“That’s Dad’s truck,” Glendon said when they rounded the curve past arrowhead boulder. “Who gave you permission to take our truck?”
“I don’t need permission,” the man said.
As they approached the parked truck, two llamas watched them curiously. Both animals stood near the back of the truck, as if they wondered why the other llama was in it. When the humans approached, the llamas moved away, staying close together and watching the people warily.
“It’s Pretty Girl,” Glendon said, when he saw the llama that was already tied up. “You’re taking Pretty Girl.”
“And that spotted one, too,” the man said, pointing to the brown and white llama that he’d been trying to catch when Molly found him.
“Not Soapsy!” Glendon said. “She’s my 4-H project. I’m keeping a journal about her. You can’t steal Soapsy!”
“I’m not stealing anything,” the man said. “I’m only taking what rightfully belongs to me.”
“None of these llamas belong to you!” Glendon cried. “Not anymore.”
So Glendon did know the thief. Had Uncle Phil bought some of the llamas from this man? Did Uncle Phil still owe the man money and the man was taking the llamas as a way to have his debt repaid, the way a car might be repossessed?
“You circle around the far side,” the man said, completely ignoring Glendon’s objections, “and herd the spotted one over in this direction.” He turned to Molly. “You stay by the truck and make sure she doesn’t run past it and get down the path.”
Molly stood where he pointed and tried to think how they might escape. She wished she and Glendon could talk to each other alone.
Maybe we can stall, Molly thought. Maybe we should deliberately not catch the spotted llama. If it takes too long to catch the animals, Uncle Phil will come back home and discover we’re missing and come looking for us. If the spotted llama came toward her, maybe she should let it go past.
Then she remembered the gun. The man had tucked it into the top of his jeans, with the handle sticking out. If she purposely let one of the llamas get past her, there was no telling what the man would do.
Mom had told her once that if she ever was faced by someone who was armed, to do what they said and not take a chance on getting killed.
Glendon skirted the llamas and disappeared from her sight.
Molly walked closer to the truck and looked inside. The keys dangled from the ignition. Too bad I’m not the one who knows how to drive, she thought. The man was on the far side of the pasture now, almost to the fence and the clump of trees that stretched upward into the deeper snow. Molly could easily jump into the truck and take off. But what about Glendon? No matter how much she disliked her cousin, she couldn’t leave him behind.
Besides, she didn’t know the first thing about driving a truck. Trying to do so would be foolish, no matter how tempted she was.
Molly untied her sweater and put it back on. The sun was lower in the sky and now that she wasn’t climbing, she was cold. They had better get the llamas loaded soon or it would be getting dark and she certainly didn’t want to try to maneuver her way down the mountain trail in the dark.
She watched as the man approached one of the llamas. The animal looked at him suspiciously, moving a few steps backward each time the man was almost close enough to touch it. The man’s jaw was clenched and his eyes were hard; he didn’t try to talk to the llama or coax it to come to him.
Molly remembered how Uncle Phil had crooned to Merrylegs and how Merrylegs hummed in return. Uncle Phil even touched noses with Merrylegs when he first entered her pen and he’d explained to Molly that llamas greet each other that way. “It’s an honor if a llama wants to touch noses with you,” he said.
She was quite sure this man would not feel honored if one of the llamas tried to touch noses with him. For someone who apparently had once owned llamas, he didn’t seem to know anything about handling the animals. Molly didn’t think he liked animals much and she suspected that the llamas could sense his feelings. Maybe that’s why they were so skittish with him. If he would be gentle and talk softly to them instead of trying to lasso them like a herd of wild horses, they might respond better.
The book Uncle Phil gave her said when llamas are attacked, they sometimes spit a vile-smelling green cud at their attacker. It sounded stinky and gooey. This man had better be careful or he’d have cud in his face.
She looked again at the keys to the truck. With the man on the far side of the pasture, and his attention on the spotted llama, she was certain she could get them. If she had the truck keys, then all she would need was an opportunity to slip them to Glendon.
Before the man could drive away, he would have to remove the wooden ramp that led from the ground to the bed of the truck. Maybe while he detached the ramp, she and Glendon could hop in the truck and drive off, leaving the thief behind.
It wasn’t the best plan in the world, but it was the only one Molly could think of.
She edged closer to the truck, keeping one eye on the man. She stood beside the cab, on the driver’s side, and slowly opened the door.
The man wasn’t paying any attention to her. His eyes were focused on Soapsy, the spotted llama. Each time he got close to her, the llama moved away from him.
Molly eased the truck door open, quickly reached inside, jerked the keys out of the ignition, and shut the door again, closing it softly just until it clicked and held.
The man had his back to her, still moving toward Soapsy. Molly put the keys in her sweater pocket and immediately wondered what would happen if the man found them there. When he tried to leave and the keys were gone, he’d suspect her first. What if he searched her pockets and found the keys? What would he do to her?
She decided it would be wiser to hide the keys somewhere. That way, the man couldn’t prove that she took them; he might think he dropped them himself. If she and Glendon had an opportunity to escape, she would still know where the keys were.
There was a flat rock, about the size of a dinner plate, just behind her. A scrubby bush grew beside it. Molly bent down, lifted the rock, and laid the keys underneath it. She’d know which rock to look under because of the bush.
She resumed her position near the truck, trying to look nonchalant, as if she’d just been standing there all along.
She wondered what the man intended to do with her and Glendon after they got the other llama on the truck. Surely he didn’t plan to take them with him while he sold the llamas. But he couldn’t very well leave them here, either, since they knew what he was doing and Glendon apparently knew who he was.
He’d already heard her say she was going to call the sheriff. He wouldn’t want to let her do that, even if he had a big head start. He had to drive back toward town—the road didn’t go the other direction—and he surely wouldn’t want to meet the sheriff before he got to the highway.
A new thought struck her. The man did have a gun, after all. And they were in an isolated area where no people ever came. What if he chose not to take her and Glendon along and not to leave them here, where they were free to call for help, either? What if he . . .
No. It was too horrible to think about. A body hidden here on the mountainside might not be discovered for weeks. Months! Mom might never know what happened to her.
Molly wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans.
Glendon walked slowly toward the truck, talking softly to the spotted llama. “Good Soapsy,” he said. “Nice Soapsy girl.”
The llama stayed a step or two in front of him. She seemed to be listening but she wasn’t willing to let him touch her.
Molly stood firmly in the center of the path, ready to block Soapsy, if necessary. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man approaching, crouching low so that the truck would keep him out of Soapsy’s sight.
When Glendon had the llama almost to the ramp of the truck, the man lunged at her and slipped a rope over her head. The startled llama cried out—and Molly recognized the sound as the same
kind of alarm call she’d heard coming from the barn the night before.
“You don’t have to scare her like that,” Glendon said. “She would have walked up the ramp by herself.”
The man didn’t answer. He was busy tying the rope to the slatted sides of the truck.
Molly tried to get Glendon’s attention. She wanted to whisper to him to get in the truck and she’d get the keys and they’d take off alone, but Glendon’s attention was firmly fixed on the man. Molly saw hatred in Glendon’s eyes again but this time it was not aimed at her; it was directed at the tall man.
“I think we can get one more on this load,” the man said.
“No, you can’t,” Glendon said.
“I’m giving the orders here, not you.”
“Those other two are new arrivals. They’re young and they’ve never been on a lead. It took us over an hour just to herd them up to this pasture. There’s no way we can catch them before it gets dark.”
The man looked around, as if noticing for the first time how late in the day it was. He took another length of rope out of the truck and turned to Molly and Glendon.
“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 billow
ed 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.
Eight
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.