Home Ranch by Ralph Moody Page B

clouded over for more than one or two days at a time. Just as soon as we could see the sun and find our direction, it would be easy to find our way out.
    And when we did get out nobody would blame me for getting lost, and I’d have all the rest of my life to do something really big enough to be proud of. But Hank was an old man. He’d probably never be able to do anything big enough to make people respect him. Beside that, Mr. Batchlett had told him he wouldn’t keep him unless he was back with a load of posts by sunset. Then, too, after all his bragging about knowing the mountains, the men would josh him forever about getting lost. I didn’t believe there was much sense in trying to go any farther until the sun came out, so pushed more dry needles up over Hank and went back to thinking until he woke up.
    Hank came out of the needles as if he’d been stung, grabbed his axe, and swung it above his head. Then he jerked around and shouted, “Where’d he go? Where’d . . . by dogies, I don’t know what Batch is a-thinkin’ ’bout, a-sendin’ men off to these mountains without no gun!”
    â€œI guess you were having a bad dream,” I told him. “Nothing has stirred around here since daylight.”
    Hank rubbed a hand across his eyes, and said, “By dogies, I must’a dozed off. What time o’ day is it?”
    â€œAbout six,” I said. “It’s been light for about an hour.”
    Hank climbed stiffly to his feet, and didn’t have to do any acting for me to know he had a bad backache. He didn’t put his hands on it, but stood as if he were carrying a heavy log on his shoulders. “Dadgummed weather!” he grumbled. “A man can’t scarcely see a landmark no place. Was the sky lighter one way or t’other at sunup? Why didn’t you rouse me?”
    â€œIt wouldn’t have done any good,” I said, “and I thought you needed the rest. Daylight came so slow that . . .”
    â€œYou leave me do the thinkin’!” he hollered. “If you’d’a roused me as daylight come on, we’d been out o’ these here mountains ’fore now. I reckon the calf pasture lies right over that ridge yonder, and I don’t aim to have nobody . . .”
    Hank didn’t finish, but picked up his axe and hobbled away down the mountainside. I stumbled along behind him with my teeth chattering. It had stopped raining, but our clothes were still wet from the night before. Under the dry fir needles, I hadn’t noticed it much, but, as soon as the cold morning air got through them, I felt as if I’d been dipped in an ice pond.
    The wet rocks were as slippery as soap, and drops of water hung on every bush and twig. By the time we were down as far as the fog, we’d both fallen a dozen times, and were as wet as if we’d been in pouring rain. With each fall Hank moved slower and rowed at me as if I’d made him fall. With every step, the fog grew thicker, until we couldn’t see ten yards ahead, and it seemed to me that Hank was bearing off to our right. When I asked him about it, he chattered, “Don’t tell me where I’m a-goin’! Don’t you think I know? I aim to follow this here canyon down to where it comes out right to west’ard of the buildin’s. Ain’t no sense in us a-headin’ for the calf pasture!” There was nothing for me to do but keep my mouth shut and follow where he led me.
    As near as I could guess, it was about noon when the fog began to lift. Little by little, it rose until we could see nearly a mile ahead, and there the canyon ended—with mountains rising around it in a solid wall. Hank was too tired and discouraged to even swear. He slumped down on a rock, with his face buried in his hands, and for a minute or two I thought he was crying. Then he mumbled, “Dadgummed fog must’a twisted me abouts;