Nightmare Mountain (7 page)

“Stand back to back,” he said.

“You can’t leave us up here,” Glendon said. “We’ll freeze.”

Molly glared at Glendon. She wished he would quit arguing. Couldn’t he see that this man was dangerous? It was better to be tied up than to be shot, and Molly had
a hunch those were their only two alternatives.

The man swung Glendon around, shoving his back up against Molly’s. Then he bound them tightly together, tying the rope around their ankles and again around their shoulders. Molly winced as he tightened the knot at her shoulder but she didn’t cry out. It was better to be left here, she thought, than to be taken hostage. At least here on the mountain, they had a chance of survival. Uncle Phil would send out search parties; someone would find them. And they’d keep each other warm tied together this way.

She was sorry now that she’d hidden the keys. She wanted the man to drive off; she wanted him out of there, even if she and Glendon were left behind, tied up.

When he finished roping them together, the man removed the ramp, jumped in the truck and slammed the door. Then he bellowed a curse and the frightened llamas yanked at the ropes.

“Where are the keys?” he yelled.

Molly hoped she looked innocent. “What keys?”

“You know damn well what keys. The truck keys. I left them in the ignition and now they’re gone.”

“Maybe you put them in your pocket,” Molly said, “and they fell out when you were following me down the hill.”

He glared at her. “I
know
I left them in the ignition. I did it on purpose, in case I needed to get away quickly. Where are they?”

“I don’t have them,” Molly said. That much was the truth.

“Neither do I,” said Glendon.

The man leaped out of the truck, ran to her, and quickly felt her pockets. She was very glad that she didn’t have his keys in one of them. Next he felt Glendon’s pockets.

“OK,” the man mumbled. “OK. Maybe I did take them out myself. They must be on the ground somewhere. You kids can help me look for them.”

He loosened the knots and jerked at the rope. Glendon stepped away from her, rubbing his arms. The man immediately started down the path. As soon as he was out of sight, behind arrowhead boulder, Molly grabbed Glendon.

“I know where the keys are,” she whispered. “I’ll get them and you can drive us out of here.”

“We’ll never get past him,” Glendon said. “The path is too narrow.”

“It’s our only chance. Have you thought what might happen to us if he leaves us tied up here?”

Glendon looked at her for a moment. “All right,” he said. “I’ll try it.”

He ran toward the truck while Molly went to the scrubby-looking bush. She bent down, lifted up the rock, and removed the keys.

As she did, the man leaped out from behind the boulder. “I’ll take those,” he said and he jerked the keys out of Molly’s hand. “You brat! I knew I left them in the ignition.” He shoved her toward the truck. “Get in,” he said. “Both of you.”

Glendon opened the door and got in. Molly followed, sliding across the seat to sit between Glendon and the man.

The man got in, too, and started the engine. As he shifted into reverse, Molly saw Glendon’s hand move forward toward the door handle on the passenger’s side. Before she could react, Glendon pulled on the handle. The door flew open and Glendon jumped out.

The man’s foot stomped on the brake and Molly’s head jerked backward. Her hands gripped the seat as she stared at Glendon.

He ran across the pasture, toward the grove of trees.

The man opened his door and yelled, “Get back here!” but Glendon kept running. He ducked under the fence at the far side of the pasture and headed up the mountain, into the deep snow.

The man turned off the truck and leaped out.

Now, Molly thought. Now’s my chance to get away, while his attention is focused on Glendon. She slid
across the truck seat to the open door on the passenger’s side.

She had just put her feet on the ground when the shot rang out. She whirled around but Glendon was still running. The man had missed him.

The two young llamas galloped past Molly but she didn’t look to see where they went. Her attention was riveted on Glendon.

He ran erratically, moving from side to side as well as forward. He was a fast runner and with this swerving motion, he made a difficult target. He was in deeper snow now and Molly wondered how he could run so fast when his feet sank into drifts over his ankles with every step. It would soon be worse, she knew. The mountain rose sharply from this point on and the snow just above them stood in drifts four and five feet high.

What was Glendon thinking of? He was crazy to run like that, when he knew the man had a gun.

The man shot again, and the noise reverberated from the side of the mountain.

Glendon fell face down in the snow.

Molly waited, not daring to speak or move. The gunshot echoed briefly in her ears and then she heard a sharp crack, followed by a low, deep rumbling, like distant thunder. It was an ominous sound and Molly instinctively looked at the man, wondering if he had heard it, too.

The man bolted for the truck. He jumped in, started the engine and roared away, careening dangerously as he went around arrowhead boulder. The llamas cried out and tried to keep their footing.

Molly stared after him in astonishment. He drove right past her! Surely he saw her standing there but he didn’t bother to make her get in or to tie her up. She was free! All she had to do was hike back home and call the sheriff.

She turned back to Glendon and saw him scrambling to his feet. The shot must not have hit him; apparently he fell of his own accord.

The rumble quickly grew louder—much louder. The noise seemed closer than before, and she knew that it wasn’t thunder. It was something worse, something far more threatening. She looked up the side of the mountain, and her breath caught in her throat.

An avalanche!

It slid toward her, oozing down over the boulders like thick whipped cream poured from a giant pitcher. She watched as the grove of fir trees, the last of the timberline, was completely buried. In less than a second, the trees disappeared and the slanted rays of the setting sun glistened off the smooth white surface where the trees had been.

An enormous slab of ice crashed to the ground beside her, jolting Molly out of her shock and into action.

“Glendon!” She screamed his name but her voice was drowned out by the deafening roar as more ice and snow cascaded toward her.

She knew now why the man didn’t wait for her. He wanted to get down the mountain quickly, out of the path of the avalanche, before he was buried alive by the snow.

Molly turned and ran. She took huge strides, nearly losing her balance as she plunged toward arrowhead boulder.

Fine, powderlike snow billowed into the air around her ankles as she ran.

The noise thundered in her ears. Louder. Closer. Every muscle in Molly’s body strained forward, trying to increase her speed.

Glendon screamed. The piercing cry came from behind her and was immediately swallowed by the sound of the avalanche.

Molly gulped the thin mountain air and willed herself to move faster. She looked over her shoulder as she ran. All she saw was a giant wall of ice and snow, speeding toward her. If Glendon was back there, he was already buried and Molly knew that she would soon be overcome, too.

It was like the recurring nightmare she used to have when she was little. In her dream, a huge unknown monster chased her. Although she ran with all her might, she was certain it would catch her. She could feel it coming
closer, breathing on the back of her neck, grabbing at her hair. She always woke up just as the monster reached her and so she never found out what, or who, it was.

This time, the monster had a name. Avalanche. This time, she would not awaken from the nightmare.

It hit her from behind, first surrounding her ankles and covering her feet, much like an ocean wave when she walked along the beach at home. Then it rose to her knees and, a split second later, struck her with its full force.

Instead of knocking her to the ground, the snow swept under her, lifting her high into the air. She tumbled over and over, like a loose stocking circling around in a huge clothes dryer.

Instinctively she put her chin to her chest and clasped her hands on top of her head, trying to protect her face from the flying pieces of ice.

It lasted only a few seconds. Then, as suddenly as it had hit her and lifted her up, the movement of the snow stopped. Molly was completely buried.

Because her arms were around her head, there was a pocket of air in front of her face. Everything was dark and still under the snow but she could still breathe.

She tried to stay calm, knowing she must conserve what little oxygen she had. I’m buried, she thought, but I don’t know how deeply I’m buried. Maybe I’m only a few inches below the surface. Maybe I can dig myself out.

But which way should she try to dig? She wasn’t sure which direction was up. She had tumbled over and over so many times that she didn’t know whether she’d landed feet up or head up. She didn’t want to start digging in the wrong direction. A wrong guess would be a fatal mistake. She could die, today, buried alive in the snow.

For an instant, she panicked. Then she clenched her teeth and tried to remember what she knew about the law of gravity. What goes up, must come down. Water always runs down hill.

Water. That was it. Molly sucked some saliva to the inside of her lips and spit it out. It dribbled down her chin and froze into an icicle.

If she were trapped upside down, Molly knew the saliva would have run the other direction, toward her nose.

She needed to dig up, above her head. How far up?

Cautiously, she straightened her left arm and stuck it over her head. As it pushed through the snow, she lost some of her precious air pocket but when her arm was
completely straight, she realized she could move her hand, bending her wrist in every direction.

She knew it wouldn’t move that way in snow. Her hand was sticking up into the air.

She shoved her other arm upward and rotated both arms as hard and fast as she could. Sharp pains went through her shoulder where the bale of hay had hit her but it didn’t matter; she was working the snow away from her head.

The hole above her got bigger and bigger until at last Molly’s head was free. She breathed the cold air gratefully and then began rocking back and forth, while she clawed at the snow in front of her.

“Glendon?” she called. Maybe he hadn’t been buried by the snow. Maybe he was looking for her and would hear her and come to help her.

He didn’t answer and she was afraid to shout. She didn’t want to start another avalanche. She didn’t know if the man’s gunshot was responsible for this avalanche or if it was just coincidence that the avalanche started when it did, but she wasn’t taking any chances with a loud noise.

Her hands stung from the cold and she could no longer bend her fingers. She’d give anything, she thought, for a pair of mittens.

She scooped frantically at the snow with her bare
hands, using the same kind of motion she used in the swimming pool at home when she practiced her breast-stroke.

Home. Los Angeles and Mom and her school seemed like parts of another world. She remembered laughing at Mom once when Mom used her electric hair dryer to defrost the refrigerator. Molly wished Mom would appear right now and aim a nice hot hair dryer at Molly’s fingers.

With a frantic burst of effort, Molly broke free and lay on top of the snow. Blowing on her fingers to warm them, she sat up and looked around. Everything was white. And still. There was no sign of Glendon or of the two young llamas.

To her right, she saw an odd flat piece of rock. It seemed somehow familiar. She looked again and realized it was the top of Arrowhead Boulder. Instead of towering above her, it was now at her feet. She walked to the rock and stood on it.

She looked behind her, her eyes darting quickly across the surface of the snow. Where was Glendon?

Maybe one of his hands or his head was visible above the surface, if only she knew where to look.

She saw nothing. She looked down the hillside, wondering anxiously whether she should stay and search for Glendon or try to go for help.

Far below, she could see the ranch. Apparently, only the edge of the avalanche had hit them. It stopped short of the lower pasture. She could see the fence, the barn, the lane—everything just as it was before.

I must hurry, Molly thought. I have to find Glendon; I must get him out quickly. Even if he has a pocket of air, like I had, it won’t last forever.

The vast white expanse of snow stretched behind her as far as she could see. How could she hope to find him?

Quickly, she looked again in all directions. She saw the cables that were connected to the four corners of the lift. Its location, behind a giant boulder, had partially sheltered it from the brunt of the avalanche.

The lift. She could take the lift down to the ranch and call for help.

The last thing she wanted to do was ride that lift again, especially alone, but she knew she had to do it. It was the fastest, surest way to get down. She couldn’t find Glendon by herself and it would take much too long to hike back down off the mountain. She wasn’t sure she could make it, anyway. Her feet, she was sure, were frozen. They felt like solid clumps of cement attached to the ends of her legs.

She rushed to the cables and, using her arm as a broom, brushed the snow off the lift bed. Then she slid her hands down the cable until she felt the control box.
She didn’t know if it would still work or not but she pushed the switch, the way the man had done, and the lift lurched upward out of the snow.

Molly teetered momentarily, unable to get her balance. For one dreadful second, she thought she was going to fall off the side of the lift, back into the snow. Instead, she sat down, hard, feeling the jolt all the way up her spine.

She closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and waited tensely for the bump that meant they’d reached the bottom.

As she rode, she wondered if she was doing the right thing. Maybe she should have stayed and searched for Glendon alone.

If Uncle Phil was home, it would be OK; he would know what to do. He would help her find Glendon. But if he wasn’t home yet, Molly would have to call into town for help and she knew how long it took to get out to the ranch from town. Too much time would go by, she thought. Help would come but it would be too late to save Glendon.

When the lift reached the bottom, Molly scrambled off and ran for the house. Twice she stumbled and fell, then got up again and continued. All she could think of was Glendon, still up there on the mountain, buried in a snowdrift.

He might not be her favorite person but she couldn’t let him die. Poor Uncle Phil! First Aunt Karen and now Glendon. She couldn’t let it happen. She just couldn’t!

Molly burst into the kitchen. “Uncle Phil!” she cried. “Uncle Phil, are you here?”

The only one there to greet her was Buckie, wagging his tail wildly and giving short, sharp barks of joy.

Molly didn’t even stop to pet him. She ran straight for the kitchen telephone and grabbed the card with the sheriff’s telephone number on it.

She dialed the number. The line was busy. Buckie came back to the kitchen, carrying Fifi in his mouth.

“Not now,” Molly said. She ran to the coat closet, and put on a down jacket and a pair of mittens. Neither fit, but she didn’t care. They were warm. She knew she couldn’t go back up the mountain again without warmer clothes. She found a knit cap, too, and jammed it on her head. She wrapped a plaid scarf around her neck. She grabbed Glendon’s jacket and tied the sleeves around her waist. She stuffed another knit cap in its pocket. If she found Glendon, he could wear them.

What else would she need? She tried to think but she’d had no training or experience in surviving an avalanche. There was no need for it in southern California.

A flashlight, she thought. It would be dark soon and she’d never find Glendon without some light. She found
the flashlight she’d used the night before when she went down the lane to wait for the ambulance. Was it only last night? It seemed weeks ago. Months.

She returned to the kitchen and dialed again. Still busy. Buckie followed her and dropped Fifi at her feet. As Molly stepped over the doll, a tingle of excitement shot through her.

That’s it, she thought. That’s Glendon’s best chance. She couldn’t waste any more precious time trying to call. It would take the sheriff at least half an hour to get there, no matter how fast he drove, and by then Glendon could be dead.

She hung up the phone and bolted back out the door. On her way, she snatched the afghan that hung over the arm of Aunt Karen’s rocking chair.

“Come on, Buckie,” she yelled, and the dog ran past her, delighted to be going outside to play.

Buckie didn’t want to get on the lift but Molly took hold of his harness and coaxed him until he was beside her. Then she flipped the switch again and she and Buckie started upward, flying high over the mountainside.

If Mom could see me now, Molly thought, she’d never believe it. Despite the pain in her fingers and toes, she smiled.

She knelt on the floor of the lift, clutching the afghan in one arm. The other hand gripped Buckie to be sure
he didn’t jump off. She didn’t close her eyes this time; instead she stared down at the receding ranch. Except for the light she’d left on in the kitchen, nothing was visible.

It’s getting dark too fast, Molly thought. How will I find Glendon in the dark? I couldn’t even see him in daylight.

The lift reached the top and Molly jumped off and hit the switch all in one motion. She looked again around the vast white landscape and the impossibility of her task brought her nearly to tears. How much time had gone by since the avalanche buried Glendon? Ten minutes? Twenty? Even if he could breathe, how long did it take a person to freeze to death?

She untied Glendon’s jacket and held it close to Buckie’s nose. Buckie sniffed.

“Find Glendon,” Molly said. She rubbed the jacket against Buckie’s muzzle. “Find Glendon.”

She let go of Buckie’s harness and he began to run through the snow, leaping like a kangaroo in order to make it through the drifts.

“Find Glendon!”

She watched him run. His nose skimmed the surface of the snow. He was sniffing as he ran. Did he understand? Would he be able to smell anything through the snow even if he happened to be in the right place?

His sense of smell seemed remarkable when they
played the Fifi game but Fifi was only hidden behind the sofa and under the bed. Even when Molly climbed partway up the trail and buried Fifi in the snow, it was only a few inches of snow. Glendon might be several feet down.

Molly trudged back and forth, straining her eyes for a sign of Glendon, listening for any faint cry for help. Twice Buckie ran back to her and each time Molly repeated the command, “Find Glendon.”

She was beginning to think her idea had failed when she heard Buckie whine.

Shining the flashlight across the snow, she saw Buckie, about fifty feet away. He wasn’t running now; he walked slowly in a circle, his head down, sniffing the snow and whining.

Molly raced toward him. “Find Glendon,” she called as she ran. “Good Buckie! Find Glendon!”

The dog began to dig. He burrowed his nose into the drift and pawed the snow, making it fly out behind him.

When Molly got there, she began to dig, too. The mittens helped. She was able to work without the sharp pain in her fingers that she’d had when she was digging herself out earlier. She knelt in the snow, head to head with Buckie, and the two of them dug as fast as they could.

The snow was more solid here. Once the avalanche
stopped, the snow seemed to harden, like cement. If the snow around her had been this hard, Molly would never have been able to free herself. She realized she was lucky to be alive.

Using the end of the flashlight, she chipped away at the crust. Except for her feet, she wasn’t cold anymore. She was working too hard to be cold. She could feel Buckie’s breath in her face and knew he was working as hard as he could, too. She wondered if he sensed the urgency of the situation or if he thought it was just another game.

The flashlight struck something that didn’t give way when she hit it. Molly stopped digging and felt through the snow with her hand. Was it a rock? Could it be Glendon’s head?

Buckie whined louder. Molly turned on the flashlight and aimed it at the spot that felt solid. With her other hand, she pushed the snow away from the hard object.

It was the sole of a shoe. Glendon was buried upside down.

“It’s him,” she cried. “You found him! Good Buckie! Good dog!”

She dug frantically for another five minutes. Buckie dug, too, but Glendon didn’t help. He didn’t move at all nor did he respond when she talked to him. Fear grew in Molly with every scoop of snow she removed. Was she saving Glendon’s life—or digging out his body?