Weston remained in Bluff awaiting the arrival of Dan Doolin to freight the precious cargo to Dolores. But, on the eleventh of September Roy at last took farewell of his western friends. Vic. Christian was to carry him to Dolores in the Parowan.
“I can’t feel as if it is good bye forever,” said Roy, grasping Mr. Cook’s hand.
“I know it isn’t,” answered the set-faced manager. “You’ll come again. They all do. The salt marshes o’ New Jersey’ll never satisfy you now.”
“As fur me,” added Sink Weston, “I’ll see you soon. When you write me ’at that truck’s been sold, I’m comin’ out to New York and collect. I ain’t never been east o’ Kansas City, but ole Sink Weston an’ his lady is agoin’ to see Broadway ef it costs us all them thar Injun dishes. An’ ef they’s any o’ the long green left, I’m agoin’ to hire some reporter to write up what we discivered an’ send it to ever’ one o’ them wise boys ’at said I was cracked.”
When that long-looked-for letter reached Dolores in December, addressed to Mr. A. B. Weston, the last lines of it read:
“——or a total of $22,000, which makes your share about $14,666. Mr. Atkinson is anticipating the closing of the deal by sending you a draft for $1,000. Come and see us.
“Your true friend,
“Roy Osborne.”
The last survivor of the Lost Indians of the Sink Hole was interred, nameless and without rites, in the hidden tomb of his race.
While Roy Osborne was solving the mystery of the Lost Indians of Utah, a club of Pensacola, Florida, lads was engaged on an equally interesting task—the discovery of the “Secret City of the Seminoles” in the Everglades of Florida. This story may be read in “The Boy Aeronauts’ Club, or, Flying for Fun.” See [advertisement page 2].