The Mystery of the Monster Mountain - M. V. Carey [14]
Only a trickle of water ran down through the rocks. Beyond the campground a path twisted away through the brush.
Pete looked at the creek and ran his hand through his hair. “I can see what Joe Havemeyer meant about water being a problem here,” he said. “If we move our gear down, we’ll have to bring water from the inn.”
“There doesn’t seem to be much point to that,” said Jupiter. “Besides, I’d like to stay close to the inn, at least until we get more information about Havemeyer. There are too many odd things about him. And the attack on Mr. Jensen …”
“That couldn’t have been Havemeyer,” said Bob. “We could see Havemeyer inside the inn at the time Jensen was hit.”
“No. It couldn’t have been Havemeyer. But something fishy is going on at the inn.
I’d like to know what it is.”
There was a rustling in the bushes behind Jupe. All three boys jumped.
“Scare you?” asked an amused voice. “Sorry about that.”
Jupe spun around. The man who ran the gas station in Sky Village emerged from a clump of wild lilac. He was busily stuffing a wad of muddy, crumpled paper into a burlap sack.
“You boys a little bear-shy?” he asked. His keen eyes twinkled. “Hear you had a scare at the inn last night.”
“How … how did you know?” asked Jupe.
“Mr. Jensen stopped by this morning to buy some gas,” explained the man. “I noticed he had a stiff neck, so I asked what was the matter. I kind of like to find out about people. He was madder than a hornet. Claimed somebody gave him a rabbit punch while he was trying to take a picture of a bear.”
“So far as we know, that’s what happened,” said Bob. “Mr. Havemeyer thinks it was a second bear.”
“Interesting way for a bear to behave,” said the man. “Still, you can’t tell, and we’ve had a lot of bears in the village this year. Always do in the dry years. They raid everybody’s trash cans. I always let them alone. That way I don’t have any grief.”
The man surveyed the campground. “That’s better,” he announced. “A couple came in here from the city last week and made an awful mess. Paper towels all over creation and orange peels in the creek. Makes you lose your faith in people.”
“Are you responsible for the campground?” asked Bob.
“Not really,” said the man, “but it’s about the only thing around here that brings in business in the summer, and I like to sell gas. Campers tell one another about the conditions in the different campgrounds. If this place got a bad name, I could close up my station and starve from May until the snow flies.”
“I see,” said Bob.
“My name’s Richardson, by the way,” said the man. “Charlie Richardson, only they call me Gabby.” He chuckled. “I wonder why they do that.”
Pete laughed. “I wonder, too,” he said. He held out his hand. “I’m Pete Crenshaw and this is Jupiter Jones. My pal with the glasses is Bob Andrews.”
Gabby Richardson said he was pleased to meet the boys, and shook hands all around.
“You thinking of moving your camp down here?” he asked. “I saw when I passed Anna’s place that you had your tent out under the trees.”
“Actually, we slept inside last night,” said Jupe. “After the bears raided the trash, Mr. Havemeyer thought it would be better.”
Gabby Richardson laughed. “Easy knowing Anna Schmid’s new husband hasn’t been on Monster Mountain very long if he’s spooked by a bear or two.”
“Monster Mountain?” echoed Pete.
“Yep. Oh, I guess for the benefit of you tourists I ought to call it Mount Lofty, like it says on the maps. But when I was a kid, there were just five families living here, and we called it Monster Mountain.” He pointed toward a watchtower which was barely visible on the high slopes toward the north. “See that fire tower? It’s abandoned now, but when it was used it was officially the Monster Mountain tower.”
Pete sat down at one of the picnic tables.
“Any reason why they called it that?” he asked.
Gabby Richardson sat next to Pete and leaned back against the table. “When I was young,” he said, “the grown folks used