Ken glanced first at Mr. Livingston and then at Jack.
“After that mess of trout, I could tackle anything,” Jack declared. “Let’s go!”
“Those are my sentiments,” Ken echoed. “No mountain is going to lick me.”
“We may run into another cul-de-sac,” the rancher warned. “It’s a chance we have to take.”
Breaking camp, the party set off once more. This time, they chose a way which at first was more difficult than the one they had taken the previous day. Nevertheless, as the day wore on, they became hopeful it might lead them to their objective.
“It’s queer we’ve seen nothing of Walz or Ranier,” Jack remarked as the group paused to catch breath after a particularly steep stretch.
“We may run into them yet,” Warner said. “With Old Stony’s map, they had a better chance than we of reaching the pass without trouble.”
As the party climbed higher, a sharp wind whistled eerily around the crags. At times, Jack imagined he heard hollow laughter, as if the spirit of Crazy Mountain were chortling at some secret joke.
“This place gives me a queer feeling,” he confessed to Ken. “Ever since we left the ghost town, I keep thinking we’re being watched.”
Ken did not laugh as Jack had expected him to do. Instead, he said: “I know. I’ve been having that same feeling. I figure it’s because our stuff was stolen, and then someone shoved that rock down on us.”