AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR
“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.