Home Ranch by Ralph Moody

hereabouts, and there ain’t no tellin’ when a mountain lion’ll spring out on you.”
    There was nothing for me to do but pick up my jumper and axe, and follow him as he led off up the mountainside.

8
    Lost
    H ANK led off up the ridge we’d been working on, quartering along below the trees. With the whole sky clouded over I couldn’t be sure of the direction, but if the canyon had looped around the way I thought it had, we’d be heading north. I knew the home ranch was just a little south of straight east, so I asked, “Aren’t we going the wrong way, Hank?”
    â€œJust a dite,” he said, “to get around these here trees.”
    I kept still for another half hour, but was sure we should have gone up the ridge on the other side of the canyon. After Hank turned up a rocky ridge to our left, I asked again, “Are you sure we’re going the right way?”
    â€œGot the mountain fever a’ready?” he laughed. “By dogies, I seen prairie men get so fuddled up in these here mountains they didn’t know straight up from Sunday. Now you take . . . Why, afore I was your age . . .”
    â€œI didn’t say you were wrong,” I told him. “I just thought we should have gone up the other side of the canyon.”
    â€œGo fer enough that-a-way and you’d land plumb in the Great Salt Lake. You just keep your britches drug up till we fetch the top of this here ridge, and I’ll point you out the dome of Pikes Peak. I know these here mountains like I know the palm of my own right hand.”
    The ridge was a lot higher than it looked to be, and it took us nearly two hours to reach the top. When we got there Hank couldn’t point out Pikes Peak or anything else. By that time it was drizzling, and the clouds hung so low we could barely see the next ridge. There was a deep canyon to cross before we reached it, the drizzle had turned into a steady rain, and it was growing dark and cold. I couldn’t keep my teeth from chattering; was so hungry my stomach squealed, and was beginning to worry when Hank sang out, “By dogies, I reckon I missed a beeline by a hair! This here’ll fetch us out to the calf pasture—just t’other side that low ridge.”
    I was so mixed up that all the ridges looked alike, but I did remember a low one to the west of the calf pasture, so I said, “Oh, yes, I remember it now! I guess we’d better hurry before it gets darker or Mr. Batchlett begins to worry.”
    â€œBatch, he ain’t got no worries—’ceptin’ that team a-gettin’ drownded in the cloudburst. Way this here rain’s a-pickin’ up, it won’t be long afore it hits. You hang close on my trail so’s you don’t get lost when dark comes on.”
    I hung close on Hank’s trail, but don’t know if we ever got to the top of the ridge he was talking about. Before we were halfway down the one we were on, it was so dark we had to feel for each step before we took it. And the rain was getting colder with every step. Once I slipped and fell, and my axe went rattling and sliding down the mountain. There was a second or so when it didn’t make a sound, then it rang against a rock—way below us.
    Ever since twilight I’d been afraid a bear or mountain lion would spring out on us, but that didn’t frighten me any more. I was too afraid that I might step off a cliff, and that my own head might land on a rock the way the axe had. Hank was either as scared as I, or his teeth chattered worse. When he tried to scold me for dropping the axe his words sounded as if he were chewing them when he let them go.
    I chewed right back, and told him I thought we’d better stay where we were till daylight, but he wouldn’t do it. He said we’d be in the calf pasture in half an hour, and all I had to do was to watch my step and keep close behind him. I couldn’t watch my