Far above them, on the high cliffs, they saw two struggling men.(See [page 200])
BOY SCOUT EXPLORERS
AT HEADLESS HOLLOW
By
DON PALMER
ILLUSTRATED
CUPPLES AND LEON COMPANY
Publishers New York
Copyright, 1957, by
CUPPLES AND LEON COMPANY
All Rights Reserved
Printed in the United States of America
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE 1 [Old Stony] 9 2 [Trouble in Camp] 21 3 [The Treasure Map] 30 4 [A Bag of Beans] 37 5 [The Search] 46 6 [The Threat] 54 7 [Under the Tent Flap] 62 8 [Walz’ Proposition] 72 9 [Short Cut] 81 10 [Trickery] 90 11 [Cloud Crest Ranch] 98 12 [An Unexpected Visitor] 105 13 [Thief in the Night] 113 14 [Ghost Town] 122 15 [Warm Ashes] 131 16 [Missing Supplies] 139 17 [Avalanche] 146 18 [Dead End] 152 19 [The Cabin] 161 20 [The Plane] 169 21 [The Enemy] 177 22 [Trapped] 185 23 [Escape] 192 24 [A Fight] 200 25 [Rendezvous] 211
Chapter 1
OLD STONY
The road wound through spike pines which stood silhouetted in the fading daylight.
Long, empty miles lay behind the weary travelers since they had left Philmont Boy Scout Ranch in the New Mexico Rockies. More miles stretched endlessly ahead.
“Hey, when do we stop for grub? This air sure gives a guy a whale of an appetite!”
“War” Washburn, a skinny, freckled youngster, rode with feet dangling out the car window. His question was shot at their driver, Hap Livingston, leader of Boy Scout Explorer Post 21 of Belton City.
Mr. Livingston and the four explorers were returning to their home state after twelve days of rugged fun at the Boy Scout ranch. They had hoped to reach the Colorado border by nightfall, but now that seemed impossible.
“Yeah,” piped up tow-headed Willie Medaugh. “What say we start looking for a camp site? It’s going to get dark early tonight.”
The fifteen-year-old sat wedged in the back seat of the sedan between Jack Hartwell and Ken Dougherty, the two more serious members of the husky Scout crew.
“Okay, boys,” Mr. Livingston agreed. “We’ve had a hard drive, and I’m ready to hit the sack—since you insist.”
Already Jack was consulting the road map. “Nearest town is Rocking Horse, eight miles ahead,” he reported.
“We’ll stop there,” the Scout leader decided. “If we can find a camp site with all the comforts of home, I’m for taking it.”
“Why, Hap!” Ken drawled. “Can’t stand the gaff any more?”
The question was asked in jest. As the four explorers knew well, their leader, a former FBI man, could stand up under grueling physical punishment. This he had proven during recent adventure trips to Peru and Emerald Valley in Colombia.
“I feel sort of lazy tonight,” Hap confessed. “Riding herd over War at Philmont must have worn me out.”
“Dragging him away from the ranch was the hardest,” Jack recalled, his blue eyes twinkling.
“Well, there was so much to do,” War defended himself. “I wanted to make another pack trip on the trail Kit Carson once rode. And I wanted to visit the old mine.”
From his shirt pocket he pulled out a handkerchief in which were wrapped several bits of sparkling rock.
“Still hoarding that junk?” Ken asked with a grin.
“Junk! Just see it shine in the sunlight!”
Ken pretended to cover his eyes. “The glow blinds me!” he chuckled.
“Well, it’s genuine gold,” War said indignantly. “I panned it at Philmont.”
“Sure, we know,” drawled Willie. “You’ve told us at least twenty times.”
“That rare specimen of yours should assay about 1/800ths of a cent to the ton!” Jack teased.
“Anyway, it was fun panning it.”
“Everything at Philmont was fun,” Jack declared.
“Seeing deer, elk, and bear in natural surroundings. Learning how to climb and handle an axe. Instruction in fire building and cooking. But now it’s behind us.”
“And Rocking Horse is ahead,” reminded Mr. Livingston. “Save the arguments, lads. You’ll need your energy for making camp.”
The Scouts took the hint and fell silent. True, everyone would have enjoyed another two weeks in the West, but money was dwindling. So, laden with souvenirs and happy memories, they were now on the way home.
Presently the dusty car pulled into Rocking Horse. The city, with a cluster of adobe houses at the outskirts, appeared to have not more than about eight thousand residents. After inquiry at a filling station, Mr. Livingston drove to a motel and camp site at the city’s northern edge.
Few cars were parked near the tiny office on the roadside. The reason for the comparative desertion was immediately apparent to the Scouts, for the motel buildings were run-down and in need of paint. The pine grove and camp site at the rear did not look too attractive, either.
“How about it, boys?” Mr. Livingston asked doubtfully.
“Oh, it may not be so bad,” Jack replied. “We’re all tired, so let’s hole in.”
The others agreed. Accordingly, Mr. Livingston drove up close to the office. He and Jack went inside to register for the group.
An old man who wore a soiled Stetson hat sat tipped back comfortably in a chair. His big heavy boots came down from the desk, and he squinted at them with watery blue eyes which were bright and sharp.
“Howdy!”
Mr. Livingston returned the hearty greeting and inquired about a camp site.
“Sure, we’ve got plenty o’ room for you,” the old man replied. He dug into the old-fashioned roll-top desk for a registry book. “How many in your party?”
“Five. We won’t need a cabin—only space for our two tents.”
“That’ll cost you two bucks for the night.” The old man thrust a pen at the Scout leader. All the while, he was studying Jack’s green uniform with the “BSA” strip over the right shirt pocket.
“Here in Rocking Horse we don’t ask a man where’s he going, or where he’s been,” he drawled. “But danged if I’m not curious about that BSA on your pocket. Reckon it means Better Stay Away.”
“It stands for Boy Scouts of America,” Jack explained. “Are you the motel owner?”
“Not me.” The old man stretched out a calloused hand to take the two dollar bills Mr. Livingston offered. “These diggin’s are owned by a hard-fisted hombre by the name o’ Jarrett Walz.”
“You don’t like him?” Mr. Livingston asked, mildly amused at the old-timer.
“Didn’t say so, did I? Walz gives me my grub and a cabin for lookin’ after this place. When you’re pushing eighty and have a bad ticker, you’re not too particular.”
Jack and Mr. Livingston regarded the old man with new interest and respect. Despite shaggy white hair and a weather-beaten face, he did not look more than seventy, for his muscles were firm and his stooping shoulders were powerful.
“My name’s Stony,” the old man volunteered. “I’ll show you where to park.”
Shuffling out of the office, he directed them to the rear of the deep lot.
Old Stony loitered to watch as the Scouts efficiently set about unloading equipment and setting up their tents.
“Nested cooking pans and sleeping bags!” he cackled. “In my day, we used a lard pail and our own backs for a mattress. Anything you’ll be wanting?”
“Nothing, thank you,” Jack assured him.
Old Stony started to leave. Then he halted, hesitated, and said: “See that little cabin yonder? That’s where I flop. It gets kind o’ lonesome sittin’ there alone at night, so if you boys have nothing to do later on, drop by and we can chin.”
“Fine!” Jack agreed.
“I’ll bet you could spin some real tales of the Old West,” War interposed eagerly. “Were you a cow-puncher?”
“You wouldn’t catch me herding beef,” Old Stony said in disgust. “I was a prospector. If it hadn’t been for a bad run o’ luck, I’d own this joint instead o’ taking orders from Walz.”
“You nearly struck it rich?” War prodded.
“Dang it!” Old Stony snorted. “I hit gold—enough to put me on Easy Street for the rest o’ my days. Only—”
A melancholy, dreamy look crept over the old fellow’s leathery face, and his gaze became fixed upon the faraway mountains. For a long moment he seemed lost in the memory of a colorful past. Then, with a shake of his head, he broke up his reverie.
“Maybe I’ll tell you about it tonight,” he hinted. “Then again, maybe I won’t. Anyway, drop around.”
After Old Stony had gone, the Explorers got a fire started and made supper. Over the bacon and eggs, they discussed him and his invitation to drop around later at his cabin. Willie was sure it would be a waste of time, but the other Explorers wanted to go, especially War.
“That old boy will tell us about his prospecting days if we prime him right,” he insisted, stirring the camp fire.
“Sure, he’ll spin a wild tale of finding gold,” jeered Willie, “and you’ll fall for it!”
Meeting Old Stony had made the Scouts forget their weariness. They thought it would be interesting to chat with the aged camp worker. Accordingly, after the supper dishes were put away, War, Ken, and Jack went over to his cabin. It was a mild August night, and the cabin door stood open.
At Jack’s knock, the prospector’s deep voice boomed: “Come in!”
The interior of the one-room cabin was cheerless except for a small fire in the grate. It was furnished with a makeshift bed, a cracked mirror, a chest of drawers, and an old rocker.
“Sit down,” Old Stony invited, waving them to a seat on the sagging bed.
The boys could not fail to respond to the old fellow’s warmth and hospitality. Sensing his loneliness, they told him of their stay at the Scout ranch and then launched into an account of their previous exciting trips to Peru and Colombia.
“You’re not like the regular run o’ tourists that come through here,” Old Stony said, lighting his pipe. “Right off, when I saw you make camp I knew you weren’t softies.”
“How long have you lived in Rocking Horse?” War asked.
“Too long. But I reckon I’m stuck here until I hit the Long Trail. When I head for that last roundup—and it’s not so far off now—I reckon my secret will die with me.”
“Your secret?” Ken repeated, sensing that the old man was ready to launch into his tale.
“Yup. There are men who would give their lives to know what I got locked here.” Old Stony tapped his hairy chest. “Jarrett Walz in particular.”
War leaned forward on the bed. “A secret about gold?”
Old Stony hitched his rocker nearer the fire. Without looking at the Explorers, he began:
“Back in the early 1900’s my podner and I made our lucky strike.”
“Here in New Mexico?” asked Jack.
“No, in Colorado. My podner and I were lured West by the Shining Mountains—the Rockies, folks call ’em.”
“But weren’t the big Colorado gold strikes earlier than 1900?” Ken interposed thoughtfully. “I’ve read about Leadville and Cripple Creek in 1891—”
The interruption annoyed Old Stony. “This place I’m telling you about you’ve never read of,” he said, “and you never will because it’s a place hard to reach even today. My podner and I gave it the name of Headless Hollow.
“There’s a way in if you know the trail and can stand hardships. There’s no way out except the way in. It’s in an out-of-the way valley, rimmed by canyons, hard by a little lake no bigger’n a tin cup. To get there you back-pack over miles o’ rock so steep it makes me dizzy to think of ’em.”
“But you found gold?” prompted War.
“Ay, we found it, and a heap o’ trouble. Here, let me show you something.”
Abruptly Old Stony dug a polished nugget from his pants pocket. Even in the poor lamplight, the color of gold was there.
“Wow!” War exclaimed, breathing heavily. “That makes my sample look like peanuts.”
“This nugget came from Headless Hollow?” Jack asked, relishing the old man’s tale.
Stony sucked at his pipe as he carefully replaced the metal in his wrinkled overalls.
Without answering, he resumed: “I was a young fellow in those days, strong as an ox. If it wasn’t for my bad heart and some other things, I’d go back there now and make my fortune.”
“Where is this valley of gold?”
“I can’t tell you, son. But there are men who would pay me well to know my secret.”
“If you found gold,” Jack asked, “why did you leave the valley?”
“Don’t ask me that question, son. My past is my own and, God willing, it will die with me.”
The old man turned suddenly in his rocking chair.
Unnoticed by the Explorers, a tall man in his thirties, with a rock-like, expressionless face, had come to the open doorway. Ignoring the Scouts, he spoke directly to Stony.
“Crawl out, you lazy old buzzard! The man in No. 4 wants fresh towels.”
Stony got heavily from his chair. He made no answer, but the sparkle of life had vanished from his ruddy face.
Ill at ease, the Explorers started to leave. As if by design, the motel owner walked with them a short distance toward their camp.
“Old Stony spinning wild yarns again?” he demanded.
“He was telling us about striking gold when he was a young man,” War volunteered.
“I suppose he let you into the secret of where his precious map is hidden?”
“Why, no,” Jack spoke up. “Does he have a map?”
Jarrett Walz gave a snort. “That old goat is all talk. Everything he has, even the clothes on his back, comes from me. In exchange he gives me laziness and lies!”
“Lies?”
“The old fool says I am after his gold. I figure he was giving you a line of chatter when I came up.”
“You weren’t under discussion,” Jack said dryly.
“What did he tell you about his wonderful valley?”
“Not much.”
“Leaving tomorrow?”
“We expect to.”
“That’s okay, then.” The motel owner seemed suddenly relieved. “If Old Stony bothers you again, call me. Good night now, and good rest.”
Chapter 2
TROUBLE IN CAMP
Cold night air seeped through the tent walls. Jack Hartwell stirred restlessly in his sleeping bag and sat up. What had awakened him? Beside him, Ken and Willie were dead to the world. All was quiet.
Annoyed at himself, Jack got up and opened the tent flap. A few stars were winking, but otherwise it was a dark night. It might be two A.M. or thereabouts, he judged. There was no sign of anyone around the camp, yet distinctly he sensed that something was wrong.
It was not the first time Jack’s instincts had acted as an alarm clock. The high school senior and Explorer crew leader was gifted with high intelligence and a certain intuition which had repeatedly saved him or his friends from near disaster.
Jack had proven himself the most valuable of the Explorers during the exciting adventure trips to South America which have been described in The Boy Scout Explorers at Treasure Mountain, and The Boy Scout Explorers at Emerald Valley. On this particular occasion, only the four tried-and-true Explorers had made the trip to Philmont Scout Ranch at Cimarron, New Mexico. In Belton City, however, they were associated with a large and active troop.
As Jack stood shivering in the chill night air, his ears picked up a disturbing sound. The noise, a series of thuds, and a groan, seemed to come from the direction of Old Stony’s cabin.
Jack did not hesitate. Diving back into the tent, he reached for trousers and shoes. By this time, Ken was awake and drowsily asked what was wrong.
“Something’s doing at Stony’s cabin,” Jack told him tersely. “I’m going to find out about it.”
Ken came fully awake in a flash. Asking no further questions, he too began to dress hurriedly. Willie slumbered peacefully on.
Once dressed, Jack and Ken started at a fast trot toward the cabin.
“What made you think anything’s wrong?” Ken demanded.
Before Jack could tell him, they both saw a light flash on and off in the cabin. Then the door opened, and a man ran out. In the darkness, the two Explorers gained only a general impression of someone tall and shadowy. His face was turned away from them, and he moved fast. They saw him dart past the unlighted motel office and into an alley.
“That wasn’t Old Stony!” Ken gasped.
“No!”
The Scouts crossed the driveway and shoved open the cabin door. Jack found the light switch. As the room became illuminated, he and Ken both stiffened in horror.
Old Stony, his bed unmade, was sprawling on the floor, bleeding from a forehead wound. The aged man was moaning piteously. For just an instant Ken and Jack thought he had suffered a stroke and fallen. But the evidence convinced them otherwise. Even if they had not seen the fleeing intruder, the condition of the cabin would have told its graphic story. Drawers had been overturned. Old Stony’s few pathetic possessions were scattered on the bare floor.
“Robbery,” was Jack’s only comment.
Without attempting to lift the old man from the floor, they quickly examined his wound. It did not seem deep. However, the old man was certainly in a state of shock.
“Get Hap and our first-aid kit,” Jack directed Ken. “Better call a doctor, too. Stony’s an old fellow, and he has a heart condition.”
Ken hurried away. Left alone, Jack covered Stony with a blanket and pillowed his head. He was turning away to look for something he could use for a temporary bandage, when the old man’s lips began to move.
Jack bent closer. “Who was it that hit you?” he asked.
“Don’t know,” the old fellow mumbled. “Woke up—the skunk was pawing through my things. I yelled at him, and then he hit me on the skull. Last I knew for a while.”
“You didn’t see his face?”
“No,” Old Stony admitted in disgust.
“Whoever it was must have meant to rob you.”
“The thieving rascal was after my gold and the map.”
Over Jack’s protests, Old Stony raised himself up on an elbow. His gaze raked the entire cabin from the fireplace to the bed. What he saw seemed to satisfy him, for he gave a feeble, throaty chuckle.
“The skunk didn’t get what he was after! Old Stony is nobody’s fool. Young fellow, if you’ll help me, I’ll get back into bed.”
“You shouldn’t move,” Jack warned him. “The doctor will be here in a few minutes.”
“Doctor, fiddlesticks! It takes more’n a little tap on the head to knock out Old Stony.”
Because the aged man was not to be denied, Jack helped him into bed, but he was alarmed at the prospector’s pallor and weakness.
“I’m all right,” Stony mumbled. “Thank you, son.”
It was increasingly clear to Jack that the old man was not all right, so he was greatly relieved when Ken came back with Mr. Livingston, Willie, and War.
One glance at the man on the bed, and the Scout leader drew Ken aside.
“He seems to be in bad shape,” he said. “Go for a doctor, and tell him to hurry.”
While Ken was carrying out the order, the other Scouts dressed Stony’s wound. He made no further attempt to talk, but now and then managed to grin at them in a feeble way.
Jack and Willie made a fast tour of the motel grounds. However, it did not surprise them that they found no trace of the man who had so brutally attacked the cabin dweller.
“Whoever he is, he’ll be a mile from here by now,” Jack remarked as they walked back. “No question about it, theft was the motive.”
“The old man’s gold and map?”
“Right.”
“You think there is any gold?” Willie asked skeptically.
“Last night I didn’t,” Jack replied thoughtfully. “Now I’m not so sure. Old Stony certainly acted as if he had something valuable hidden in the cabin, and apparently it’s still there.”
“The thief was probably frightened away before he finished his search.”
“Either that, or he was scared, Willie. He may have hit Old Stony harder than he intended.”
Back in the cabin the boys found that Jarrett Walz had come from his nearby home to check on the activity. Informed by Mr. Livingston as to what had happened, he made no attempt to hide his annoyance.
“Now I suppose Stony will insist on lying in bed for a week!” he snapped.
“That’s for the doctor to decide,” Mr. Livingston rejoined.
“You’ve sent for a doctor?” the motel owner fairly screamed.
“We have.”
“And I’m to pay the bill?”
“It would be a humanitarian thing to do. Stony needs a doctor. No question about that.”
For the first time, Mr. Walz seemed concerned about his worker’s condition. He went over to the bed, peering intently at the colorless face. After a moment, he turned away and made no further protest about the doctor.
It was twenty minutes later when Dr. James Alcott reached the cabin. He checked Stony’s heart, examined the wound, and then told Mr. Walz to call an ambulance.
“An ambulance?” the motel owner repeated. “You don’t mean he’s bad off? Just from that little tap on the head?”
“It was a hard blow,” the doctor corrected him. “At the hospital we’ll take X-rays to see if there is a skull fracture. I rather doubt it, but in any case this man needs careful attention. How old is he?”
“Eighty-two,” Walz said. “At least, that’s what he claims.”
“He has a serious heart condition. At his age, a shock such as this could be very hard on him.”
“Doc, you don’t think he’ll die?” Walz gasped.
“His good physique is in his favor. I’d suggest, though, that you lose no time getting in touch with relatives.”
“Relatives? He has none that I ever heard of.”
The motel owner was plainly worried. Nervously, he paced back and forth in the cabin, not offering to help when Jack and Ken gathered together the few things which Stony would need at the hospital.
It was 3:30 A.M. by War’s watch when an ambulance pulled into the parking lot. Two attendants with a stretcher efficiently transferred Stony from his bed to their vehicle. Jarrett Walz did not offer to ride in the ambulance. Unwilling to see the old man taken without anyone to sit by him, Jack and Ken climbed in. Mr. Livingston, War, and Willie followed the ambulance in their own car.
At the hospital, matters were taken from the Scouts’ hands. Old Stony was passed through emergency and given a ward bed. Meanwhile, Mr. Livingston signed papers at the hospital office and provided what little information he could about the attack.
“Walz should have come along,” the Scout leader remarked to Jack. “I figure he stayed away for fear he’d be hooked on the bill. How is Stony?”
“No report yet,” Jack replied. “But when I looked in on him a minute ago, he was resting comfortably.”
“He didn’t tell you anything more about his attacker?”
“Stony didn’t say a word. In fact, he hardly recognized me.”
With a shake of his head, Mr. Livingston indicated that the information was disturbing. After a moment, he said: “Well, round up Warwick, Willie, and Ken. We’ve done everything we can for the poor old fellow. May as well get back to camp and try to catch a few winks before dawn.”
In sober silence the Scouts drove back to the motel. A light was on—in the front office, but Mr. Walz was not there.
“There’s a light in Stony’s cabin, too,” Jack noted as the car turned into the driveway. “That’s funny! I distinctly recall turning it off after everyone left.”
“That’s right, you did!” Ken exclaimed.
No one spoke for a moment as the same thought occurred to all: Stony’s mysterious attacker might have returned!
Mr. Livingston stopped the car and switched off the ignition.
“Come on, boys,” he said grimly, heading for the cabin. “We’ll find out about this!”
Chapter 3
THE TREASURE MAP
At the doorway of Old Stony’s cabin, Mr. Livingston and the Scouts halted. Inside, crouching on the floor, a man was riffling through a box of papers, evidently pulled from beneath the bed.
It was Jarrett Walz.
Mr. Livingston coughed. At once the motel owner whirled around. Caught by surprise, he lost his balance and collapsed awkwardly on the floor.
“Oh, back already?” he asked.
“We didn’t expect to find you here,” Mr. Livingston said pointedly.
Mr. Walz got to his feet. He shoved the box of papers back under the bed and said, “I was just looking through some of poor Old Stony’s junk.”
“So we noticed,” the Scout leader answered dryly. “Find what you were after?”
Walz gave him a quick, suspicious look. He said evenly, “I was trying to find the names of any relatives Old Stony may have.”
“Any luck?”
“None.”
“Not a single clue?” Jack interposed dubiously. “Old Stony must have had a few friends.”
“No one—unless maybe you could say he kept up a writing acquaintance with Craig Warner.”
“Who’s he?”
The motel owner shrugged. “Someone he wrote to in Colorado. A casual acquaintance, I guess.”
“Stony didn’t seem the type to bother with trivial friendships,” Jack commented. “Did he come from Colorado?”
“Stony must have told you that much himself,” Walz retorted, making no attempt to hide his growing distaste for the conversation.
“We don’t mean to be inquisitive,” interposed Mr. Livingston smoothly. “However, it’s rather important to know something of Stony’s past. What was his last name?”
“Who knows? When he came here, he told me his name was John Stone. That’s how he got his nickname, Old Stony. Later, he said his name was Adams. And once he told me it was Pickering. So take your choice.”
“He must have had something to hide.”
“Old Stony ran away from a past. I suspected that when I hired him.” Walz laughed without mirth. “He was afraid to set foot over the Colorado line, so I figured he was wanted for something in that state.”
“He kept it a secret?”
“Old Stony never told me anything. Nothing, that is, except wild yarns. The truth is, he disliked me and was ungrateful for all I did to help him.”
“Well, he’s in a bad spot at the moment,” Mr. Livingston said. “Any idea who might have attacked him?”
“Not the slightest.”
“The motive?”
“Oh, I figure some hoodlum put faith in Stony’s story of having gold or a map to a gold mine. Trouble with him, he couldn’t keep his lips from wagging. He invited the attack.”
“You’ve reported it to the police?”
Walz frowned. “Why, no. Figured it was none of their business.”
“It’s customary, isn’t it, to report an assault and an attempted theft?”
“Not in Rocking Horse it isn’t,” Walz said shortly. “A police investigation here wouldn’t mean a thing. Far as I’m concerned, Stony will have to do the reporting, if any is done.”
“That may not be possible.”
“Oh, he’ll snap out of it,” Walz said carelessly. “That old boy has a constitution like iron.”
“I hope you’re right. Just what can you tell us about Stony?”
Walz edged toward the door. Plainly, he wanted to put an end to the questions. But he replied: “I told you about all I know. He drifted into this town like a tumbleweed some years ago. I gave him a job—his board and room in return for looking after the cabins.”
“He never told you much about himself?” Ken inquired.
“Oh, he talked enough, but always he handed out lies. The old coot was suspicious by nature. Why, he became obsessed with the idea I wanted to rob him of his gold and the map!”
“He did show us a nugget last night,” War said. “A big one.”
“Oh, that!”
“Wasn’t it real gold?” War asked in disappointment.
“It’s gold, all right. But you can bet Old Stony never dug it from a mine or washed it from a creek.”
“By the way, I wonder what became of that nugget?” Jack asked. “Old Stony had it wrapped in a handkerchief last night.”
“I have the nugget.” Walz made the admission half defiantly. “Old Stony sets great store by it. I figured I’d better take it before someone went off with it. Tomorrow I’ll drop it around to him at the hospital.”
The Scouts had their own opinion of the motel owner’s motive in taking the nugget. However, they could not accuse him.
Jack did say, “Find any other nuggets?”
“Nothing.” Walz pushed past him, through the open door. “Excuse me, now. I’ve had a hard night and I’m turning in.” He started away, only to halt. “You’re leaving today?”
“We expect to,” Mr. Livingston returned.
“Well, have a good trip,” Walz said, with a show of friendliness.
The Scouts waited outside the cabin until the motel owner was beyond view. Then Willie remarked that Walz had neglected to lock the door.
“That indicates he’s gone through poor Old Stony’s possessions from A to Z,” Jack declared. “He’s satisfied there’s nothing of value here.”
“Even so, it would do no harm to look around ourselves,” War proposed. “Walz could have missed something.”
Mr. Livingston vetoed the suggestion. “No, War. This is Stony’s cabin. It ought to be locked.”
“Let’s all get to bed,” Willie urged. “Look at the horizon. It’s nearly dawn.”
After a bit of debate, the Scouts decided to try to catch an hour of sleep before breaking camp. Accordingly, forgetting the unlocked cabin door, they retired to their tents. Everyone slept soundly.
When Jack finally opened his eyes, a hot sun was beating down on the canvas. He was alone in the tent. Peering out, he sniffed the aroma of frying eggs. The others were up ahead of him.
“Gosh, am I lazy!” he exclaimed. “What time is it?”
“Ten to nine,” Willie told him as he turned the eggs. “You were sleeping like a babe, so we didn’t call you.”
Jack quickly dressed and helped Mr. Livingston strike and pack the two tents. By that time Willie had breakfast ready to serve.
“We’re making a late start,” the Scout leader said, looking ruefully at his watch. “But we all needed sleep. Last night was rough.”
“Wonder how Old Stony is getting along?” Jack speculated. “Any word?”
“I went up to the office to inquire,” Ken replied. “The place was locked up. No sign of Walz. He’s probably still in bed.”
“I sort of hate to pull out of here without knowing Stony’s okay.”
“Sure, we all do,” Ken agreed soberly. “After we’re packed and ready to hit the road, what say we stop somewhere to telephone the hospital?”
“Good idea,” Mr. Livingston approved. “I was going to suggest it myself.”
In short order the Scouts finished breakfast, disposed of the garbage, and put out their fire. Soon the car was packed ready for their departure.
“Well, we’re leaving the camp cleaner than we found it,” Ken said, making a last careful survey before they pulled out.
Mr. Livingston turned the car around on the lot and started to drive past the office. Before he could do so, a man came across the street from a drugstore and signaled for the car to stop.
As Mr. Livingston pulled up, the stranger said: “The hospital just called.”
“About Stony?”
“Yes, the motel office seems to be closed. So they called my place.”
“How is he?” Mr. Livingston inquired.
“He’s taken a turn for the worse.”
“You’ve told Walz?”
The man from the drugstore shook his head. “Old Stony doesn’t want to see Walz. It’s you folks he’s asking for. If you can, go right away, or it may be too late.”
Chapter 4
A BAG OF BEANS
In the corridor of Memorial Hospital, Doctor Alcott confirmed the information the Scouts had been given—Old Stony had suffered a heart attack and was not expected to live.
“Is he still conscious?” Mr. Livingston asked.
“Yes, and his mind remains alert. He has been asking repeatedly for the Scouts. That’s why we sent for you. Sorry to bother you, but it seems to mean a lot to the old man. Something appears to be on his mind.”
“I’m glad you did call,” Mr. Livingston replied. “May we go in now?”
“Yes, but it would be better if only two of you see him, and don’t stay long.”
Accordingly, while the others waited in the downstairs lobby, Hap and Jack followed a nurse into the ward. A screen had been set up at Old Stony’s bed to provide a measure of privacy.
As Mr. Livingston and Jack paused beside him, the old fellow opened his eyes and managed to grin feebly.
“How are you feeling?” Jack asked, because he could think of nothing else to say.
“Not so hot,” Old Stony returned. His bloodless fingers plucked at the sheet. “Reckon I’m about ready to mount my pale white horse and ride to the last roundup.”
“Not at all,” Mr. Livingston tried to reassure him. “In a few days you’ll snap out of this. There’s fighting spirit in you, Stony.”
“Ah, there’s fight, but the old ticker’s getting mighty tired.”
Stony closed his eyes and for several minutes seemed almost to forget his visitors. They were debating whether or not to slip away quietly, when he aroused himself again.
“Pull up your chairs and listen close,” he said. “I’ve got to tell you something important.”
“Are you sure you feel strong enough to talk?” Mr. Livingston inquired doubtfully, as he and Jack brought their chairs to the bedside.
“Fiddlesticks! If it takes my last breath, I have to get this off my chest. Now, listen close, because I’m winding up to tell you the true story o’ why I never went back to Colorado to live on my hard-earned gold.”
Jack and Hap exchanged a quick glance. Would the old man tell them another wild tale, they wondered? Or would this story, in all probability his last, be a true one?
“Don’t be wasting time trying to find any of my family after I’ve kicked off.”
“You have no relatives?”
“Nary a chick.”
“How about your friend in Colorado?” Jack suggested. “I think Jarrett Walz said his name was Craig Warner.”
Old Stony rolled his head on the pillow. “That snooping rascal!” he muttered. “He’s been in my things since they carted me off here!”
“I’m afraid he has,” Mr. Livingston admitted. Fearful of agitating the old man, he did not tell him the extent to which the motel owner had gone through his personal papers.
“Craig Warner isn’t exactly my friend,” Old Stony said slowly. “Reckon he’d hate me if he knew the truth.”
“You write to him sometimes?” Mr. Livingston suggested.
“Now and then I scratch him a line. I’m not much on writing, and he isn’t much on answering. Haven’t heard from him in more’n three years now.”
“If he’s not a friend, why write?” Jack asked, puzzled.
“It’s because of my past. Craig doesn’t know this—he thinks I’m Hank Stone, a screwball prospector. That’s the way I want it. But the reason I kept in touch all these years is because he’s the only son o’ my old podner, John Warner.”
The effort of talking had tired Old Stony. He lay a while with eyes closed and then continued.
“I’m not one to deal from the bottom of a deck. I’m honest, I am. That’s why I’ve never trusted Jarrett Walz. Maybe I’m being unfair. He gave me a job, and for that I’m grateful. But I’d never trust him with my secret.”
“About the gold?” Jack prodded.
Old Stony nodded. “I’ll start at the beginning,” he went on. “’Twas back in the early 1900’s. I don’t exactly recollect the date. My podner, John Warner, and I got ourselves enough grub to last three months. Then we hit for the valley we later named Headless Hollow.”
“Where was it?” Mr. Livingston asked. “West of Denver?”
“Ay, it’s hard by a mountain where even to this day gold has never been struck—at least, word of it hasn’t hit the papers.”
“Most of the old gold fields are known—” Mr. Livingston started to say.