“What happens if it gets crowded?” Mike asked. “Full of tourists like us?”
“Not much chance!” Joe said. “Look at us. I bet we’re the first people to come through here in months.”
“Well, we’re not alone,” Mike observed, pointing off toward the river. “The joint’s filling up.”
The three of them swiveled around and followed Mike’s outstretched finger. In the distance, behind a range of hills, in the direction from which they had come, a lazy plume of smoke curled slowly above the treetops.
Joe gave a cry of surprise and jumped to his feet. He stood watching the smoke, every muscle in his body tense, his hands balled tight into hard fists at his side. Sandy saw he was breathing in shallow, panting gasps, like a runner after a long race.
Mr. Cook saw it too. He and Sandy exchanged glances. “What’s the matter, Joe?” he asked. “You seem upset.”
Joe turned with a start. “What ... upset?” he stammered. “No,” he said, forcing a thin smile. “I just didn’t expect anybody else to be out here.”
“They seem to be following us downriver,” Mike observed.
“Pity we won’t be able to meet them,” Mr. Cook remarked. “But we’ll be leaving the river at Mormon Crossing.”
As they were talking, the smoke suddenly stopped. It was as if someone had thrown a bucket of water on the campfire. “That’s odd,” Mr. Cook muttered. “I wonder why they did that? You don’t normally build a fire and then douse it right away.”