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.
The old man broke in: “Headless Valley is hard to get at. The vein my podner and I found is rich, but it isn’t extensive enough to make it worth while hauling in expensive mining equipment. So I reckon engineers have given it the go-by.”
“But you and your partner really found gold there?” Jack asked, rather impressed.
“We sure did. And then our troubles began. All that summer we worked till our hands were blistered. We stacked the ore in two caches—one big and one little. Our food began to run low. We knew we had to get out fast before winter set in, but the gold held us. And then—”
Old Stony shuddered and seemed unable to go on. But with an effort, he forced himself to resume:
“So far as we knew, there weren’t any human beings within forty miles of Headless Valley. We never set eyes on a soul all that summer. But one morning my podner showed up missing. I found him by the diggings, dead with a bullet hole through the back of his head.”
“What did you do?” Jack asked, becoming more engrossed.
“I buried him not far from the little cabin we had built. Marked the grave with his name too.”
“Who killed John Warner?” Mr. Livingston asked.
“All these years I’ve been asking myself that same question. Indians, I reckon. Maybe Headless Hollow was sacred ground to ’em, and they didn’t like us messing around.”
“The killing wasn’t because of the gold?”
“Reckon not,” Old Stony replied to the Scout leader’s inquiry. “Nary a nugget was touched. I’m telling you, after poor John got his, I was plumb scared. I couldn’t see anybody around, but I could feel ’em. Sort o’ like ghosts.”
“Ghosts don’t fire shots,” Mr. Livingston said dryly.
“Danged right they don’t! I figured I’d be next if I didn’t light out o’ there. I took a few of the nuggets that I could carry in a bag and hit the trail. Doggone near froze to death before I finally got back to the nearest town.”
“You left the hidden gold?” Jack asked.
“Yeah, and I reckon it’s still there today. At least, I don’t think those caches would ever be found, unless by somebody who was watching us, or by Indians.”
“Why didn’t you go back later?” Mr. Livingston asked.
Old Stony heaved a heavy sigh. “Figured you’d ask me that one. Reckon I’ve got to answer true. When I got back—well, folks began whispering that I was the one that did for poor old John. They said I shot him so I could have the claim all to myself.”
“Didn’t other prospectors try to find Headless Hollow?” Mr. Livingston asked thoughtfully. “It’s inconceivable that your arrival with gold wouldn’t set off a mad scramble.”
“I fooled ’em. Told ’em a mess of lies that led ’em packing in the wrong direction.” Old Stony grinned at the recollection. “They sure were burned up! So to even the score, they got out a warrant charging me with poor John’s murder. That was when I lit out.”
“You left Colorado?” Jack prompted.
“I sure did. First I went to California and lost my grubstake there. Then I drifted back to Arizona, then on here to New Mexico. Always figured some day I’d go back to Headless Hollow. But the years came on too fast, and before I knew it, I was an old man and my last chance was gone.”
By this time, Jack and Mr. Livingston were convinced that Stony’s story was at least half truth. As for his gold, they were of the opinion that the one hoarded nugget that Walz had must have represented his entire fortune.
Therefore, it came as a surprise when the old man went on: “Now I’m coming to the kernel o’ the nut. I reckon I owe poor old John a debt. Half of that gold I took out of Headless Hollow I figured was his. I’ve kept that half—never touched it, even when I didn’t know where my next mouthful of meat was coming from. Now I want that gold to go to John’s son, Craig Warner.”
Jack and Mr. Livingston began to catch the drift of Stony’s thoughts, so they were not too surprised at his request which came haltingly.
“Reckon it’s a lot to ask o’ strangers—but I have no one I can trust. I’m asking you—after I’m gone—will you get word to Craig Warner? Take him the map—the one that shows the true trail to Headless Hollow and the caches of gold. They’re his by rights, and I want him to have ’em.”
“Where is this map?” Mr. Livingston asked, trying not to show that the strange request troubled him.
Old Stony leaned over to the edge of the bed, lowering his voice to a whisper.
“You’ll find it under the stones—fireplace—my cabin.”
“We’ll be glad to look,” Mr. Livingston promised. “Where are we to find Craig Warner?”
“His address is in my box of papers—under the bed.”
The lengthy conversation had greatly wearied Old Stony but, when Jack and Mr. Livingston started to leave, with a feeble gesture of his hand the prospector waved them back.
“Just one thing more,” he said, his voice husky. “The gold—Craig Warner’s share—you’ll find it—”
A nurse had come to the bedside. With a quick glance at the patient, she told the two visitors they had to leave at once.
Old Stony summoned all his failing strength. Gazing steadily at Jack and Hap, he said clearly: “The bag of pinto beans. The bag of beans. You understand?”
To satisfy the dying old man, the two visitors nodded. Stony fell back on the pillow, a smile on his thin lips.
“I’ve said my piece,” he whispered. “Now I’m ready for the long trip over the range. God be with you.”
Chapter 5
THE SEARCH
The nurse motioned for Jack and Mr. Livingston to leave.
“Goodbye, Stony,” Jack said, reaching out to grasp the gnarled hand in a last farewell.
The old man’s lips twitched slightly, but his closed eyes did not open. Jack and Mr. Livingston quietly departed.
“I’m afraid we’ll never see the old fellow again,” the Scout leader said with a shake of his head.
Jack asked Hap what he thought of the story the old prospector had told.
“I don’t rightly know,” he replied. “Stony seemed to be telling the truth. It’s fantastic—and yet it’s possible that Headless Hollow may actually exist.”
War, Willie, and Ken were impatiently waiting in the hospital lobby. Eagerly, the trio plied Jack and their leader with questions. With deep interest, they listened to Hap’s report of the talk with Old Stony.
“What’s our move, now?” Ken asked. “Do we pull out of Rocking Horse or drive back to the motel?”
“Back to the motel,” Hap decided. “Jack and I made a promise to Stony. We must at least make an attempt to get Craig Warner’s address and notify him.”
“What about the map?” War demanded.
“Oh, we might make a brief search for that too,” the Scout leader said with a grin at War’s eagerness.
“What did Stony say about gold nuggets being hidden in a bag of pinto beans?” War went on. “And what are pinto beans?”
“Pinto means mottled, doesn’t it?” Jack recollected. “Stony must have meant some kind of fancy, painted bean. And that reminds me! I did see a bag of something hanging on the wall!”
“That’s right!” agreed Ken. “On a hook near the fireplace.”
“After Stony had been struck, he raised up and looked directly at that bag!” Jack added. “He seemed relieved that it was still there.”
“Well, if ever Old Stony had any valuables, it’s a cinch Jarrett Walz has them by now,” Willie contributed as the group left the hospital. “Are we telling him about our talk with the old man?”
“I think not,” Mr. Livingston decided. “Stony entrusted a secret to us. Let’s keep it a secret.”
The Scouts had hoped to return to the motel without meeting Walz again, but in this they were disappointed. As their heavily laden car turned into the driveway, the motel owner came out of his office. His scowl told them that their unexpected return did not please him.
However, he merely said: “Back so soon?”
“We ran into complications,” Mr. Livingston rejoined, without explaining about the hospital trip.
Evidently, Walz had not learned that the Scouts had gone to Old Stony’s bedside, for he continued: “You’re not figuring on staying here another night?”
“Well, we might,” the Scout leader replied. “It all depends. You don’t object, do you?”
“Object? Why should I? Not if you pay your camp fee. I’d think, though, that you’d want to hit the road. There’s nothing of interest to see in or around Rocking Horse.”
“We like the place,” Jack said. “I vote to stay another day.”
“Same here,” chimed in Willie.
Mr. Livingston dug into his wallet and handed the motel owner two dollars. For a moment, the Scouts thought Walz intended to refuse, but with a shrug he pocketed the bills and told them to go back to their former camp site.
The Scouts busied themselves setting up the tents. They had no intention of visiting Stony’s cabin while Jarrett Walz was near.
“Keep an eye on the motel office,” Jack advised Willie. “If he leaves, that’s our cue to go to work.”
But Walz did not leave, and the Scouts began to grow restless. Finally, Ken and Jack, without entering the cabin, began to inspect the ground outside. Without much hope of finding anything significant, they searched for a clue to the identity of Stony’s mysterious attacker. Almost at once, Jarrett Walz came out of the motel office. His sudden appearance made it clear he had been watching them all the while.
“What are you boys doing?” he demanded.
“Thought we might find a few footprints,” Jack replied carelessly.
He stooped to inspect a large shoe imprint in a moist spot of earth not far from the cabin door.
“That’s from my boot,” Walz informed him.
“Yes, it is,” Jack agreed, noticing that the heel print was identical with one made by the shoe Walz wore.
“Those prints don’t mean a thing. I’ve been in and out of that cabin several times this morning. Fancy yourselves detectives, eh?”
“No,” Ken told him evenly, “but we’d like to find out who attacked Stony. You reported the affair to the police?”
“The police were out here this morning. Reckon they heard about it from the hospital.”
“Any suspects?”
“Not a one. Police are satisfied the motive was robbery. Probably some hoodlum who met Stony was taken in by his story of having great wealth.”
“You’re satisfied it was only a yarn?” Jack asked, watching the motel owner’s face intently.
“About the gold? Sure. He had only that one nugget.”
“And the map?”
Walz eyed Jack shrewdly. “Well, the old goat might have had a map,” he conceded. “If so, he hid it in a good place. He didn’t give you any hints, did he?”
“Hints?” Jack repeated, stalling for time. He had no intention of disclosing his knowledge to the motel owner.
“Say, what about this fellow Craig Warner?” Ken interposed, to distract Walz from the treasure map. “Do you know where he lives?”
“On some ranch in Colorado. That’s all I can tell you.”
“You didn’t find his address in those papers under the bed?”
“No,” Walz answered shortly.
He might have added more, but just then a call came from the motel office. Walz was gone about ten minutes. When he returned, his face was grim.
“That was a telephone message from the hospital,” he reported. “Stony’s—dead.”
Ken and Jack accepted the information in silence. Though the sad news was not unexpected, it gave them both an empty feeling to know that the old fellow had indeed mounted his pale pony and ridden to the Last Roundup.
“I’ve got to go to the hospital now,” Walz went on, looking worried. “Arrangements have to be made for the burial. I’d let the county do it, but folks would talk. So I’ll dig down into my pocket, I suppose.”
The Scouts did not reply. After a while, Walz went to his car and they saw him drive away.
“Now’s our chance!” Ken suggested. “I don’t like to do anything sneaky, but it’s just as well Old Eagle Eye doesn’t know what we’re about.”
“Now that poor Old Stony is gone, it’s even more important we find that map and Craig Warner’s address,” Jack added.
Ken went for Mr. Livingston and the other Scouts. The cabin door had not been locked.
Once inside, the group turned to the box of papers under the bed. The collection of letters was pathetically small. There were two notes written by a woman who signed herself Sadie, but the dates were so far back, that even had there been an address, she would probably have no longer been alive.
The Scouts could find no letters from Craig Warner. They were about to give up the search when Willie came upon the man’s address written in a tiny notebook with yellowed pages.
“Craig Warner, Red Cliffs Ranch, Elks Creek, Colorado,” he read aloud. Mr. Livingston wrote down the address and then the Scouts turned their attention to the search for gold and the treasure map. The bag of pinto beans had been removed from the wall hook. However, Jack came upon it in a corner of the room.
“That bag was hanging on the wall last night,” he commented. “I hope Jarrett Walz hasn’t been ahead of us.”
As Jack emptied the colored beans onto the bed, the Scouts gathered around. But the sight was disappointing. The bag contained nothing but beans.
“Not a single nugget,” War said in disgust. “Old Stony must have been handing us a line!”
“Not necessarily,” Jack replied, refilling the bag and returning it to its former place on the wall hook. “Last night or this morning after Stony was taken to the hospital, someone moved this bag.”
“Walz?” Willie asked.
“Could be. Of course, the cabin door has been unlocked, so maybe it’s not fair to accuse him.”
“It will be a waste of time even looking for the map,” Willie said.
The others were inclined to agree with him. However, no one would have willingly left the cabin without making the search.
Jack and Ken dropped on hands and knees before the fireplace. Raking away some of the loose, cold ashes, they began to explore the hearthstones.
To their surprise they hit one which moved a trifle.
Jack pried it up with his knife. Beneath the stone lay a yellowed paper, tightly folded.
“The map!” he chortled. “Old Stony’s story may be true!”
Chapter 6
THE THREAT
The Explorers and Mr. Livingston clustered close to Jack, peering at the paper he had found under the hearthstones. Carefully, he spread the yellowed sheet on the cabin floor.
“It’s a map, all right,” Ken confirmed, studying it over Jack’s shoulder. “A rough one, though. And the ink has faded.”
The area on the map appeared to be in the most rugged section of the Colorado Rockies, west of Denver and toward the southwest portion of the state. So far as the Scouts could determine, the take-off point for Old Stony’s Headless Hollow was a little town which had been mapped in as Buckhorn. Other landmarks were Cinnamon Pass and Superstition Canyon. Headless Hollow itself seemed guarded by twin mountain peaks, unnamed in the sketch.
“Well, it’s a map,” Mr. Livingston conceded. “That’s about all you can say for it.”
“Nothing is drawn in proportion,” Willie complained. “Most of the directions for reaching Headless Hollow—if there is such a place—must have been in Old Stony’s head.”
“It’s my bet he purposely made it vague,” said Jack.
“Probably wanted to fix it so that nobody stealing the map could have reached the valley too easily,” Ken agreed.
The Scouts politely waited for Mr. Livingston to offer his opinion.
“We more or less made Old Stony a promise,” he reminded the group. “So whether or not this map has value, it’s our duty to deliver it to Craig Warner if we can find him.”
“That may not be so easy,” remarked Jack. “Stony’s information isn’t very up to date. Elks Creek may or may not be a recent address.”
“In any case—” Happy started to say.
“Watch it,” Jack warned in an undertone.
Quick as a flash, he scooped the map from the floor, thrusting it under his jacket.
The reason for his action was immediately apparent. Footsteps had been heard on the gravel driveway outside the cabin. Before the Scouts could move away from the fireplace, Jarrett Walz loomed on the threshold. His suspicious glance roved from one face to another, but the Scouts volunteered no explanation for their presence in the cabin.
He said sharply: “Well! I hardly expected to find you here!”
“We weren’t looking for you back so soon,” Willie stammered.
“That’s quite obvious. What are you doing here?”
“No harm, I assure you,” Mr. Livingston said. “To be quite truthful, we promised Old Stony that if anything happened to him, we’d try to get in touch with someone he knew.”
“Craig Warner?”
“Yes.”
“Looking after Stony’s affairs is my job, not yours,” the motel owner said, his dark eyes snapping.
“We’re not trying to intervene, we assure you.”
“You had no business seeing my workman in the hospital!” Jarrett Walz continued, his voice rising. “Oh, you kept quiet about your visit there, but I learned of it, all the same!”
“We made no secret of our trip,” Mr. Livingston replied. He was trying to remain polite, but the motel owner’s belligerent attitude annoyed him.
“That’s so,” War chimed in, glaring at Walz. “We went because the old man sent for us.”
“He sent for you?” the motel owner repeated, his eyes glittering. “Why?”
War had told more than he intended. He began to stall: “Well, the old fellow was dying. He just wanted to see us.”
“About what?”
“Just to see us.”
“You must think me very stupid to accept that! Why shouldn’t he have sent for me? Here I’ve given him bed and board, but in his last hour, he turns to five utter strangers! Folks in Rocking Horse will say—”
“Yes?” Mr. Livingston prompted, as the motel owner interrupted himself.
“They’ll say Old Stony was ungrateful,” Mr. Walz completed. “And he was!”
From the shifty look of the motel operator’s eyes, the Scouts judged that he had checked himself on the verge of saying something entirely different. Though they had no evidence, it struck them that in all probability over the years Jarrett Walz had profited quite handsomely from the old prospector’s unpaid labor.
“Any information on Stony’s attacker?” Mr. Livingston inquired.
“No. I talked briefly with a police officer at the hospital. Stony died from a heart attack, not the results of the blow.”
“So there will be no investigation?”
“Oh, a routine one,” Jarrett Walz answered with a shrug, “but whoever slugged Stony probably hopped a train and blew out of town.”
The Scouts were convinced that the motel owner had succeeded in discouraging any police investigation. Publicity no doubt would harm his business. Though they did not like the way he had handled the affair, they told themselves it really was none of their concern.
“Well, boys, we may as well get back to our own camp,” Mr. Livingston suggested, edging toward the door.
Jarrett Walz did not move aside.
“Just a minute,” he said. “I’ll appreciate an explanation before you go.”
“An explanation?” Mr. Livingston asked, puzzled. “For what?”
“Your presence in this cabin.”
The Scout adviser began to grow irritated, yet he managed to keep his voice controlled.
“We did explain, I think. We were looking for Craig Warner’s address.”
“You found it?”
“We did.”
“And what do you intend to do with it?”
“Notify Warner of Stony’s death, naturally.”
“You think he’d care?” Jarrett Walz demanded with a slight sneer. “I doubt he ever laid eyes on that old coot.”
“That’s beside the point. We made a promise to Stony, and we intend to keep it.”
“A Scout’s word is to be trusted, eh?”
“It is.”
“Okay,” Walz retorted triumphantly. “Then tell me the truth—no more of your double talk. You came here to find more than an address.”
“Perhaps we did,” the Scout leader rejoined. “As I recollect, you made a rather careful search of this cabin yourself.”
“That’s different,” Walz said, immediately on the defensive. “Stony was my workman. You are strangers here.”
“You have a point,” Mr. Livingston conceded, determined not to argue. “I suggest you lock the cabin door.”
“It’s like locking the barn after the horse is stolen!” Walz said, eying the Scout leader calculatingly. “You’re deliberately hiding something! I think you came here to find the old man’s gold!”
“Why, you—” War exclaimed, half lunging at the motel owner.
Ken and Jack restrained him.
“Spunky little tiger, aren’t you?” Walz demanded with a hard, mirthless laugh.
“It seems to me,” drawled Jack, addressing the motel owner, “that you’re changing your tune about the gold. Until now, you’ve maintained Stony’s tale was fantastic.”
“And so it is!”
“You’re the one who should know,” Willie said significantly. “You were the first to go through Old Stony’s things.”
The Scouts expected the motel owner to fly into a rage at this accusation, but to their surprise he shrugged it off.
“I found nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
“Not even in the bag of pinto beans?” War asked.
Walz’ lips twitched, and a flush overspread his ruddy cheeks.
“I see Old Stony did tell you quite a story,” he sneered. “Oh, you can’t fool me! You weren’t here on any good-will mission. You were looking for gold and a treasure map.”
“You’ve changed your idea about the map, too,” Jack accused him.
“Maybe I have! Maybe I’ve come to the conclusion Old Stony told you a few things he never entrusted to any other person in Rocking Horse.”
“Conclude as you please,” Mr. Livingston said shortly.
“I’m asking a straight question. Did you find a map in this cabin?”
“You’ll have to learn that answer for yourself, my friend.”
Walz and the Scout leader gazed steadily at one another. Then abruptly the motel owner’s manner changed. He moved aside so that the Scouts could file out the cabin door.
“You have the map,” he said in an oddly quiet voice. “I knew it the moment I stepped into this room.”
No one gave Walz the satisfaction of a reply.
He continued, his tone a warning: “Just bear in mind one thing. In trusting you with his secret, Old Stony may have passed on to you his own misfortune—the curse that hangs over Headless Hollow!”
Chapter 7
UNDER THE TENT FLAP
Back in their own camp, the Explorers made certain Jarrett Walz had not followed them.
Then, in the privacy of the larger tent, they eagerly spread out the treasure map for a closer inspection. Jack got the Colorado road guide from the car, and they pored over it, trying to pinpoint Headless Hollow.
“There’s no such place,” War announced after a long study of the basic Colorado map.
“You didn’t expect to find Headless Hollow printed in big red letters, did you?” Ken demanded.
“That was only a name Old Stony and his partner gave the valley,” Jack added.
“We can’t find any of the landmarks either,” War grumbled, “or that town where Craig Warner is supposed to live—Elks Creek.”
“It may be too small a place to be on a road map,” Mr. Livingston returned. “Buckhorn, too.”
“This treasure map isn’t drawn to scale, either,” Willie said with a frown. “Most of the canyons and mountain peaks aren’t named. The main landmark seems to be those twin peaks which guard the entrance to the valley.”
“We’re not going there, anyhow,” Ken said, giving him an amused, knowing look. “So why worry about it?”
“Well, it would be exciting to look for that cache of gold,” Willie retorted.
“If we could locate a take-off town it might not be too far out of our way,” War put in eagerly. “How about it, Hap?”
Mr. Livingston smiled but shook his head.
“No treasure hunting on this trip, boys. We’re supposed to be back in Belton City by the end of the week.”
“Oh, a few days more or less wouldn’t matter,” War said carelessly.
“There’s a little matter of money,” Ken reminded him. “We have just enough, with a few dollars in reserve, to make it home.”
“I know,” War admitted, crestfallen. “But a fellow can dream, can’t he?”
Jack continued to study the map.
“Make anything of it?” Ken asked.
“Either on purpose, or because he was careless, Stony made his markings vague. He was especially slack about printing in names.”
“What’ll we do with the map?” Willie asked the Scout leader.
“It’s our duty to turn it over to Craig Warner. Our best bet will be to send him a wire.”
“Telling him we have the map?”
“No, Willie. Not in the first wire. We’ll report Stony’s death and ask him to reply.”
It had been the Scout plan to start on toward Belton City, a journey of several days, but in view of the promise made to Old Stony, they now were uncertain what to do.
“We’ve already lost most of the morning,” Mr. Livingston said, looking at his wristwatch. “If I get a telegram off right away, we might have a reply by tonight if we’re lucky.”
He reflected a moment, then reached a decision.
“We’ve paid for the site until tomorrow morning, boys. If we’re ever going to hear from Craig Warner, we ought to have a reply by that time.”
Willie and Warwick decided to ride into the main section of town with the Scout adviser. Jack and Ken agreed to watch the camp while the others were dispatching the telegram.
“Don’t let Walz or anyone grab that map,” Willie warned, as the car pulled away.
Left to themselves, Jack and Ken discussed Old Stony for a while. Now that they were away from the hospital and the magic of his voice, the tale of treasure seemed farfetched.
“Maybe it was just a fixation he had,” Ken said thoughtfully. “I’ve read of old prospectors drawing maps of imaginary places. Then they’d dream over ’em so long they’d convince themselves the treasure was real.”
“Jarrett Walz seemed to think Stony’s story mostly hot air. At least, that’s what he put out at first. But if he didn’t believe it, why did he paw through everything in the cabin?”
“Including that bag of pinto beans.”
“Yeah, Ken, it’s just possible he found a few nuggets in the beans—enough to get him excited about the map.”
“What did you think of his crack about the curse of Headless Hollow?”
“Melodrama. Maybe he wanted to discourage us from going there.”
“If so,” Ken grinned, “he went about it the wrong Way. He should know that adventure is our dish!”
“Walz may know more about Old Stony’s past than he’s letting on,” Jack said thoughtfully. “You notice he gets his statements mixed. Another thing, he poohpoohs the idea of a treasure, but he seems wild to get his hands on this map.”
Ken nodded. “We should hide it in a safe spot.”
“Where?”
“Not in our duffel bags. That would be the first place he’d look.”
Jack’s eye fell upon the tent flap. “Why not under there?” he suggested. “At least until Hap gets back with the car?”
“Good idea.”
Folding the map into a tiny square, they hid it under the tent flap. Then, satisfied that it would be safe, they set about preparing lunch.
By the time Mr. Livingston, War, and Willie drove up, a big pot of stew was giving off a delightful aroma. Ken made tea and tossed a handful of raisins in the boiling rice.
“Any news?” Jack asked the Scout leader, as they all sat down at a picnic table to eat.
“Nothing of consequence. We sent off the telegram. The telegraph company agent promised to telephone us here if there is any answer.”
“What about Stony?” Ken questioned, after a moment. “Police haven’t caught that fellow who attacked him?”
“No. We dropped around at the station. Apparently, Jarrett Walz was right—the investigation won’t be carried on with any vigor.”
“What—about the arrangements—Stony’s burial?”
“Tomorrow at 10 A.M. The town is providing for a simple service.”
“Not Walz, then?”
“He’s contributing a small amount.”
“I’d like to chip in for flowers,” Jack said soberly. “Even if our money is short, we can manage it, can’t we?”
“Yes, Jack,” Mr. Livingston nodded. “While we were in town, we arranged for a wreath. It seemed the least we could do. Stony was a stranger and yet, somehow, he moved us all deeply.”
“I got a queer feeling about him,” War added, staring at his plate.
“What kind of feeling?” Ken asked.
“It’s hard to explain.” War groped for words. “It’s as if his ghost were here—sort o’ nudging us on—saying we should follow the lead he gave us.”
No one laughed.
Finally, Mr. Livingston said, “If we hear from Craig Warner, and Elks Creek isn’t too many miles out of our way, we could deliver the map.”
This thought at once caused the Explorers to become more cheerful.
“About going on to Buckhorn—” War began, but Mr. Livingston shook his head.
“It’s a matter of time and money, Warwick. After all, we’ve had our vacation.”
“And a dandy one it was!” announced Jack, beginning to gather up the cups. “I’m not going to grieve over Old Stony’s hidden gold. Quit your coaxing, War, and get those dishes done!”
Shortly after 2 P. M., as the Scouts restlessly idled about camp, they saw Jarrett Walz drive up. From the way he slammed the door as he went into the motel office, they judged he was in a bad mood. This was made even more evident a few minutes later when he tramped down the road to ask them if they had decided when they would leave Rocking Horse.
“Tomorrow some time, probably,” Mr. Livingston told him.
“Our town seems to have quite an attraction for you.”
“Not exactly.”
“You’re certainly taking a deep interest in Stony’s unfortunate affairs,” the motel owner went on, scowling. “I heard about that telegram you sent to Craig Warner.”
“Oh! News travels fast in Rocking Horse.”
“It does. I might say you seem to be assuming responsibilities. Some might have a less polite name for it.”
“Meaning?”
“Ever since you hit this town, you’ve been sticking your nose into affairs that don’t concern you.”