After some deliberation, Mac decided finding Christy was more urgent than waiting around for Puck to wake up. Once he did come out of his drugged slumber, the dog would be fine, but time was of the essence in finding Christy.
He walked back to where his sleeping bag and pack sat on the sand and hurriedly repacked it. He drew out his folded cane from the bottom of his pack, and also took down his clothesline.
With his cane tip, he located Christy's pack again and took out her inhaler, slipping it into his pocket. He performed a quick but thorough search for any more medications but didn't find anything.
Then he stood up, cane in hand listening to the ripples of Bear Creek wondering which way to go. If he could see, he would have begun by looking for footprints or signs of a struggle. He frowned in frustration.
He went over in his mind what he knew so far. He sensed that Christy was in danger; that she hadn't left their camp voluntarily and wasn't just off exploring. He knew she had a curious, inquisitive mind and wouldn't be completely helpless unless she was incapacitated. Something nagged at the back of his mind. Something to do with her curiosity.
He replayed scenes in his head from the past two days. The plane trip, cooking last night's meal, today's hike.
He wished she had given more information about her asthma; it could be dangerous for her to not have her inhaler and he didn't know how bad it was.
He thought about their conversation about the maps, and then… the tracker! Of course! Had she kept the salmon tracker he had handed to her? If that was in her pocket, he might have a good chance of finding her after all!
He set his pack down again and dug into it until he found the radio receiver. This one wasn't as powerful as the one back at the Phoenix Foundation; it was only a small localized one that picked up on the direction of the signal to confirm that it was working properly.
He and Pete had built it both with a lighted display and with a beeping sound that he could use without seeing the display. It was a palm-sized box of smooth black plastic with an extendable antenna protruding from the center top.
He switched it on.
If she wasn't too far away, the beeps should become closer together when the antenna pointed toward the tracker, that is if he had the right frequency.
At first, the receiver indicated that it was picking up only transmissions from his own pack, where the rest of the minuscule transmitters were stashed. He carefully turned the tuning knobs. Finally he located a different frequency, one that seemed to be more at a distance.
He pointed the antenna up and down the trail, listening carefully so he could determine which direction to take to follow the radio signal that he hoped was still in Christy's pocket.
The beeping sounded slightly faster when he pointed the antenna down the trail, back in the direction from which they had come, and so he set off that way, walking carefully and deliberately along the rocky trail, his cane sweeping from side to side, feeling the dip of the worn trail and wild grasses on each side of the path he needed to follow.
It seemed to take less time than he had expected to hear the louder swirl of water where Bear Creek poured into the Selway River. As it grew louder, the noise of the river began to drown out the beep from the small, battery operated box he held in his hand, but he had already decided which way it told him to go, and without hesitation, he turned south.
All around him, the late evening faded into twilight. For a while he could dimly see the shapes of trees standing sentinel all around him, but after the sun slipped behind the western crags, and the light changed to a dusky purple, everything began to blend together visually into the approaching night. Mosquitoes and gnats fizzed around his face and he swatted them away. Farther from the river, crickets began their nighttime song, but rather than giving him a peaceful feeling, they only served to remind him of the passing of time and his urgent need to find Christy and learn who had taken her and why. The songbirds he had unconsciously been hearing all day began to hush, and he heard the hoot of an owl beginning its nocturnal hunting. The air around him grew chilly.
After several miles of hiking south toward the source of the river, he stopped at a place where the trail didn't quite hug the river and he could hear the peeping of his radio receiver better.
As he swung it in an arc, listening intently, he thought the faster beeps sounded from across the river, not upstream. He wished he could see the display for visual confirmation, but he supposed that what he had would be sufficient.
His next order of business was to cross the Selway, and without Christy's eyes, he was going to have trouble locating a good spot. He paced slowly along the trail, listening hard. The river, which had seemed like nothing more than a mishmash of water sounds, began to take on life and character as he concentrated only upon it. In some parts it ran along quietly, with only the edges making a ripple. Then, 100 yards further, the sounds came in layers, when shallower water chattered over stones in a wide bed. That was what he needed to find.
Mac prodded the bracken at the side of the trail with his cane and hands, searching for a way through to the river. He found a space and squeezed through. Once at the water, he gritted his teeth and stepped down and into the cold water. Knowing he'd need to cross soon and also aware that the rattlers tended to curl up inside their rocky dens at night, he had put on his water shoes at his last snack break, tying his boots to his pack by their laces.
Now, he wished he had cut himself a wooden staff to keep his balance as he waded across the river. He managed not to topple as he slipped and skidded over the algae-covered rounded rocks, and though the river was wider than he'd imagined, he at last reached the opposite bank without mishap.
Once he was across the river, MacGyver checked the radio receiver again. It pointed to the east, up the mountain that he now faced in the darkness of early night. He squatted on the ground and retrieved his wad of maps. Shuffling through to the map of the Upper Selway basin, he tried to judge the distance he'd traveled that afternoon. As closely as he could tell, the mountain that he faced was called Elevator Mountain, part of a chain named the Selway Crags. It took him a frustratingly long time to decipher the braille letters on the map, and he promised himself he'd find some time to practice soon.
He put the maps away again, and began searching the ground for a walking stick. The way ahead had no trail, and he decided he needed something more than his cane to balance himself and find his way forward. Luckily, he located a piece of deadfall that would work; it was two fingers thick at the larger end, six feet long and fairly straight.
Shrugging into his heavy pack, he settled it in place, found his balance, and started up the hill.
For the first several hundred yards, he worked his way through a pine wood, the branches of the trees reaching out toward him to claw at his face and jacket in the darkness. Soon, however, the trees thinned out and the space around him opened into a steep mountain meadow. Dry, brittle grass crackled underfoot and the ground still gave off a faint warmth and bready smell of grasses and wildflowers warmed in the sun. Off to his right, an owl hooted loudly, making him jump, and the flapping wings of a bird or a bat rustled in the treetops. He paused for a moment, closing his eyes, imagining the sky awash with stars, and the rising moon bathing the meadow in silver light.
He did not pause long, because the feel of Christy's inhaler in his pocket reminded him that he needed to hurry. Sweeping the hillside ahead of him with his cane, he discovered an outcropping of rocks, which he skirted to the left and continued to climb.
At the highest edge of the meadow, he paused again to catch his breath and listen. The sound of the river had faded, and all around him was the soothing quiet of nighttime in the forest: not silent but still peaceful.
Into this solitude broke a sudden crackle and the sound of a man's voice, so near that MacGyver jumped again.
"There," the voice said. "That should keep it going for a while."
Another voice grunted a reply, and MacGyver heard the popping of a campfire ahead and to the left of him. He couldn't see its glow, so he guessed it was hidden behind a tree or rock, but he felt glad he hadn't made enough noise to alert the strangers to his presence. He shivered with apprehension.
He wondered if Christy was there with the two men. If so, why had they taken her? What was their purpose in this remote location?
He stood still for quite some time, listening and thinking about what to do.
At one point, one of the men commented, "heard a big cat out there a while back. Mountain lion or cougar, I'd guess."
The hairs on MacGyver's neck prickled.
"Don't worry about it," said the other lazily. "You have your Winchester, and if we see it up close, my Colt will do the trick. Just put another log on the fire and go to bed."
Mac appreciated knowing which guns the men had, but he still needed more information. Where was Christy?
He heard the rustling of sleeping rolls being unfurled. A slight echo in the sounds made him guess that the men were in a cave, not out in the open. Footsteps crunched on the gritty floor.
"Here," the first man said gruffly, "drink."
"Let me go!" The voice was Christy's, although it sounded forced and raspy to MacGyver, and the breaths she drew next had the labored wheeze that Mac recognized as asthma. He wondered why he hadn't heard them before, but guessed they had been muffled by some kind of gag.
"We won't hurt you if you play nice and do as you're told," put in the second man. "We just can't have you running to the Rangers before we're through up here."
Christy gave a low moan as her heavy breathing was muffled again.
A few more scrapes and rustles ensued, and then footsteps crunched through the underbrush so near to the place Mac stood he could have reached out his hand and touched the man. He stood perfectly still, waiting in the shadows.
The man relieved himself and then pushed back through the bushes to the cave where his footsteps crunched on gravelly sand. With a grunt, he pulled off his boots and lay down. Mac stood still, waiting.
In the old days he would have rushed the men, fists swinging, but that was when he could see. Now he would have to use his head more and his fists less if he didn't want to get shot.
He listened for clues that the men had fallen asleep. It was agonizing. Every time he was sure they must have dozed off, there was a rustle as one or the other turned over on his hard bed. The fire stopped its crackle and settled into embers.
Just as MacGyver was about to head stealthily into the cave, he heard a rustle in the trees overhead. From just behind and above came a shrill scream like the scream of a terrified woman. He knew what it was. A mountain lion, poised on a branch above him, stood ready to spring.