Free 3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers by Wilkie Martin Page A

ball of tangled, thumb-thick ropes. At least he didn’t need to carry a mallet, for I’d seen how he could drive tent pegs into the stoniest ground with a few blows from his great, hairy fist. Although Dregs, much to his annoyance, had been saddled with panniers full of tins, he soon got used to them and bounded ahead, making barking forays in the general direction of rabbits. A tapestry of muddy brown, green and khaki, interspersed with startling yellow swathes of gorse, stretched before us and, away to our right, a tiny waterfall, splashing over a low black cliff, filled the air with rainbows.
    It wasn’t long before our path grew steeper and rougher. Now and again there were patches of bare, black rock, corrugated with deep cracks that Hobbes and Dregs took in their respective strides, while I had to scramble on hands and knees. Despite the breeze, I was soon sweating like a wrestler, and, despite having filled up with tea, my mouth was as dry as custard powder. My stomach began grumbling that it was way past lunchtime and I hoped Hobbes had brought something good to eat that wouldn’t take too long to prepare and that he’d stop soon – very soon. I had a horrible suspicion that Dregs’s panniers contained only dog food, which he would eat if sufficiently hungry, but which had little appeal to me.
    ‘Did you see that?’ asked Hobbes, pausing by a deformed and stunted thorn bush.
    ‘What?’
    ‘The fox.’
    ‘No.’
    I trudged after him, beginning to feel light headed with hunger as we reached the top of a ridge, with a narrow valley stretching below us, hemmed in by moorland and sheer cliffs, broken up by massive boulders. As we began the descent, I made up my mind to not get lost, for, although Hobbes might be able to find his way around this horrible wilderness, I was certain I couldn’t. A low-grade panic was building, forcing me forward, ensuring he never got too far ahead and, when he finally stopped and I caught up, I was panting and dripping. Apart from his load, he looked as if he’d just stepped from the office after a morning’s paperwork.
    ‘Did you see that?’ he asked.
    ‘What?’
    ‘The red kite.’
    ‘No,’ I said, frustrated, but determined to keep my eyes skinned and to point something interesting out to him.
    ‘Never mind. We’ll stop here for lunch.’ He swung his kit to the ground.
    I wriggled free from my rucksack, enjoying the breeze, feeling my shirt sticking to my back. The day was somewhat cooler than it had been and the valley, to my eyes, was uninviting; bare, broken rock with now and again a whiff of stagnant water from a nasty, green bog at the bottom.
    ‘Is there a reason for stopping here?’ I asked, rummaging in my rucksack for my cagoule, already having had enough of the wind.
    ‘There’s fresh water.’
    ‘I can’t see any,’ I said, peevish with hunger, wrinkling my nose, ‘unless you mean that stinking stuff down there.’
    ‘No.’ He laughed, and said, ‘There’s a spring.’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘In the cave.’
    ‘What cave?’ I asked.
    ‘This one,’ he said, dropping to his knees and crawling into what I’d taken to be a hummock, where there was a fissure just big enough for him to squeeze through.
    ‘Pass me the jerry can,’ he said, disappearing, leaving only his hand remaining in the light.
    I passed it, and can and Hobbes were gone. Although Dregs found the procedure most entertaining, he showed no inclination to follow and nor did I, for I’d had too many bad frights in dark places. Instead, I dug out the kettle, the stove, and a box of matches and waited, hoping Hobbes did not get himself lost or stuck. If my worst fears were realised, I would have to attempt a rescue, as I had no mobile phone and would undoubtedly get lost should I go looking for help. After a few minutes of silence, my stomach tightening with nerves, I dropped to my knees and stuck my head into the dark, narrow cave.
    ‘Are you alright?’ I yelled.
    There was no