  For some minutes, Craig Warner studied the ghost town below the Scout camp. “I don’t see anyone,” he told Jack. “Sure you saw a man?” “I’m certain.” “And he had a white beard?” “Well, I thought so,” Jack replied. “It’s getting dark, though. I suppose I could have been mistaken.” “It may have been Walz,” the rancher decided, lowering the field glass. That night, there was little talk over the camp fire. The Scouts were tired, especially Warwick and Willie, and everyone turned in the minute the work was done. They used fir boughs for beds, but even so the hard rock shelf was so uncomfortable that Jack slept fitfully. His legs hurt from the long, hard climb. His back ached, too. No matter how he adjusted himself, the cold night air seemed to hit him. He could hear Willie and War moaning and tossing not far away. Of the Explorers, only Ken appeared to be getting a sound night’s sleep. Jack was up at dawn, ready to help Craig Warner build the fire and start breakfast. Cups of strong black coffee, oatmeal, and pancakes made everyone feel better and revived zest for the adventure. While the Scouts fixed their packs, Mr. Livingston and the rancher carefully went over the contour map. “We’ll swing down to the old ghost town,” Warner decided. “Then we’ll have a hard climb to the pass which leads into the Headless Hollow area. We may not be lucky enough to find a way through.” “That’s where Walz has the advantage of us,” Mr. Livingston replied. “The map he has probably shows the way.” Since the Scouts had caught no glimpse of Walz and his guide, they had begun to wonder if they were following a phantom trail. “I’d like to catch up with Walz,” the rancher said. “I sure would. But if we miss him, it may save us a lot of trouble.” “In any case, you’ll push on to the Hollow?” Ken asked hopefully. “I want to. Since we’ve come this far, we may as well have a look at that valley. This may be our only chance.” The decision pleased the Scouts. Tired though they were, the hard climb was a challenge. Besides, they felt they never would be satisfied until they learned whether or not Old Stony’s tale of the valley was true. With the distant ghost town as the immediate objective, the party soon started the sharp descent. “Keep close together, boys,” Warner warned. “We don’t want to start any rock slides.” The footing was slippery. Twice War, who had not balanced his horseshoe pack well that morning, stumbled and would have fallen if Jack had not seized his arm. “Careful,” the rancher warned again. “A broken leg or even a sprained ankle could be a serious matter, now that we’re so far from help.” As they continued, Jack saw the rancher glance frequently at the younger boys. War was a fairly new member of the Explorers and not so well seasoned as the others to withstand hardships. Jack himself wondered if War would be able to hold out. At noon, the party stopped briefly by a stream, to drink and refill canteens. While the others rested, Warner whipped the pools with his fly rod and brought in four handsome trout for the meal. The halt refreshed War only for a while. Soon it was apparent that he was beginning to falter. Warner, who was leading, slowed his pace but, even so, both War and Willie trailed. It was a relief when finally, hours later, the party trudged into the old ghost town which had been built hard against the shadowy mountainside. The silence of the place was almost oppressive. Dropping his pack, Jack stared at the unpainted wooden buildings which had fallen into decay. The two that were made of stone and brick were in somewhat better condition. The row of old, deserted cabins gave him an eerie, uneasy feeling. He wandered into one of the musty buildings. Suddenly he heard Ken call. Stepping outside, he saw his friend in the doorway of the best-preserved building. “Come here,” Ken urged. Jack went quickly across the empty, dusty street. “This is no ghost town,” Ken said in a low tone. “What d’ you mean, Ken?” “I’ll show you.” Ken led inside to the stone-and-clay fireplace where ashes lay deep on the hearth. Beside the fireplace was a pile of neatly stacked wood. “Feel those ashes,” Ken directed. There was no need for Jack to do so for, when he stirred them with the toe of his boot, they gave off a thread of smoke. “Someone’s been here!” Ken announced. “In the last few hours, too.” “Then I was right!” “What d’you mean, right?” “Last night I was sure I saw someone through the field glass.” “You didn’t mention it.” “I did to Craig Warner. He thought I was mistaken, or that perhaps it was Walz.” “Someone had a fire here in the last few hours,” Ken said reflectively. “Did you see smoke rising?” Jack shook his head. “Maybe it was Walz with his guide,” Ken decided, frowning. “Probably they camped here last night.” “It wasn’t Walz,” Jack insisted. “And I don’t think the fellow I saw through the field glass was his guide, either.” “Who else could it be?” “Stony’s ghost maybe,” Jack said, chuckling. Then he sobered. “Guess we should warn the fellows. Someone might be prowling around here even now.” “What you’re suggesting is sort of fantastic,” Ken protested. “This ghost town is out of the way. Why would anyone except Walz come here?” “Maybe word has leaked out about Stony’s cache of gold.” “Whoever it is, he’s been here for quite a while, Jack. Not just overnight.” His gaze sharpened by Ken’s remark, Jack made a more minute inspection of the room. He saw a pile of empty tin cans, a clear indication that someone had eaten many meals here. Match stubs were scattered on the floor. The rotted boards, too, had been tracked heavily with mud, that was now dry. Disturbed by their discovery, Ken and Jack went to warn the others. By this time, however, the Scouts had wandered through every building in the little town without seeing anyone. “If anyone was here, he’s gone now,” Willie remarked, unworried. Mr. Warner was inclined to think a prospector searching for uranium might have chanced that way. He seemed untroubled, so Jack and Ken decided they probably were making too much of the matter. No more was said. Of far more concern was War’s state of weariness. Though he made no complaint and stubbornly insisted he felt able to go on, everyone could see that his strength had been overtaxed. After a quiet talk, Mr. Livingston and the rancher decided to make camp at the ghost town. “You’re stopping because of me,” War protested. “I can make it okay.” “We’re all tired,” Warner told him. “From here on, the climb will be rugged. No use killing ourselves.” “I’ll feel fine by morning,” War declared, plainly relieved that the party would not press on at once. “All I need is a good night’s rest.” Preferring to sleep under the stars, the Scouts set their camp in a sheltered spot at the edge of the empty little village. That night, around the camp fire Warner told the boys of the old Colorado boom days when mining towns had flourished. “Nearly all of the old camps have shriveled and fallen into decay,” he said. “Some have become tourist attractions. Not this place, because it is inaccessible except to a hardy climber.” War was the first to turn in for the night, and the others prepared to follow. Jack stood a moment, staring up at the jagged mountain peaks. Their way on the morrow lay amid a tumbled mass of rocks and pinnacles, with ridges running in several directions. Would Warner be able to find the pass? Unnoticed, Mr. Livingston came up behind him. “A penny for your thoughts, Jack.” “They’re worth less. I was thinking we’re in for a real test tomorrow.” “We are,” the Scout leader agreed, “and, frankly, I’m worried about War.” “His condition?” “Yes. He has determination and nerve, but he’s not up to a trip as hard as this one.” “What can we do?” “Nothing except make it as easy as we can for him. Warner and I will lighten his pack tomorrow. We can’t cache any of the food, because we’re likely to run short as it is.” On the mountainside the night was bitterly cold. Nevertheless, everyone slept soundly until dawn. |
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