CHAPTER II 
THE HAYMAKER OF THE HEIGHTS 
HE first time I climbed Long’s Peak 
I heard a strange, wild cry or call repeated 
at intervals. “Skee-ek,” “ Ke-ack,” 
came from among the large rocks along the 
trail a quarter of a mile below the limits of tree 
growth. It might be that of bird or beast. 
Half squeak, half whistle, I had not heard its 
like. Though calling near me, the maker kept 
out of sight. 
A hawk flew over with a screech not unlike 
this mysterious “Skee-ek.”” I had about de- 
cided that it was dropping these “ Ke-acks” when 
a rustling and a “Skee-ek” came from the other 
side of the big rock close by me. I hurried 
around to see, but nothing was there. 
This strange voice, invisible and mocking 
like an echo, called from time to time all the 
way to the summit of the peak. And as I 
stood on the highest point, alone as I supposed, 
from somewhere came the cry of the hidden 
caller. As I looked, there near me on a big 
flat rock sat a cony. He was about six inches 
16 
