“Now, this here,” he announced, “is a little mountain tonic. A couple of these has the effect of loosening the sore muscles, removing kinks from the back, and whetting the appetite. How about it, Mr. Dewitt? Want me to get out your fishing tackle so you can catch a few trout before supper?”
Dewitt grabbed the cocktail. “Gosh, no,” he said. “All I want is to sprawl out and rest. Where are the sleeping bags?”
Lucas passed the drinks around and tossed off one himself, saying, “Coming right up.” And he promptly proceeded to busy himself getting things unpacked.
Marion was grateful for the fatigue that permeated the camp, which she knew had interposed a shield between her and what had apparently been a well-planned course of questioning agreed upon in advance. Dewitt had done his part, but Corliss had been too tired to keep up the mental effort.
As the sun went down in the west, the shadows of the mountains on the other side of the stream marched rapidly toward them. Almost instantly it became cool and, by the time the broiled steaks, potatoes, and salad were on their plates, the sharp tang of the mountain air, plus the effect of the cocktails, had whetted their appetites so that eating was a full-time occupation. And, in an incredibly short time after eating, the food induced a drowsy torpor which made even the most fragmentary conversation a matter of effort.
The fire crackled cheerfully for a while, then died down, and the circle of darkness which had been waiting just outside the camp moved silently in.
“I'm going to roll in,” Marion announced. “Good night, everyone.”
James Dewitt sighed and said, “Good night.” He arose and started for his sleeping bag. His first two steps were staggering, off-balance attempts to keep himself erect as his cramped muscles for the moment refused to work. A moment later Corliss Adrian had rolled in, and Marion, hurriedly disrobing, slid down into her sleeping bag. She looked over at the campfire, where Hank Lucas, Sam Eaton, and Howard Kenney were gathered in a little group silhouetted against the glowing embers.
She wondered sleepily at the subject of their conference and determined that she would lie awake to watch them, suddenly suspicious of the intense attitude of concentration.
She doubled the light pillow of her sleeping bag to prop her head up so she could see them more clearly and closed her eyes momentarily when they began to smart, to shut out the light of the campfire. Her consciousness was almost instantly sucked down into an abyss of warm comfort...
When she wakened there was the feel of dawn in the air. The stars over the tops of the big pines had receded into a sky which was taking on just a faint suggestion of greenish-blue color.
She knew that it was cold outside because she could feel a tingling at the tip of her nose, but the envelope of the sleeping bag was filled with warm down and she was too comfortable to even move. She lay there in a state halfway between sleeping and waking, listening to the sounds of the purling river and the stir of activity around camp. Time ceased to exist.
There was color in the pine trees now. The stars had disappeared and the sky had taken on a distinctly bluish tint. She heard the sound of distant shouts, and then the clanging of the bell on the lead horse became suddenly a hysterical clamor. Hoofs pounded and, startled, she raised herself on an elbow, to see the horses coming into camp, driven along by Howard Kenney, who was riding bareback, letting out cowboy yells at intervals. Sleep was effectively banished.
Marion struggled into her clothes, splashed ice-cold water on her face, and felt that surge of vitality which comes with the dawn when one has been sleeping on the ground in the open.
With an appetite sharpened by the fresh air, she watched the cook bring flapjacks to a golden brown and put them on her plate together with slices of crisp, meaty bacon. A thick slab of country butter melted to run down the sides of the hot cakes and mingle with the maple syrup. There was clear, strong coffee in a huge agateware cup.
She ate with zest and then walked down to the edge of the river, where Dewitt was just finishing putting his trout rod together. He had made a few preliminary casts to soften up his leader and now, with a skilled wrist motion, sent a fly winging out in a long cast.
“Hello,” he said, grinning amiably. “You’re looking mighty fit this morning.” Using his left hand to pull the line through the guides, he brought the fly around the edge of a little ripple, then across a straight stretch of swift current.
“Feeling like a million dollars,” she said.
A trout suddenly flashed up out of the water, struck at the fly, missed, and then went sulking down to the depths of the stream.
“Missed him,” Dewitt said. “I was a little too anxious. Whipped the fly right out of his mouth.”
Hank Lucas, who had joined them without being observed, said, in his peculiar drawling voice, “No need to get discouraged. There’s lots of ’em in here. If you want to fish an hour or so while we’re getting the packs on, you’ll have more fish than you can carry... Haven't seen Mrs. Adrian, have you?”
Dewitt snapped in the line and made another cast. “No. Is she up?” he asked, his eyes glued to the fly.
“She’s up, all right. Took a little walk upstream. She hasn’t come back for breakfast.”
Dewitt said abruptly, “You say she’s gone?”
“That’s right. Seems to have taken a walk,” Lucas said, “but there aren't any tracks on the trail. I thought I’d take a look along the stream here, and then I saw you fishing.”
Lucas strolled more or less aimlessly up the stream edge between the rocks, then said suddenly, “Here’s where she went.”
Marion had to look twice to see the track. Then it appeared to be only a faint discoloration of the ground. But, some twenty yards farther on, Lucas, who had kept moving on ahead, uncovered another fresh track — this time made in damp sand and distinctly visible.
Dewitt abruptly lost interest in the fishing and snapped in his line. “Guess I’d better follow her.”
“Keep on fishing if you want.” Hank said. “I’ll go on up... Maybe you’d like to take a walk,” he said to Marion, and then added, with a grin, “In case she’s taking a swim, you can go on ahead and tell her she’ll have to hurry if she wants breakfast. We’ve got to get the packs on.”
Dewitt hesitated. “Really, I should come,” he said.
“Why?” Hank asked, and then added, “I can probably follow her trail as well as you can.”
Dewitt grinned. “Oh, well, if you put it that way,” he said.
He resumed his fishing, and Hank and Marion moved slowly upstream.
Almost instantly the lazy smile left Hank’s eyes. His manner became tense and businesslike. “Any idea where she might have gone?” he asked.
“No. I woke up shortly before dawn and then dozed again. I didn’t hear her move.”
“She was in her sleeping bag when Kenney and I took out after the horses. You haven’t any idea what she might be after?”
“She might have wanted to bathe.”
“Water's pretty cold,” Hank said, and then added abruptly, “You know what she’s in here for?”
“She wants to find her husband?” Marion ventured.
“That’s right... You’re a photographer?”
“Yes.”
Hank said, “Here’s a copy of a picture. It ain’t too clear because it isn’t a print, but it’s a picture of a picture. What do you make of it?” He handed her one of the postcard reproductions Tom Morton had made.
“What,” Marion asked, studying the photograph, “do you want to know about it?”
“Anything you can tell about the picture. Just from looking at it.”