Behind Mt. Baldy by Christopher Cummings

easier to weave around
obstacles and slip through between trees. Only their boots made a noise in the
deadfall. Graham risked going fairly fast to begin with as they had two hundred
metres to backtrack. They went down into a small re-entrant choked with ferns
and wait-a-while and this took a couple of minutes to find a way around.
    As they went on around the slope
they got a clear glimpse back along the road. To his consternation Roger saw
the men open the doors of their vehicles and get in. Motors roared into life.
    “Blast! They’re going to drive
off!” he hissed. The boys began to move as quickly as they could, knowing they
would not be heard above the vehicle engine noises.
    For a moment a thick clump of
undergrowth hid the vehicles from view. The sound of them moving off came
clearly to them.
    “They’re not coming this way,”
Peter said.
    The boys stopped to listen. The
engines did not accelerate and there was no sound of gear changes but the noise
began to get fainter. Graham and Roger both broke into a run, or as near a run
as they could manage through the tangle of dry undergrowth. Graham leaped a
fallen log blocking his path. Roger couldn’t clear it but sprang up onto it.
    Crack!
    The log snapped and Roger went
sprawling into the leafmould. He swore and scrambled to his feet. By this he
was so excited his vision seemed blurry. A thin vine at ankle height caught his
left foot and he fell again, heavily this time, striking his face on a tree
trunk. He felt blood rush in his nose but ignored it and sprang to his feet.
Ahead was another dip, with thicker undergrowth. They crashed through this and
up a slight rise.
    Graham suddenly stopped and lay
down. Roger slowed and went forward at a crouching run and joined him. Peter
and Stephen were still well behind them. Roger saw that he and Graham were on
the edge of the cutting and could see down to where the vehicles had been parked.
    “Oh they’ve gone!” Roger wailed.
    “Shh! Listen,” Graham said. The
sound of a motor came to them. “They’ve gone down that old timber track.”
    “Both of them?”
    Graham shrugged. “Don’t know. One
for sure, the four wheel drive.”
    “What’s down there?” Roger asked.
    Peter and Stephen joined them.
Graham pulled out his map and peered at it.
    “There’s no road marked,” he
said.
    Roger leaned over to peer at the
map. “Where are we?”
    “Here.” Graham put his finger on
the map.
    “None of the timber snig tracks
are marked,” Peter said.
    “It must run down this spur
line.” Graham traced it with his finger. It was one of about five roughly
parallel ridges which ran south from the main ridge to end in an arm of Lake
Tinaroo. The whole area was a network of small creeks and covered in
rainforest.
    “What on earth are they doing
down there?” Peter asked.
    “Hiding something?” Graham
suggested.
    “Looking for treasure,” Roger
answered with conviction.
    Stephen snorted. “Treasure! Your imagination’s taken over Roger,” he
commented as he turned to laugh at him. Then his expression changed to concern. “Jeez Roger! You’ve got blood everywhere.”
    Roger put his hand to his nose
and it came away covered in blood. He realised it was trickling down his chin
and red droplets were spattering on the dead leaves. He pulled out a
handkerchief. “It’s OK,” he said. “It’s only a blood nose. I tripped. What will
we do now?”
    “First we will check if both cars
went down the track. Then we should tell the police,” Graham replied.
    “Here comes a car,” Peter cautioned. They listened to an approaching vehicle. A white
Landcruiser came into view from the west and drove straight past.
    “Just tourists,” Peter observed
as the vehicle went out of sight.
    By this time Roger had staunched
the flow of blood. He pulled out his water bottle and washed his face. His nose
now felt all stuffed up and his handkerchief was a bloody mess. A few drops
still trickled and dripped and he could taste the