out and took a large-scale National Geographic map of Idaho from the pile Mike was carrying. A rough red crayon circle had been drawn around the Snake River country in the southern part of the state. An X was placed further north near the town of Salmon and a thin line followed the Lost River down through a blue-gray area known as the Lost River Range. Judging from the color of the map, the altitude there varied between 8,000 and 11,000 feet. There wasn’t a sign of a town or a road for miles. It was real Rocky Mountain country, unspoiled, wild and beautiful, exactly as Sandy had always hoped one day to see it.
And now, at last, he had a chance. Mr. Cook and Mike were planning a pack trip along the Lost River and they wanted to take him along. In his mind’s eye he already saw the rugged splendor of the mountains, smelled the pungent smoke of a crackling campfire after a full day’s hunting or fishing.
“Hey, wake up! You look as if you’re dreaming.” It was Mike, back from his father’s den.
Sandy looked over at him, shook his head and sighed. “I was, Mike, I really was.”
Mike clapped a sympathetic hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Worrying won’t help. Why don’t you hunt up Dad and see how he made out? I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”
Sandy smiled back and nodded. He had known Mike and his parents for only a little over ten days, but already they were like a second family to him. He had heard about the Cooks for about as long as he could remember. Mr. Cook was his father’s oldest friend. The two men had met early in their careers and had worked on a number of projects together. John Steele was a government geologist, while Arthur Cook was a mining engineer—one of the best in the business, according to Sandy’s father.
Their work took both men away from home a great deal of the time, and for years they had been trying, without success, to bring their families together.
Finally, about three weeks ago, a letter arrived from Mr. Cook, inviting all three Steeles to spend the first two weeks of the summer vacation in Oakland, across the bay from San Francisco.
“Throw some camping gear into your car,” Mr. Cook had advised. “We might all take a run up to Lake Tahoe for some fishing. Sandy and Mike have never met, but I can’t think of a better way for the two boys to get acquainted than in the middle of a trout pool.”
To Sandy’s intense disappointment they had to turn down the offer. His father was snowed under with paper work at the office and he couldn’t spare the time.
But by return mail a second letter arrived. Why not send Sandy alone? There didn’t seem to be any objections, and so it was arranged.
Mike was a chunky, junior-sized version of his father, with dancing blue eyes and a tendency to leap into things without thinking. Sandy was on the slender side, with a strong, good-humored mouth and a shock of unruly blond hair that never seemed to stay down properly. Despite their differences in appearance and personality, the two boys hit it off right from the start. And when Mr. Cook announced his plan for a month’s trip through Idaho, it was assumed that Sandy would come along, provided, of course, that he got his parents’ approval.
Mr. Cook appeared at the dining-room door. “Your father’s on the wire,” he said. “Want me to talk to him first?”
Sandy nodded briefly and followed Mr. Cook out into the hallway. Mike, who had overheard the exchange from the kitchen, slipped out and joined them.
Mr. Cook picked up the receiver, winked at Sandy and spoke into the mouthpiece. “Hello, John; how have you been?... Good. John, I have a favor to ask. Mike and I are planning a camping trip up to the Rockies and we’d like Sandy’s company.... Where? North of the Snake River country, in the Lost River Range. It’s for a month, but I think it would be four weeks the boys will never forget.... What?... Oh, don’t worry about that. We have plenty of equipment.... Yes, we’d leave in three days and be back about the tenth of next month.... What’s that? Well here, why don’t you ask him yourself?”
Mr. Cook cupped a hand over the mouthpiece and nodded to Sandy. “He wants to know how you feel about it.”
“Let me talk to him!” Sandy nearly tripped over the rug in his hurry to get to the phone.
“Hello, Dad!” he shouted. “How do I feel about it! I think it’s a chance of a lifetime!” There was a pause as Sandy listened carefully for several minutes. “Sure,” he said at last, a grin of delight creeping over his face. “You bet! Great, Dad! I’ll wire you as soon as we get back. Goodbye and give Mom a hug for me!”
Sandy put down the receiver and looked at the Cooks with a dazed smile of happiness. “It’s all set!” he breathed. “What a great guy!”
Mr. Cook beamed his pleasure as Mike bounded over to Sandy and walloped him exuberantly on the back. “Attaboy, Sandy! I knew it all along!”
“Well,” said Mr. Cook. “Congratulations on becoming an official member of the expedition. Soon as dinner’s over, we’ll go into the den and do a little homework—draw up a list of the things we’ll need and talk over the kind of country we’ll be going through.” He looked over at Mike with a smile on his face. “But let’s wait till after we’ve eaten. If we get to talking about it at table, your mother won’t be able to get a word in edgewise.”
All through the meal, Sandy tried to put thoughts of the trip out of his mind, but with little success. His attempts at polite table talk only brought amused glances from Mrs. Cook. Mike, too, seemed preoccupied, even to the point of refusing a third helping of fried chicken—an event that so stunned his mother that she almost forgot dessert.
When they finally finished, Mr. Cook pushed back from the table and stood up. “And that, I think,” he said, smiling gently, “was the quietest meal ever eaten in this house. You fellows are a couple of real sparklers in the conversation line.”
“Well, Dad ...” Mike began to protest.
Mr. Cook held up his hand. “I know. I know. You want to talk about the trip. I don’t blame you. So do I. Come on in here and let’s get it off our chests.” He led the way into his comfortably furnished den and paused before a pipe rack. The walls of the room were hung with Mr. Cook’s hunting trophies. Two whitetail deer flanked a stone fireplace, and over the mantel loomed the head of a huge Alaska brown bear. At one end of the room, rows of bookcases shared wall space with a gleaming walnut gun cabinet.
Mr. Cook selected a pipe, fingered some tobacco into the bowl and dropped into a chair near the fireplace. “Now,” he said. “Let’s have some questions. The floor is open for discussion.”
Both boys started together.
“Do you think I’d better ...” Sandy blurted.
“How are we going to ...” Mike began.
They looked at each other and grinned.
“After you, my dear Alphonse.” Mike bowed solemnly. “You’re the guest.”
“Go ahead, Sandy,” Mr. Cook invited.
Sandy leaned forward in his chair. “I was going to ask if I should send for my rifle. I have a .22 at home.”
Mr. Cook laughed and put down his pipe. “I don’t think you’d use it once, Sandy,” he said. “This is big-game country we’re going into. We’ll see mule deer and elk, pronghorn antelope and mountain goats. If we’re lucky
