“Wait here,” he directed them. “I think we’ve come to a dead end. If I can get up to that next ledge, maybe I can see a way on, but I doubt it.”
Feeling along the wall, he secured a firm hand grip and, with Mr. Livingston’s help from below, attained the ledge above. He crept along it and vanished from view. For a long while the Scouts waited, uneasily watching the darkening mountains. Their situation, they knew, was rapidly becoming precarious.
Finally, Craig Warner reappeared and lowered himself back onto the narrow ledge where the Scouts waited. His face told the story.
“No chance of going on?” Mr. Livingston asked.
“None.” Warner nursed his bruised hands. “We’re at an absolute dead end. We’ve reached a cul-de-sac.”
His words fell like a shroud upon the weary, footsore group.
“We can’t camp here,” Jack said at last. “What’ll we do?”
“There’s only one course open to us. We’ll have to return the way we came.”
“Return?” Ken echoed flatly. “Not all the way back to the ghost town?”
“Maybe half that distance,” Warner advised. “There’s no water here or fuel. Not even a place to pitch a tent. Temporarily at least, Crazy Mountain has licked us!”