Farnham’s Freehold By Robert A. Heinlein

They took turns, with the man following blazing trail and counting paces, the leader keeping lookout, compass direction, and record.

The high hill Hugh had picked was across the stream. They explored its bank and found a place to wade. Everywhere they flushed game. The miniature deer were abundant and apparently had never been hunted. By man, at least- Duke saw a mountain lion and twice they saw bears.

It seemed to be about three o’clock local time as they approached the summit. The climb was steep, cluttered with undergrowth, and neither man was in training. When they reached the flattish summit Hugh wanted to throw himself on the ground.

Instead he looked around. To the east the ground dropped off. He stared out over miles of prairie.

He could see no sign of human life. He adjusted his binoculars and started searching. He saw moving figures, decided that they were antelope-or cattle; he made mental note that these herds must be watched. Later, later- “Hugh?”

He lowered his binoculars. “Yes, Duke?”

“See that peak? It’s fourteen thousand one hundred and ten feet high.”

“I won’t argue.”

“That’s Mount James. Dad, we’re home!”

“What do you mean?”

“Look southwest. Those three gendarmes on that profile. The middle one is where I broke my leg when I was thirteen. That pointed mountain between there and Mount James- Hunter’s Horn. Can’t you see? The skyline is as distinctive as a fingerprint. This is Mountain Springs!”

Hugh stared. This skyline he knew. His bedroom window had been planned to let him see it at dawn; many sunsets he had watched it from his roof.

“Yes.”

“Yes,” Duke agreed. “Damned if I know how. But as I figure it”-he stomped the ground-”we’re on the high reservoir. Where it ought to be. And-” His brow wrinkled. “As near as I can tell, our shelter is smack on our lot. Dad, we didn’t go anywhere!”

Hugh took out the notebook in which were recorded paces and compasses courses, did some arithmetic. “Yes. Within the limits of error.”

“Well? How do you figure it?”

Hugh looked at the skyline. “I don’t. Duke, how much daylight do we have?”

“Well. . . three hours. The sun will be behind the mountains in two.”

“It took two hours to get here; we should make it back in less. Do you have any cigarettes?”

“May I have one? Charged against me of course. I would like to rest about one cigarette, then start back.” He looked around. “It’s open up here. I don’t think a bear would approach us.” He placed his rifle and belt on the ground, settled down.

Duke offered a cigarette to his father, took one himself. “Dad, you’re a cold fish. Nothing excites you.”

“So? I’m so excitable that I had to learn never to give into it.”

“Doesn’t seem that way to other people.” They smoked in silence, Duke seated, Hugh sprawled out. He was close to exhaustion and wished that he did not have to hike back.

Presently Duke added, “Besides that, you enjoy bullying.” His father answered, “I suppose so, if you class what I do as bullying. No one ever does anything but what he wants to do-‘enjoys’-within the possibilities open to him. If I change a tire, it’s because I enjoy it more than being stranded.”

“Don’t get fancy. You enjoy bullying Mother. You enjoyed spanking me as a kid. . . until Mother put her foot down and made you stop.”

His father said, “We had better start back.” He reached for his belt and rifle.

“Just a second. I want to show you something. Never mind your gear, this won’t take a moment.”

Hugh stood up. “What is it?”

“Just this. Your Captain Bligh act is finished.” He clouted his father. “That’s for bullying Mother!” He clouted him from the other side and harder, knocking his father off his feet. “And that’s for having that nigger pull a gun on me!”

Hugh Farnham lay where he had fallen. “Not ‘nigger,’ Duke. Negro.”

“He’s a Negro as long as he behaves himself. Pulling a gun on me makes him a goddam nigger. You can get up. I won’t hit you again.”