CLOUD CREST RANCH
Jarrett Walz was waiting in the hotel dining room when the Explorers
entered promptly at seven thirty the next morning.
“Well, right on time, I see,” he greeted them jovially. “You brought the
map?”
Mr. Livingston did not reply. He and the Scouts seated themselves at the
circular, old-fashioned table and ordered breakfast. The motel owner
could not conceal his impatience.
“You brought the map?” he repeated as soon as the waitress went away.
“As for turning it over to you,” Mr. Livingston replied, “we have a
different plan.”
Walz’ bushy eyebrows jerked up in surprise. “What d’you mean, a
different plan?” he growled.
“Craig Warner happens to be alive.”
“What?”
“We checked your information last night, Mr. Walz. I’m afraid you
obtained it from unreliable sources.”
A flush slowly overspread the motel owner’s face.
“Craig Warner isn’t dead?” he stammered.
“No. He is operating a ranch less than forty miles from here.”
“A place called Cloud Crest,” supplied Jack, enjoying Walz’
discomfiture.
“I—I’m mighty glad to hear it,” the motel owner muttered.
“We’ve made further inquiry,” Mr. Livingston resumed. “Cloud Crest is
off the main road in a rather inaccessible place. In dry weather,
however, it can be reached by car. Fortunately, yesterday’s downpour
missed this area.”
“Warner hasn’t been to town in a month,” Ken added. “That’s why he never
replied to our telegram. It’s waiting here, if he ever shows up.”
Walz sat for a long moment, staring at the tablecloth. The waitress
brought pancakes and hot sausages, but he scarcely touched his food. The
Scouts, on the other hand, ate heartily.
When they had finished, Walz said, “You’ll be starting on East now, I
suppose?”
“Not until we’ve delivered the map,” the Scout leader answered.
“It will be at least eighty miles out of your way, counting the return
trip,” the motel owner pointed out. “You’ll have to figure on killing an
entire day.”
“I suppose so,” Mr. Livingston admitted.
“I’ll tell you what! I can save you that trip. Let me have the map, and
I’ll see that Craig Warner gets it.”
Mr. Livingston shook his head. “We’d prefer to deliver it ourselves.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“We made Old Stony a promise, that’s all.”
“You’ve become very devoted to his memory, haven’t you?” Walz asked with
a slight sneer. “You think I deceived you?”
“Did we make any such accusation?”
“Oh, I can tell by the way you act! I’ve paid your expenses. I’ve been
open and above board in all my dealings. You’ve done nothing in return.”
“We’ve kept our agreement, Mr. Walz.”
“At least let me see that map.”
“We’re turning it over to Mr. Warner,” the Scout leader said patiently.
“After he gets it, if he wants to he can show it to you or do whatever
he pleases. Until then—no.”
Walz suddenly got to his feet, pushing back his chair.
“Okay,” he rasped. “I’m through paying your bills. Settle your own hotel
account. I’m finished with you!”
He strode from the dining room.
“Good riddance,” grinned Willie. “We never should have teamed up with
him. Wonder how much we owe here?”
“Enough,” Mr. Livingston said, a bit grimly. “We can handle it, though.
I half figured on a deal such as this.”
Hurriedly, the Scouts finished breakfast and gathered together their
belongings. Jack obtained detailed instructions for reaching Cloud Crest
Ranch. Mr. Livingston settled the hotel bill, which was not so high as
he had expected, and they drove out of Elks Creek without seeing Walz
again.
“We’re finished with him,” War said cheerfully, settling down for a long
ride over a rutty road. “What did you learn about Warner, Jack?”
“Not much. They say he’s an able rancher but has had a run of hard
luck.”
“The fellow we talked to said he’s a square shooter,” Ken contributed.
“Peculiar, though—the lone-wolf type. His exact words were: ‘If Warner
likes you, he’ll give you the shirt off his back. If he doesn’t, watch
out! He judges a man fast, and once an opinion is formed, he doesn’t
change his mind.’”
“Let’s hope he takes a liking to us,” Mr. Livingston remarked. “Not that
it matters. We’ll give him the map and be on our way.”
The car made slow time on the winding dirt road. However, the way was
scenic, if dusty. Rugged, snow-tipped mountains rimmed the valley. Their
high peaks were circled with lazy, fleecy clouds.
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.”