“Sorry if it seems that way to you,” Mr. Livingston said with a shrug.
“Why did you send a wire to Craig Warner?”
“To notify him of Old Stony’s death.”
“That wasn’t your sole reason.”
“You have all the answers,” Mr. Livingston replied, finding it hard to keep his temper. “Why bother to ask any questions?”
“Because I strongly suspect Old Stony told you something you’re hiding from me.”
Mr. Livingston made up his mind to end the unpleasant conversation.
“We promised Stony we would get in touch with the son of his old partner. That’s why we sent the telegram. Tomorrow we’ll be away from here, and you can handle affairs as you see fit.”
The reply obviously did not satisfy Jarrett Walz but, apparently realizing his tactics would get him nowhere, he went away.
For the Scouts it was a long, boring day. With nothing to do, the hours dragged. All began to look forward to the morrow when they would take to the road once more. Twice Mr. Livingston and Ken drove to the telegraph office to inquire if an answer had been received to the wire. No word had come.
“Craig Warner may not exist except in Old Stony’s mind,” the Scout leader observed upon his return to camp at dusk, “or he may have moved to another community.”
“What’ll we do about the map?” Willie asked in a troubled voice.
“If there’s no reply by morning, I think the best thing to do is send it by registered mail,” the Scout adviser decided.
The warm night closed in somewhat cloudy. After supper, the Scouts sat for a while about the camp fire, cracking a few jokes and trying to shake themselves into a more cheerful mood. Old Stony’s death hung over them, and they could not seem to get him out of their thoughts. It was depressing to look at his darkened cabin.
“I’ll be glad to leave in the morning,” Jack said, preparing to turn in for the night. “Up at crack of dawn, you guys!”
The fire burned out, and the camp quieted. Jack, with the health of youth, slept soundly. Now and then he aroused briefly as cars drove into the motel section of the parking lot, but quickly he dozed off again.
Then suddenly he was awake once more. For a second, he could not imagine what had aroused him. But as he lay still, listening, he distinctly heard the crackle of a twig.
He crept to the door of the shelter, peering out.
The night was very dark but, even without switching on a flashlight, he could see a man moving stealthily toward the Scout automobile parked beyond the picnic tables.
As Jack watched in growing anger, the fellow deliberately tested the car doors to see if they were locked.
Chapter 8
WALZ’ PROPOSITION
The tall fellow, who crouched by the car, picked up a rock. Guessing that he meant to smash the door handle, Jack let out a wild yell.
“Get away from there, you!”
The man dropped the rock. Startled, he whirled and ran for the trees. Jack took after him, but he did not have on his shoes. The rocks and stones slashed his feet and impeded him.
The intruder, amazingly fast in retreat, vanished behind the motel buildings. Losing sight of him, Jack finally limped back to camp.
“Hey, what’s the idea?” Willie greeted him. “You made more noise than a tribe of Indians!”
“Lucky I did, too!”
All the Scouts and Mr. Livingston were awake by now. They pressed Jack for an explanation.
Recovering breath, he said in disgust: “I let him get away.”
“Who got away?” Mr. Livingston demanded.
“That’s what I don’t know. Someone was trying to break into the sedan.”
Mr. Livingston went over to try the car doors. All remained locked.
“I yelled and scared him away before he managed to break the handle,” Jack went on. “You know—he looked a lot like that fellow we saw streaking away from Stony’s cabin last night.”
“The attacker?” Willie interposed. “S-a-y, maybe it was the same guy!”
“And maybe it’s lucky we weren’t slugged in our sleep!” War added.
“He acted as if his main objective was the car.”
“Nothing in there except some of our unpacked luggage,” Mr. Livingston said thoughtfully. “He could have been after the car.”
“Or something he believed might be hidden or locked up there,” Jack suggested.
“The map!” exclaimed Ken.
“That’s how it struck me,” Jack nodded. “I’m glad we hid it under the tent flap. Let’s hope it’s still there.”
“It has to be,” Ken returned. “I’ve been in camp every minute since you hid it.”
Nevertheless, to reassure themselves, the Scouts peered beneath the flap. When folded back, it served as an open doorway. When lowered, it provided a curtain across the front opening.
“Still here,” Jack said in relief.
“Maybe that guy wasn’t after it at all,” Ken said doubtfully. “Who would know we have the map?”
“Jarrett Walz, for one,” piped up Willie.
“Can’t picture him coming to our camp at night,” Ken said. “Did it look like Walz, Jack?”
“Not especially. I didn’t get a glimpse of anything but his back. He lit out like a house afire.”
“Well, boys, he’s gone,” Mr. Livingston said, yawning. “We may have a rough day tomorrow. So I suggest we try to get a little more sleep before dawn.”
Once more the Scouts settled down. Throughout the remainder of the night, the only disturbing sound was the rumble of traffic past the motel office.
Jack was up with the sun. He and Willie were starting to prepare breakfast, when they heard the crunch of gravel. Looking around, they saw Mr. Walz approaching the camp.
“Trouble,” Willie muttered.
However, he was wrong. The motel owner seemed to be in a most pleasant mood. In fact, he carried a covered dish.
“Good morning, boys,” he greeted them. “My wife sent over these hot biscuits. We thought you’d like a taste of home cooking for a change.”
Willie opened his jaws to let fall a stinging comment. Then he closed his lips firmly and kept his thoughts to himself.
“Thanks,” Jack said. “Biscuits will go fine with our bacon and eggs.”
“My wife sent some jam, too. Nothing like a good breakfast before you hit the road.”
Jack and Willie exchanged a quick glance. They figured they knew the reason behind the motel owner’s unexpected generosity. He was eager to speed them on their way!
“Is your leader anywhere around?” Walz inquired, after he had set the pan down on a stump near the camp fire.
Just then Mr. Livingston came out of the tent carrying his shaving equipment.
“Good morning, good morning,” Mr. Walz cried heartily. “I hope you had a good night’s rest.”
“Not especially. Someone tried to break into our car.”
“You don’t say!”
With a show of concern, Mr. Walz asked for details.
“Y’ know,” the motel owner said, after they had explained, “now that Stony is gone, I’ll have to hire someone—a more active man—to guard these grounds at night.”
“You’ve had trouble before?” the Scout leader inquired.
“No, not until night before last. I was told, though, that a suspicious-looking character was seen loitering around here yesterday while I was away.”
“You didn’t mention it to us last night.”
“Didn’t want to alarm you. It may be he’s the same fellow who got into poor Old Stony’s cabin.”
“You’ve notified the police, I suppose?”
“Well, no,” Mr. Walz admitted, avoiding the Scout leader’s direct gaze. “I didn’t have enough evidence to go on.”
“Besides, you thought Stony’s attacker blew town yesterday. Remember?”
“Yes, that’s so,” the motel man agreed with a self-conscious laugh.
By this time, the Scouts had no faith in Walz’ word, and he seemed to be aware of the unfavorable impression he had created.
“I’ve been very upset about the attack on Stony,” he went on. “And all the talk about his gold and a treasure map worries me, too.”
“Why should that worry you?” Ken drawled.
“As I said before, I seriously doubt there is any gold—”
“There’s a place he calls Headless Hollow—” War exclaimed, and then faltered.
“Headless Hollow,” Mr. Walz repeated softly. “So he did tell you about that place in the Colorado Rockies? And he gave you the map too!”
“Stony wasn’t taking anything with him when he went to the hospital,” Jack reminded the motel owner. “As I recall, you were the first to go through his things.”
“And you were close on my heels!” Walz brought himself up short. “However, I didn’t come here to quarrel. I know you have the map and, as a gentleman, I request that you show it to me.”
Had Walz made his request in this manner the previous day, the Scouts would have allowed him to inspect the paper they had found. Now, distrusting his motives, they were unwilling to produce the map.
“Well?” he demanded impatiently.
“Sorry,” Mr. Livingston replied. “I’ll admit we do have a piece of paper Stony left. But it must be delivered to Craig Warner.”
“So that’s why you sent him a telegram yesterday?”
“It is.”
For a minute, the Scouts thought Jarrett Walz would storm and object. He seemed to gain control of himself only after an inward struggle. When he spoke, his voice was friendly, cheerful.
“I’ve told you how I took care of Stony for years—gave him a job, clothing, food—everything. Ask anyone in Rocking Horse if it isn’t true.”
“We don’t doubt it,” Mr. Livingston returned.
“Believe me, I have no desire for personal gain,” Walz resumed. “I do feel that if Stony left any money or a rich claim, I should be entitled to repayment for a portion of what I’ve put out in his behalf.”
“That seems fair enough,” the Scout leader agreed.
“Stony told me dozens of times he intended me to have everything he owned. At the very end, he turned against me—only because his mind was failing. He began to think of Craig Warner—a man he never saw in his lifetime, so far as I know.”
“That probably is so,” Mr. Livingston conceded.
“Now I’m willing enough the map should go to Craig Warner, if that was Stony’s last wish. But who knows where Warner is?”
“We’ve had no luck in getting in touch with him so far,” the Scout leader admitted.
“Exactly. Suppose you never find him? Then what becomes of the map?”
Mr. Livingston replied that he had given no thought to that possibility.
“It seems to me,” Walz said, speaking slowly, “that if you fail to find Warner, the map ought to be turned over to me.”
“Your request is a reasonable one.”
“I thought you’d see it my way,” Walz said in relief. “Then it’s settled. Turn the map over to me, and I’ll do my best to find Warner. If I don’t find him, I’ll keep it.”
“Hold on!” Mr. Livingston said, smiling broadly. “We made a promise to Stony, and we shall do all we can to find Craig Warner ourselves.”
“You mean you don’t trust me.”
“It’s not that,” the Scout leader replied. “We just feel we owe it to Stony to deliver the map ourselves.”
“And if you fail?”
“Then there may be no reason why you shouldn’t have it. The Scouts, I assure you, have no intention of going on a wild gold chase.”
When it became clear to the motel owner that he could not move Mr. Livingston, he asked, “Then how do you plan to deliver the map?”
“The safest way would be to take it to Elks Creek—if there is such a place.”
“Elks Creek is a real place, all right,” Walz informed him, “but it’s an out-of-the way cow town off the main highway. I could take you there, only my car is out of commission.”
The Scouts waited, wondering what the motel owner had in mind. It was obvious that he was leading up to something.
“This is my proposition,” Walz said. “Elks Creek isn’t any more than seventy-five or one hundred miles out of your way, if you’re traveling east. Take me along, and I’ll pay the entire cost of the trip from here to Craig Warner’s place.”
Despite themselves, the Scouts were rather amazed at the generous offer.
“There’s just one little string attached to my offer,” the motel owner added. “If we fail to find Craig Warner, then I’ll expect you to hand over the map.”
Chapter 9
SHORT CUT
“Well, how about it?” Jarrett Walz asked impatiently, as the Scouts stood mute. “My proposition is a fair one.”
“Yes, it is,” Mr. Livingston acknowledged.
“Then why hesitate? Are you afraid to team up with me?”
“No, we’re not afraid, Mr. Walz.”
“You don’t think I’m trying to outwit you?”
“We’re taken by surprise,” Mr. Livingston replied. “You offer to pay all the expenses of the trip?”
“I do. That is, from here to Elks Creek. Meals. Overnight lodging, if we have to hole up in Colorado.”
“What can you hope to gain from such an arrangement?” Hap went on.
“Nothing, probably. The chances are we’ll find Craig Warner and turn the map over to him. But if no such person exists, the map will be mine.”
“And you rate the map so highly?”
Walz began to feel hemmed in by his own conflicting statements. He hesitated, then said, “I want that map. Maybe I misled you at first because I didn’t know anything about you or your motives. But there’s an outside chance Stony’s map may have some value.”
The Scouts were far more inclined to trust the motel owner now that he made a frank admission of his interest in the paper.
“Well, what do you say?” he prodded.
“We’ll have to think it over,” Mr. Livingston stalled.
“How long will you need?”
“We figured on going to the telegraph office again before we pull out—and to the funeral.”
“I’ll meet you here at eleven o’clock,” Walz suggested. “By that time, I must have your answer.”
“You’ll have it,” Mr. Livingston promised. “If we should accept, how soon could you be ready to leave?”
“In ten minutes. All I need to do is toss a few things into a suitcase.”
“We’ll see you at eleven o’clock,” Mr. Livingston replied.
Over breakfast, the Scouts discussed the matter, finding it difficult to reach a decision. They still distrusted Jarrett Walz. On the other hand, it seemed selfish to deny him a ride to Elks Creek when his own car was not in good running order.
“And he’s offered to pay all expenses,” War reminded the group as he reached for a second biscuit. “That’s quite an item.”
“I’m for taking him up,” said Willie. “We’d get back to Belton City with cash in our treasury.”
Mr. Livingston gazed at Jack and Ken, waiting to hear their opinions.
“I don’t know,” Jack admitted frankly. “On the surface it looks okay, but—”
“I feel the same,” said Ken. “Before making a decision, why not inquire in town as to Walz’ reputation?”
“A good suggestion,” the Scout adviser answered. “We’ll do it on our trip to the telegraph station.”
After breakfast, the Scouts struck camp, packing everything into the car and transferring the map to Mr. Livingston’s billfold for safekeeping. As they started to pull out of the parking yard, Mr. Walz came rushing out of the motel.
“Don’t worry, we aren’t leaving for good,” Mr. Livingston reassured him. “We’ll see you at eleven o’clock as we promised.”
At the telegraph office, the Scouts were told that no answer had been received to their telegram. Then they stopped at the post office and the bank. While the Scouts were mailing cards home, Mr. Livingston made a few inquiries about Mr. Walz. The information he received was not very helpful. However, the motel owner seemed to be well regarded in the community.
“So far as I can gather, this is the picture,” Mr. Livingston told the Explorers. “Walz did give Stony a home when the old fellow wasn’t able to do much work. He’s considered a hard driver but fair. Stony wasn’t too grateful for what he received.”
“Maybe we misjudged Walz,” Jack said thoughtfully. “Well, what’s our decision?”
“How can we lose by taking him up?” Willie argued. “I’m for it.”
The others offered no objection, so it was decided that Walz’ proposition should be accepted.
“Just a word of warning,” Mr. Livingston advised. “Walz knows we have the map. Let’s not tell him who has it, or give him any detail of what it shows.”
“If I know him, he’ll try to pry it out of us,” War chuckled. “But my lips are sealed.”
The Scouts attended Stony’s funeral along with a few townspeople, and Walz was not present. When they drove back to the motel, he was waiting for them.
“My suitcase is packed,” he announced. “Ready?”
“You’re taking our acceptance for granted?” Mr. Livingston remarked dryly.
“Figured you wouldn’t turn it down,” the motel owner said with a grin. “Where do I ride?”
Willie slid out of the front seat to make room for him and crowded into the back with War and Jack.
“If you want, I can take the wheel,” Walz offered, once his suitcase had been stowed away. “I know this road like a book.”
“I’ll drive,” Mr. Livingston said, “but thanks.”
The Explorers had decided to be cordial to Walz, and therefore they kept up a polite conversation. The motel owner was in a good mood and seemingly had an endless stock of stories to relate. At first the Scouts did not mind, but after an hour or so they began to weary of his chatter.
When the car made its first stop at a filling station to get gas, true to his bargain Walz paid the bill.
“Maybe he’ll be okay, after all,” Willie remarked to Jack as they checked the tires before driving on.
“Maybe,” Jack agreed. “Time will tell.”
Once the party was well beyond the Colorado border, Walz began to suggest short-cut roads which he said would greatly reduce the mileage. Feeling that the motel owner knew the country, Mr. Livingston and the Explorers accepted his advice. But as the roads became increasingly poor, they wondered if they actually were saving any time. Late in the afternoon, when they were confronted with a choice of highways, Mr. Livingston stopped the car so as to study the road map.
“No. 416 will take us directly into Elks Creek,” Hap said. “With luck, we ought to get there before dark.”
With his forefinger, Walz traced another route. “It’s 40 miles shorter this way,” he pointed out.
“Your short cuts haven’t worked out so far,” the Scout leader objected.
“But I know this country,” said Walz. “This road is paved all the way.”
“All right, if you’re sure,” Mr. Livingston said, “but I don’t like the look of the sky.”
Black, fast-moving clouds were swirling over the distant mountain peaks.
“Oh, it may rain a little,” Walz replied carelessly. “All the more reason for taking the shorter road that’s paved.”
The highway he had insisted on taking ran for a while through desolate territory, and they didn’t meet any other cars. There were no houses or filling stations, and the only persons they saw along the road were occasional Indians. However, the highway was paved, as Walz had said. Instead of having bridges, the road dipped down through dry creek beds.
Jack called attention to a sign which read: “Notice to Motorists: Do not attempt to cross if creek is running more than six inches deep.”
“Sometimes these creeks come up fast,” Walz explained carelessly. “The mountains feed the streams at a terrific rate, especially if there’s been a heavy downpour above.”
“Cheerful thought,” commented Ken, studying the clouds again.
“I’ve read of cars being swept away,” Mr. Livingston remarked. “Maybe we should have taken the other road.”
Walz regarded him scornfully. “Why, the creeks are bone dry.”
“They won’t be for long,” Mr. Livingston replied. “It’s starting to rain.”
Huge drops splashed the windshield. Faster and faster they came down. Mr. Livingston suggested pulling up until the rain was over.
“That may be an hour,” Walz rasped. He was looking worried. “This is coming down like a regular cloudburst. If we don’t get through this area, we’ll be trapped maybe for half a day between creeks.”
The Scouts said nothing. They were deeply annoyed, however, that the motel owner by his stubborn insistence had brought them to this sorry situation. Mr. Livingston hesitated and then decided to accept Walz’ advice. He drove on.
Rain was already falling so fast that it became difficult for him to see the road ahead.
“This is awful!” the Scout leader gasped. “We ought to stop—”
“No!” Walz shouted. “Another creek lies ahead. Once we get through that, we’ll be all right.”
“How far?”
“Only a mile or two.”
With a worried shake of his head, Mr. Livingston kept on. Rain fell in a deluge, threatening to damp out the car motor.
“The creek is just ahead,” Walz encouraged him.
“How deep is the water running?” the Scout leader demanded.
Water sprayed the windshield and he could not make out even the drop-off of the pavement into the depression.
“It’ll be okay,” Walz assured him. “The rain hasn’t been falling long. Keep on.”
Mr. Livingston obeyed and immediately regretted it. The moment the car rolled down into the creek bed, he saw that the water was far higher than he had imagined. It swirled angrily around the tires and kept creeping higher. Too late, Mr. Livingston saw he could not back out.
“Jeepers!” Walz exclaimed. “The rain must have started earlier in the mountains! Keep going, man! Keep going!”
Mr. Livingston was doing his best, but the motor sputtered and died.
The car rolled a few feet farther and stopped in the lowest point of the raging torrent.
Chapter 10
TRICKERY
“We’re in it now!” Walz shrieked, staring in horror at the fast-rising water. “The car will be swept away!”
Mr. Livingston tried desperately to get the motor started.
“You should have seen the water was too deep for a crossing!” Walz whimpered. “It’s rising so fast you can see it!”
Ken, who was riding in the center of the front seat, shoved past the motel owner and got out of the car. Jack, Willie and War, in the back seat, followed suit. The water was up to their knees and rising unbelievably fast.
“Altogether, push!” Jack ordered.
The four applied their shoulders and shoved. The car moved ahead through the swirling, raging water, but could not make the steep incline. Back it rolled.
“Again!” Jack urged.
Walz did not offer to help, though he must have known that his strength was vitally needed in this desperate race against time.
“We’ll never get ’er out,” Willie muttered in despair.
Once more the Scouts heaved, and again the car began to roll. This time, as the uphill grade became too much of a barrier, Mr. Livingston helped move the car on the battery. Inch by inch it crept up the sloping bank to the higher road above.
War made a last powerful shove, lost his balance, and sprawled in the torrent. Jack grabbed him, and they all splashed out of the stream. Wet and bedraggled, they climbed back into the car to consider their plight.
“I suspect the spark plug is damp,” Mr. Livingston said, getting out a handkerchief with which to wipe it. “The engine stalled even before we hit the deep water.”
Despite protests from the Scouts, he took his turn in the rain. Walz, however, made no offer to help. Scowling, he sat huddled in the steamy car.
After twenty minutes of fussing with the spark plug, the Scout leader managed to get the engine started again. By that time, the rain had slackened considerably.
“Any more creek beds ahead?” Mr. Livingston asked Walz as the car crept forward once more.
“No,” Walz snapped. “I suppose you’re blaming me for what happened?”
“I didn’t hear anyone making any complaints,” the Scout leader replied. “An accident is an accident.”
“Well, it wasn’t my fault. How was I to know there had been a cloudburst up in the mountains?”
“It’s always a wise precaution—” Mr. Livingston started to say and then cut himself off. He finished: “Well, we’re lucky we didn’t lose the car, or at least damage it. The rain has almost stopped, too.”
In their wet clothes and shoes the Scouts were rather uncomfortable. At the first filling station, thirty miles farther on, they stopped, unpacked the luggage, and changed into dry clothing.
Walz fretted at the delay.
“It will be after dark before we get to Elks Creek,” he complained.
“Sorry,” Jack replied shortly. “Sometimes the shortest road is the longest way to a destination.”
“Real philosophical, aren’t you?” Walz asked, his lips curling.
To Jack, it was plain that the motel owner found it hard to hold his temper in check. Obviously he had no liking for the Scouts or Mr. Livingston and tolerated their company only to gain his objective. As for the Explorers, they now had even less respect for Walz than they had had before. His judgment, they thought, had been proven faulty. He was sullen, selfish, and, in addition, he had a cowardly streak.
After the rain, night came on fast. The Scouts would have preferred to camp, but Walz kept insisting that they push on to Elks Creek. Actually, it was 9:25 P.M. when the car finally pulled into that little mountainside hamlet. There was no suitable camp site, and for once the wearied Scouts had no enthusiasm about finding one.
Mr. Livingston suggested that they all spend the night at the town’s only hotel, an unimposing wooden structure.
“At my expense, naturally,” Mr. Walz said sarcastically.
The Scout leader shot him a quizzical look. “It was your proposition—”
“Yes, it was! Well, I’m not kicking. Not if you keep your end of the bargain. If we fail to find Craig Warner, you turn the map over to me.”
“Yes, if we’re convinced he can’t possibly be found.”
“It’s too late tonight to try to find Red Cliffs Ranch,” Walz went on. “We’ll register at this dump of a hotel. While you’re getting some supper, I’ll make a few inquiries.”
The Scouts took rooms, cleaned themselves up a bit, and joined Mr. Livingston in the dining room. A silent, shy waitress served them an excellent meal consisting of steak, potatoes, and fresh peas. For dessert came large cuts of juicy apple pie with big wedges of cheese.
“Say, this is real food!” Willie said with relish. “A mighty welcome change from that eternal stew Jack is always feeding us.”
“Just for that, you’ll get beans next time!” Jack retorted good-naturedly. “Such gratitude!”
“The best part of this meal is that it’s free,” War chortled.
“I hope so,” responded Mr. Livingston as he signed the check with Walz’ name. “But sometimes things don’t work out as we expect.”
“Meaning Walz is likely to welch on the deal?”
“Not if he gets what he wants, War.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Well, in that case, we may see fireworks. I have a hunch—”
Mr. Livingston left his remark unfinished, for Jack flashed him a warning glance. Jarrett Walz had just come into the dining room. Crossing over to the Scouts’ table, he sat down.
“Well, friends,” he began, “I’ve made a few inquiries. The outcome is just about what I expected.”
“Craig Warner doesn’t live here?” Ken asked quickly.
“He did live here years ago. Then he moved north. Three years ago, he died of pneumonia.”
“Craig Warner’s dead?” War echoed flatly.
“Yes. It’s disappointing but, frankly, I expected it.”
“You expected it?” Jack asked.
“I mean, it’s no more than I expected. Stony probably hadn’t written to Warner in six or eight years.”
“It seems our trip here is without purpose,” Mr. Livingston observed, looking down at his plate. “I admit I am disappointed.”
“I’ll be starting back to Rocking Horse early tomorrow morning,” Walz said briskly. “I can catch a train at nine o’clock. You boys will probably want to get an early start east, so the best thing would be to give it to me now.”
“The map?” Mr. Livingston asked.
“Naturally. That was the agreement.”
“Why are you sure Craig Warner is dead?” the Scout leader demanded.
“A dozen people told me so.”
“Can you give me their names?”
“You doubt my word?”
“No, but in a matter such as this, we can’t afford to make a mistake.”
“I don’t recall to whom I talked,” Walz said with a scowl. “But the dope was straight. Warner is dead. I’ve kept my agreement. Now I want that map.”
“See us in the morning at breakfast,” Mr. Livingston said suavely.
“I told you I have to take an early train.”
“We’ll be up before seven o’clock,” Mr. Livingston promised him. “Meet us here at seven thirty. Okay?”
Walz started to argue, then suddenly changed his mind.
“All right,” he agreed. “Breakfast at seven thirty. Get a good sleep. You still have a long ride before you.”
In leaving the dining room, the Scouts casually inquired of the hotel owner if he knew anyone by the name of Craig Warner.
“Never heard of him,” he replied.
Once the Scouts were in Mr. Livingston’s room, they discussed turning the map over to the motel owner.
“I may have to do it in the morning,” Mr. Livingston said reluctantly, “but, somehow, his information doesn’t satisfy me.”
“Why not do a little checking of our own?” Jack proposed.
The idea appealed to the others. It was decided, though, that Walz might become resentful if he saw the entire crew leaving the hotel. So Jack and Ken were assigned to tour the town to see what they could learn.
The two were away from the hotel more than an hour. When finally they returned, they fairly burst into the Scout leader’s room where the others had gathered.
“What did you find out?” War demanded, getting up from the bed where he had been sprawling.
“Plenty!” Jack announced.
“We talked to three people,” Ken said. “The first two had never heard of Craig Warner. Then we ran into an old-timer, a rancher who has lived in this country most of his life.”
“What did he say?” Willie asked impatiently.
“Craig Warner is very much alive,” Jack announced. “In fact, he lives less than forty miles from here—not at Red Cliffs Ranch, though. Another place.”
“Then Walz lied!”
“Ken and I think so,” Jack said soberly. “He’s made up his mind to get that map at any cost. And it’s up to us to prevent him!”
Chapter 11
CLOUD CREST RANCH
Jarrett Walz was waiting in the hotel dining room when the Explorers entered promptly at seven thirty the next morning.
“Well, right on time, I see,” he greeted them jovially. “You brought the map?”
Mr. Livingston did not reply. He and the Scouts seated themselves at the circular, old-fashioned table and ordered breakfast. The motel owner could not conceal his impatience.
“You brought the map?” he repeated as soon as the waitress went away.
“As for turning it over to you,” Mr. Livingston replied, “we have a different plan.”
Walz’ bushy eyebrows jerked up in surprise. “What d’you mean, a different plan?” he growled.
“Craig Warner happens to be alive.”
“What?”
“We checked your information last night, Mr. Walz. I’m afraid you obtained it from unreliable sources.”
A flush slowly overspread the motel owner’s face.
“Craig Warner isn’t dead?” he stammered.
“No. He is operating a ranch less than forty miles from here.”
“A place called Cloud Crest,” supplied Jack, enjoying Walz’ discomfiture.
“I—I’m mighty glad to hear it,” the motel owner muttered.
“We’ve made further inquiry,” Mr. Livingston resumed. “Cloud Crest is off the main road in a rather inaccessible place. In dry weather, however, it can be reached by car. Fortunately, yesterday’s downpour missed this area.”
“Warner hasn’t been to town in a month,” Ken added. “That’s why he never replied to our telegram. It’s waiting here, if he ever shows up.”
Walz sat for a long moment, staring at the tablecloth. The waitress brought pancakes and hot sausages, but he scarcely touched his food. The Scouts, on the other hand, ate heartily.
When they had finished, Walz said, “You’ll be starting on East now, I suppose?”
“Not until we’ve delivered the map,” the Scout leader answered.
“It will be at least eighty miles out of your way, counting the return trip,” the motel owner pointed out. “You’ll have to figure on killing an entire day.”
“I suppose so,” Mr. Livingston admitted.
“I’ll tell you what! I can save you that trip. Let me have the map, and I’ll see that Craig Warner gets it.”
Mr. Livingston shook his head. “We’d prefer to deliver it ourselves.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“We made Old Stony a promise, that’s all.”
“You’ve become very devoted to his memory, haven’t you?” Walz asked with a slight sneer. “You think I deceived you?”
“Did we make any such accusation?”
“Oh, I can tell by the way you act! I’ve paid your expenses. I’ve been open and above board in all my dealings. You’ve done nothing in return.”
“We’ve kept our agreement, Mr. Walz.”
“At least let me see that map.”
“We’re turning it over to Mr. Warner,” the Scout leader said patiently. “After he gets it, if he wants to he can show it to you or do whatever he pleases. Until then—no.”
Walz suddenly got to his feet, pushing back his chair.
“Okay,” he rasped. “I’m through paying your bills. Settle your own hotel account. I’m finished with you!”
He strode from the dining room.
“Good riddance,” grinned Willie. “We never should have teamed up with him. Wonder how much we owe here?”
“Enough,” Mr. Livingston said, a bit grimly. “We can handle it, though. I half figured on a deal such as this.”
Hurriedly, the Scouts finished breakfast and gathered together their belongings. Jack obtained detailed instructions for reaching Cloud Crest Ranch. Mr. Livingston settled the hotel bill, which was not so high as he had expected, and they drove out of Elks Creek without seeing Walz again.
“We’re finished with him,” War said cheerfully, settling down for a long ride over a rutty road. “What did you learn about Warner, Jack?”
“Not much. They say he’s an able rancher but has had a run of hard luck.”
“The fellow we talked to said he’s a square shooter,” Ken contributed. “Peculiar, though—the lone-wolf type. His exact words were: ‘If Warner likes you, he’ll give you the shirt off his back. If he doesn’t, watch out! He judges a man fast, and once an opinion is formed, he doesn’t change his mind.’”
“Let’s hope he takes a liking to us,” Mr. Livingston remarked. “Not that it matters. We’ll give him the map and be on our way.”
The car made slow time on the winding dirt road. However, the way was scenic, if dusty. Rugged, snow-tipped mountains rimmed the valley. Their high peaks were circled with lazy, fleecy clouds.