Sandy and Mike both shook their heads. “Not unless the rain drives the goats away,” Sandy said.
“Don’t worry about that,” Hank replied. “I told you they’re tough. Weather like this won’t stop a goat.” He dropped the pack from his shoulder and reached into a pocket for a pair of binoculars. “Here,” he said, offering the glasses to Sandy. “Start looking.”
Sandy brought the binoculars up to his eyes and started to scan the neighboring peaks. “Where do I look?” he asked.
“Notice how the south sides of all the peaks are covered with trees?” Hank asked. Sandy nodded. “That’s because they get most of the sun.”
“The sides facing north are practically all rock,” Sandy observed.
“Except for a big yellow pine here and there. See them?”
“Sure. And there seems to be something that looks like snow at the base of each tree.”
“It never had a chance to melt,” Hank explained. “The shade of the tree keeps the ground cold until the middle of July. Now take a close look at every patch of snow you can see. That’s where you’ll spot a goat.”
Sandy swept back and forth across the peaks with his glasses. “Not a thing,” he announced.
“Let me look.” After a moment or two, Hank stiffened and leaned forward. “There’s your billy goat,” he said.
“Where?” Sandy cried. “I just looked there.”
“Well, you didn’t look hard enough.” He turned the glasses back to Sandy. “Try another peek.”
Sandy focused in on a tiny white spot that stood out against the gray granite. At first he thought it was a faint smear of snow. But then, unexpectedly, he saw it move. “I’ll be darned!” he breathed. “You’re right!”
“Let me take a look!” Mike cried. He stared through the binoculars and nodded his head excitedly. “I see him,” he cried. “How do you know it’s a billy?”
“I don’t think it’s a nanny goat,” Hank said. “This one’s all by himself and nannies mostly stay together.”
“Just like women!” Mike observed with a laugh.
“That’s right.” Hank grinned. “I guess they like to gossip. And then you’ll usually see some kids around if it’s a nanny.”
“One more thing. Nannies are snow-white, but billies get dirty. From the color, I’ll bet that goat’s a billy.”
“Okay,” Mike said. “Now how do we get him?”
They were separated from their quarry by a deep box canyon whose sides plunged almost straight down from the narrow ledge at their feet. To reach the goat, they would have to work their way down the sheer rock wall, cross over a small stream that flowed along the canyon floor and then climb up the far side.