“Was Doug a good teacher?”
“The best.”
Mr. Cook groped for pipe and tobacco pouch. “I thought Doug acted sort of funny all through lunch. Excited is more what I mean.” He cupped his hand over the pipe bowl and began to fill it. “Anything happen this morning?”
Sandy caught Mike’s eye as he shook his head. “No,” he said. “Nothing special.”
“Hmmm.” Mr. Cook was drawing on his pipe. “You knew, didn’t you,” he said between puffs, “that I’d hired a guide?”
Mike propped himself up on one elbow. “No, Dad, you didn’t tell us.”
“Well, I have. Fellow Mr. Henderson recommended.”
“Who is he? What’s his name?”
Mr. Cook pulled his feet down from the railing and stood up. There was a look of amusement on his face as if he was enjoying a private joke. “If you turn around, Mike, I’ll introduce you. He’s been standing behind you for the last two minutes.”
The two boys whirled around in surprise. Standing near the porch was a short, dark man with deep-set brown eyes. His straight black hair, worn long, was carefully brushed back and held in place by a battered gray felt hat. A red checked shirt, well-worn suspenders and a loose pair of trousers tucked into high-topped shoes completed his outfit. There was a feeling of relaxed strength and quiet power about his bearing that reminded the boys of the mountains that towered in the distance beyond the river. He looked as if he were carved out of the same stuff—solid granite.