The hot sun was high overhead when the car wound along a stream of fast-running water and emerged into a clearing.
A short distance ahead the Scouts saw a long log cabin, a barn, and a fenced area.
“Cloud Crest Ranch,” Jack read on the gatepost.
He jumped out to unbar the gate so that the car could pass through. Carefully, he closed it again before they drove on to the ranch house.
The car’s approach was evidently noted from the building for, as the Scouts alighted in front of the ranch building, a man who was nearly six feet tall, lean and muscular, came out the door.
At first glance they took him to be in his thirties, but as he came closer they saw the shock of gray hair and the lines on his face which made him seem to be in his fifties.
“Howdy.”
The rancher was soft spoken, and he looked straight at the Scouts as he greeted them. He wore a red shirt and brown riding breeches.
“Craig Warner?” Mr. Livingston inquired.
“I am.”
Mr. Livingston gave his name and introduced the Explorers. Since the rancher did not invite them into the house, Mr. Livingston decided to make the visit brief.
Going straight to the point, he told Mr. Warner of Old Stony’s death and his request that the map to the Headless Hollow region be delivered to him.
“Well!” Warner exclaimed. “You know, I never could figure out why that old fellow kept writing to me!”
“You never knew that he was your father’s partner?” Mr. Livingston asked.
“No. I was just a kid when my father went off into the mountains prospecting, and he never came back.”
“Stony didn’t tell you his connection with your father?”
The rancher shook his head. “No. I answered only one of his letters, I think. I couldn’t see any sense in writing a stranger, so I let the correspondence lapse. Stony, as you call him, never mentioned my father, except to say he had known him. But he did let on he owed me a great debt. I never could figure that out.”
“He sent you a map,” Mr. Livingston said. “A chart to an area where he claims there is a cache of gold. He called it Headless Hollow.”
“Have you heard of it?” Jack asked, noticing the startled expression of the rancher’s face.
“Well, yes. Not by that name. But it must be the same isolated valley where my father lost his life—and the same area where Joe Hansart disappeared.”
“Another prospector?” Ken inquired.
“Joe disappeared six or seven years ago. He set off into the canyons and never came back. It’s a bad locality.”
Warner seemed suddenly to remember his manners.
“Come into the house,” he invited them. “We’ll have a spot of coffee and give that map the once-over.”
“See that jagged peak with the patch of snow almost at its tip? Right below is stunted timber land. Well, that’s Crazy Mountain. I figure Headless Hollow is somewhere in there behind those tumbles of rock.”
Craig Warner stood at the cabin window, pointing toward the distant horizon. Over mugs of strong, steaming coffee, the Scouts had studied Old Stony’s map with their rancher host. Somewhat to their surprise, Warner had seemed impressed by the crudely drawn paper as he compared it with a contour map of the mountain area.
“Y’ know,” he confessed, his grin boyish, “I’ve always had a hankering to find out what’s behind those barriers. Here I’ve lived fairly close to the place for years, and I never attempted it.”
“Well, you have a map now,” Mr. Livingston said. “A motive, shall we say? So perhaps you’ll decide to search for your fortune.”
The rancher laughed and shook his head. “I know better than to place faith in tales of hidden gold. The last great strike in this state was at Cripple Creek, just behind Pikes Peak. That district had been passed up for years because prospectors said it lacked the usual signs.”
“Headless Hollow may be the same,” Jack said.
“Afraid not.” Warner placed the map in a drawer of the living-room desk. “But the area might offer uranium possibilities.”
“Has no one ever been there?” Ken asked. “Recently, I mean?”
“Folks hereabouts are too busy to risk their necks on crazy climbs. Besides, as I told you, the area has a bad reputation.”
“You said something about a prospector disappearing there,” Warwick reminded him.
“That was Joe Hansart. He was a strange character—one of the real old-timers—always asking folks to grubstake him. He’d disappear for months at a time. Always broke when he showed up again. Well, he became obsessed with the idea there was gold somewhere on Crazy Mountain. About seven years ago, I think it was, he packed out of here, heading that way, and was never seen again.”
“Maybe he fell off a cliff,” Ken observed.
“The Headless Hollow locality has plenty of hazards. Something happened to him, that’s sure.”
“Could he have stayed on there alone year after year?” Jack asked thoughtfully.
“I don’t see how, but there’s a small lake where a man could fish, and if he had ammunition he could provide himself with meat. But the winters are bitterly cold. No, I don’t figure even a tough old knot like Joe Hansart could have made out. He must be dead. The question is, how did he die?”
“That seems to trouble you,” Mr. Livingston said. “Friend of yours?”
“Never set eyes on Joe except once or twice. It’s the stories about Headless Hollow that bother me.”
“Stories?”
“It began years ago,” the rancher said, lighting his pipe. “I suppose my father’s death and Stony’s disappearance marked the beginning.”
“Was it known they were supposed to have struck gold?”
“Well, you can’t keep such things completely dark,” Warner replied with a smile. “I was a boy at the time, so all I know is hearsay. At first, feeling was high against Stony, because people thought he was responsible for my father’s death. My mother never shared that feeling. She always said the man was falsely accused—that it must have been an accident. But you know how folks are—they always want to blame someone. Stony could have cleared himself, but he ran away, and that made it look bad.”
“You think Stony shot your father by accident?” Ken questioned.
“Either that, or it was an Indian bullet, as Stony claimed.”
“Do Indians live in the hollow?”
“No. The area is uninhabited, as far as I know. Folks deliberately avoid that section of the mountain. Prospectors who have tried to go there in recent years—well, they just seem to have bad luck.”
“You’re referring to Joe Hansart’s disappearance?” Mr. Livingston remarked.
“There have been other things, too,” the rancher admitted reluctantly. “A couple of ambitious young rock climbers thought they would tackle Crazy Mountain two years ago. One of ’em had a bad fall.”
“That could happen to anyone.”
“True. But this kid claimed someone above him started an avalanche. No one hereabouts put any stock in it—but it did serve to stir up rumors again.”
“Rumors?”
“Oh, I’m not superstitious, and I know you folks aren’t, either. The tale is that the Spirit of Crazy Mountain guards the place.”
“Folks who go there always have trouble?” Jack asked, grinning.
“Yeah. As I said, it’s a wild area—no place for amateur climbers.”
“Odd you’ve never gone there yourself,” Mr. Livingston said, eying the rancher thoughtfully.
“I’ve often wanted to,” Warner confessed, “especially when I was younger and my legs were in better condition.”
“You seem in pretty fair shape to me right now,” the Scout leader replied.
“Oh, I try to keep fit.” Warner abruptly got up and walked to the window again. Staring toward the faraway mountains, he said: “I’d have tried to find that valley years ago, but I never had the time. Now—”
“Yes?” Mr. Livingston prodded as the rancher fell into meditative silence.
“Well, it’s no climb to tackle alone. Frankly, there’s no one hereabouts that I could take with me. Plenty would be eager to go, but they’d be a hindrance, not a help.”
“We know someone who would be tickled to go,” War cut in with a chuckle.
“Oh?”
“You won’t want to meet him, either,” War laughed.
He then mentioned Jarrett Walz’ name and told to what lengths the motel owner had gone to gain possession of the treasure map.
“You don’t say!” Warner exclaimed, impressed. “If he’s so keen on getting his hands on this map, then it must have some value.”
“He thinks so,” said Mr. Livingston. “I would advise you to keep that bit of paper in a safe place.”
“Oh, no one ever comes here. Not once in a month,” the rancher answered. “You’re my first visitors since June. It’s a real pleasure having you.”
Warner, the Scouts now knew, lived alone, except for two ranch hands who looked after the stock. He had no wife or children.
After chatting a while longer, the Scouts started to leave, but their host would not hear of it.
“Stay until tomorrow morning at least,” he urged. “I like company, if it’s the right sort.”
The Scouts had enjoyed Craig Warner’s companionship, and his invitation flattered them. When Mr. Livingston left the decision to them, they voted to remain.
Warner cooked a hearty lunch for the boys and showed them around Cloud Crest. Whenever he was out of doors, they noticed, his steel blue eyes roved naturally to the distant peaks of Crazy Mountain.
“Y’ know,” he admitted with a self-conscious laugh, “that map has fired my imagination! Not in years have I felt so excited!”
“Gold fever?” Hap Livingston asked with a chuckle.
“No,” the rancher answered soberly. “It’s more than that. I’ve never seen my father’s grave. The tale of gold interests me, but only incidentally. I want to see this place you call Headless Hollow, because its mystery lures me.”
“A trip such as that would require careful planning,” Mr. Livingston observed.
“It would. That’s why so many who started for the region met disaster. Their expeditions were badly organized.”
Again Craig Warner became lost in thought. The Scouts sensed that he was seriously considering making practical use of the map they had turned over to him.
“Y’ know, except for one thing, I’d start for Headless Hollow at the drop of a hat,” the rancher suddenly announced, leaning on the rail fence. “I could get away from here for a week—”
“What’s that one thing holding you up?” Jack asked curiously, though he thought he could guess the answer.
“I know better than to go alone.”
“Maybe you won’t have to,” Jack drawled.
For a minute, the other Scouts were mystified by his remark. Then, following his gaze, they saw that a car was coming up the winding dirt road toward the ranch. It was a rented taxi.
A lone male passenger sat beside the driver. By this time, the car was close enough for the Scouts to make out the general outline of the man’s face.
The visitor was Jarrett Walz.
The rented car rolled up the lane and halted near the fence where Craig Warner and the Scouts waited.
Paying off the driver, Jarrett Walz strode over to the group. He showed no surprise at seeing Mr. Livingston and the Explorers, nor did he make any apology for having followed them to the Cloud Crest Ranch. In fact, he deliberately ignored the Scouts, addressing Craig Warner.
“You don’t know me,” he said, offering his hand, “but I’m Jarrett Walz from Rocking Horse. An old friend of Stony’s.”
“Howdy,” the rancher responded. His manner was neither friendly nor unfriendly.
The motel owner then launched into a glorified account of the manner in which he had befriended Old Stony. Mr. Livingston and the Scouts let him run on without interruption.
Finally, Walz wound up his long-winded monologue by asking Warner if the Explorers had turned over the Headless Hollow map to him.
“I have it,” the rancher replied.
“I drove out here to make you a proposition,” Walz rattled on. “How about you and me teaming up for a bit of adventure?”
“You’re proposing we explore the Headless Hollow region?” said Warner.
“Why not? It’s a good time of year—everything’s in our favor. Since you have the map we may find a valuable mine site—or at least a cache of ore.”
“I don’t team up with a man on an hour’s notice.”
“I realize I’m a stranger,” Walz said, “but if you doubt my character, send a wire to anyone in Rocking Horse.”
“I don’t need testimonials to judge a man,” Warner replied dryly.
“How does the proposal strike you? The quicker we get started, the better I’d like it.”
Warner did not answer the motel owner’s question directly. Instead, he said, “No one has any business on Crazy Mountain without a good pair of legs. A trip such as you’re proposing would take a heap o’ planning. You’d need supplies—a list made out with care, because every pound you pack counts. Footwear’s important, too.”
“Oh, mere details. I can buy anything I need in an hour’s time. The essential thing is to have a guide who knows the country.”
“You’ll not find anyone hereabouts that has ever been to the Headless Hollow region.”
“You mean the place has never been explored?” Walz demanded.
“Men have gone there,” Warner drawled, “but they don’t seem to come back.”
The remark jarred Walz for a moment. “You’re trying to scare me out of it!” he accused.
“No,” the rancher answered quietly. “Just giving you the facts. I reckon a good mountain climber who’s willing to take punishment could reach the place, but he’d have to face hazards.”
“Bears? Cougars?”
“Animals shouldn’t give any trouble if a man minds his business.”
“Then what is holding us back?” Walz demanded impatiently. “Are you afraid of the climb?”
“It may be tricky finding a pass down into the valley.”
“They told me in town you’re one of the best mountaineers in this section—you and Pete Ranier, the half-breed Indian.”
“Why don’t you talk to Pete?” Warner suggested. “He might be induced to take you to the Headless region—for a price.”
“But he doesn’t have the map,” Walz growled. “That’s why I don’t want to team up with him. Besides, he’s a heavy drinker, they tell me—reliable only when he’s sober.”
“You’re welcome to stay here tonight,” Warner said. “We’ll talk some more. Maybe we can get together.”
“Fine!” the motel owner responded heartily. “I thought you’d see it my way. You team up with me, and I’ll pay all the expenses. If we hit it lucky, we’ll split any way you want.”
The Scouts remained out of doors while Warner showed Walz to a room.
“I wonder if this isn’t our cue to pull out of here?” Mr. Livingston remarked. “It’s not going to be pleasant, now that Walz has come.”
“He’ll only try to make us look bad,” Jack agreed.
When Craig Warner came outside alone, the Scouts mentioned leaving, but he would not hear of it.
“I couldn’t turn Walz away,” he said. “As for teaming up with him, I’m not even considering it. Stick around, boys. Things may get interesting.”
Whenever the rancher was near, Walz deliberately avoided the Scouts. Late in the afternoon, however, he ran into Jack and Ken near the corrals. They would have passed him without a word, if he had not blocked their way.
“You’ve been telling Warner things about me that aren’t true!” he declared.
Ken and Jack were amused by the accusation. It did not seem deserving of a reply.
“Get this!” Walz snapped. “I want that map, and I mean to get it! I’m warning you not to interfere! If you do—”
“If we do—what?”
“You’ll find out!” Walz blustered. “I’m fed up with your meddling. Take my advice and drive on!”
“We like the scenery,” Jack retorted, “so we’re staying.”
After the early chores were done, Warner told his visitors he would take them over to see Tarta Lake.
“It’s only a little hike,” he said. “Figured we could tote our grub up there and cook supper under the stars.”
The Explorers fell in with the plan at once. Walz seemed annoyed, but he kept his thoughts to himself.
They set off single file up a gentle slope, Warner leading the way. He had an easy, fast, smooth stride, which the Scouts deliberately imitated. Walz kept up at first, then fell to the end of the line. When the climb became more difficult—rocky and steep—Walz sat down to empty gravel from his shoes.
“How much farther?” he puffed.
“Not more than a mile,” the rancher replied.
The Scouts were all in good condition, and therefore the sharp climb was no test for their sturdy, muscular legs. Even War, who tired more easily than his older crew mates, found his breath holding.
At Tarta Lake Walz collapsed on the grass. He rested while Warner and the Scouts built a fire and set steaks to broiling.
The mountains had brought peace and relaxation to the Explorers. Even their irritation at Walz faded away as they gathered about the glowing log for an hour of rest and talk.
Warner, usually quiet, related a variety of stories about the area. Purposely, however, he avoided mention of Headless Hollow.
“It’s queer about mountains,” he said, watching sparks fly up from the fire. “They have a way of showing a man for what he is.”
Walz eyed him suspiciously but made no comment.
Soon it was time to start back to the ranch. Warner made certain every spark of the fire was out, and they began the long trek. Obviously very tired, Walz dragged at the end of the line. Warner slowed his pace, but even so the motel owner could not keep up. Once he stumbled against a tree and gave it a savage kick.
Finally, when they were at the ranch once more, the motel owner collapsed on the davenport with a little moan.
“I’m a mite out of condition,” he admitted. “A couple of days on the trail, and my muscles will be okay again. Most of my trouble today came from having the wrong kind of shoes.”
“A mountain can give a fellow quite a beating,” was Warner’s only comment.
After an hour of rest, Walz regained his strength. With reviving zest for the Headless Hollow adventure, he began to press Warner for a decision.
The rancher regarded him in surprise. “Haven’t the mountains given you your answer?”
“That jaunt we took was no fair test! Once I get better equipment—”
“Headless Valley is no place for an amateur,” Warner told him. “If you’re dead set on going there, Pete Ranier might take you. I doubt it, though. You’d be asking for trouble.”
“At least show me the map.”
The rancher hesitated. Then, apparently deciding his guest could make no practical use of it, he unlocked the paper from the desk drawer. Eagerly, Walz pored over it, his dark eyes sparkling.
“Let me make a copy of this!” he demanded.
Warner had begun to regret even showing the paper to the motel owner.
“Sorry,” he replied.
Taking the map from Walz, he relocked it in the desk.
“Walz,” the rancher said, eying him steadily, “you don’t seem to understand what I’ve told you about the Headless Hollow region. It’s a dangerous spot for any man, even if he’s at home in the mountains. You’d be a fool to attempt it, even with a guide.”
“Who says I’m going to?” Walz retorted.
With a shrug, he bade the group goodnight and went to the room assigned to him.
The Scouts soon retired, for the long hike and the fresh mountain air had made everyone very tired. They slept soundly, hearing nothing until Mr. Livingston pounded on their bedroom doors the next morning.
Ken and Jack were the first to get dressed and down to the kitchen. Warner was there ahead of them, frying bacon and expertly tossing flapjacks.
“Morning,” he greeted the pair cheerfully. “Sleep well?”
“Like logs,” Jack answered. “How’s Walz this morning? Still worn out?”
“I wouldn’t know,” the rancher drawled. “Our friend is no longer with us.”
“He left during the night?” Jack asked in astonishment.
“Reckon so. Brace yourselves, boys. Your car is gone.”
As the Scouts accepted this news in stunned silence, Warner added: “That’s not all. Our impulsive friend likewise has stolen the map!”
“The car gone?” Jack echoed the rancher’s words. “And the map too?”
“When did it happen?” Ken asked.
Craig Warner flipped another pancake, adding it to the stack he had baked.
“Don’t know. Some time during the night. I discovered the desk broken into when I came downstairs about twenty minutes ago.”
“If our car’s gone, we’re stranded,” Jack said slowly.
“I’ve already telephoned the sheriff. Don’t let it upset you. I figure Warner probably won’t go far. He has only one objective.”
“Headless Hollow,” Jack suggested.
“And he can’t drive the car up Crazy Mountain,” the rancher added dryly. “We’ll catch up with him. After breakfast, I’ll drive you to Elks Creek.”
Warner’s casual view of the situation only partly reassured the Scouts. Jack and Ken went at once to impart the bad news to the others.
“So Walz really is a crook!” Warwick burst out angrily.
It was impossible to determine how long Walz had been away from the ranch. However, Willie recalled that an hour or two before dawn he had heard an automobile motor.
“I was so sleepy I didn’t pay much attention!” he reproved himself. “Chump!”
The Explorers tried not to talk too much about the loss of their car, but of course it worried them. They were hundreds of miles from Belton City, and their money had run low. They knew they could wire their parents for more, but they had no intention of doing so except in an absolute emergency.
As they ate breakfast, Craig Warner seemed in as good spirits as ever. The loss of the map didn’t appear to disturb him.
“I can draw it myself from memory,” he said. “That paper won’t be nearly the help to Walz he thinks it will.”
“Your guess is he’ll head straight for the mountain?” Mr. Livingston asked.
The rancher nodded as he refilled the coffee cups. “He’ll tackle it if he can get anyone to go with him. Pete Ranier might be crazy enough to do it—for a price.”
“Is he a reliable guide?”
“One of the best, when he’s sober—and that isn’t often. But he has a fiery temper. He and our friend Walz would be sure to tangle. Ranier can’t stand a tenderfoot.”
The Scouts ate rapidly, impatient to be off in pursuit of Walz. Their host, on the other hand, was deliberate. Certainly he seemed in no hurry to drive them to town.
“Practically all our stuff is in that car,” Willie muttered to Jack as they stood in the yard, waiting for the rancher to start his motor in the barn. “Doesn’t he give a darn?”
Warner backed out the car and then went into the house again. When he returned, he was grinning.
“Good news, boys!” he told them. “The sheriff’s found your car.”
“Where?” Jack demanded eagerly.
“Abandoned at Elks Creek. I figured Warner wouldn’t take it very far.”
“How about our stuff?”
“That I don’t know.”
Though Warner’s car was old, it was durable. The Explorers all piled in, and the drive to Elks Creek was made in fast time. They found Mr. Livingston’s sedan on a side street near a gas station. One of the tires was flat, but otherwise the car seemed not to have been damaged.
Quickly the Scouts checked their luggage. A sleeping bag was missing, as well as one of the pup tents and a set of nested pans.
“At least Walz took only what he figured he’d need,” Ken said in disgust.
Inquiry established that Walz had been seen going to Ranier’s shack shortly after dawn.
Apparently the two had come to an agreement, for they had bought supplies and started off in the guide’s old car.
“They’re heading for Crazy Mountain,” Warner decided. “Ranier should have better sense than to start off with a fellow like Walz. He probably figures Walz will buckle up after a day on the trail and call the deal off.”
“He might be stubborn enough to keep on and get into real trouble,” Mr. Livingston said soberly. “He has the gold fever pretty bad.”
“I’m getting it myself,” the rancher confessed with a chuckle. “Maybe I’ll sling together an outfit and pack after him. I’d like to get that map back.”
“Would you head for Headless Hollow alone?” the Scout leader asked in surprise.
“Not if I can get you and your boys to come along.”
The Scouts regarded the rancher in surprise.
“It will be no trick to pick up Walz’ trail,” he said. “With luck we can overtake him by tomorrow. When we do, we’ll teach our friend a little lesson in manners.”
An expedition, even a short distance into the mountains, was not to be undertaken lightly, and Mr. Livingston had no great enthusiasm for the venture. Nevertheless, he agreed with the Scouts that Walz ought to be brought to justice and forced to pay for the articles he had stolen.
“Besides,” War urged eagerly, “don’t we owe it to Stony to see that Walz never gets his hands on any gold?”
“I can see you’re all for the trip,” Mr. Livingston said. “But isn’t this a job for the sheriff?”
“It is,” Warner agreed, “but getting the sheriff to tackle Crazy Mountain is another proposition. He’ll never do it.”
The whole matter was debated thoroughly, and in the end the Scout leader was persuaded by the Explorers to give his consent.
“Just what will develop if we do overtake Walz worries me,” Mr. Livingston admitted. “We can’t take the law into our own hands.”
“Leave that part to me,” Warner said grimly. “I know how to handle men of his stripe. We’ll bring him back and turn him over to the authorities. Sheriff Brown will deputize me.”
It was believed that Walz and his guide could be overtaken speedily but, to prepare for any possible emergency, the group decided to pack enough supplies for several days on the trail.
“Walz will never reach the Headless Hollow Valley,” the rancher predicted confidently. “Alone, Ranier might do it. But if I know him, he’s in this expedition only for a bit of quick cash.”
Despite the need for haste, Craig Warner and Mr. Livingston were very thorough in their planning. Warner bought the supplies, including a vial of saccharin for sugar because of its lightness, some powdered milk, flour mix, oatmeal, dried fruit, salt, tea, and coffee. He also added a first-aid kit, a fishing rod, and a revolver borrowed from a friend when Sheriff Brown made him a deputy.
One of Warner’s ranch hands drove the party to Buckhorn and on to the beginning of the mountain road. There the six climbers shouldered heavy packs and trudged upward, at first following a marked trail. After a while, the trail played out, and the going became harder.
Making only brief stops for rest, they climbed steadily, through ravines and steep-walled canyons. At intervals, Warner raked the distant rock shelves with his field glass, but he failed to sight the two men he believed to have gone on ahead.
The day was cloudless, and a warm sun blazed down. Laboring under the heavy packs, the Scouts perspired profusely. Their leg muscles, tough as they were, began to ache. No one, however, made complaint or suggested a slower pace. When they paused to drink at a spring and refill canteens, Warner consulted the rough map he had redrawn from memory and compared it with an accurate contour map.
“It’s only fair to warn you,” he said, “the climb so far is only a tiny taste of what’s ahead.”
With a pencil, he made a dotted line, showing their projected route over the top of the mountain and down to an isolated valley. Then the line went up again into the higher, desolate peaks of Crazy Mountain.
“Our problem—if we follow Walz that far,” the rancher said, frowning thoughtfully, “is to find a pass through to the Headless Hollow region. It may not be easy. So if anyone wants to turn back, now’s the time to say so.”
One and all, the Scouts shook their heads.
“Okay,” Warner said, well pleased. “Then let’s hit the trail. No time is to be lost if we’re going to overtake Walz.”
For hours, the party trudged on. They passed the water line into an area where the trees were twisted into grotesque shapes before they thinned out to only occasional trunks. Higher up, timber disappeared entirely. The air became light and chilly.
War and Willie were hard pressed to keep up with the others. Despite their fatigue, Warner had to keep on, for it was growing late and the area offered no suitable camp site.
On the other slope of the mountain the descent was easier, but by the time the rancher finally called a halt on a rock shelf above a racing stream, everyone was worn out.
“How do you figure Walz has managed to come this far?” Willie muttered, dropping his pack. “I never thought he had it in him.”
“Maybe we’ve lost him,” Jack replied. “We’ve not seen a trace of him or his guide since we left Elks Creek this morning.”
While the others busied themselves making camp, Jack and Warner scanned the ravines and mountainside with the powerful field glass.
“See any smoke?” the rancher asked.
Jack lowered the glass. “No trace of a camp. But I thought you said this was uninhabited country.”
“It is.”
“Not quite. A town is hidden down there on the slope. I can see buildings.”
The rancher smiled broadly. “Any people?”
Again Jack studied the distant cluster of buildings through the glass. “That’s funny,” he acknowledged. “The place looks lifeless. Dead.”
“You’re looking at a ghost town, Jack. No one has lived there for thirty years.”
“No one?”
“That’s right. The town flourished in the old gold days—then was deserted. It’s cut off from roads and railroads. All supplies had to be packed in. So when the gold bubble blew up, miners pulled out.”
“Well, the town has an occupant now,” Jack announced, a trace of excitement in his voice.
“Walz?” the rancher demanded eagerly.
Jack shook his head, offering the glass to Warner.
“Not Walz. His guide, perhaps. I saw a fellow with long white hair and a beard. I caught a glimpse of him before he went into one of the buildings.”
Warner gazed oddly at Jack as he began to adjust the powerful glass.
“Ranier,” he drawled, “doesn’t have a beard, or white hair either.”
For some minutes, Craig Warner studied the ghost town below the Scout camp.
“I don’t see anyone,” he told Jack. “Sure you saw a man?”
“I’m certain.”
“And he had a white beard?”
“Well, I thought so,” Jack replied. “It’s getting dark, though. I suppose I could have been mistaken.”
“It may have been Walz,” the rancher decided, lowering the field glass.
That night, there was little talk over the camp fire. The Scouts were tired, especially Warwick and Willie, and everyone turned in the minute the work was done.
They used fir boughs for beds, but even so the hard rock shelf was so uncomfortable that Jack slept fitfully. His legs hurt from the long, hard climb. His back ached, too. No matter how he adjusted himself, the cold night air seemed to hit him. He could hear Willie and War moaning and tossing not far away.
Of the Explorers, only Ken appeared to be getting a sound night’s sleep.
Jack was up at dawn, ready to help Craig Warner build the fire and start breakfast. Cups of strong black coffee, oatmeal, and pancakes made everyone feel better and revived zest for the adventure.
While the Scouts fixed their packs, Mr. Livingston and the rancher carefully went over the contour map.
“We’ll swing down to the old ghost town,” Warner decided. “Then we’ll have a hard climb to the pass which leads into the Headless Hollow area. We may not be lucky enough to find a way through.”
“That’s where Walz has the advantage of us,” Mr. Livingston replied. “The map he has probably shows the way.”
Since the Scouts had caught no glimpse of Walz and his guide, they had begun to wonder if they were following a phantom trail.
“I’d like to catch up with Walz,” the rancher said. “I sure would. But if we miss him, it may save us a lot of trouble.”
“In any case, you’ll push on to the Hollow?” Ken asked hopefully.
“I want to. Since we’ve come this far, we may as well have a look at that valley. This may be our only chance.”
The decision pleased the Scouts. Tired though they were, the hard climb was a challenge. Besides, they felt they never would be satisfied until they learned whether or not Old Stony’s tale of the valley was true.
With the distant ghost town as the immediate objective, the party soon started the sharp descent.
“Keep close together, boys,” Warner warned. “We don’t want to start any rock slides.”
The footing was slippery. Twice War, who had not balanced his horseshoe pack well that morning, stumbled and would have fallen if Jack had not seized his arm.
“Careful,” the rancher warned again. “A broken leg or even a sprained ankle could be a serious matter, now that we’re so far from help.”
As they continued, Jack saw the rancher glance frequently at the younger boys. War was a fairly new member of the Explorers and not so well seasoned as the others to withstand hardships. Jack himself wondered if War would be able to hold out.
At noon, the party stopped briefly by a stream, to drink and refill canteens. While the others rested, Warner whipped the pools with his fly rod and brought in four handsome trout for the meal.
The halt refreshed War only for a while. Soon it was apparent that he was beginning to falter. Warner, who was leading, slowed his pace but, even so, both War and Willie trailed.
It was a relief when finally, hours later, the party trudged into the old ghost town which had been built hard against the shadowy mountainside. The silence of the place was almost oppressive.
Dropping his pack, Jack stared at the unpainted wooden buildings which had fallen into decay. The two that were made of stone and brick were in somewhat better condition. The row of old, deserted cabins gave him an eerie, uneasy feeling. He wandered into one of the musty buildings.
Suddenly he heard Ken call. Stepping outside, he saw his friend in the doorway of the best-preserved building.
“Come here,” Ken urged.
Jack went quickly across the empty, dusty street.
“This is no ghost town,” Ken said in a low tone.
“What d’ you mean, Ken?”
“I’ll show you.”
Ken led inside to the stone-and-clay fireplace where ashes lay deep on the hearth. Beside the fireplace was a pile of neatly stacked wood.
“Feel those ashes,” Ken directed.
There was no need for Jack to do so for, when he stirred them with the toe of his boot, they gave off a thread of smoke.
“Someone’s been here!” Ken announced. “In the last few hours, too.”
“Then I was right!”
“What d’you mean, right?”
“Last night I was sure I saw someone through the field glass.”
“You didn’t mention it.”
“I did to Craig Warner. He thought I was mistaken, or that perhaps it was Walz.”
“Someone had a fire here in the last few hours,” Ken said reflectively. “Did you see smoke rising?”
Jack shook his head.
“Maybe it was Walz with his guide,” Ken decided, frowning. “Probably they camped here last night.”
“It wasn’t Walz,” Jack insisted. “And I don’t think the fellow I saw through the field glass was his guide, either.”
“Who else could it be?”
“Stony’s ghost maybe,” Jack said, chuckling. Then he sobered. “Guess we should warn the fellows. Someone might be prowling around here even now.”
“What you’re suggesting is sort of fantastic,” Ken protested. “This ghost town is out of the way. Why would anyone except Walz come here?”
“Maybe word has leaked out about Stony’s cache of gold.”