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Myron Retwig had arrived at the lodge the evening before and had taken a cabin for the night. He was about 55, short, thick through the chest and shoulders, with owl-eyes in a weathered face. His hair was gray and cropped; with a monocle Retwig could have attended a masquerade as an old-line Prussian army officer.

At ten minutes before noon Saturday, Retwig entered the lodge and seated himself in the cocktail lounge. He was the only patron. The bartender served him a bottle of beer, and Retwig sat motionless except for raising and lowering the glass, acts he performed with military precision.

At noon Buck James appeared — the youngest man in the party, and certainly the most engaging in appearance. His eyes were lake blue, his hair was a curly light brown; he had the lanky muscularity of a basketball player, a clear skin, an artless manner. Young James obviously found life pleasant, with no problems that wit and charm could not dissolve. He greeted Myron Retwig with an airy wave of the hand; Retwig nodded with restraint. It was all the same to Buck James. He seated himself and signaled the bartender. “On time to the second,” he said in a complacent voice. “Hard to do better than that, eh?”

Retwig inspected him with a scientist’s detachment. “What time did you leave?”

“About nine. Kept up a brisk pace, of course. Do you know, when you take down the top of these old Thunderbirds, you wring out another five miles per hour? Something to do with wing-span ratio, or the Second Law of Thermodynamics. Einstein would know. Too bad he’s dead.”

Retwig considered the proposition. “I should think,” he said, “that you’d run into precisely the opposite effect.”

The bartender brought Buck James a bottle of beer. Dismissing the aerodynamic properties of the Thunderbird, Buck filled his glass with a flourish. “Here’s to a memorable trip — if I survive it!”

Myron Retwig joined the toast with the merest quiver of a smile.

“You’re healthy as a colt.” He appeared to enjoy the figure of speech. “Young and healthy as a colt. You’ll breeze right through it. You brought all your gear?”

“I brought just what Earl told me to bring: sleeping bag, air mattress, etcetera, to the letter. Except boots. It’s like swimming in an overcoat. I can’t see walking in boots.”

Retwig shrugged. “Boots have prevented many a sprained ankle.”

“My ankles are great. They’ll be going years after the rest of me gives out. Apropos of ankles, here’s my boss. I speak in loose terms, of course.”

Bob Vega peered rather tentatively into the bar, saw Retwig and James, and came forward with a wide grin of relief. He settled gratefully into the padded chair, as if here was an environment with which he knew he could cope. With his black hair, sallow skin, long face, and fragile bone structure he had the look of an aging Castilian dancer. He ordered a martini, leaned back, shot his cuffs. “Here we are. What’s the next step?”

“We wait for the others,” said Retwig.

“Certainly, certainly,” said Bob Vega. “I’m in no hurry.”

Buck James chuckled. “Red was drunk when he agreed to make the trip; he may have forgotten all about it.”

Bob Vega nodded seriously. “He isn’t the sort of fellow you’d expect to find walking fifty miles into the mountains.”

“Nor I,” said Buck. “I’d drive if I could.”

“Luckily impossible,” Myron Retwig remarked. “No motorized vehicles are allowed on the back trails.”

“That seems unreasonable,” said Vega.

“It’s the lure of the primitive,” mused Buck James. “The call of Mother Nature... That sounds Freudian. I retract it.”

Vega looked puzzled, Retwig stolidly sipped his beer. “I’m sure it’s beautiful scenery,” said Vega. “And it certainly does one good to get away from business!”

“You make everything so complicated,” said Buck. “I’m going because Earl ordained it. It’s as simple as that. The only way to score with the boss.”

“There must be cheaper ways. I’ve already spent a hundred dollars, and we haven’t even paid for our food.”

“A hundred dollars?” asked Buck. “For what?”

“My pack-frame cost forty-two dollars. Sleeping bag, twenty-five. Boots, twenty-eight. Thermal underwear, ten. Air mattress—”

“You could have rented the frame,” said Retwig. “Sleeping bags sell from five dollars up.”

Vega made a grandiose gesture. “What’s money? I always spend more than I make.” He looked at his watch. “Five minutes after twelve. Earl is bringing Kershaw, which is probably why they’re late.”

“Is Kershaw really coming?” Retwig asked. “I thought it was all a drunken joke.”

“It takes two to joke,” said Buck. “Red told Earl he could out-walk, out-run, out-climb him. He was going to fell trees with a blow of his fist, chase bears, stare down rattlesnakes. Earl didn’t laugh.”

Retwig gave his head a disapproving shake. “It’s not the best approach to a pack trip. For either of them.”

“Red doesn’t know what he’s let himself in for.”

“It’s not as bad as all that,” growled Retwig, “provided we don’t try to be heroes. I plan to take it easy, and I’m sure Earl does also.”

“Here they are now.” said Vega.

Two men had entered the bar. Earl Genneman was big and large-featured, with brown-blond hair so crisply glistening it seemed almost to crackle. Red Kershaw, a step or two behind, walked with a slight limp and a droop to his shoulders; he was tall and loose-jointed, with a moony Celtic face and mouse-colored hair. Genneman wore whipcord breeches, a red and green plaid shirt, well-used boots. Kershaw, as if to show his disdain for the proceedings, wore cigar-colored slacks, shiny with long use, a tan sports shirt, and a two-tone jacket. Genneman radiated ponderous strength; Kershaw carried himself with the cautious bravado of a man determined to be surprised by nothing.

They joined the three at the table, and the bartender brought a new round of drinks. “So far so good,” said Genneman. “Everybody present and accounted for.” He drank half a glass of beer at a gulp, leaned back. In repose his eyes were sleepy-lidded, and his mouth had a half-humorous twist. He roused himself to look around the table. “Everybody has his gear?”

He was answered by an affirmative murmur.

“I’ve got our grub in the car,” said Genneman. He brought out a notebook. “All dehydrated; all expensive. For the five of us it comes to seventy-six dollars and a few odd cents: fifteen bucks apiece is close enough. Suppose I collect right now and get it over with.” He took money from each of the four. “Now we’d better review the itinerary, so everybody knows what to expect.”

Genneman brought from his pocket the official folder distributed by the rangers at the park entrance. “We’ve all got one of these. Right?” He opened the folder to the map, spread it out on the table. “Here’s our route: up Copper Creek Trail to Dutchman’s Pass, past Lomax Falls, Barney Lakes, down through Aspen Valley, and so forth. Tonight we’ll camp here, on Suggs Meadow, which won’t give us any trouble. Tomorrow we’ll plan to make an easy eight miles, and camp at Persimmon Lake. Thereafter we’ll go as far as we can comfortably.” He looked from face to face. “Everybody happy?”

“Happy, no. Resigned, yes,” said Red Kershaw.

Genneman turned and inspected Kershaw with a quiet smile. Kershaw saw that he had made a mistake.