Mountain Storms Read Online Free Page A

that height. But almost immediately it expanded to better proportions. It swelled up a dozen feet high and twice that broad, and in the dim light Tommy could see the glimmer of the stream trailing off into indistinguishable darkness.
    He went back to the embers of his breakfast fire, picked out a length of resinous pinewood for a torch, lighted it, and with that yellow sputter of flame he advanced again in the cave. Now he could make out every detail. It drove back into the heart of the mountain nearly a hundred feet, with an arched roof of rock and rough rock walls that seemed to promise that there could never be a cave-in. Toward the rear, the dimensions of the cave steadily shrank until it ended in a little crevice of a hand’s-breadth, out of which the water poured.
    What could have been more perfect as a natural home? The heart of Tommy swelled with the delight of a conqueror. He began to feel that, after all, his might not be a losing fight. There would be ways of making the struggle, and, although it might be bitter, was it not possible that he might stay on there until other men came that way? And surely they must come sooner or later, and, when they arrived in the valley, they must find signs that would lead them to his cave.
    That thought inspired him to a new labor. But first of all he moved some burning embers of the fire to the front of the cave, and a little to the side. That must be his permanent fireplace, and he must never let the fire die lest his supply of matches should be exhausted. That could be arranged by a skillful laying of the fire.
    Next he brought in all the pack, bit by bit, and distributed the articles on natural shelves of the rock where moisture would not get at them. When all was stowed away, it was a small beginning, indeed, and few tools for a twelve-year-old to use in his battle for life.
    There was the body of poor Billy to be disposed of before it should become a problem. He decided that he would dig a hole just beside the body, so that Billy would slide into it. Then the dead burro could be covered over and the burial properly completed. That work could be done with the shovel that had always been a part of John Parks’s pack. But this could be left until the morrow. Other pressing things remained to be accomplished at once.
    First of all, he must not venture out without a weapon. So he tied his father’s big Colt, in its holster, at his hip—it extended clear to his knee—and took the axe. He set out for the river, since it seemed to him that travelers would be most apt to come up or down its course, and, as he went, he left a blazed trail on the trees, making the marks so closely together that they would be sure to catch the eye in a continuous line.
    A full four miles he continued until, leg weary from the walk and arm weary from wielding the heavy axe, he came to the edge of the stream. Its course was no longer fenced with steep cliffs here, but the water spread out over a wide, shallow channel, with broad-topped rocks gleaming just beneath the surface. By the shore he marked half a dozen pools where there must surely be excellent fishing. Here he blazed the trees, hewing off big sections of the bark and the surface wood to catch the eye of any wayfarer.
    After that he rested an hour and started back along his own blazed trail. A mile from camp he stumbled across a big mountain grouse. He knocked the bird over with a luckily aimed rock and then wrung its neck, and, as he marched on again with his dinner in his hand, he found himself whistling. He stopped short to wonder at himself.
    After all, he told himself, it had not been an unhappy morning. That blazed trail was certain to take the eye of some wandering trapper who would follow the sign to Tommy’s camp, and the stranger would lead him back into the world. The newborn hope straightway became a surety. It was a matter of only a few days, a few weeks at the most, before he would be discovered. Surely he