There were more introductions, an abrupt cessation of the banter, and a few minutes later Ames found himself trudging angrily away from the camp, having offered the first excuse which came to his tortured mind, that he must inspect a site for a string of traps, knowing in his own mind how utterly inane the reason sounded, despite the fact that these people from the city would see nothing wrong with it.
Once clear of the camp, Frank circled up Deerlick Creek and cut back toward the main trail of the North Fork, so that he could retrieve his rod and creel.
He knew that it was too late now to try any more fishing. The white, woolly clouds had grown into great billowing mushrooms. Already there was the reverberation of distant thunder echoing from the high crags up at the divide and ominous black clouds were expanding out from the bases of the cloud mushrooms.
The thunderstorm struck just as Ames was crossing the top of the ridge which led down to the main trail.
The first patter of heavy raindrops gave a scant warning. A snake’s tongue of ripping lightning dissolved a dead pine tree across the valley into a shower of yellow splinters. The clap of thunder was almost instantaneous, and, as though it had torn loose the inner lining of the cloud, rain deluged down in torrents until the sluicing streams forging their way down the slope were heavy with mud.
Knowing better than to seek shelter under a pine tree, Ames ran along the base of a granite ridge until he found the place where an overhanging rock, sandblasted by winds and worn by the elements, offered a place where he could crawl in and stretch out.
The lightning glittered with greenish intensity. The thunder bombarded the echoing crags and rain poured in cascades from the lip of the rock under which Ames had taken shelter.
Within ten minutes the heaviest part of the rain had ceased. The thunder began to drift sullenly to the south, but the rain continued steadily, then intensified into a clearing-up shower of cloudburst proportions and ceased abruptly. Half a minute later a venturesome shaft of afternoon sunlight explored its way into the glistening pines.
Ames crawled from under his protecting rock and resumed his way down the slippery slope to the main trail.
The soaking rain had obliterated the tracks in the trail. In fact, the ditchlike depression in the center of the trail still held puddles of water, so Ames, so far as he was able, kept to one side, working his way between rocks, conscious of the sudden chill in the atmosphere, conscious also of the fact that the clouds were gathering for another downpour, one that could well last all night.
Ames found his fishing rod and creel where he had left them. He slipped the soggy strap of the creel over his shoulder, started to pick up the rod, then stopped. His woodsman’s eyes told him that the position of the rod had been changed since he had left it. Had it perhaps been the wind which accompanied the storm? He had no time to debate the matter, for once more raindrops began to patter ominously.
Picking up his rod, he swung into a long, rapid stride, the rain whipping against his back as he walked. He knew that there was no use trying to wait out this show. This would be a steady, sodden rain.
By the time Frank Ames reached his cabin he was wet to the skin.
He put pine-pitch kindling and dry wood into the stove, and soon had a roaring fire. He lit the gasoline lantern, divested himself of his wet clothes, took the two medium-sized fish from the creel and fried them for supper. He read a magazine, noticed casually that the rain on the cabin roof stopped about nine-thirty, listened to the news on the radio and went to bed. His sleep was punctuated with dreams of women who screamed and ran aimlessly through the forest, of shrewd-eyed city men who regarded him with patronizing cordiality, of snub-nosed, laughing-eyed women who pursued him with pronged spears, their mouths giving vent to sardonic laughter.
Ames was up with the first grayness of morning. The woodshed yielded dry wood, and, as the aroma of coffee filled the little cabin, Ames poured water into the jar of sour dough, thickened the water with flour, beat it to just the right consistency and poured out sourdough hot cakes.
He had finished with the breakfast dishes and the chores, and was contemplating the stream which danced by in the sunlight just beyond the long shadows of the pine trees, when his eyes suddenly rested with startled disbelief on the two rounded manzanita pegs which had been driven into holes drilled in the wall of the log cabin.
The .22 rifle, with its telescopic sight, was missing.
The space immediately below, where his .30-.30 rifle hung suspended from pegs, was as usual, and the .30-.30 was in place. Only the place where the .22 should have been was vacant.
Ames heard steps outside the door. A masculine voice called, “Hello! Anyone home?”
“Who is it?” Ames called, whirling.
The form of Sheriff Bill Eldon was framed in the doorway.
“Howdy,” he said. “Guess I should drop in and introduce myself. I’m Bill Eldon, sheriff of the county.”
Ames took in the spare figure, tough as gristle, straight as a lodgepole pine, a man who was well past middle age, but who moved with the easy, lithe grace of a man in his thirties, a man who carried not so much as an ounce of unnecessary weight, whose eyes, peering out from under shaggy eyebrows, had the same quality of fierce penetration which is so characteristic of the hawks and eagles, yet his manner and voice were mild.
“I’m camped up the stream a piece with a couple of head of pack stock,” the sheriff said, “just riding through. This country up here is in my county and I sort of make a swing around through it during the fishing season. I was up here last year, but missed you. They said you were in town.”
Ames stretched out his hand. “Come right in, sheriff, and sit down. Ames is my name. I’m mighty glad to know you. I’ve heard about you.”
Bill Eldon thanked him, walked over to one of the homemade chairs built from pine slabs and baling wire, settled himself comfortably, rolled a cigarette. “Been up here long?”
“Couple of years. I run a trap line in the winters. I have a small allowance and I’m trying to stretch it as far as possible so I can build up health and a bank account at the same time — just enough for operating capital.”
Eldon crossed his legs, said, “Do you get around the country much?”
“Some.”
“Seen the folks camped down below?”
“Yes. I met some of them yesterday. I guess they came in the other way.”
“That’s right. Quite an outfit. Know any of the people camped up above?”
“I didn’t know there were any.”
“I didn’t know there were either,” the sheriff said, and then was quiet.
Ames cocked an eyebrow in quizzical interrogation.
“Seen anybody up that way?” Eldon asked.
“There are some folks camped up on Squaw Creek, but that’s six miles away. A man and his wife.”
“I know all about them,” the sheriff said. “I met them on the trail. Haven’t seen anything of a man about thirty-five, dark hair, stubby, close-cut mustache, gray eyes, about a hundred and sixty pounds, five feet, eight or nine inches tall, wearing big hobnail boots with wool socks rolled down over the tops of the boots — new boots?”
Ames shook his head.
“Seems as though he must have been camped up around here somewhere,” the sheriff said.
“I haven’t seen him.”
“Mind taking a little walk with me?” the sheriff asked.
Ames, suddenly suspicious, said, “I have a few chores to do. I—”
“This is along the line of business,” the sheriff answered, getting up out of the chair with the casual, easy grace of a wild animal getting to its feet.