  “See that jagged peak with the patch of snow almost at its tip? Right below is stunted timber land. Well, that’s Crazy Mountain. I figure Headless Hollow is somewhere in there behind those tumbles of rock.” Craig Warner stood at the cabin window, pointing toward the distant horizon. Over mugs of strong, steaming coffee, the Scouts had studied Old Stony’s map with their rancher host. Somewhat to their surprise, Warner had seemed impressed by the crudely drawn paper as he compared it with a contour map of the mountain area. “Y’ know,” he confessed, his grin boyish, “I’ve always had a hankering to find out what’s behind those barriers. Here I’ve lived fairly close to the place for years, and I never attempted it.” “Well, you have a map now,” Mr. Livingston said. “A motive, shall we say? So perhaps you’ll decide to search for your fortune.” The rancher laughed and shook his head. “I know better than to place faith in tales of hidden gold. The last great strike in this state was at Cripple Creek, just behind Pikes Peak. That district had been passed up for years because prospectors said it lacked the usual signs.” “Headless Hollow may be the same,” Jack said. “Afraid not.” Warner placed the map in a drawer of the living-room desk. “But the area might offer uranium possibilities.” “Has no one ever been there?” Ken asked. “Recently, I mean?” “Folks hereabouts are too busy to risk their necks on crazy climbs. Besides, as I told you, the area has a bad reputation.” “You said something about a prospector disappearing there,” Warwick reminded him. “That was Joe Hansart. He was a strange character—one of the real old-timers—always asking folks to grubstake him. He’d disappear for months at a time. Always broke when he showed up again. Well, he became obsessed with the idea there was gold somewhere on Crazy Mountain. About seven years ago, I think it was, he packed out of here, heading that way, and was never seen again.” “Maybe he fell off a cliff,” Ken observed. “The Headless Hollow locality has plenty of hazards. Something happened to him, that’s sure.” “Could he have stayed on there alone year after year?” Jack asked thoughtfully. “I don’t see how, but there’s a small lake where a man could fish, and if he had ammunition he could provide himself with meat. But the winters are bitterly cold. No, I don’t figure even a tough old knot like Joe Hansart could have made out. He must be dead. The question is, how did he die?” “That seems to trouble you,” Mr. Livingston said. “Friend of yours?” “Never set eyes on Joe except once or twice. It’s the stories about Headless Hollow that bother me.” “Stories?” “It began years ago,” the rancher said, lighting his pipe. “I suppose my father’s death and Stony’s disappearance marked the beginning.” “Was it known they were supposed to have struck gold?” “Well, you can’t keep such things completely dark,” Warner replied with a smile. “I was a boy at the time, so all I know is hearsay. At first, feeling was high against Stony, because people thought he was responsible for my father’s death. My mother never shared that feeling. She always said the man was falsely accused—that it must have been an accident. But you know how folks are—they always want to blame someone. Stony could have cleared himself, but he ran away, and that made it look bad.” “You think Stony shot your father by accident?” Ken questioned. “Either that, or it was an Indian bullet, as Stony claimed.” “Do Indians live in the hollow?” “No. The area is uninhabited, as far as I know. Folks deliberately avoid that section of the mountain. Prospectors who have tried to go there in recent years—well, they just seem to have bad luck.” “You’re referring to Joe Hansart’s disappearance?” Mr. Livingston remarked. “There have been other things, too,” the rancher admitted reluctantly. “A couple of ambitious young rock climbers thought they would tackle Crazy Mountain two years ago. One of ’em had a bad fall.” “That could happen to anyone.” “True. But this kid claimed someone above him started an avalanche. No one hereabouts put any stock in it—but it did serve to stir up rumors again.” “Rumors?” “Oh, I’m not superstitious, and I know you folks aren’t, either. The tale is that the Spirit of Crazy Mountain guards the place.” “Folks who go there always have trouble?” Jack asked, grinning. “Yeah. As I said, it’s a wild area—no place for amateur climbers.” “Odd you’ve never gone there yourself,” Mr. Livingston said, eying the rancher thoughtfully. “I’ve often wanted to,” Warner confessed, “especially when I was younger and my legs were in better condition.” “You seem in pretty fair shape to me right now,” the Scout leader replied. “Oh, I try to keep fit.” Warner abruptly got up and walked to the window again. Staring toward the faraway mountains, he said: “I’d have tried to find that valley years ago, but I never had the time. Now—” “Yes?” Mr. Livingston prodded as the rancher fell into meditative silence. “Well, it’s no climb to tackle alone. Frankly, there’s no one hereabouts that I could take with me. Plenty would be eager to go, but they’d be a hindrance, not a help.” “We know someone who would be tickled to go,” War cut in with a chuckle. “Oh?” “You won’t want to meet him, either,” War laughed. He then mentioned Jarrett Walz’ name and told to what lengths the motel owner had gone to gain possession of the treasure map. “You don’t say!” Warner exclaimed, impressed. “If he’s so keen on getting his hands on this map, then it must have some value.” “He thinks so,” said Mr. Livingston. “I would advise you to keep that bit of paper in a safe place.” “Oh, no one ever comes here. Not once in a month,” the rancher answered. “You’re my first visitors since June. It’s a real pleasure having you.” Warner, the Scouts now knew, lived alone, except for two ranch hands who looked after the stock. He had no wife or children. After chatting a while longer, the Scouts started to leave, but their host would not hear of it. “Stay until tomorrow morning at least,” he urged. “I like company, if it’s the right sort.” The Scouts had enjoyed Craig Warner’s companionship, and his invitation flattered them. When Mr. Livingston left the decision to them, they voted to remain. Warner cooked a hearty lunch for the boys and showed them around Cloud Crest. Whenever he was out of doors, they noticed, his steel blue eyes roved naturally to the distant peaks of Crazy Mountain. “Y’ know,” he admitted with a self-conscious laugh, “that map has fired my imagination! Not in years have I felt so excited!” “Gold fever?” Hap Livingston asked with a chuckle. “No,” the rancher answered soberly. “It’s more than that. I’ve never seen my father’s grave. The tale of gold interests me, but only incidentally. I want to see this place you call Headless Hollow, because its mystery lures me.” “A trip such as that would require careful planning,” Mr. Livingston observed. “It would. That’s why so many who started for the region met disaster. Their expeditions were badly organized.” Again Craig Warner became lost in thought. The Scouts sensed that he was seriously considering making practical use of the map they had turned over to him. “Y’ know, except for one thing, I’d start for Headless Hollow at the drop of a hat,” the rancher suddenly announced, leaning on the rail fence. “I could get away from here for a week—” “What’s that one thing holding you up?” Jack asked curiously, though he thought he could guess the answer. “I know better than to go alone.” “Maybe you won’t have to,” Jack drawled. For a minute, the other Scouts were mystified by his remark. Then, following his gaze, they saw that a car was coming up the winding dirt road toward the ranch. It was a rented taxi. A lone male passenger sat beside the driver. By this time, the car was close enough for the Scouts to make out the general outline of the man’s face. The visitor was Jarrett Walz. |
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