There was not much to the town-a two-story, false-fronted hotel with double porch posts and a sign hanging from the second-floor veranda that said it had been built in 1882; the General Store, a couple of souvenir shops, three restaurants, a simulated Old West saloon that dispensed “genuine sarsparilla” instead of alcoholic beverages, a white frame church, and The Pines Museum-the last nearly dwarfed by a pair of seventy-foot, partially dismantled tailing wheels along its near side. Down the side streets were a few houses, open pasture land, and at least one example of gold-rush architecture that nobody had seen fit to restore-a low square building with a brick front and stone sides and heavy iron doors.
I wedged my car into a space in front of the General Store, between a VW bus and a big Dodge van that seemed curiously out of place in these surroundings because it had the words Vahram Terzian-Fine Oriental Rugs and Carpets painted on the side. I bought a fishing license and a few things I would need in the way of groceries: a small jar of instant coffee and a salami and some hard rolls. The place was jammed and the prices were exorbitant and the fat woman who waited on me wore a broad smile; I thought that she was probably the owner.
At the far end of the village was the dirt-and-gravel county road that led to Eden Lake. Nobody seemed to want to go there except me-the road was deserted. It wound upward past cuts of bluish limestone and the ancient, crumbling outbuilding of a pocket mine that lay against the hillside like an old scar that had never healed; then, after three dusty miles, it began to climb sharply into heavy sugar and digger pine. When it finally crested I could see Eden Lake shimmering ice-blue in the sunlight below.
The lake was small, maybe a half-mile wide and a quarter-mile long. Forestland grew to the water's edge in a full half-moon to the north and east; to the west there was a high bluff and a grassy meadow rising in a gentle slope beside it. Harry Burroughs' fishing camp was at the south end, and its buildings were the only ones anywhere on or near the lake. All of the surrounding land was owned by either the state or the county, I couldn't remember which, and through a friend on the real-estate board Harry had managed a long-term lease for the portion on which he had built his camp. One of these days, though, at least some other parts of the lakefront property were going to undergo development-a fact he did not much care to think about.
The first view you had of the camp was when you came down out of the trees and neared the graveled circle that served as a parking area. There were six cabins, set into a rough wide horseshoe shape and sweeping inland from the lake, but the only one visible from here was Harry's, the largest and the one nearest the parking circle; the others were hidden by pines and other forest growth. Extending into the lake fifty yards from Harry's front door was a short narrow pier, and tied to the end of it were two fourteen-foot, oak-hulled skiffs with five-horsepower outboards.
His ten-year-old jeep was parked in the circle, along with four cars: a new dark-brown Cadillac, a dusty Rambler station wagon, a 1972 Ford, and an expensive yellow Italian sports job. I pulled my car in beside the Rambler and got out into the hot, dry mountain air.
Nobody came to meet me, and the camp looked empty for all I could see. I went over to Harry's cabin and up onto the log-railed porch and rapped on the door. There was no response. So I came down again and walked around to the far side, to where there was a large Coca-Cola cooler that I knew he always kept well-stocked with beer and soft drinks. I helped myself to a can of Schlitz, popped the tab, and drank a third of it before I lowered the can. It had been a long drive from San Francisco.
The beer brought on an instant craving for a cigarette, as beer often did with me; I made an effort to blank my mind against it. I had not had any trouble doing that during the drive-I had managed to concentrate enough on the road and on the radio broadcast of the Giants game. My chest felt all right, maybe a little tight; I wondered if the thin mountain air, the summer dust, would have any effect on my lungs.
But I did not want to think about my lungs.
I drank more of the beer and looked around and still did not see anyone. Behind Harry's cabin was a shed with the doors spread open. I wandered over there and looked inside and saw the same things I had seen the last time I was up for a visit: another skiff up on davits, several rolls of heavy canvas for added protection of the boats during the winter months, an uncluttered workbench along one wall, shelves of paint and motor oil and other items neatly stored. Unlike me, Harry had always been a fastidious man.
I finished the beer and turned back toward the lake. A young guy wearing only a pair of gabardine slacks came out of the trees from the direction of the first of the guest cabins. He saw me, paused, and then walked over casually. He was tall and lean, with one of these bronzed beachboy physiques and a lot of shaggy flax-colored hair that covered his ears and curled up on the back of his neck. A thick, stylish mustache right-angled down on either side of his mouth, forming three sides of a frame for the kind of lips some women would call sensuous.