"Well, an expedition was made up by the white hunter to go after the gold, but the natives got wind of it and wiped 'em all out, only one escaping to civilization, and that was the old man who died in my hut back there in the Sierras. He tried twice to get back to the mine by the plan he had copied on to paper from the whalebone. But each time disaster overtook him. Once his men deserted him, declaring he was insane. Another time, winter caught him napping and he got out to the coast more dead than alive.
"He drifted down to the Pacific Coast and tried to get capital to back another expedition, or somebody to grubstake him, but he couldn't do it, and at last he gave up in disgust. He was all alone in the world anyhow, he said, and was too old to enjoy the money if he had got it. Then he wandered off alone, and the bear got him, as I said afore. Soon after he had told me this story and made me promise to try to find the gold, he passed out, and I buried him back there on a hillside under a big pine above the Stanislaus."
"A remarkable story," commented Tom. "And you think that you have located the Dead Man's Mine at last?"
"Not a doubt of it. Seth and I have spent ten years looking for it, and this is the spot."
"How do you know?"
"It tallies with the plan in every particular. The gold is here."
Again came that strange gleam which every mention of the yellow metal evoked in Stapleton's wild eyes.
"But where's the lone pine that is pictured on the plan?" objected Tom.
"Oh, that. Probably some storm blew it down or it rotted away. You must remember thirty years have passed since that crazy man drew the plan."
"Hasn't it occurred to you that relying on a plan drawn by a man whose sufferings had turned his brain is a rather uncertain business?"