“Now and then I scratch him a line. I’m not much on writing, and he isn’t much on answering. Haven’t heard from him in more’n three years now.”
“If he’s not a friend, why write?” Jack asked, puzzled.
“It’s because of my past. Craig doesn’t know this—he thinks I’m Hank Stone, a screwball prospector. That’s the way I want it. But the reason I kept in touch all these years is because he’s the only son o’ my old podner, John Warner.”
The effort of talking had tired Old Stony. He lay a while with eyes closed and then continued.
“I’m not one to deal from the bottom of a deck. I’m honest, I am. That’s why I’ve never trusted Jarrett Walz. Maybe I’m being unfair. He gave me a job, and for that I’m grateful. But I’d never trust him with my secret.”
“About the gold?” Jack prodded.
Old Stony nodded. “I’ll start at the beginning,” he went on. “’Twas back in the early 1900’s. I don’t exactly recollect the date. My podner, John Warner, and I got ourselves enough grub to last three months. Then we hit for the valley we later named Headless Hollow.”
“Where was it?” Mr. Livingston asked. “West of Denver?”
“Ay, it’s hard by a mountain where even to this day gold has never been struck—at least, word of it hasn’t hit the papers.”
“Most of the old gold fields are known—” Mr. Livingston started to say.