Joe was still there, the troubled look still on his face. After a moment, Sandy slept deeply.
CHAPTER TEN
Lion Country
“Listen!” Hank Dawson threw up one hand as he reined in his horse. Behind him the column of riders plowed to a sudden halt. “Hear that?” he called. Down from the mountain above them, through the lonely, windswept stands of ponderosa and jackpine, drifted a yelping chorus of excited barks.
“Dogs!” Sandy cried. “We must be nearly there.”
Hank nodded. “About twenty minutes,” he said. “Hear that deep-voiced bark? That’s Drum—the leader. Best lion dog I ever had.” He turned in his saddle and called back to the others. “Not far to go now. Think you can hold out?”
They had been riding steadily since mid-morning, shortly after they arrived at Mormon Crossing. Hank Dawson was waiting for them, as Mr. Cook had predicted, with four pack mules and five saddle horses, ready and eager to start the upland trek without delay.
Hank Dawson turned out to be a huge, raw-boned man who looked, unexpectedly, as if he had just stepped down from the deck of a Viking ship. His thick blond hair and reddish-gold beard were both worn long—because, as he explained, he couldn’t find his scissors and he never bothered to take a razor with him into the mountains.
Standing side by side, Joe and Hank Dawson made an odd contrast. Both men had the same air of rugged power and quiet competence. But while Joe’s strength was that of solid rock—planted firmly and unyieldingly in the ground—Hank’s was that of a sturdy tree that towered high in the clear mountain air.
It was a subdued party that had pulled up to Mormon Crossing to meet Hank that morning. Joe, although he had regained some of his composure after seeing the smoke from the mysterious campfire the night before, was still thoughtful and quiet. As for Sandy, the experience above Cutthroat Rapids was too fresh a memory for him to be his normal, cheerful self.
But hard work quickly brightened the mood. The boats had to be beached, turned upside down and covered with canvas tarpaulins. Trip boxes and camping gear had to be unloaded, sorted, repacked and arranged evenly on the backs of the sturdy, patient pack mules—bandy-legged little animals that seemed to be willing to carry an incredible amount of baggage without complaint.