The old man broke in: “Headless Valley is hard to get at. The vein my podner and I found is rich, but it isn’t extensive enough to make it worth while hauling in expensive mining equipment. So I reckon engineers have given it the go-by.”
“But you and your partner really found gold there?” Jack asked, rather impressed.
“We sure did. And then our troubles began. All that summer we worked till our hands were blistered. We stacked the ore in two caches—one big and one little. Our food began to run low. We knew we had to get out fast before winter set in, but the gold held us. And then—”
Old Stony shuddered and seemed unable to go on. But with an effort, he forced himself to resume:
“So far as we knew, there weren’t any human beings within forty miles of Headless Valley. We never set eyes on a soul all that summer. But one morning my podner showed up missing. I found him by the diggings, dead with a bullet hole through the back of his head.”
“What did you do?” Jack asked, becoming more engrossed.
“I buried him not far from the little cabin we had built. Marked the grave with his name too.”
“Who killed John Warner?” Mr. Livingston asked.
“All these years I’ve been asking myself that same question. Indians, I reckon. Maybe Headless Hollow was sacred ground to ’em, and they didn’t like us messing around.”
“The killing wasn’t because of the gold?”