barely thirty feet by ten, a patch of green with the black wall rising above it. That was where Martin must have spent the night. He must be an expert canoeist to have safely landed his boat in the short stretch of water between these two rapids. Craig knew that it would have been impossible for him. And to lie all night with that roar in one's ears. He inspected the shelf. There was no sign of life. Martin must still be ahead. There was no time to be wasted. He eased the bow of the canoe out into the current that was ripping past, leaned downstream on his paddle to absorb the shock, and felt himself drawn out of the eddy, sucked back into the thundering stream. Around the corner he was swept, able to do little more than keep the boat straight and upright in the flow.

Below the bend the river dropped into a deep pool and changed its character in an instant. One moment it had been foaming and tossing, and the next it was a quiet, sleek creature. Even the roaring soon died away, contained by the cliffs that enclosed the rapid. Craig fought the urge to drift. The river was nearly ended, and if he did not catch Martin on this stretch, he never would.

He forced the canoe along, past great boulders perched on the edge of the river, past a stream that tumbled in a light spray five hundred feet from the cliff above.

Then, almost imperceptibly, the noise of the river increased, like the approach of a freight train, until the sound filled the canyon again. Ahead the jutting edge of the cliff prevented a view of the rapid. It was obviously ferocious, and Craig decided to stop at its head and inspect it to work out the best route. He rounded the corner slowly, ready to make for the bank whenever possible when the river began to speed up. His attention was totally concentrated on the point where the river began to drop, and it was not until he was twenty feet past the bend that he saw Martin. Somehow, though he had been thinking of this meeting for days, he was taken aback. It was almost as though the river had erased his memory.

Martin was on the bank just at the head of the rapid with his canoe upended and obviously draining. Quickly Craig drove his canoe at the shore. He had almost reached a small eddy where he could draw the boat out of view, when a glance back downriver showed him that Martin had seen him. Craig slowed the canoe. He was some fifty feet from Martin. What was he to do? There was no point in stealth now. Perhaps if he paddled toward Martin, he would not recognize him before he landed the canoe. If he did not approach now, it would confirm any suspicions Martin had and give him time to think. Craig swung the canoe away from the eddy and began to paddle unhurriedly toward Martin. Suddenly he realized that Martin held the gun. Like a flash, he changed his direction, paddling in a panic for the shore. As he reached a large rock that provided a protective eddy behind it, there was an almost imperceptible crack, and part of the rock about three feet from his head seemed to explode in a burst of dust. A sharp pain seared his arm, and as he looked down he saw blood spurt from a long, jagged cut. He swept behind the rock and out of view.

Rapidly he reached out of the canoe to the rocky bank and drew himself up, holding the bow of the boat. It was heavy with water, and he struggled to beach it. He could feel his heart battering against his ribs, and his mouth was dry. He quickly glanced over the rock and saw Martin still in the same place. Between Craig and Martin the cliff fell sheer into the water, and it would be impossible to move either up or downstream on foot. He ducked again quickly as Martin raised his pistol.

Craig's hand was sticky from the blood that was flowing down his arm. A sliver of rock must have shot from the boulder and split the flesh. He pressed his fingers firmly against the wound, stemming the flow of blood. With his teeth he pulled at the sleeve of his shirt, fraying the cotton until he could leave the wound with his right hand and rip most of the sleeve off. The wound stung as Craig wrapped the cotton around it and knotted it. Probably the piece of rock was still in the wound, but Craig had no time to make an inspection. He risked another glance around the rock, being careful to stick his head out in a different position. He had to duck back rapidly, as Martin was ready. It was unnerving to see a pistol but hear no sound. All around, the cliffs reverberated with the roar of the river, and in that din a gunshot was only a small element. Wet through, he hugged the back of the rock and shivered.

It was stalemate. He could not advance on Martin without the certainty of being shot, nor could Martin fight his way back up against that current to where Craig was hidden. Craig felt calm once he realized that. He drew his waterproof bag out of his parka and lit up a cigarette. All at once the knowledge came to him that he was doomed. He was in a trap. What a fool he had been. All that Martin needed to do was to negotiate the next rapid, beach his canoe, and wait for Craig to descend. He would be an easy target, as he would have to give all his attention to the rapid if he were to get through. If Martin positioned himself at the bottom of the rapid, there would be little chance of escape. There was no hope. Nonsense, thought Craig. There is always hope. Many times in the mountains he had been in situations from which he had thought there was no escape.

He glanced quickly out again. Martin had his boat in the water and was about to set off. He had realized that he could not force Craig from his position. Perhaps he would just try to get down the river before Craig and not try to ambush him. That was a possibility, though a slim one. Suddenly it came to Craig that his only hope lay in speed. If he could get to the rapid shortly behind Martin, then he might be through before Martin had a chance to gain a favorable position. He thrust his head out again. Martin was fully in his boat and without a backward glance was paddling for the head of the rapid. Craig took a long drag at his cigarette and tossed it away. He wrestled the canoe off the rocks and dropped it into the water with a splash. Paddle in one hand, he slithered and slid down to join the boat and clambered aboard, almost upsetting it in his haste. As he paddled his torn arm smarted, but Craig ignored it.

The head of the rapid advanced upon him and the roar of the waters seemed to swell even louder, seething in a ceaseless turmoil. He paddled like one possessed. This time he would not be able to ease the boat down the rapid, gliding it from side to side to avoid dangers. Speed was essential, and he must present a fast-moving target to Martin. Down the great wedge of water he charged, heaving against the river with the blade of his paddle, seeing the shaft bend with the strain. The sheer walls raced past, a blur in his vision. His eyes were fixed on the water ahead, white and frothy as it dashed over the uneven bottom.

A rock loomed up, parting the current like the bow of some great vessel. Craig felt the hull of the canoe scrape momentarily on the rough rock, then he was past, dropping over small falls and plunging through waves as high as a man. His speed was frightening and his whole world one of noise and confusion. The canoe swung and reared, and once it tipped as Craig swerved from a jagged rock. The gunwale went deep into the foam and cold water cascaded into the boat. With a supreme effort Craig righted the canoe. Now it was almost half full of water, and as it slopped from one side to another it threatened to founder. If the rapid continued much longer all would be lost. The canoe was not designed for cascades like this. Its deck was open, and every wave inundated it.

Craig could see no end. Just ahead he was being swept down on the biggest wave he had encountered. His mind forced his aching muscles to the challenge. Blood had begun to seep from the wound on his arm again, and the cotton sleeve was a dull pink. As he hit the wave the boat seemed to stop dead and the water in the bottom rushed forward. Craig paddled frantically; slowly, like a dying horse, the canoe lifted its head up, up to the crest, in a painful, agonizing motion. He could feel the great wall of water sweep under him, and then he was on the other side, sluggishing rolling down to the trough. A rock lay ahead, almost barring his path. In desperation he flailed the water, dragging the boat from its headlong charge toward it. At the instant that he swept past it he saw in horror the ice-gray hull of a canoe pressed against the rock, held there by the gigantic force of the water. And a head, black hair streaming, appearing and disappearing.

Suddenly he felt a shock as his canoe struck a rock.

The water in the boat crashed forward, the boat swung around, the bow dived, and Craig felt himself fall sideways into the foam, scrabbling for a hold on the metal hull. For an instant he had it, then, pushed under, his lungs bursting, he was forced to let go and the boat was gone. As he bobbed up the banks raced past.

He could feel the strength ebb from his body, as though it were being sucked out of him. He struck out for the shore, wild with terror. As hard as he swam, the current was stronger, dragging at his feet insatiably. Craig almost gave up. His body could stand no more. He was dragged under again, pounded and battered by the river. His leg struck a rock and his feet pushed against it. As his head emerged, he saw a ledge of rock running out into the current just ahead. Gathering his energies, he made one last attempt at safety, forcing himself through the water. His hand struck rock. His nails scratched at it in desperation, and he was off again. Another try. This time his numb fingers found a hold, and he got his chest over a sharp edge.

For a second he lay there, life gradually returning and, with it, pain. He seemed to have been in the water for hours, but as he glanced back upriver he could see the large rock behind which Martin was trapped not thirty feet away. Martin! He must get to him. Still panting and shaking, he got to his feet and scrabbled his way back up the river over large mossy boulders, sliding and falling, crashing his aching limbs against the sharp stones. Martin must be drowned. He could not hang on there with the full force of the river tearing at him.

As he reached the rock he saw, incredibly, that Martin was still there. He had one arm wedged above him clear of the water, but he seemed to hang there lifeless. Craig could not see what he could do. The sides of the rock were smooth. Perhaps he could get some purchase, but to move the five feet out to where Martin hung would be unbelievably difficult, and when he got there, what could he do? Martin must be dead. His head was turned away from the land, and the water rose around it and fell away regularly. His arm must have wedged in that crack by some freak of chance or perhaps in his last desperate attempt to save himself.

And then, incredibly, the head moved around, slowly and eerily, and Martin looked full at Craig. His face was deathly white and his eyes black holes. His mouth was open, but he made no attempt to shout. A wave slopped up the rock and buried the black of his hair in the white foam. He emerged again, obviously gasping. He could not survive much longer. Craig was frantic. He could not reach Martin from above. He would have to inch out along the rock. There was no other way. He could not just turn his back and leave.

He started out, afraid to his core. Below him the water foamed and danced, waiting for a false move. The rock was rough and his feet held well, though there was little for his hands. He did not know what he could do, even once he got to Martin, but he had to try. Suddenly he found a good incut hold for his left hand that would allow him to reach Martin. He could see the blood dripping along Martin's upreached hand where it had grazed on the rock. Martin's fist was wedged in a narrowing of the crack. He looked soundlessly up at Craig, his head on a level with the latter's boots.

The only solution, Craig thought, was to free Martin's arm and drop him into the river, where he would be swept down. Then he would have a chance. In this position he would die surely and slowly. He reached out and grasped his wrist where it emerged from the crack. Holding on with clenched fingers to his hold on the rock, he pulled upward at Martin's arm. It was stuck fast. Craig wrenched at it. Martin hung as if lifeless, and his flesh felt cold. Suddenly, with a jerk, the arm was out, and Craig was pulled sideways off the rock. He still had one foot on and a good handhold above, but as his right side swung into the air over the boiling water, he felt himself slipping under Martin's weight. Before he could release Martin he was off, falling like a stone.

The water closed over his head, and for a moment he panicked. Without knowing it, he still had a firm grasp on Martin's wrist. The green water bubbled around him, silent and furious. Suddenly he realized that he was not moving downstream but gyrating and tumbling just under the rock, water gushing into his nostrils and tearing at his body. He let go and felt the moving current seize him again.

His head broke surface and he gasped, getting a mouthful of water with the air. He felt nothing. No pain. No fear. It was as if he had finally given in to the river and was being swept along on its back.

A wave pushed him down, down into the green depths, lungs bursting. A strange, unreal world. Up. Breath. Craig felt a warmth slide over him. There was nothing left in him. No struggle. Calm. Quiet.

# Chapter 17

QUIET. Calm. Hardness. On his stomach. He wished it away. No more struggle. He was at peace. No more decisions. Hardness on his stomach. Solidity. Must move. Can't. Headaches. Quiet. Heat. He moved. Pain tore at his side. No. No more struggle. Lie still. Relax.

Life flowed back. Pain. In his head and chest. He opened his eyes. Light. White. Glaring. Closed again. Peace. Must move. No. Quiet. He opened his eyes. Blink. Close. Open. Light. Rock. Rock. Rock! Patterns of light. Dancing. Hot. Quiet. Water lapping. Water. A shudder shook his body. Eyes open. Blink. Bright. Patterns of light and shade. Rock hot to the touch. White fingers. White rock.

He dragged himself forward, pain swelling to fill his being. Stop. Peace. Don't move. Must. He brought one arm to his side. Push. He rolled onto his back.

Above, the huge cliffs stretched to the sky. And in the sky, the sun. A hot, bright ball. Colors exploded in his eyes. Like a descent to the valley after days in the snow. Rich browns, cool greens, and fiery reds. Fifty feet up, a mountain ash clung, a green splash against the white rock. Below it, a dark shadow. No feeling in his legs. Must move. He rolled back, head grazing the rough rock. He panted. Pulling with his hands, he moved a foot. Water lapping. No roaring. Water lapping, not roaring. He twisted his head. His feet were still in the water, hanging over the shelf on which he lay. He lay. He pulled again, scraping over the warm rock. He panted, chest sore from his exertions. Again, he rolled onto his back. The sun spun in its frame of cliff. Warmth. Pouring into his body.

Martin is dead. The thought sprang into his head without warning. He shuddered. A wave of nausea swept over him. Martin. Dead. White face. Black holes of eyes. Craig struggled to a sitting position. Below him the river flowed calmly. No rapids. No roaring. Light, sparkling water dancing in the sun. He twisted his head downstream. The cliffs tailed off, merging into dry hillside. The end of the river. A wide expanse of sun-bright hillside filled the horizon rolling toward the sky. The main Salmon River. A road.

Martin is dead. The scene flooded back to him. The rock. The face. Falling into the water. Martin's legs must have been trapped under the rock by the canoe. Suddenly, exploding from deep inside his throat, Craig felt a rush of sickness. He heaved and retched, shudders shaking his body. Gasping for air. And then it was past. He leaned back, feeling the warm rock. He must get out. He had nothing. No food. No canoe. No sleeping bag. Nothing. He could feel life return to his legs. Craig tried to rise. Slowly. Painfully. It was too soon. He eased himself back to the rock. He lay there, panting. Far above his head, wheeling and rising, a large hawk soared, its white tail feathers catching the sun. Suddenly it swooped, a black dot hurtling toward the hillside, quickly lost from view.

Winter was approaching. Soon the great cliffs would be shrouded in snow. But the river would run. Deep under its mantle of ice it would bubble and froth, unseen, unheard. Martin was a part of that world now. The long winter months and the spring floods rushing down the canyon would leave no trace of what had happened in the fall. Craig thought of the money, rolled along, pummeled, pounded, and torn at, the soggy paper gradually disintegrating. Running with the great river to the sea.

Slowly Craig eased himself again to his feet, shaky and weak. On the rock the wet patch he left began to shrink under the sun. Before him the gorge opened out, bathed in the clear light. The bank of the river was broken but passable. Slowly, painfully, he began to move downriver. It would be a long way back. But he was free. He felt no joy, no jubilation; but a great calm spread through him, salving his cut arm and his bruised body. The river sang in his ears. A sweet song.

