The Madman Theory Read Free Page A

Let’s get going while the mood lasts.”
    â€œ Allons, mes enfants!” said Buck James.
    In single file the group marched up the Copper Creek Trail.
    For two hundred yards they walked across a dry meadow, in and out of the shade of towering cedars.
    The sun, almost directly overhead, drew forth odors of cedar, fir, tarweed and sage. Before the group had walked a hundred yards they began to perspire. Kershaw, behind Retwig, called ahead. “Hey, Earl, I’m dying of the heat! This long underwear is frying me.”
    Genneman looked incredulously over his shoulder. “You’re not wearing it now!”
    â€œCertainly,” snapped Kershaw. “You gave instructions to keep the packs down; why carry something when you can wear it?”
    Retwig said, “If I were you I’d take it off. If you sweat too much, you’ll get sick.”
    â€œI’ll do that,” said Kershaw. “Somebody relieve me of this pack.”
    Ten minutes later the group moved forward again. “It’s better,” said Red Kershaw. “But still not good. Somehow I’d pictured things differently. A pack horse with buckets of ice and champagne.”
    â€œSave your breath,” said Genneman. “Here’s where we start going up.”
    The trail veered against the mountainside and climbed by sweeps and switchbacks through patches of sun and scarcely less bright shade. Genneman and Retwig walked without effort. Red Kershaw wheezed and complained. Vega picked his way delicately, as if to spare his expensive new boots; Buck sauntered along in the rear.
    Genneman set an easy pace, and where the trail became steep he called rest-halts every hundred yards. “The first day is the worst,” he told the sweating Kershaw and Vega. “Don’t despair just yet.”
    â€œLook at the magnificent scenery,” Vega told Kershaw. “You won’t see anything like that at the race track.” And indeed, from where they sat they could see far up the valley, until interlocking spurs and ridges blurred into haze. “I’m enjoying every minute of this, Earl, though I had no idea we’d be climbing so fast.”
    â€œWe’ll be going up the rest of the day and part of tomorrow,” said Genneman. “We’ll make Suggs Meadow tonight without any trouble.”
    Red Kershaw mopped his forehead with a red bandana handkerchief. “What do you keep staring at?” he asked young James. “You act as if something’s after you.”
    â€œIt might well be. Ten minutes ago I saw somebody coming up the trail behind us. He should have passed us by now.”
    â€œYou’re seeing things,” said Kershaw. “Those loose shoes drain the blood from your head.”
    â€œExcept that I saw him, too,” said Bob Vega. “Coming up the slope. A single man.”
    Genneman studied their back-trail. “Just one man?”
    â€œThat’s all I saw,” said Buck James.
    â€œDamn unusual for a man to go camping by himself.”
    â€œI’ve done it,” said Myron Retwig. “And enjoyed it very much. It’s a completely different experience from going in a group.”
    â€œI can imagine,” said Kershaw. “There’s less bitching. More of nature’s music.” Wearily he rose. “I’ve been in some fantastic scrapes, but never did I expect to be performing like this. Who brought the whisky?”
    â€œAlong about our fifth day we’ll pass Whisky Lake,” said Genneman with a grin. “Can you hold out till then?”
    â€œI might just camp there a while,” said Red Kershaw reverently.
    The group continued up the trail. It kept zigzagging in long curves up the mountain, tending always to the northeast and Dutchman’s Pass. The mountainside was barren, its underlying rock close to the surface; and now that the sun was westering, its light glanced off the slope instead of burning