Dean slammed his fist against the Jeep in frustration at the sight.

"Well," said Cynthia, dredging up a pinch of optimism from a miserable situation, "whoever mis-marked our trail back in the mine at least thought we'd crawl out of the earth and make it this far. They weren't trying to kill us outright."

Dean knelt and examined the tires. "It looks as if they were kind enough to just let the air out-not slash them."

She leaned over his shoulder. "Without a pump or two spares, they accomplished the same thing. I wonder if it was that sweet man Joseph Dawkins?"

"I wish I knew." Dean sat on the ground next to the vehicle.

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Cynthia took his hand. "I was so looking forward to a nice bath to wash away the stink of that awful hole. Now we have to wait until Joseph gets around to leaving and beg a ride down the mountain." As if on cue, the sound of a vehicle starting broke the silence. Both jumped to their feet and started around the cluster of boulders where Joseph had parked only to see the tail of Joseph Dawkins' Jeep as it bumped across the blanketing wave of wild flowers.

"There goes our ride down the mountain," Dean said. "Time for a hike."

There was a look of resignation, not concern, on Cynthia's face as Dean shouldered his pack and Cynthia's camera equipment. They began the long descent, hand in hand. "How many miles do you suppose it is?"

"More than enough, but once we reach the main Jeep road we're sure to see someone. It's the heart of the season and still early enough to hitch a ride with a Jeep tour or a tourist. There'll be lots of vehicles," he added with more optimism than he felt.

"At least it's all downhill," Cynthia said.

It was an hour later before they saw their first vehicle, an old Scout, battered and muddy, coming out of a side trail below them.

The timing was propitious, as black clouds had begun to roll up the valley and gather above them, the advance guard of a summer shower. Dean waved his arms and at first thought the driver didn't see them, but finally the vehicle stopped.

"It's Mr. Westlake!" Cynthia said as the pair stumbled down the path.

The old photographer was surprised as they were. After explaining their predicament, he offered them water from a jug strapped to the rear of the vehicle that looked as old as its dusty driver.

"It must have been some smart aleck tourist kids," the old man said, shaking his head. "You can be thankful they didn't damage the tires. Used to be we didn't have hooligans running around out here causing problems. In the mountains, everybody used to help everyone else. There was no room for vandals and foolishness."




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