“Whoever it is, he’s been here for quite a while, Jack. Not just overnight.”
His gaze sharpened by Ken’s remark, Jack made a more minute inspection of the room. He saw a pile of empty tin cans, a clear indication that someone had eaten many meals here. Match stubs were scattered on the floor. The rotted boards, too, had been tracked heavily with mud, that was now dry.
Disturbed by their discovery, Ken and Jack went to warn the others. By this time, however, the Scouts had wandered through every building in the little town without seeing anyone.
“If anyone was here, he’s gone now,” Willie remarked, unworried.
Mr. Warner was inclined to think a prospector searching for uranium might have chanced that way. He seemed untroubled, so Jack and Ken decided they probably were making too much of the matter. No more was said.
Of far more concern was War’s state of weariness. Though he made no complaint and stubbornly insisted he felt able to go on, everyone could see that his strength had been overtaxed. After a quiet talk, Mr. Livingston and the rancher decided to make camp at the ghost town.
“You’re stopping because of me,” War protested. “I can make it okay.”
“We’re all tired,” Warner told him. “From here on, the climb will be rugged. No use killing ourselves.”
“I’ll feel fine by morning,” War declared, plainly relieved that the party would not press on at once. “All I need is a good night’s rest.”
Preferring to sleep under the stars, the Scouts set their camp in a sheltered spot at the edge of the empty little village. That night, around the camp fire Warner told the boys of the old Colorado boom days when mining towns had flourished.
“Nearly all of the old camps have shriveled and fallen into decay,” he said. “Some have become tourist attractions. Not this place, because it is inaccessible except to a hardy climber.”
War was the first to turn in for the night, and the others prepared to follow. Jack stood a moment, staring up at the jagged mountain peaks. Their way on the morrow lay amid a tumbled mass of rocks and pinnacles, with ridges running in several directions. Would Warner be able to find the pass?
Unnoticed, Mr. Livingston came up behind him.
“A penny for your thoughts, Jack.”
“They’re worth less. I was thinking we’re in for a real test tomorrow.”
“We are,” the Scout leader agreed, “and, frankly, I’m worried about War.”
“His condition?”
“Yes. He has determination and nerve, but he’s not up to a trip as hard as this one.”
“What can we do?”
“Nothing except make it as easy as we can for him. Warner and I will lighten his pack tomorrow. We can’t cache any of the food, because we’re likely to run short as it is.”
On the mountainside the night was bitterly cold. Nevertheless, everyone slept soundly until dawn.
Warner, the first one up, started the fire going and began mixing pan bread. Jack cut more wood and then went to get supplies from his pack.
“Hey, who took my stuff?” he demanded loudly.
The pack was not hanging where he had left it the previous night. While he searched, Willie let out a yip.
“Hey, the food I carried is gone too!” he yelled. “All the tea, the flour, and our raisins!”
Grimly, Mr. Livingston and the rancher joined in the search. Very quickly they realized it was a waste of time.
“Someone sneaked up here during the night and went off with the stuff!” Jack said angrily.
The loss of so much food was a serious matter. Carefully, the Scouts searched every building in the old ghost town. They came upon no one. However, as they went from cabin to cabin, they experienced a strange, uneasy feeling.
“I feel as if someone is watching us,” Jack muttered, expressing the thoughts of the others.
Back at camp, Warner rounded up everyone for a conference.
“Loss of our food is serious,” he said. “We have some left, but not enough to go on.”
The Scouts regarded him with sober faces. Until this moment, they had not realized how much it meant to them to attain their goal—Headless Hollow.
“What’s the verdict?” Jack asked, after a long silence.
“I hate to say this, boys,” the rancher replied. “But we’re up against it. There’s nothing we can do but turn back.”
Jack poked at the rocks with a stick, thinking over the rancher’s decision. He knew it was a wise one. So did all the Scouts.
“It’s like this,” Warner said. “I’ve made a fast check of our supplies. If we don’t have any further bad luck, there’s barely enough food to get us to Headless Valley, with nothing for the return trip.”
“Fish,” Willie said hopefully. “We could cut our rations.”
“Afraid it wouldn’t help much. We’ve made slower time than I figured. Naturally, we’ve consumed more food, and we were short enough even without this theft.”
“Who do you figure did it?” Jack speculated. “Not Walz?”
“I doubt Walz got this far. If he headed for the hollow as we assumed, he may have gone by a different route.”
“That fellow I saw through the field glass may have done it,” Jack pursued.
“Could be,” Warner agreed. “I thought you were wrong night before last when you said you saw someone, but it seems I was.”
“Stealing a man’s food is serious business,” Mr. Livingston remarked.
“It is,” the rancher agreed. “Why didn’t the fellow—whoever he was—come forward and ask for what he needed?”
“Where is he now? That’s what I want to know,” Willie grunted.
“Probably hiding out somewhere in the rocks and trees,” Warner replied. “For that matter, if he’s unfriendly, he could take a pot shot at us.”
“You assume he’s armed?” Mr. Livingston asked in surprise.
“Why not?” Warner hesitated and then added: “Along with the food, he took my gun. I thought I wouldn’t worry you by saying anything about it, but reckon I should.”
This additional bad news hit the Scouts hard. It was War who broke the gloomy silence.
“I’ve been a drag,” he admitted. “No, don’t try to feed me any soft soap. This is my point: suppose I turn back? Wouldn’t you have enough grub for the rest of the party?”
“It would be shaving it too close,” Warner replied.
“Maybe if two of us went back—?” suggested Willie slowly. “For instance, War and me.”
“Even at that, I doubt we could make it,” Warner said after a moment’s thought. “Thanks, boys, for offering.”
“Is there a forest ranger’s station near Elks Creek?” Jack asked suddenly.
“Yes,” Warner told him.
“Does the service have patrol planes?”
“Yes. They’re stationed about fifteen miles from Elks Creek.”
“The Headless Hollow area has a lake,” Jack reminded the group. “Do you suppose it would be possible to get the rangers to fly over that lake and drop a supply of food?”
“Jack, you have a brain!” Ken exclaimed. “Only how do we get word to the rangers?”
“That part’s easy,” Willie said quietly. “War and I will carry the message.”
The unselfishness of the two Scouts drew everyone’s admiration. Jack and Ken insisted that if anyone turned back, they would be the ones to do it. But in this they were overruled by both Mr. Livingston and the rancher.
After a thorough discussion, Willie’s plan prevailed. Accordingly, he and War took light packs with just enough food and bedding to see them safely back to Elks Creek.
“We’ll have a plane speeding to Headless Hollow in a couple of days,” Willie promised. “But if it should be a little longer, don’t worry. We’ll get it there somehow.”
“Take the return trip slowly,” Mr. Livingston urged them.
He offered to go with them, but they would not hear of it. War insisted that he felt strong again after his night’s rest and could make the return journey without difficulty.
“It’s better this way,” he said. “When I took a look at that mountain last night, I knew I never could make it to the pass.”
“Just be sure you bring back some gold,” Willie said with a grin, as the Scouts bade him good-by. “And keep your eyes peeled for trouble.”
The two trudged off, turning once to wave. Shouldering their packs, the others then started on the long climb in the opposite direction.
The sun glistened brightly on the high peaks. Jack tried to distinguish the two sentinel rocks which Old Stony had led them to believe guarded the entrance into the valley. However, all the peaks looked alike to him.
Warner had not exaggerated in warning that the climb would be hard. After two hours of it, the Scouts welcomed a rest. Jack dropped his bedroll and stretched out flat on his back.
Shading his eyes against the glare of the sun, he let his gaze wander over the distant peaks again. For just an instant, he thought he saw the flash of color against granite rock. Getting quickly to his feet, he asked Warner for his field glass.
“What do you see?” Ken demanded as Jack trained it on the rocks far above them. “The old man with whiskers?”
“Nothing,” Jack reported, crestfallen. “Thought for a minute it was someone’s red shirt.”
“You’re seeing things for sure!”
“Guess so,” Jack conceded with a grin. He returned the glass to its case and flopped on the ground once more.
After a twenty-minute rest, the party started on.
The way became increasingly difficult and the footing insecure. Once Jack dislodged a small rock and it clattered down the mountainside hundreds of feet. Canyons bore the scars of sizable slides. Warner told the Scouts that in winter avalanches were a great hazard in this area—that even a small rock slide could be very dangerous.
Lunch was frugal. Mr. Livingston boiled water for tea, but in the high altitude it took a long while. The Scouts satisfied themselves with crackers and cheese.
“It’s always wise to eat lightly when you’re climbing,” Jack said with a grin.
For another hour, they fought their way upward through the tumbled rocks. It was Warner’s hope that they could find the pass and before nightfall descend to a good camp site in the valley.
The party worked itself on up toward the summit, climbing doggedly, single file—when suddenly a strange noise was heard.
Warner, in the lead, looked up quickly. A giant boulder was hurtling down the steep mountainside, taking all before it.
“Stand where you are!” he shouted hoarsely. “Don’t move!”
As the great boulder bounded down the mountainside toward the Scouts, they stood frozen. It was impossible to guess the exact course the big stone would take, for it was careening wildly.
To run when the footing was so treacherous would have been far more dangerous than to remain where they were. Craig Warner, an experienced mountaineer, had made his split-second decision and his shout of warning had been instantly obeyed by the Explorers. However, to remain motionless as the massive rock raced toward them required almost more willpower than they could command.
The crisis came quickly. The huge boulder, showering loose rock in all directions, loomed above the boys. Then as quickly as the danger had come, it was over. With the speed of an express train, the rock swept past them. By scant inches it missed Ken, setting up a breeze as it rushed by.
On rolled the big rock to crash hundreds of feet below in a tangle of twisted pines.
“Wow! That was close!” Ken exclaimed when he had recovered speech.
Jack, breathing hard, asked shakily, “What started that rock rolling down the mountain? An animal?”
“A two-legged one, I suspect,” rejoined Warner, his voice tight.
He adjusted his field glass to train it on the rocks high above them.
Lowering it after several minutes, he said: “No question about it. That rock was dislodged purposely.”
“By whom?” Jack demanded.
“I glimpsed the fellow only for an instant when I first saw the rock coming our way. Then he ducked back out of sight.”
“It wasn’t Walz?” Mr. Livingston asked.
“I don’t think so, but I couldn’t be sure,” the rancher returned, squinting thoughtfully into the sun.
“Maybe it’s that same bird who stole our food,” Jack speculated. “For an unpopulated mountain, this place seems to have quite a bit of activity.”
“Too much,” Warner tersely agreed.
The near disaster had slightly unnerved everyone. Both Mr. Livingston and Craig Warner were puzzled, for the rancher said again that he knew of no prospector who frequented Crazy Mountain.
“Why would anyone want to prevent us from reaching the pass?” he speculated. “Walz would have a reason, but I doubt he ever got this far. Even with Ranier he certainly couldn’t have made it.”
“Someone else may know about the cache of gold,” Jack suggested.
“It begins to look that way,” Warner agreed. “Either that, or we’re dealing with a screwball. If a man lives too long alone—well, sometimes his mind becomes twisted.”
After a brief rest, the party struggled on, the mystery unsolved. Warner used exceeding caution, keeping almost constant watch of the ledges above. But he didn’t get a glimpse of anyone.
Climbing was slow work, and the Scouts were hampered by the necessity for keeping constantly alert for further trouble from above. A misstep could have meant a bad fall because below were enormous cliffs and breath-taking drops.
“With luck, we should soon reach the pass,” Warner advised the group. “Our contour map doesn’t show it, so I’m depending entirely on that memory sketch I made.”
“We haven’t sighted those two twin peaks Old Stony told us about,” Jack said.
“That’s what bothers me,” Warner replied. “In taking his landmarks, maybe he made them on the return trip from Headless Hollow.”
“That’s so!” exclaimed Ken, startled. “In that case, everything would be different from the way we’re seeing it.”
“Don’t forget, Old Stony may have drawn his map purposely wrong to throw off anyone who might steal it,” Mr. Livingston reminded them.
“We’ll soon know,” Warner replied.
Settling themselves to a hard, relentless grind of climbing, the Scouts followed their guide with dogged determination. Progress now was painfully slow. An hour was required to make a few hundred feet.
Jack’s back had grown numb from the weight of the pack. His legs felt as if they would buckle beneath him. Mr. Livingston likewise was showing signs of fatigue, and so was Ken. Only their guide seemed utterly tireless. But as the overcast sun began to lower behind the jagged peaks, even Warner began to falter and show signs of strain.
His growing uneasiness began to be felt by the others. In the last few hours, they had caught no glimpse of the mysterious enemy believed to have dislodged the rock. In fact, they had half forgotten the incident. But a greater worry now confronted them.
Night was coming on, and unless the pass soon materialized, they must make camp. However, the narrow ledges provided little more than walking space. At times the grades were fairly gentle, giving the party a little breathing spell. Then again they became so steep it was hard to find good footing.
Warner and Mr. Livingston pushed desperately on, hoping to find the pass before darkness crept upon the lonely mountain. Though they gave no verbal hint of their growing concern, Ken and Jack could tell by the grim way the two men climbed that they were worried.
To add to the party’s mounting alarm, the sky was rapidly becoming veiled with black clouds that clung around the mountain peaks, ugly and threatening.
“We’ll have rain pretty soon,” Ken predicted, as he and Jack halted to drop their packs briefly. “That’s all we need to make this day complete!”
Jack was too weary to answer. But, scanning the darkening sky, he nodded.
The day’s climb had been unbelievably hard, and seemingly it was endless. How much longer, he wondered, would he be able to keep going? He was glad Willie and War were safely on their way back to Elks Creek—at least he hoped they were safe and comfortable.
“The pass shouldn’t be much farther off,” Warner said to encourage the Scouts. “We ought to come to it within another half hour.”
“A half hour,” Ken repeated. “Well, let’s get the agony finished as fast as we can!”
The party wormed its way up Crazy Mountain, gingerly testing the crumbling rock lest it give beneath their feet. Tortuously, they made another five hundred feet. Then Warner, who was in the lead, halted.
“Boys,” he said, “I’m afraid we’re in a pocket. This can’t be the way to the pass.”
No one spoke.
“Wait here,” he directed them. “I think we’ve come to a dead end. If I can get up to that next ledge, maybe I can see a way on, but I doubt it.”
Feeling along the wall, he secured a firm hand grip and, with Mr. Livingston’s help from below, attained the ledge above. He crept along it and vanished from view. For a long while the Scouts waited, uneasily watching the darkening mountains. Their situation, they knew, was rapidly becoming precarious.
Finally, Craig Warner reappeared and lowered himself back onto the narrow ledge where the Scouts waited. His face told the story.
“No chance of going on?” Mr. Livingston asked.
“None.” Warner nursed his bruised hands. “We’re at an absolute dead end. We’ve reached a cul-de-sac.”
His words fell like a shroud upon the weary, footsore group.
“We can’t camp here,” Jack said at last. “What’ll we do?”
“There’s only one course open to us. We’ll have to return the way we came.”
“Return?” Ken echoed flatly. “Not all the way back to the ghost town?”
“Maybe half that distance,” Warner advised. “There’s no water here or fuel. Not even a place to pitch a tent. Temporarily at least, Crazy Mountain has licked us!”
Completely disheartened, everyone sat down on the rocky ledge to discuss the situation.
Night was fast coming on. A descent along the narrow trail would at best be a risky undertaking, but to remain where they were was out of the question.
“There’s no possibility of going on?” Mr. Livingston asked the rancher. “None whatsoever?”
Warner shook his head. “The ledge above us plays out entirely, and the one beyond can’t be reached. We’re in a pocket.”
“Then we’ll have to accept the situation,” the Scout leader said, getting wearily to his feet. “Let’s go.”
Nearing exhaustion as they were, it seemed to Ken and Jack that they could not trudge another mile. But they forced themselves to follow Warner. Knowing that their safety depended upon reaching the wider ledges before darkness completely enveloped the mountain, he took them at a brutal pace.
The Scouts were discouraged, footsore, and desperately hungry. Their only sustenance since noon had been a small piece of chocolate which had provided a little quick energy.
In less than an hour, darkness closed in. To add to their troubles, it began to rain. The fall was not hard, but it came steadily. Soon the Scouts were chilled through.
It seemed to Jack and Ken they never could make it. Every step had become an agony. Minds and bodies had become half paralyzed. Yet automatically their feet kept plodding on.
Warner seemed to have an instinct for making his way, even in the dark and rain. His flashlight guided them at the dangerous turns.
Then gradually their route became easier, the slope more gradual. They reached a shelf and a little wooded area beside a fast-rushing stream. It was not the best camp site, but by this time none of them was too particular.
Dropping their packs, the Scouts went in search of firewood. Jack found dry kindling material inside a log. Ken, after hard chopping, gathered enough wood to get a little blaze going. By that time, Mr. Livingston had the pup tents up.
Everyone huddled near the fire, waiting for tea water to boil. Some of their misery began to fade.
The rain had practically ceased. The air, however, was damp, and a mist shrouded everything.
Little by little, the Scouts began to dry out and relax. Hot tea revived their spirits. By the time Warner had prepared oatmeal and bacon, they were feeling almost normal again. But no one spoke of plans for the next day.
After the simple meal the Explorers chopped more wood. Then they rolled into their beds and slept soundly.
By morning, the unpleasant experience on Crazy Mountain was only a dim memory. Ken and Jack, even Mr. Livingston, awoke feeling only a little tired and muscle sore.
Once they were astir, most of their aches disappeared. The day was bright and sunny. Warner had risen early to whip the eddies for a few trout and these were cleaned and in the pan, delicately browning for breakfast.
Over the food, the group discussed procedure. A full day had been lost in the futile search for the pass. There was no assurance that, if they went on, it ever would be found before their skimpy food supply became exhausted.
“I’ve been looking over the map again this morning,” Warner said, spreading it on the rocks. “There’s another way up, and it may lead us through—that is, if you’re game to tackle it. I’m leaving the decision to you fellows.”
Ken glanced first at Mr. Livingston and then at Jack.
“After that mess of trout, I could tackle anything,” Jack declared. “Let’s go!”
“Those are my sentiments,” Ken echoed. “No mountain is going to lick me.”
“We may run into another cul-de-sac,” the rancher warned. “It’s a chance we have to take.”
Breaking camp, the party set off once more. This time, they chose a way which at first was more difficult than the one they had taken the previous day. Nevertheless, as the day wore on, they became hopeful it might lead them to their objective.
“It’s queer we’ve seen nothing of Walz or Ranier,” Jack remarked as the group paused to catch breath after a particularly steep stretch.
“We may run into them yet,” Warner said. “With Old Stony’s map, they had a better chance than we of reaching the pass without trouble.”
As the party climbed higher, a sharp wind whistled eerily around the crags. At times, Jack imagined he heard hollow laughter, as if the spirit of Crazy Mountain were chortling at some secret joke.
“This place gives me a queer feeling,” he confessed to Ken. “Ever since we left the ghost town, I keep thinking we’re being watched.”
Ken did not laugh as Jack had expected him to do. Instead, he said: “I know. I’ve been having that same feeling. I figure it’s because our stuff was stolen, and then someone shoved that rock down on us.”
“It could have been an accident—”
“Sure, but Warner isn’t the kind to make a mistake like that.”
“No, he’s levelheaded,” Jack returned soberly. “I figure if we do find that pass today—well, we may run into rugged going beyond that point.”
“You think someone besides Walz wants to keep us out of the valley?”
“It’s a possibility, isn’t it? I was thinking about it last night, Ken, before I dropped off to sleep. Maybe someone stumbled onto Old Stony’s secret long before we came here.”
“A prospector?”
“Possibly.”
“In that case, the gold’s gone—if ever there was any.”
“Maybe not,” Jack replied thoughtfully. “If the gold had been toted out, word of it would have spread like wildfire. Beside, wouldn’t the discoverer have cleared out of the valley as fast as he could, once he had the cache?”
“It’s all too deep for me,” Ken answered with a shrug. “My bones tell me, though, that we’d better be prepared for a dose of trouble before we’re through.”
“Double trouble,” Jack added with a grin.
By two o’clock doubt again began to assail the climbers. The going was hard once more, and the pass seemed as elusive as ever. The prospect of having to retreat a second time sent shivers of weariness down the spines of the Scouts.
“If we don’t make it today, we’ll have to turn back to Elks Creek,” Mr. Warner announced.
Presently, from a high point which gave a clear view of the surrounding peaks he made another careful survey. Impatiently, the others awaited his verdict.
“I think I see what might be called twin peaks,” he said finally. “If so, we’re close to the pass.”
His words cheered everyone. Jack even hummed a little tune as he tramped on. The heavy pack actually felt lighter on his back.
The feeling of exultation grew as signs gave increasing encouragement that this time their way would not be blocked. Soon the Explorers came out on the round top of the mountain.
While the others drank in the view, Warner and Jack searched for a way down into the green valley.
“You can see the tiny lake from here,” the rancher pointed out. “We ought to reach it before nightfall. And if all goes well, the plane should soon drop our supplies.”
After careful consideration, Warner selected a route down which did not look too difficult. Mr. Livingston and Ken were willing enough to leave, for the bald dome was wind-swept and uncomfortably chilly. Patches of snow lay in the more protected crannies.
In crossing an open space to join Jack and the rancher, Ken abruptly halted. He directed the attention of his companions to moccasin prints, plainly visible in the snow.
“And we thought we were the first to reach this pass!” he exclaimed.
The prints, the Scouts decided, had been made within a short time—but by whom? They were fairly certain that Walz had been wearing shoes and not moccasins.
“Any Indians living on Crazy Mountain?” Hap Livingston asked the rancher.
“Not that I ever heard.”
Led by Warner, the Scouts started soberly down through the pass. Now that their objective was close, they wondered all the more at the dangers. Walz and Ranier, of course, were known hazards who, even though they might be hostile, could be dealt with. But what of the unknown inhabitant of the mountain?
Thoughts were tumbling without pattern in Jack’s mind, when Warner up ahead suddenly halted. Pulling himself up short, Jack saw that the rancher was staring fixedly at something.
“What is it?” he demanded.
Without replying, the rancher moved aside so that the others could see.
A stunted pine was growing out of a rock at a rakish angle and dangling from its twisted lower limb was a skeleton.
At sight of the swinging skeleton, the Scouts stood rooted to the rocks. Jack was the first to recover speech.
“Jeepers! Is it a warning intended for us?”
“A little hint we’re to go no farther?” demanded Ken.
Upon closer inspection, the skeleton proved to be one of a bear with several head bones missing. Mr. Livingston cut it down with his pocket knife.
“I don’t like this,” he said.
“We may be walking into a trap,” Warner conceded. “From the map, I judge there’s no entrance or exit to Headless Hollow except through this narrow pass.”
“You mean once down there we may find it hard to get back?”
“We face that chance. There’s no question this skeleton was hung here as a warning. It was probably meant for anyone who might chance this way.”
“Then the valley must hold treasure,” Ken said, his eyes kindling.
“Don’t build up that hope,” Mr. Livingston warned him. “We may be dealing with a man who is out of his mind.”
“That’s what alarms me,” agreed Craig Warner. “I’d feel safer if I had my gun.”
“We’re four to one,” Ken pointed out.
“True,” the rancher replied, “but numbers can be misleading. Besides, we don’t know for sure if there’s only one against us.”
Despite the discussion, no one considered turning back. The climbers had suffered too intensely to think of giving up their objective now. At least the valley was attainable, and the route down did not look too hard. But certainly the warning skeleton had alerted them to possible danger, and they knew they had to remain constantly on guard.
Pressing on, the Scouts followed Warner single file down the slope.
Deep blue shadows were lengthening by the time the four swung through a deeply wooded area. Here they proceeded with even greater caution. But, without incident, they finally came out on a flat shelf overlooking the valley.
With a common impulse, everyone halted, for the view snatched away their breath. A tiny sapphire lake lay far below. Against the dark backdrop of the mountainside stood a tiny cabin.
“That must be the place Stony and my father built,” Warner said. “We’ve reached our goal—Headless Hollow.”
“But not the gold,” Ken reminded him.
“That doesn’t concern me too much,” the rancher replied. “If Stony left a cache and it’s still here, I admit I’d like to have it. I could enlarge my ranch, rebuild the barn, and make a lot of repairs. But getting the ore out of this valley would take some doing, I reckon.”
With darkness fast coming on, the Scouts pushed rapidly along. Gone was all fatigue. An excitement which steadily mounted buoyed up their spirits and made them forget their weariness.
The sun was nearly down when at last the party trudged up to the cabin they had seen from the distance. They approached cautiously, mindful that Walz and his guide or the unknown inhabitant of Crazy Mountain might have taken refuge there. They found no one, though. Jack pointed out that the cabin logs were in a remarkable state of preservation for having stood so long.
“This cabin has been kept repaired,” Warner announced after he had looked it over.
Telling the Scouts and Mr. Livingston to keep back, he crept to the glassless cabin window and peered in. Seeing no one, he motioned that it was safe for the others to approach.
The cabin was practically without a floor, since the boards had deteriorated. Furniture consisted of a broken-down table, a stool, and a pile of fir boughs which had served as someone’s bed.
Jack went over and touched the ashes in the crumbling fireplace. “Warm,” he reported.
“Someone has certainly been living here recently,” Warner said. “No sign of anyone around now, though.”
It was too late to search that night for the caches of gold ore which Old Stony had claimed he hid in the hollow. Feeling almost as if they were intruders in the valley, the Scouts set about preparing supper.
Warner fished the lake, bringing in a nice mess of trout. It heartened the group. They had decided to hoard enough of the meager supplies for an emergency return to Elks Creek if necessary.
“Willie and War should be able to get help to us by tomorrow,” Mr. Livingston said. “If the Forest Service plane drops food, we’ll be all right. But if the plan goes amiss for any reason, we may have a rough time of it.”
The night was closing in chilly, with a threat of rain, so the Scouts decided to sleep inside the cabin.
A fire brought a little cheer to the dreary room. Mr. Livingston and Craig Warner told a few stories of past experiences in the wilds. However, talk soon died for, although no one said so openly, the atmosphere was oppressive.
Twice Jack left the fire to gaze out the open window. He couldn’t see anyone in the dark, yet he couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that someone was prowling near the cabin.
“Think we ought to post a guard?” he suggested.
“Not a bad idea,” Warner agreed. “I’m a light sleeper, though, so maybe we can take a chance.”
Before turning in, he and Mr. Livingston made a tour of the cabin area. Everything was quiet. A light rain, however, had started to fall.
“This may prevent the plane from dropping our food tomorrow,” Mr. Livingston remarked, scanning the sky.
The Scouts made up their beds and turned in. Jack was too weary to sleep. After a while, above the sound of the rain, he thought he heard footsteps outside the cabin. Quickly, he got up.
Before he could investigate, the door was flung open. Jarrett Walz, his clothing torn and wet, staggered in.
His arrival awakened the others, and Ken built up the fire, which provided a flickering light in the cabin.
“Where’s Ranier?” Warner demanded.
“That yellow dog deserted me,” Walz muttered, collapsing onto the bed of pine boughs.
“You quarreled?” the rancher guessed.
“Yes,” Walz admitted sullenly. “I made it here after he left me at the pass. The thief took my food. I’m half starved.”
It was evident that the motel owner had suffered severely on the trail. Despite their intense dislike for the man, the Scouts could not help feeling sorry for him.
Mr. Livingston brewed him a cup of strong tea and used the last of the flour to make pancakes for him. Walz ate ravenously.
“Why did Ranier turn back?” Warner asked when the motel owner had finished eating. “You say you quarreled?”
“Almost constantly. He said I wasn’t paying him enough for the risk of the trip, and that I wasn’t doing my share of the camp work. Then we came to the pass—”
“And the bear skeleton?” Jack suggested.
“Yes. That finished Ranier. He said the valley was evil and he wouldn’t set foot in it. So he deserted me.”
“You have the map you stole from me?” Warner asked.
Walz eyed him defiantly.
“Maybe.”
“Hand it over.”
“Like fun I will! I didn’t all but kill myself to get here, only to make things easy for you. Oh, no!”
“We can take the map,” the rancher quietly reminded him.
“You can’t,” Walz sneered. “I’m not dumb enough to walk in here with it in my pocket.”
“You’ve hidden it?”
“Better than that. I’ve destroyed it.” Triumphantly, the motel owner tapped his forehead. “The secret is here—right here. Known only to me.”
Warner shrugged. He had no reason to doubt Walz’ statement.
“You may regret destroying the map,” he observed. “A memory sometimes proves faulty.”
“Not mine,” Walz boasted. “I’ll find that gold, and it will be mine—all mine!”
“You’re loco,” Warner retorted. “We ought to heave you out of here, but we’ll be generous—a weakness you wouldn’t understand.”
The Scouts made room for the motel owner near the fire. He had not feigned exhaustion. Almost at once he fell into a deep sleep.
“He should make no trouble tonight,” Warner said contemptuously. “Tomorrow may be a different story.”
Once more the Scouts turned in for the night. Again Jack slept, though fitfully. At times he imagined Walz was stirring. Always it was his fancy. Then again, he imagined he heard a noise outside the cabin.
Actually, it was toward morning when he awoke with a start. His imagination again?
Suddenly he knew that it was not. He felt smothered, suffocated.
Starting up, he began to cough and choke. The cabin was filled with smoke!
For a moment, Jack thought the cabin was on fire. But there were no flames. Groping his way through the blinding smoke, he flung open the door.
As he reached the better air, he heard a hard thud on the ground at the rear of the wretched cabin. Then, in the semi-darkness, he saw a shadowy figure darting toward the dense bush rimming the lake.
By this time, Ken too was awake, coughing and fighting the smoke. The others quickly rose and made their way out into the night air.
If Jack had cherished any thought that Walz was responsible for the condition of the cabin, it was dispelled. The motel owner staggered out, rubbing his eyes and whining that he had been asphyxiated.
“You closed the flue!” he accused them. “You wanted to get rid of me!”