The Indian nodded gravely. “I’ve been at it for nearly five years and you’re about the best party I’ve ever taken out.”
“Gee!” Mike laughed. “Can you imagine what some of the others must have been like! We’re certainly not a prize bunch.”
“Yes, you are,” Joe insisted. “At least you let me do my job. The arguments some people give me!”
“That’s it,” Hank cut in. “That’s exactly the trouble. People hire a guide to tell them what to do—and then refuse to do it.”
“Or else they want a long explanation,” Joe added. “Which you can’t give because there isn’t time.”
“Speaking of time,” Hank said, reaching into the bottom of one of the boats to pull out a trip box. “We’ve got to get moving if we want to make my place before nightfall. Start sorting that gear, boys.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” Mike said smartly. “No questions asked.”
Hank grunted approvingly as he brought the box up to his shoulder. “Good. We’ll get along fine.”
After about an hour’s work, the boats were beached and secured under canvas covers, the mules were loaded and they were ready to mount. “I’ll take the lead,” Hank announced. “Sandy, you follow behind me. Then you and your father, Mike. Do you think you can handle those mules by yourself, Joe?” The Indian nodded. “Good. One final word of advice. We’ll be going up nearly four thousand feet. The trails are hard to follow and sometimes they’ll look dangerous. But these animals have made the trip before. So don’t try to guide them. Just give them their head and they’ll get you up safe and sound.” He looked around inquiringly. “All set? Then let’s go.”
It seemed to Sandy that the trail led straight up, through narrow box canyons and over barren stretches of rock fall where every step sent a shower of loose stones cascading down the steep slope. Most of the time he concentrated grimly on keeping his balance and breathed a prayer that the wiry little pony underneath him knew what it was doing. Occasionally, though, Hank would lead them across a relatively flat plateau and let them stop to admire the view.