  Heartsick, Jack, Craig Warner, and Hap Livingston trudged back to the cabin. Ken, too, had seen the plane from the woods where he had been gathering a few edible berries. He reported that it had not come close enough to the clearing for him to signal. “What made it turn back?” he grieved. “Surely the lake makes a sizable landmark.” “It may not have been the Forest Service plane,” said Warner. “Something’s wrong,” Mr. Livingston declared. “Warwick and Willie may have had trouble getting through. If anything happened to them—well, I’ll always blame myself for letting them go off alone.” “They’ve made it by now,” Jack said. However, he spoke with more confidence than he felt. War’s condition had not been the best, and it was quite possible he had fallen ill on the trail. Resolutely, he put the matter from his mind. There was enough to worry about as it was, he told himself. “Any visitors while we were away?” he asked Ken as the group walked to the cabin. “Only a bear. He didn’t stick around long when he found there was no food.” “Walz?” “Not a glimpse of him.” “He’s hidden out in a canyon somewhere,” Jack guessed. “He may give us trouble yet—especially if we should find the gold before he does.” “Not much chance of that,” Ken replied. “In fact, I’m beginning to think Stony dreamed up that gold. The valley’s real enough, but that cache may have been all fancy.” Jack made no answer. Weary, hungry, and discouraged, he too wondered if the trip to Headless Hollow might not have been a mistake. However, he had no intention of saying so. Fetching water from the lake, he went into the cabin and flung himself onto the bed of boughs. Despite his weariness, he did not lie there long. Something which was propped against the fireplace drew his gaze. He rolled off the bed and went over to pick it up. It was a long strip of bark, and on the inside surface a message had been printed in uneven charcoal letters. “GIT OUT OF THIS HEAR VALLEY BEFOR IT IS TOO LATE.” Jack carried it outside to show to the others. “Walz never left this,” he said. “That fellow who tried to smoke us out last night must have printed it.” “He’s an unfriendly coot,” Warner observed. “It’s a mystery how he manages to live here.” Ken said he had seen no one near the cabin while the others had been searching for the caches. Nevertheless, he had been absent himself for half an hour. It was during this period, they decided, that the fellow had sneaked out of the woods to leave the warning message. After another frugal meal of fish and berries, everyone except Warner turned in for the night. He insisted upon keeping watch until midnight. At that hour, Mr. Livingston relieved him. It was nearing dawn when Jack awoke to see the Scout leader dozing by the fire. “It’s my turn now,” he volunteered. Mr. Livingston reluctantly permitted him to take over the watch. Jack sat a while with only his dreary thoughts for company. In his mind’s eye, he tried to reconstruct the treasure map as first he had seen it in Rocking Horse. Definitely, he recalled that the two caches of gold had been close to each other at the mouth of a ravine. But the years might have wrought changes in the terrain. Wind and rain and rock slides could have altered the area. For that matter, with the valley inhabited, might not the gold long ago have been removed? Jack’s thoughts rambled back to his last talk with Stony in the hospital. Then he had seriously doubted that the prospector had found gold in this remote valley. Now that he was here, he had gradually begun to believe that the tale had been true. The grave and marker with John Warner’s name indicated that Stony had indeed lost his partner in Headless Hollow. Mystery still shrouded the death. Restlessly, Jack rose and walked to the window. The sky was beginning to lighten. Very soon the sun would be up. He built up the fire. Noticing that the supply of wood was low, he took the axe and went for more. He chopped a dead jackpine, stacking the pieces near the cabin door. As he went down to the lake for water, he thought he heard mocking laughter from amid the willows. But he could see no one, and when he halted to listen, there was no further sound. He continued to the water’s edge and stooped to fill the vessel. Some instinct warned him. He still had heard no sound but, without knowing why, he whirled suddenly. A dark figure loomed behind him. He caught a blurred impression of an aged face as he ducked. A heavy object struck him a glancing blow on the side of his head. Senses reeling, he staggered crazily backward into the water as wild laughter rang in his ears. Dazed as he was, he realized his opponent had struck him with the butt of Warner’s stolen gun. And now the crazed fellow was pointing it at him, laughing idiotically! Off balance from the stunning blow, Jack let himself collapse into the lake. Then, fearful his assailant would fire, or hurl a rock at him if he emerged, he dived deeper. Holding his breath, he went down into the chilly depths until he struck sand, and then he swam underwater. When his lungs screamed for air, he cautiously rose to the surface. Raising his nose and mouth just above water, he gazed toward shore. At first the wild creature who had assaulted him so viciously was nowhere to be seen. But as Jack scanned the shore, he saw the dark figure retreating as stealthily as he had come. He was a bent, twisted man who moved with cat-like tread over the rocks toward a distant ravine. Scrambling out on shore, Jack ran to the cabin. He met Craig Warner, who only that moment had dressed. “You fell in the lake!” Warner exclaimed, staring at him. Jack related what had happened and added: “The fellow who attacked me is as crazy as this mountain! He headed for the far ravine.” “I’m going after him,” Warner said. Jack would not allow the rancher to trail the old man alone. Without taking time to change his wet clothes, he guided Warner in the direction his attacker had taken. The sky was rapidly brightening. At the edge of the ravine they caught their first glimpse of the old man. He wore moccasins and moved with amazing swiftness over the rough terrain. “Unless I’m mistaken, he’ll lead us to Old Stony’s gold,” Warner whispered. “Our best bet is to keep out of sight.” Agile as a monkey, the old fellow scrambled over the rocks with the energy of a much younger man. He came at last, as the rancher predicted, to a pit opening that was covered by brush. Not even glancing about, the man pulled the debris aside and dropped out of view. “It’s a mine, all right,” Warner declared as he and Jack crouched behind the bushes, waiting. “Stony’s caches of ore must be somewhere close,” Jack whispered. Warner nodded. “Probably, unless this daffy old fellow has moved them. He has certainly been living here a long while, Jack.” By this time the sun was up, and Jack’s wet clothing had begun to dry a little. But he remained cold, uncomfortable, and drowsy. He craved action. “Shouldn’t we try to find out what’s doing down in that mine?” he urged. “Patience, Jack.” “He may stay down in that hole all day!” “He’ll come out sooner or later. We’d be crazy to go after him, Jack. Remember, he has a gun.” “I know,” Jack conceded with a sigh. “It’s hard to wait, though. What’s he doing down there, anyhow? Counting his gold?” “Digging it, more than likely.” Jack’s tired eyes sparkled. “You think we’ve stumbled onto Old Stony’s source of gold?” “We’ve found something,” Warner grunted. “But don’t forget, Colorado is thick with abandoned mines—most of ’em worthless.” As the sun rose higher, Jack became convinced the old fellow would never reappear. He was half asleep, when Warner unexpectedly nudged him. Then he came awake with a start. The old man could be seen backing awkwardly out of the pit hole. In the bright daylight, he looked like a grotesque creature with long, windblown white hair and a straggling, dirty-white beard. But Jack was not inclined to chuckle. The old fellow had an intensity of purpose which was frightening. He was chattering to himself, but the only word the listening pair could distinguish was: “Gold.” Then, as they watched, the old man turned his half-glazed eyes toward the bush where they crouched. In that instant Warner obtained his first direct look at the withered, weather-tanned face. “Well, what d’you know!” he whispered. “It’s Joe Hansart!” |
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