The Madman Theory Read Free Page B

directly down. Back, forth, back, forth swung the trail, sometimes hacked into mountainside, sometimes built out on a rampart of stacked rocks.
    Resting in one of the infrequent patches of shade, Genneman turned to look down the slope. Almost a quarter-mile of trail lay in full range of vision. “You fellows were having hallucinations. There’s nobody behind us on the trail. Not unless he’s moving a lot slower than we are, which is hard to believe.”
    Buck shrugged; Bob Vega looked dubiously down toward the valley. “Where are we?” asked Vega.
    Retwig studied his topographic map. “As I see it, we’re here.” He indicated a spot with a pine needle. “In about half a mile we cross this stream. Suggs Meadow is another two miles.”
    They presently found themselves in a densely wooded canyon through which a small stream flowed. They drank and hurried on, now anxious to reach Suggs Meadow. The trail rose in a long slant, without switchbacks, finally breaking over a rocky ridge into a green meadow ringed by tall firs. The surrounding mountains were dark on the lower slopes; only the westward-looking peaks caught sunlight.
    â€œWe’re the only ones here,” said Genneman. “It’s still pretty early in the season.”
    â€œEven in the middle of July you won’t find many backpackers on this trail,” said Retwig. “It’s too hard and too long.”
    â€œMy aching back,” was Kershaw’s comment.
    They came down into the meadow, dropped their packs with relief, rubbed their shoulders where the straps had chafed. Half an hour later the plastic tube-tents had been set up, sleeping bags unrolled, air-mattresses inflated. Retwig appointed himself cook, to no one’s objection. He built a fire, arranged stones to support pots, set water to boiling, and presently from packets of unpromising appearance and insubstantial weight produced mushroom soup, stew, and coffee.
    Twilight darkened the meadow; the five men sat around the fire. Retwig smoked a pipe, Vega a pencil-thin cigar, Kershaw a cigarette. Neither James nor Genneman smoked. After a while the talk petered out, and Vega limped off to bed, followed by Kershaw and James. Genneman and Retwig sat by the fire half an hour longer. Finally Genneman rose, stretched. He went to the stream, brushed his teeth, washed his face. Returning to the fire, he stood looking around the meadow for a moment, then he went to bed, too, leaving Retwig by the fire. A half hour later Retwig followed suit.
    The fire became coals. It went dim.
    Time passed. The clearing was dark and quiet except for the sounds of sleep. The summer constellation passed overhead and dipped into the west. The crickets became still; there was complete silence.
    The eastern sky grew gray, the meadow light. Almost as the first red ray struck the mountaintops Myron Retwig emerged from his tent. He swung his arms briefly, dressed, and started a fire. Then he visited the stream, where he made his ablutions, and hauled water back to the fire. By the time he had deflated his air-mattress and rolled his sleeping bag, the water was boiling. He made himself a cup of coffee.
    Young James arose, then Genneman, then Bob Vega, and finally Red Kershaw, who complained of the temperature extremes of the mountains. “Either you roast or you freeze stiff. I don’t know which is worse.”
    â€œIt averages out to absolute comfort,” Buck James told him.
    â€œThat may be so,” Kershaw retorted, “but my skin can’t figure like that. And while I don’t consider myself a drinking man, a shot or two of good whisky does wonders toward improving the climate.” He rubbed the stubble of his chin. “Somebody was going to produce whisky, I forget just who. It’s like a dream …”
    â€œHere,” said Retwig, “have a cup of coffee. It’ll take your mind off your troubles.”
    They stood gratefully around