Slippery Slope

by Robin Shaw

  Chapter 10

  THE whistling kettle woke Craig. It entered his consciousness as a puzzling sound, which he attempted to integrate into his dream; then as it continued, its high pitch insisted that he wake. Jean was at the stove, lifting the kettle from the heat and pouring boiling water into two mugs.

  "Good morning. Did you sleep well?"

  Craig nodded and yawned.

  "What time is it?"

  "Six fifteen. I was getting breakfast ready before I woke you. You looked so peaceful lying there." She brought a steaming mug to him, and Craig sat up to receive it.

  "Will a boiled egg do?" she asked.

  "That's fine," Craig replied. "It's really good of you to do this."

  "No trouble. I'm glad you came. I'm getting things straightened out now." Jean was bustling around, setting the kitchen table, her dressing gown sweeping the floor.

  Craig gulped down the coffee and eased himself out of the bag. His shirt still smelled of yesterday's journey as he pulled it over his head.

  "Shall I make you some sandwiches for the journey?"

  Craig shook his head. "I'll need to stop to buy some provisions. Anyway, I hate eating in the car."

  "What'll you do if you catch up with him?"

  "I don't know." Craig raised his head from tying his bootlace. "I guess I'll try to persuade him to leave the money and wait until when we agreed. Actually, I'd like him to leave it forever."

  "And if he won't, or if he already has the money— what then?" Jean dropped two slices of white bread into the electric toaster. She seemed much calmer this morning, almost divorced from the events that tied the three of them together.

  Craig took his mug of coffee to the table and sat down. He felt a real sympathy for this dainty woman who had been sucked into this vortex of danger.

  "I don't know. I wish I did. Perhaps I'll stop him. Perhaps I'll take the money from him and burn it. Or perhaps I'll help him to get it out safely."

  "Don't do that, Craig." Jean was looking at him intently. There was a sharp ping as the toaster ejected the toast. She ignored it. "Don't do that. We can't use it. If he gets it out it will destroy him—and us. If you can persuade him to leave it or get rid of it, do that. You don't think we could use it? I was a fool before. What sort of happiness do you think we could have if we laid our hands on it?"

  "I'll do my best," Craig said. "But don't be too hopeful." He chopped at the egg Jean had placed on the table before him. "Martin seems pretty dedicated to getting the money. And what I say won't carry very much weight with him."

  They ate in silence, each lost in thought. When Craig was finished, he rose and went to the window, pushing the heavy curtains back. Outside, the street-lights were still on but the sky was a pale opal. A light wind stirred the few remaining leaves on the trees below the window. A dog strolled aimlessly in the center of the road.

  "Well, I must be going," he said, still looking out over the rooftops to the black hills rising in the distance, their peaks lightened by the dawn. He turned back toward the table. "Thank you very much for everything. I'll call you when I know what's happening. But don't expect anything for a week."

  Jean rose and wiped her mouth on the napkin. She smiled. "Good luck. I know you'll be successful." She moved to the door and began to draw the chain. "Please take care, Craig."

  He held out his hand. She took it and allowed herself to be pulled close. Craig bent his head and brushed his lips on her cheek, his free hand pressing her to him. He released her and opened the door. She was smiling, her cheeks a rosy hue. "Take care," she said, "and come again."

  Outside, the air was brisk, and by the time Craig reached his car, he was chilled. He climbed in and skirted the engine. As he drew away from the sidewalk he caught a glimpse of Jean at the window, waving. He raised his hand briefly, and then changed gear, turning left out of the street toward the approach to the interstate, leading back west.

  The day went quickly. Mindless fast driving. The miles slipped by as Craig puzzled his course of action. Four main valleys gave access to the little hanging valley, Lone Fir Valley, at the head of which lay Mitre Peak. Martin, approaching from Montana in the north, would have to circumvent the area in order to gain access to the shortest trail, that beginning at Atlanta. Apart from that trail, there were two from the north, one from Roaring Fork and one from Stanley. Both of these were long, normally two days' hard walking, and they also had the disadvantage of beginning in populous areas, where the police watch might be more intensive. The only other feasible route was from Lowman, and it too was long, a gradual climb up the valley of the South Fork of the Payette. Martin might well choose that one, as it was less frequented and saved a long drive. Craig decided he would start from Atlanta, which he had visited once before. By taking the shortest route in, he would perhaps reach Mitre Peak before Martin. Also, he remembered a deserted sawmill about two miles from the village, where he could hide his Volkswagen. In fact, he could reach the start of the trail without passing through the village.

  He stopped at Heber to buy provisions: rice and bacon, six eggs, powdered milk, and some dehydrated meats. Soon he was dropping down the long decline to Salt Lake City. In the distance, the Wasatch Mountains had a light dusting of snow on their summits. If the snow were to come early in quantity, it might stop Martin, but he could not depend on it. Should it snow while they were in the Sawtooths, the situation could become desperate. He remembered three or four years ago when a group of three on a deer-hunting trip up the Payette Valley had perished in the snow. There had been a massive search, but the hunters had not been found till the following spring. Craig was glad he had packed his winter equipment but knew that even the best of equipment was no match for an Idaho winter. Once, in the White Clouds, the mountain range over the Salmon River from the Sawtooths, he had almost died in a December blizzard. Luckily, he had just managed to reach the shelter of the forest before he had succumbed. Only a fool underestimated the power of snow to sap energy and endanger the mountaineer.

  Craig stopped for a late lunch in Salt Lake City at a Howard Johnson's, just off the freeway—clean hygienic, identical in every respect to hundreds of others. Craig felt he could close his eyes and find his way to the rest room or to the check-out counter. He had a turkey sandwich, swilled it down with coffee, and left. He ached all over with sitting and would have loved to take a walk in the park behind the restaurant, but he had to press on. He must reach Atlanta before dark to find the trail. It was still three hundred miles, and he would have to drive fast.

  It was already twilight when he turned off the main road at Bliss to cover the forty miles of dirt road to Atlanta. Bliss was a small village of wooden shacks, one gas station, and a post office. Half a mile from town was the only tavern, ramshackle and neon-lighted. The West was full of unfulfilled dreams, little towns, founded in a spirit of hope and gradually allowed to deteriorate, unpainted, uncared for, like last year's Christmas toy. Or like me, thought Craig. Paradise and Loveland. Eden and Paris, Hope and Future. Their founders had hoped the name would cast a spell, but the magic had worn off.

  The road was rocky and full of holes, and several times the Volkswagen bottomed. Craig continued to drive fast, a fine dust obscuring his rear view. A soft light mellowed the meadows and the approaching mountain, and here and there grazing cattle would lift their heads at his approach. In the forest the road was dark, and he had to turn his lights on. Chipmunks raced across the road, frightened by the lights, and once a deer leaped from in front of the car into the dark wood.

  In one large meadow a new sign proclaimed that a large acreage was for sale for building lots through a firm in Boise. The Old West was gone, and realtors had inherited the earth. Craig had a vision of the future in which these superb green open spaces, the threshold to the mountains, were neatly parceled up, each with its ranch-style home, its two or three cars, snowmobiles, and camper trucks. He thought of the old fur traders who had wintered in these hills, solitary and close to nature.
I was born too late, he mused. I'm really a child of the eighteen hundreds when "bliss it was to be alive, and to be young was very heaven."

  He took the left fork of the road at Hill City. Smoke rose from the few cabins on both sides of the road. On the porch of the house, at the crossroads, a tall man stared at Craig as he drove past. The road was obviously little used and hardly by strangers. A Volkswagen stood out like a hippy at a rodeo. Most of the cars by the side of the road were old Fords or Chevys, station wagons without exception, and Craig had not met anyone on the road. Obviously when dark fell there was nowhere to go, and the locals huddled around the television sets.

  As he approached Atlanta, Craig peered through the windshield, seeking the cutoff that would enable him to avoid the town. He had come on it by accident on his only previous visit when while driving for Boise after a weekend in the mountains he suddenly realized that he had missed Atlanta. It had been no great loss, as Atlanta boasted only two bars and a grocery store. In addition, there was a police station in the town, and Craig had no wish to be questioned as to his intentions.

  The road became even more rocky, and Craig had to slow to a crawl in places to avoid deep ruts. At one point the road crossed a bridge over the Davis River, a narrow wood and wire affair which hardly looked as though it would support a motorcycle, far less a car. A sign announced that it was unsafe for loads over five tons and that the county would take no responsibility for any accident.

  Craig drove gingerly over the bridge. Suddenly he became aware of the lights of a car in the meadow on the far side. As he approached he could see several figures around the vehicle, a pickup truck, which was some twenty feet from the road. "Shit," he said aloud and kept his foot on the accelerator, going as fast as he dared, hoping against hope that he might pass unnoticed. He passed quickly, not daring to look directly at the group, and in a few seconds he was around the corner, bouncing and banging on the rutted road. Perhaps it was a fishing party finishing up for the night or a deer-hunting group drinking a few beers before heading home to their wives. Whoever they were, he had no wish to become an object of interest.

  When he reached the old wood mill, the last glow of evening had given way to the black of night. He was past it before he realized his mistake and had a difficult time turning the car in the narrow lane. He drew up, just off the road, inside the drive that led down to the abandoned working. Its derelict buildings were etched against the sky. A few stars were out but no moon, and the air was cold as he eased himself out of his seat. The grass that grew high on the drive was wet with the dew, and Craig felt the moisture seep through the legs of his pants. He reached back into the car and took a flashlight out of the glove compartment. Around behind the main building of the mill was a lean-to shed, its roof broken in several places. It was in an ideal situation, obscured from the river by a thick stand of fir and hidden from the road by the main buildings. As he walked around the corner to inspect it, he was aware of his tension, unreasoning and primeval. Something about old buildings at night struck more chords of fear than even the most remote mountain valley. People were the enemy, not nature, and wherever people had built or lived, they left their atmosphere of dread. A rustling and scampering came from a pile of wood and machinery under the eaves of the largest building as Craig passed. He half laughed at his start of fear but still moved on quickly.

  The shed was serviceable; the Volkswagen would fit in easily. Craig moved a few old boxes, straining to raise them from the dirt, until he had an area large enough to drive into. He hoped that no inquisitive local children would explore the mill. He could see no signs of recent use, no bottles or the usually ubiquitous Coke cans.

  He wiped his hands on the seat of his pants and began to move back around the buildings toward the car. He was beginning to feel more comfortable with the atmosphere and felt lucky at having such an ideal hiding place for his car. A good night's sleep and he would be on the trail, with no trace of his having arrived. An owl hooted in the wood over the river, a soft, melancholy sound. Then, suddenly, Craig could hear the drone of a car gradually getting louder and more insistent. He was just by the door of the last building before the road, a great cavernous dark cave. He stepped back into its shadow, then realized that that would solve nothing. His car stood in plain view just off the side of the road, and already he could see the glow of the headlights through the trees. Whoever it was would certainly stop, if only to look at the Volkswagen. Craig ran for the car, his feet slipping in the moist grass. He was beside it as the lights came on him, and he remained standing by the door, turning his head from the approaching glare. As the vehicle came alongside it stopped. It was the pickup truck, and Craig could make out three men cramped together on the seat. The driver opened the door, and the interior light revealed a gun rack with three rifles mounted on it behind the men. One had a beer in his hand. All three looked suspiciously at Craig, and the driver, a formidable, broad-shouldered man, wearing a thick tartan shirt and a cap of matching material, swung his legs to the ground.

  "What are you doin' here, fella? You lost?"

  "Naw," said Craig, broadening his accent in an attempt to seem less of an outsider. "I was just takin' a leak."

  "Where're you goin'? There ain't nothin' up here. You're no hunter." He peered over Craig's shoulder at the car. Craig felt like asking him what business it was of his, but the last thing he wanted was to be remembered. "I'm just heading for Elk Campground to bed down for the night." Elk Campground was a small plot at the foot of the trail leading up into the Sawtooths—a few picnic tables and a rest room.

  "What's your name?"

  Craig thought fast. This was more than just the casual questioning of a hunter. Perhaps this was the local policeman in his off-duty clothes. He was aware of the intent stares of the other occupants of the pickup. The nearest passenger, stubble-cheeked and red-faced, had moved himself over to the door, legs dangling out of the cab.

  "Tom Johnston," said Craig quickly, extending his hand. The large man took it in a firm handshake. No one can resist an outreached hand. "I've been looking over some real estate down the road. I live down in Twin Falls and I'm looking for a place where I can come out to on a weekend with my wife and son and get some fishing and hunting." Craig kept up a steady stream of information, forestalling any questions. "I decided I would drive up here to look over the river. I was here briefly in the summer. But I wanted to have another look. What do you think of that land they're selling between here and Hill City?"

  "Pretty good. It's got fine drainage and there's a good herd of deer winters in that meadow. Williamson is asking a steep price, though. Where do you work in Twin Falls?"

  Craig took a risk. He had an acquaintance in Twin Falls who ran river trips as a guide. He had met him on the Green River and had visited him for a few days two falls ago.

  "I'm with the mayor's office. A desk job, but at least I get plenty of time off. Still, I've got to be back for lunch tomorrow. There's a big meeting coming off on rents. I'd better be getting along. I'm dog tired after tramping that land. How far is it to Elk Campground?"

  The hunter removed his wool cap to rub his head. He seemed satisfied with Craig's explanations. "It's not above a mile and a half, the way you're facing. We're headed that way to Joe's place." He indicated the now grinning man astride the gearshift. "You can follow us if you like. This road loops back to Atlanta." He swung himself back into the cab.

  "Thanks a lot," said Craig and opened the door of the Volkswagen. The truck set off, and Craig gave it a few seconds to clear the dust before he followed. That had been a narrow escape. He hoped they would not be suspicious and check on his story. The big man had seemed to accept it without question.

  Ahead, the red tail-lights of the truck bounced up and down through the dust. They were going fast, and the jolting made Craig's behind ache. The truck slowed down and flashed its lights. There in the wood, off the road, was a Forest Service campground sign, and Craig could see the box shape of the latrine. He flash
ed his lights in response, and the truck set off, disappearing from view after a few seconds. Craig shut off the motor as the car drew alongside the first picnic table. He sat in the car, watching the fine dust settle in the beam of his headlights. What should he do now? There was a chance that they might return, and if he were not here, they would want to know why. He decided to light a fire and make some coffee. He was parched, both from his fear and from the dust that had crept into the car. That would give them an hour to return. If they hadn't come by then, he could drive back to the mill and bed down. The chances were good they would return to Atlanta, and he would be gone up the trail before they had breakfast tomorrow. It was nine twenty, and he still had time to get a good night's sleep.

  Craig got out of the car and reached his pack out of the back seat. Inside one of the pockets he found a pot and a cup and, after a bit of searching, discovered the coffee and sugar. He soon had a fire going in one of the concrete fireplaces, and the red and yellow flames created a world of light, surrounded by the black blindness of the forest. The coffee tasted good, and he settled back at one of the rough wooden benches, smoking what seemed like his thirtieth cigarette of the day. He felt disoriented. One day Seattle, the next Idaho, then Denver, then back to Idaho. Crappy eating and little sleep, the anonymity of highway America. Sitting here, his back against the hard picnic table and his legs outstretched toward the fire, Craig felt the warmth seep into him. He wished he could relax and let events just flow over him. This driving necessity for action made him feel frustrated. All he wanted to do was lay back and feed the fire, savoring its colors and sounds, relishing the primitive delights of a circle of warmth and light in a world of darkness and cold. He had allowed himself to be sucked into the twentieth century, into greed and acquisition, when he knew that his real happiness lay in simplicity and deprivation.

  Jean was right: The money was no good. In fact, it was a negative entity and had already forced him along paths he did not want to take. It was not the illegality of his actions that distressed him, it was their futility. You do something that seems like a good idea at the time, and you spend months trying to mop up the mess. Once, cruising off Cape Cod in a large sloop he and some fellow students had rented for the summer, he had discovered, after the second day, that someone had left a light meter next to the magnetic compass. Instead of heading for Nova Scotia, they had been steering across the Atlantic toward Ireland. It took several days beating up against the northerly that was blowing to get back on course. A small mistake with a big effect. Craig had blamed himself, as the most experienced sailor, though it was not his light meter. He had got himself out of the mess that time, but only because he had discovered the error soon enough. Perhaps in the present it was already too late. Perhaps he was so far off course he could never return. But he had to try. All his previous experience, all his trials on steep cliffs and stormy seas, forced him to that decision. Life was the meeting of challenges and, because one had been a fool, didn't allow one to sit down and be passive. In action lay hope.

  The fire was dying down, and Craig's coffeepot was drained. The pickup truck had not returned, and the night was quiet. Craig went over to his car and unloaded his pack. He took the brown bag of groceries and fitted them into the large front pocket, placing the eggs on top. When he had leaned the pack against a large fir on the opposite side from the road, he got back in the car and drove slowly along the road to the sawmill.

  It did not take him long to manoeuver the Volkswagen around the weathered abandoned buildings and into the shed. Once inside, Craig cut the engine and switched off the lights. He locked the doors and then searched around with his flashlight until he found a suitable hiding place for the key, under a sheet of metal. There was no point in carrying it with him in the mountains and running the risk of dropping it. As he made his way back to the road, the long grass he had driven over to the shed was already beginning to spring back into position. Within an hour or two there would be no trace of his entry. He walked fast back up the road to the campground, glad to be on his feet again and using his legs. Without the flashlight he could just make out the light-gray of the road once his eyes became accustomed to the meager illumination of the stars. As he walked he listened, ready to take to the woods if a car should come; but none did. At the campground he shouldered his pack and, using his flashlight, found the start of the trail up the Elkhorn Creek. The great trees hung over him and flanked his path. The trail rose steadily, crossing and recrossing the small stream. After about a mile and a half, Craig reached a small plateau above the stream on the edge of a clearing. He dropped his pack and opened out his sleeping bag by the edge of the trail on a bed of old pine needles. Craig was tired, and the few lumps under him did not disturb him. Above his head the Great Dipper hung, pointing at the North Star. The air was cold, and Craig pulled the sleeping bag hood up around his head. His thoughts drifted from the whereabouts of Martin, to the day ahead, and finally to his parting from Jean that morning. She cared, or seemed to care, what happened to him. It seemed so long since he had met anyone whom he felt cared for him. He had avoided relationships of that sort, like a soldier off to a desperate war who does not wish to weaken himself with love. Now he felt he needed someone, some fixed North Star to steer by. He was floating on a dark-gray sea, gentle but malevolent. For a while he struggled against the motion, then relaxed and succumbed.