The Sasquatch Mystery

drew Trixie, Brian, and Mart forward. “These are our cousins from New York State.” Next he introduced Miss Trask, Di, Honey, and Jim.
    “How’ve you been, Tank?” asked Cap. “Do you need anything?”
    “Now that ya put me in mind of it, Cap, ay could use some pep’mint drops n’ a slab of hawg.” Bright blue eyes swept over the group. “You young’uns et yet? Ma’am, could ay pull up a fresh drink fer ya?”
    Miss Trask’s face showed only momentary confusion. “Thank you, Mr. Anderson. I must confess I drank all my water on the climb up the mountain.”
    “Come on in where it’s shady and cool,” Tank invited.
    Everyone entered the fenced area around a small house built of rough-hewn logs and mountain stone. The trees around it kept it cool in summer and snug in winter.
    “Gimme a minute and ay’ll cool ya off fine.” Tank disappeared into the cabin, with Hallie at his heels.
    “Where does he get water on a mountain-top?” Di asked.
    Before Mart could launch into a many-sylla-bled reply, Cap answered, “Tank boxed in a spring. He has a pump.”
    Hallie came out of Tank’s house, balancing a dishpan filled with tin cups and a plate of the biggest cookies Trixie had ever seen. Tank carried the pail of water. He walked past the group to disappear behind a low door that seemed to be fitted into the mountain itself.
    When he came out, he said, “Vet yer vistles!” Miss Trask was first to be served. “My word, Mr. Anderson. Lemonade?”
    “With ice,” Honey said wonderingly. “Oh, Mr. Anderson, you shouldn’t waste your ice and lemons on us. I know how hard it must be to bring ice all the way over Moon Pass and up that steep trail.”
    Tank’s laughter boomed. “Ay had half a year to fill my ice cave. Ay've got yust three seasons in the Yoe country. Yune—”
    “Yuly and Vinter!” Hallie finished with a shout.
    “Vant to see how ay keep my wittles fresh?” Tank put a hand on one hip as he loped back to the ice cave. “Oh, this rheumatiz. Ain’t been vorking much dis veek, but ay got it yust the same.”
    “Tank, you know darned well you don’t have
    to work that claim if you don’t want to,” Knut scolded good-naturedly. “You’ve got enough dust stored to last you the rest of your life.”
    “Yah, sure,” Tank agreed. “But ay like to be sure ay can even up me owing’s vhile ay still can.”
    Tank opened the door of his cave. Everyone crowded close to peer at chunks of ice packed in pine needles. Venison, bear meat, and several ducks hung from a rack. Brook trout lay frozen in ice. A few vegetables from last year’s garden were carefully stored on a slotted bench that allowed moisture to drain away.
    “You certainly aren’t going to starve, sir,” Jim said.
    “I admire your ability to cope with the wilderness, Mr. Anderson,” added Mart.
    “Ay ain’t aiming to skimp on me wittles,” Tank answered. “Call me Tank. Dese young scalavags’ve been doing that for so long ay start peering about for me father when ya say ‘Mr. Anderson.’ ”
    When they walked back to the yard to enjoy their lemonade and cookies, Trixie heard Tank tell Knut, “It’s gettin’ hard for me to traipse across that saddle to town. Vith all yer company, ya sure ya don’t mind toting me dust an’ picking up a few t’ings?”
    “Mind?” Knut slapped Tank’s shoulder affectionately. “I’d mind if you didn’t let me do it for you. We’ve got it planned to break the monotony of camp life with a drive-in movie sometime this weekend, anyway.”
    Tank nudged Knut’s ribs. “And ay tank ya vant to see that Gloria, huh?”
    “That, too,” Knut said, laughing. “If I don’t show up Friday night, she’ll be dating some other guy!”
    “Not vith you around,” Tank declared.
    Cap and Knut upended chunks of logs for extra chairs, and Tank fetched a chair from the cabin for Miss Trask. Its legs were hand-carved of cedar, the back was contrived of moose antlers, and the seat was a sheet of deerskin.
    “This is a museum piece,” said Miss Trask with delight. “Priceless.”
    “So are the cookies,” Honey said.
    “Museum pieces?” Brian teased.
    “No, silly; priceless. Tank, how do you make them?”
    “Ay dump oats and bear grease and molasses into my crock. Then ay chunk ’em all together vith flour and dried huckleberries and some leavening. Alvays it comes out cookies.”
    “Bear grease?” Di looked at her saucer-sized cookie and gulped.
    “If you don’t like