“Reckon not,” Old Stony replied to the Scout leader’s inquiry. “Nary a nugget was touched. I’m telling you, after poor John got his, I was plumb scared. I couldn’t see anybody around, but I could feel ’em. Sort o’ like ghosts.”
“Ghosts don’t fire shots,” Mr. Livingston said dryly.
“Danged right they don’t! I figured I’d be next if I didn’t light out o’ there. I took a few of the nuggets that I could carry in a bag and hit the trail. Doggone near froze to death before I finally got back to the nearest town.”
“You left the hidden gold?” Jack asked.
“Yeah, and I reckon it’s still there today. At least, I don’t think those caches would ever be found, unless by somebody who was watching us, or by Indians.”
“Why didn’t you go back later?” Mr. Livingston asked.
Old Stony heaved a heavy sigh. “Figured you’d ask me that one. Reckon I’ve got to answer true. When I got back—well, folks began whispering that I was the one that did for poor old John. They said I shot him so I could have the claim all to myself.”
“Didn’t other prospectors try to find Headless Hollow?” Mr. Livingston asked thoughtfully. “It’s inconceivable that your arrival with gold wouldn’t set off a mad scramble.”
“I fooled ’em. Told ’em a mess of lies that led ’em packing in the wrong direction.” Old Stony grinned at the recollection. “They sure were burned up! So to even the score, they got out a warrant charging me with poor John’s murder. That was when I lit out.”
“You left Colorado?” Jack prompted.