“Hints?” Jack repeated, stalling for time. He had no intention of disclosing his knowledge to the motel owner.
“Say, what about this fellow Craig Warner?” Ken interposed, to distract Walz from the treasure map. “Do you know where he lives?”
“On some ranch in Colorado. That’s all I can tell you.”
“You didn’t find his address in those papers under the bed?”
“No,” Walz answered shortly.
He might have added more, but just then a call came from the motel office. Walz was gone about ten minutes. When he returned, his face was grim.
“That was a telephone message from the hospital,” he reported. “Stony’s—dead.”
Ken and Jack accepted the information in silence. Though the sad news was not unexpected, it gave them both an empty feeling to know that the old fellow had indeed mounted his pale pony and ridden to the Last Roundup.
“I’ve got to go to the hospital now,” Walz went on, looking worried. “Arrangements have to be made for the burial. I’d let the county do it, but folks would talk. So I’ll dig down into my pocket, I suppose.”
The Scouts did not reply. After a while, Walz went to his car and they saw him drive away.