Mountain Storms Read Online Free

needed to sustain life, and he could not take them with him a single step now that Billy was dead.
    But was Billy, indeed, dead? In an agony of haste, forgetful entirely of all danger of the mountain lion that might still be lurking near the edge of the clearing, he raced to Billy and dropped to his knees. But Billy was dead. His lolling tongue, his torn throat, told plainly that he would never rise again. Tommy sank back on the ground. He looked up and saw the cold beginnings of the dawn make the stars fade slowly. Still his brain struggled with the future. He was only twelve. If he had a rest for a rifle, he could shoot and shoot well; his three years among the mountains had taught him much about them. But, after the ammunition was gone, how could he live? And in this wilderness, would the lonely life be endurable?
    No tears came. He had been snatched into the heart of a tragedy so swiftly that he could not weep. After all, tears came more quickly when there is a comforter nearby. There in the cold grass he lay, his fists clenched tightly, struggling against the problem. It would be easier and less painful to go back to that fatal place on the brink of the river and cast himself in. But now the light of morning increased rapidly, and to the east he saw the first sunlight glisten on the top of a snowy mountain.
    Tommy rose slowly to his feet, and he was no sooner risen than he was touched by that spur that drives men on to most of their accomplishments—a stab of hunger. An instant later, he was busy kindling the fire. He had begun to slice bacon, but a moment of reflection made him drop the knife. This was food that would keep, and there might well come a time when he would need it bitterly. In the meantime, that spring morning held other life that must feed him. A tree squirrel chattered overhead and told him that he need not hunt far. So he took up the ever-loaded rifle, dropped upon one knee, with his elbow resting on the other, and took careful aim. The squirrel promptly ducked around to the farther side of the tree trunk. But Tommy knew squirrel nature. The little creatures are invincibly curious, and, instead of moving around to the farther side of the tree to get in a shot, he watched the same opening among the branches. Presently, as he had expected, the tiny head slipped into view, and in that instant his finger closed on the trigger.
    He did not miss. When one has a limited supply of ammunition, one dare not miss. The ring of the shot was still in his ears when he heard the little body come rustling through the foliage and drop with a light thud to the ground. He took it up quickly with a strangely savage thrill of satisfaction. Was not all the world now banded against him? John Parks had stood between him and the outside, but now he was stripped naked of help. Every tooth and claw hidden among those tree-clad valleys and lowlands were against him. And he had struck his first blow in self-defense.
    The squirrel he cleaned and broiled for his breakfast. It was a big, fat fellow and made enough of a meal, even eaten without bread—for the corn-meal was something that he must scrupulously cherish against a time of need. When the meal was ended, his spirits had risen greatly. John Parks, after breakfast, had always sat quietly and smoked a pipe while he arranged all his plans for the day’s work. Tommy imitated that good example by sitting up, hugging his knees while he surveyed the situation.
    There was one advantage, at least. So long as misfortune had to overtake him, it was the greatest blessing that he had been struck here, where the cumbrous pack was left in such an ideal camping place. Water, wood, and, best of all, for a year-around home, a permanent shelter made to his hand, for such the cave, from which the little stream ran, seemed to offer. He went instantly to explore it.
    It was far better than he had dared to hope. It opened as a roughly rectangular gap six or seven feet across and about half