THE CABIN
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!