24. THE CALL OF WHISPERING PASS By James Osmond This Is a strange story. Like most of its kind, its setting is provential, but in the locality of its happenings it is still told and retold. It may seem absurd, and the reader may doubt its validity; but it is a true happening, and its narration is accurate to the extent of my memory. I know so well of its detail, because I myself was one of the participants, and the weird circumstances that brought about the incident of this story is not a conjuration of the imagination, but an actuality known by several, other than myself. This is the first time the story has been set to paper. Whispering pass was not an exaduaration of adolescence, as I was relatively young at the time of the happening. Its mysteries were known and undisputed by elders of the locality, quite as much as it was by the younger set. Whispering pass was nothing more than a wooded ravine cutting deep between two mountains and extending down into a bowl like valley of grazing land and dry farms. I was, at the time, living in this locality, and had some knowledge, (although not very specific) of the mysterious area. It was, through a boyhood friend that I knew more of the pass, for his home was situated at its base, on a fertile terrace. At the time, I was visiting him, and as is customary in areas of such sparse population, I was to spend the night and make the several mile journey home on foot the following day. Bill, (I will call him that, although it is not his name) was a marvelous exaggerator. When he went into the detail of the pass, and its history, I was quite inclined to disbelieve, and he sensed it with resentment. "Just wait," he said. "Just wait till tonight: you'll see." I am going' to withhold the information concerning our mystery be - cause I believe by doing so, the narration of my experience will have a more intriguing effect. At least, it will be in sequence. In our somewhat isolated valley there was only one truly abnormal individual; and to tell the story, I find it necessary to inform the reader of his presence and general behavior; as much (that is) as can be told. He was essentially a hermit, and suffered from some abnormal mental function. It is not known to the writer, whether his personal isolation was the cause of his insanity, or whether it was visa versa. In his sane moments, he was relatively normal, and even somiable to a degree; but he did, (at times) revert to raving maniacism, and in these instances he was extremely violent. He had harmed no one, however, so no steps had been taken to have him committed to an institution. He was just the crazy hermit, and in further reference will be known as Hank. He lived in an open field some distance from the terrace upon which Bill's home was situated. It was on an evening in mid summer that I found myself with Bill. We had 25. slipped from the house after the rest of his family had retired. We scaled to the top of one of the sheds that were situated some distance from the living quarters; and not too far from the mouth of the pass. We were located on the western side of the valley, and the moon creeping over the eastern horizon cast an erie, but beautiful pattern of colors and shadows into the deep wooded ravine. "We'll more than likely hear it tonight," Bill whispered to me in a needlessly hushed voice. I had no idea what we were to hear, but I listened anyway. "Pa says it's a cougar, or mountain lion," Bill continued, "but I don't think it is. Don't sound a bit like an animal to me." Bill had told me that his father had been missing some animals, two dogs and some small calves, I believe. To all appearances, it was the work of an animal of prey, and perhaps the decision of the parent was justified. I thought, however, that it would be unlike a wild animal to seek out small