THE ENEMY
Heartsick, Jack, Craig Warner, and Hap Livingston trudged back to the
cabin. Ken, too, had seen the plane from the woods where he had been
gathering a few edible berries. He reported that it had not come close
enough to the clearing for him to signal.
“What made it turn back?” he grieved. “Surely the lake makes a sizable
landmark.”
“It may not have been the Forest Service plane,” said Warner.
“Something’s wrong,” Mr. Livingston declared. “Warwick and Willie may
have had trouble getting through. If anything happened to them—well,
I’ll always blame myself for letting them go off alone.”
“They’ve made it by now,” Jack said.
However, he spoke with more confidence than he felt. War’s condition had
not been the best, and it was quite possible he had fallen ill on the
trail. Resolutely, he put the matter from his mind. There was enough to
worry about as it was, he told himself.
“Any visitors while we were away?” he asked Ken as the group walked to
the cabin.
“Only a bear. He didn’t stick around long when he found there was no
food.”
“Walz?”
“Not a glimpse of him.”
“He’s hidden out in a canyon somewhere,” Jack guessed. “He may give us
trouble yet—especially if we should find the gold before he does.”
“Not much chance of that,” Ken replied. “In fact, I’m beginning to think
Stony dreamed up that gold. The valley’s real enough, but that cache may
have been all fancy.”
Jack made no answer. Weary, hungry, and discouraged, he too wondered if
the trip to Headless Hollow might not have been a mistake. However, he
had no intention of saying so. Fetching water from the lake, he went
into the cabin and flung himself onto the bed of boughs.
Despite his weariness, he did not lie there long. Something which was
propped against the fireplace drew his gaze. He rolled off the bed and
went over to pick it up. It was a long strip of bark, and on the inside
surface a message had been printed in uneven charcoal letters.
“GIT OUT OF THIS HEAR VALLEY BEFOR IT IS TOO LATE.”
Jack carried it outside to show to the others.
“Walz never left this,” he said. “That fellow who tried to smoke us out
last night must have printed it.”
“He’s an unfriendly coot,” Warner observed. “It’s a mystery how he
manages to live here.”
Ken said he had seen no one near the cabin while the others had been
searching for the caches. Nevertheless, he had been absent himself for
half an hour. It was during this period, they decided, that the fellow
had sneaked out of the woods to leave the warning message.
After another frugal meal of fish and berries, everyone except Warner
turned in for the night. He insisted upon keeping watch until midnight.
At that hour, Mr. Livingston relieved him. It was nearing dawn when Jack
awoke to see the Scout leader dozing by the fire.
“It’s my turn now,” he volunteered.
Mr. Livingston reluctantly permitted him to take over the watch. Jack
sat a while with only his dreary thoughts for company. In his mind’s
eye, he tried to reconstruct the treasure map as first he had seen it in
Rocking Horse.
Definitely, he recalled that the two caches of gold had been close to
each other at the mouth of a ravine. But the years might have wrought
changes in the terrain. Wind and rain and rock slides could have altered
the area.
For that matter, with the valley inhabited, might not the gold long ago
have been removed?
Jack’s thoughts rambled back to his last talk with Stony in the
hospital. Then he had seriously doubted that the prospector had found
gold in this remote valley. Now that he was here, he had gradually begun
to believe that the tale had been true.
The grave and marker with John Warner’s name indicated that Stony had
indeed lost his partner in Headless Hollow. Mystery still shrouded the
death. Restlessly, Jack rose and walked to the window. The sky was
beginning to lighten. Very soon the sun would be up.
He built up the fire. Noticing that the supply of wood was low, he took
the axe and went for more. He chopped a dead jackpine, stacking the
pieces near the cabin door.
As he went down to the lake for water, he thought he heard mocking
laughter from amid the willows. But he could see no one, and when he
halted to listen, there was no further sound. He continued to the
water’s edge and stooped to fill the vessel. Some instinct warned him.
He still had heard no sound but, without knowing why, he whirled
suddenly.
A dark figure loomed behind him. He caught a blurred impression of an
aged face as he ducked.
A heavy object struck him a glancing blow on the side of his head.
Senses reeling, he staggered crazily backward into the water as wild
laughter rang in his ears.
Dazed as he was, he realized his opponent had struck him with the butt
of Warner’s stolen gun. And now the crazed fellow was pointing it at
him, laughing idiotically!
Off balance from the stunning blow, Jack let himself collapse into the
lake. Then, fearful his assailant would fire, or hurl a rock at him if
he emerged, he dived deeper.
Holding his breath, he went down into the chilly depths until he struck
sand, and then he swam underwater. When his lungs screamed for air, he
cautiously rose to the surface. Raising his nose and mouth just above
water, he gazed toward shore.
At first the wild creature who had assaulted him so viciously was
nowhere to be seen. But as Jack scanned the shore, he saw the dark
figure retreating as stealthily as he had come. He was a bent, twisted
man who moved with cat-like tread over the rocks toward a distant
ravine.
Scrambling out on shore, Jack ran to the cabin. He met Craig Warner, who
only that moment had dressed.
“You fell in the lake!” Warner exclaimed, staring at him.
Jack related what had happened and added: “The fellow who attacked me is
as crazy as this mountain! He headed for the far ravine.”
“I’m going after him,” Warner said.
Jack would not allow the rancher to trail the old man alone. Without
taking time to change his wet clothes, he guided Warner in the direction
his attacker had taken.
The sky was rapidly brightening. At the edge of the ravine they caught
their first glimpse of the old man. He wore moccasins and moved with
amazing swiftness over the rough terrain.
“Unless I’m mistaken, he’ll lead us to Old Stony’s gold,” Warner
whispered. “Our best bet is to keep out of sight.”
Agile as a monkey, the old fellow scrambled over the rocks with the
energy of a much younger man. He came at last, as the rancher predicted,
to a pit opening that was covered by brush.
Not even glancing about, the man pulled the debris aside and dropped out
of view.
“It’s a mine, all right,” Warner declared as he and Jack crouched behind
the bushes, waiting.
“Stony’s caches of ore must be somewhere close,” Jack whispered.
Warner nodded. “Probably, unless this daffy old fellow has moved them.
He has certainly been living here a long while, Jack.”
By this time the sun was up, and Jack’s wet clothing had begun to dry a
little. But he remained cold, uncomfortable, and drowsy. He craved
action.
“Shouldn’t we try to find out what’s doing down in that mine?” he urged.
“Patience, Jack.”
“He may stay down in that hole all day!”
“He’ll come out sooner or later. We’d be crazy to go after him, Jack.
Remember, he has a gun.”
“I know,” Jack conceded with a sigh. “It’s hard to wait, though. What’s
he doing down there, anyhow? Counting his gold?”
“Digging it, more than likely.”
Jack’s tired eyes sparkled. “You think we’ve stumbled onto Old Stony’s
source of gold?”
“We’ve found something,” Warner grunted. “But don’t forget, Colorado is
thick with abandoned mines—most of ’em worthless.”
As the sun rose higher, Jack became convinced the old fellow would never
reappear. He was half asleep, when Warner unexpectedly nudged him. Then
he came awake with a start.
The old man could be seen backing awkwardly out of the pit hole.
In the bright daylight, he looked like a grotesque creature with long,
windblown white hair and a straggling, dirty-white beard.
But Jack was not inclined to chuckle. The old fellow had an intensity of
purpose which was frightening. He was chattering to himself, but the
only word the listening pair could distinguish was: “Gold.”
Then, as they watched, the old man turned his half-glazed eyes toward
the bush where they crouched. In that instant Warner obtained his first
direct look at the withered, weather-tanned face.
“Well, what d’you know!” he whispered. “It’s Joe Hansart!”