The Mystery of Monster Mountain - Carey M. V. - Страница 9

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• 9/23
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“Sounds like you had fun being scared,” said Pete.

“Oh, we had fun, all right, but we didn’t stay out after dark, you can bet. Funny. You’d almost think the hermit knew those stories and they worked on his mind, but he didn’t.”

“A hermit?” Bob sat down on a boulder near the picnic table. “First monsters and then a hermit. You had a colorful childhood.”

“Oh, the hermit wasn’t around when I was a kid” said Richardson. “He wandered in here three… no, it was four years ago. He climbed on foot from Bishop with a pack on his back — a young man, maybe twenty-five or thirty. It was summer when he came and there weren’t too many people around, so when I saw him standing in the middle of the street looking kind of bewildered, I asked him what he wanted. He said he wanted a good place to meditate. I told him we didn’t have a church here in Sky Village, but that wasn’t what he had in mind. He wanted a place where he could just sit and let his spirit blend into the universe.

“That sounded like a harmless thing to do, so I told him he might try the meadow up above the ski slope. Hardly anyone goes there in the summer. I figured he’d go there for an afternoon and sit in the grass and think a bit, but I was wrong. Darned if he didn’t go up the mountain and build himself a little shack. He bought lumber and tar paper and a few nails in the village, but never any food. Guess he lived on berries, like the bears, or acorns, like the squirrels.”

“Back to nature, huh?” said Bob. “What happened to him?”

“Well,” said Gabby Richardson, “I personally think it addles a man’s brains to be alone all that much. That young hermit didn’t talk to anybody, and if anyone went up the mountain, he’d shut himself up in his shack. He lasted it out about three months. Then one day he came down and went through the village like a shot. I didn’t see him, but Jeff, who boxes things over at the market when it’s open, said he was yelling about a monster in the meadow. Last Jeff saw, that hermit was making tracks down the road to Bishop.”

In spite of himself, Pete shivered. “You never saw him again?” he asked.

“Not hide nor hair,” said Richardson.

Jupiter Jones looked up at the peaks towering above them. “Monsters,” he said. “I wonder… ”

Richardson snorted and sat up straight. “Don’t pay too much mind to that story,” he said. “The boy got to seeing things up there all by himself. Anybody would. It isn’t healthy for a man to be so alone.” He stood up.  “If you want to camp out here, camp out. Don’t worry about monsters, and the bears won’t give you trouble if you don’t give them trouble. Just don’t leave food around.”

He threw his burlap sack over one shoulder and started toward the road that led back to Sky Village. At the edge of the campground he stopped and turned back to warn, “And don’t litter!”

“We won’t” promised Bob.

The gas station attendant tramped up the road. In a few minutes he was out of sight.

“Monster Mountain,” said Bob. “Those had to be stories the grownups told the kids to keep them in line. There couldn’t have been monsters here. The Sierras aren’t the Himalayas. Why, there’ve been pack trains and tourists and campers ever since — ”

“Not everywhere,” interrupted Jupiter. “This range covers a vast area. There must be many places where the hikers and campers can’t go.”

Pete shuddered. “Jupe, you give me the creeps. Don’t tell me you think that hermit really saw a monster.”

“Even the most fantastic stories usually have a grain of truth in them somewhere,” said Jupiter Jones. “Unless Mr. Gabby Richardson made that entire tale up out of thin air, we can assume that there was a hermit and that he saw something that frightened him and — ”

“Listen!” Bob was suddenly tense. He looked around toward the creek. “Someone’s there!”

The bushes on the far side of the creek rustled softly and, though the afternoon was still, the boys could see branches moving.

Pete stood like a statue, eyes glued to the clump of shrubs beyond the stream. He thought he saw a strange shadow in their midst.

The rustling grew louder, nearer. “Something’s there,” whispered Bob, “and it’s coming this way!”

Closer and closer came the soft rustlings in the brush.

The Three Investigators broke out in a cold sweat. Visions of strange creatures seized their minds… ogres and giants prowling through the forest… formless monsters sending a hermit screaming down the mountain… sinister shapes lurking in the shadows on moonlit nights…

Crackle. Rustle. Crunch.

Closer and closer…

Suddenly the noises stopped. The bushes across the creek were still. The silence was dreadful. Would the thing attack or not?

Then: “Well, now! Sorry, friend,” said a familiar voice. “I almost stepped on you.”

Pete hadn’t realized that he was holding his breath. He gasped, then began breathing quickly, drawing the thin, sweet mountain air into his lungs in gulps.

“It’s Mr. Smathers!” choked out Jupiter Jones. His throat had gone dry with fright. He slumped back against the picnic table. “What a relief!”

Bob’s laugh had an edge of hysteria. “Did you think it was the monster of Monster Mountain? For a second, I did.”

“The power of suggestion,” said Jupe. “We listen to a weird story, and then are scared half to death by the first person to wander along.” He raised his voice and called, “Mr. Smathers?”

The bushes beyond the creek parted and Mr. Smathers’ thin face peered out at the boys. The weedy little man was wearing a canvas hat with a small brim, and he seemed unaware of the fact that his nose was sun-burned and that he had a scratch across his forehead. “You’re disturbing the peace,” he said. His voice was stern, but the corners of his mouth crinkled in a smile.

“You scared us,” said Pete. “We thought you were a bear, at the very least.”

“I wouldn’t mind being a bear this afternoon,” declared Smathers. “I found a bee tree. What a feast for a bear!” He stepped out of the bushes and stood at the edge of the creek. The boys saw that he was holding a skunk in one arm, very gently, as a mother might hold a child.

“Good golly!” exclaimed Pete.

Smathers’ eyes went to the little black-and-white animal. “Handsome, isn’t she?” he said.

“Mr. Smathers!” Bob said frantically. “Put it down!”

Smathers laughed. “Does my friend upset you?” He stroked the skunk under the chin with his forefinger. “Isn’t that silly?” he said to the animal. “The boys are afraid you’ll turn your scent glands on them. You wouldn’t do that, would you? Not unless you had to.”

Smathers put the skunk down. “Better get along,” he advised the creature. “Not everyone understands you like I do.”

The skunk waddled a few steps, then stopped and looked around as if questioning Smathers.

“Go on,” urged Smathers. “I want to have a few words with our young friends here and you make them nervous. Oh, I am sorry that I disturbed you while you were having your nap. Clumsy of me. I won’t do it again, I promise.”

The skunk seemed satisfied with this. It disappeared into the bushes, and Mr. Smathers climbed down the bank into the creek bed and crossed the trickle of water.

“Charming creatures, skunks,” said Smathers, as he joined Jupiter, Pete, and Bob in the campground. “One shouldn’t really have favorites, I suppose, but I think I enjoy skunks almost more than any other animal.”

“If I hadn’t seen that, I wouldn’t believe it,” declared Bob.

Pete frowned furiously. “It’s a trick,” he decided. “That just has to be somebody’s pet skunk. It must have had its scent glands removed.”

“What a dreadful idea!” exclaimed Mr. Smathers. “Absolutely barbarous! Oh, I know that people do make house pets of skunks and remove the scent glands. And what happens then?”

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