“Well,” said George, coming back to things, “the bones aren’t any use anyway. Let’s start for the boodle. Strike out for the cache, B. C.”
They turned, following their leader, and made diagonally for the cliffs to the north. Candon walked heavily, a vague suspicion filling his mind that Hank and George held something more in reservation than mere disappointment over absent skeletons. The odious thought that they might suspect him of being a fraud came to him as he walked, but he had little time for self communing. Something worse was in store, and he saw it now, and wondered at his stupidity in not having seen it before.
Amongst the implements of the expedition two spades had been brought. The Chinks carried these spades. They brought up the rear of the procession, silent, imperturbable, apparently incurious. They would not do the digging when the moment came. Candon and Hank, or George would be easily able to negotiate the few feet of hard sand that covered the treasure. The Chinks just carried the spades. Candon stopped dead all of a sudden. Then he went on, quickening his pace almost to a run. The booty had been buried at a place easily recognisable, on the southern side of a little out-jut of the cliff and about ten feet from an issue of water that came clear and cold and bright through a crack in the cliff face.
The issue was still there, but it was far lower than before; the sand had risen. The wind had done its work and five feet or more of new sand lay upon the cache. It ran up the cliff face like a snow drift. Five or six feet of pliable sand that seemed an almost impassable barrier. The big man folded his arms and stood for a moment dumb. Then he laughed.
“Boys,” said he, “I’m a fraud.”
No answer came but the wash of the little waves on the beach and far gull voices from the south. He turned about fiercely.
“I’ve led you wrong. I’ve fooled you, but it’s not me. It’s my pardner. It’s the sand. Sand. That’s me and all my work. All I’ve ever stood on, sand. Sand. Six foot deep.”
“For the land’s sake, B. C.,” cried Hank, “get a clutch on yourself. What’s wrong with you anyhow?”
“He means the sand has covered the cache,” said the steady voice of Tommie.