Twenty feet to their right, a heavy wooded cross reared its awesome shape above a mound of earth and rocks.
“A grave!” whispered Sandy.
“I’m not sure it is a grave,” said Dick a moment later, as they approached to examine the cross.
“Why not?” asked Sandy.
“Because,” Dick looked about carefully, “there’s no indication of one. The mound and pile of rocks support the cross.”
“If that’s the case,” argued Sandy, “what was it put here for? People don’t build crosses just for the fun they get out of it.”
“I realize that. But where’s the grave?”
“It’s here somewhere. I feel sure of it.”
“There’s no name carved on the cross,” Dick pointed out. “And it isn’t a regular cross either. Look here,” he indicated one of the arms. “The end of this is pointed; the other isn’t. It looks like a marker or sign of some sort.”
Sandy stood perfectly still, head on one side, and examined the cross speculatively.