They were standing on one of these ridges—the silvery ribbon of Lost River far below them and a towering panorama of snow-capped peaks all around them—when Mike sighed deeply.
“What a perfect place,” he said, “for a picnic.”
“A what?” his father asked.
“Eats,” Mike explained. “Big thick roast beef sandwiches and a thermos bottle full of cold milk.”
“You wouldn’t be hungry, would you?” Mr. Cook said with a smile.
“Oh no,” Mike assured him. “I’m not hungry, exactly. I’m just plain starved. I’m so lightheaded from not having any food that I can’t stay on the back of my horse. I keep floating away.”
“I’m afraid we can’t stop to cook a meal,” Hank told Mike. “These mountains are no fun in the dark.”
“The death sentence,” Mike muttered gloomily. “I’ll never make it.”
“Oh yes, you will,” Joe called out. “Indians used to travel for days with nothing more than a handful of dried corn. If they did it, so can you.”
“I’m a little out of practice,” Mike pointed out. “Besides, I don’t have any corn.”