“September 28, 1915.—The first heavy snow of the season has come early this year. Imagine my surprise this morning to wake in a blinding snow storm. It is driving me away from the Crystal Lode. After breakfast, I made haste to set out with my two pack-ponies, and arrived at Carson’s cabin shortly after two. I have always made it a point to stop at Carson’s whenever possible. They are friendly people. Mrs. Carson is an Indian, but exceedingly pleasant and well educated. A cook too! I can’t understand why a couple like that should be afflicted with such hopeless offspring. Their daughter, about fifteen, is vicious, while their son, Reynold, two years older, is a young cutthroat, if ever there was one. This afternoon I found him in my room, quite brazenly going through my things. It caused me to wonder if, after all, Reynold doesn’t know something about that lost note-book. I recall that I stopped here just the day before I discovered it was gone.
“September 29, 1915.—I am almost sure that Reynold has it. Today he was copying something out of a book—a black leather note-book—that looked suspiciously like mine. He rose when he saw me and beat a hasty retreat. I can’t accuse him openly just yet, but when I come back this way in the spring, I intend to lay a trap for him. That young scoundrel really ought to be put in jail, although I am afraid I never would have the courage to do it myself. It would break both Mr. and Mrs. Carson’s hearts.”
Sandy paused.
“Have you finished? Is that all?”
In his eagerness, Corporal Rand stepped over behind the young Scotchman and looked down at the open book.
“No,” answered Sandy, “it is not all. Here is another paragraph, dated September 30—just a day later.”
“I purposely remained at Carson’s one more day. Thought I might be able to keep an eye on Reynold, catch him again with the book and this time positively identify it. Unfortunately for me, nothing happened. Carson sent his son out with an armload of traps in the forenoon, and after lunch, two prospectors, Emery and MacGregor, stopped for an hour or two on their way east to Fort Good Faith. Carson introduced both men and we conversed for a few minutes. Can’t say I liked either one. If I were forced to choose a person to hang me, I think I’d name MacGregor. Emery’s face is too vile—even for a hangman’s.”
“Ugh!” Dick’s voice trembled. “If only he had known!”
“October 1, 1915,” Sandy read on. “I can scarcely believe it yet. Perhaps there is a redeeming trait in the boy after all. At any rate, Reynold came to me this morning, as I was preparing to leave, and gave me my book. I was so astounded that I simply stood staring at him. According to his story—which, of course, I accepted, although I knew it was a lie, ‘trembling unto heaven’—he had found the book after my last visit here. He found it in my room, he explained, ‘just where I had dropped it.’ I breathed a sigh of relief that was almost a gasp, thrust the accursed thing hastily into my pocket and departed thence—sans two nuggets (worth about twenty dollars) which I had given him as a reward for his honesty.”
“The brat!” choked Wyatt.