determination to reach the reader who would otherwise remain uninformed on the subject could provide the incentive to word it in this most vivid style. To witness even a fictional account of this kind of behavior, is to be warned of the dangers which lurk around us, awaiting that most improbable coincidence of events to entrap us. For this, most of all, we are indebted to Burton Dixon.
The Publishers San Diego, Calif. July 1968 PROLOGUE The racket came from somewhere just ahead of him. Carroll Ventner eased down on the brakes, gently, ready to stop at a split-second's notice. It had been a sickening tortured-metal sound, and he visualized what a serious wreck could be like up here, miles from ambulance and towing services. As he rounded the curve, he saw it dead ahead. The cab of a semi, lying on its side up against the oversized guardrails that fenced off the mountain road from the sheer drop-off at the edge of the shoulder. He braked the rented Mustang on the gravel and got out, headed for the truck, hoping he wouldn't be sick at what he might see. As he loped toward it, he saw the trailer it had been towing. It was several hundred feet down the winding road, and as he watched, it came up broadside against the guardrail, then flipped over, showing its wheels in the air. He halted, frozen in a momentary trance, waiting for the gargantuan crash he knew would follow. It took a long time, and he began to realize how high those cliffs were. Then he heard a sort of faint double booming, and that was all. He moved quickly to the cab and chassis, and as he opened the door, straining upward to swing out the heavy obstacle, the driver clambered out and stood beside him, miraculously unhurt, excepting a scratched forehead. He helped the man dig out the flares and reflectors, and set them out to warn other traffic at both upper and lower curves of the winding road, then they went to the cliffside and peered down the deep vee- shaped cut in the rock. They could vaguely make out the shape of the metallic box down there in the shadows. “It's going to cost a fortune to get that out of there,” he remarked. The trucker laughed, shaking his head negatively.
“Hell, even if they had a winch with enough cable to reach that far down, it would cost more to have it hauled out and repaired than it will cost the factory to build another one.” “What were you hauling?” “Mobile home. Half of a double-wide,” replied the trucker. “Oh, you mean one of those house-trailer coaches that shoves together to make it narrower for hauling?” “No, those are called expandibles, or extendibles, the ones that have one side that fits into the other side. A double-wide is really two separate trailers, each with its own wheels. The two halves each have one sidewall open. When the two are installed, side-by-side, they are fastened together to form one home, and moldings are used-inside and out-to hide the seam.” “Oh, yeah,” said Ventner, as he recalled something that had intrigued him in the past. “That's those units I've seen on the road, where one side is covered with plastic.”
“Right,” said the trucker. “They're sealed with heavy-gauge vinyl sheeting to keep out road dust, and any rain or snow that might happen along.” “Well, it looks as though some coyote or skunk family is going to have a pretty fancy den, if the insurance company doesn't intend to salvage that thing,” Ventner said thoughtfully. “They couldn't.” The trucker's tone was emphatic. “That was the heaviest unit; it weighs tons. Can you imagine what it would cost to snake it up here? Even with the expensive equipment they might move up here to do the job, chances are that it would get torn all to hell on those rocks when they pulled it up. And I know this canyon. A buddy took me into that area down there once on a hunting trip. You can't get within a couple of miles of that thing excepting on foot. “No, that baby's there to stay until it falls apart from old age. You can bet your sweet ass on that!” The trucker turned from the mangled guardrail and started back toward his vehicle. Carroll followed him, and as they neared the closest flare, a cruiser from the county sheriff's department eased around the curve and stopped. In minutes, the radio call was out for the towing service, and the deputy had control of the traffic picture. Ventner took his leave of the trucker, acknowledging the profuse thanks given him for lending a hand. He drove on down the mountain road, turning over and over in his mind the intriguing thought which had come to him before he'd left the scene of the accident. All he had to do was make his decision. He had two days of his Easter vacation left. He'd cancel the two dates he had, and pack into that back-country for a good look. If it was as inaccessible as the trucker had indicated, that would be the ideal spot for his summer camp. Maybe, for the first time in four years, he'd be able to spend his summer in the outdoors he loved without being invaded by the over-friendly folks who usually disturbed his peaceful camps. If he could get back in there as far as the small clearing he'd spotted from the clifftop, he could erect a marker of some sort, then he'd contact his old friend, Roger Devlin, and make him a proposition. He grinned to himself as he gunned the rented car through the straight stretch of road down the valley, glad that his spring vacation scouting had paid off. The mountain campsites he'd seen before he discovered that deep canyon were bound to be infested by crowds of tourists that would destroy the silent peace which he went to the woods to seek.
This summer, he'd have a forest world all his own. He'd be the absolute monarch of the woods all around him, for almost three solid months!
He reached the crest of a ridge, and saw the gray ribbon of U.S. 395 winding below him. With a shout of joy, he tramped down on the accelerator, then began to sing lustily in a low tenor voice, slightly off key. The date was March 28th.
