Haig stared at him. He knew that to reach Simpson’s Pass the Indian must have gone far south below the canyon of the Big Bear, made a wide detour over the lower range, and ascended to the Pass around the shoulder of Big Bear Mountain. He had never heard of the Pass being crossed in winter, and it was almost unbelievable.
“But the snow!” he exclaimed.
Pete pointed to the snowshoes.
“But the Pass doesn’t let into the Black Lake country,” said Haig. “There’s another range of mountains.”
“Yes. I come over them.”
“How long did it take you?”
“I been four weeks. But most of time looking in forest down there.”
“But how did you find us?”
The Indian drew from his pocket a ragged and soiled piece of paper, and spread it out on the floor. It was a crude map, with Paradise Park outlined at one side, and at the other a labyrinth of lines and stars and crosses. The stars were peaks, the crosses were foothills, and the lines were creeks and valleys. Through the maze ran one heavier line that indicated the trail through the Black Lake country up to the cliff at the back of Thunder Mountain.
“Old Parker made it,” said Pete.