They told us at Sandyfield that old Buck had died of pneumonia and been buried somewhere near Mt. Ivy. As the old hunter had anticipated, and dreaded I think, June had been sent to an orphanage in the neighborhood of Haverstraw.
Sandyfield, it seemed, was independent of the reservation, notwithstanding that it was within its boundaries; it was part of the township of Haverstraw. I suppose that this fact operated in the choice of an asylum for the girl. I had an idea of hunting the place up and going to see her, but you know how it is—good intentions.
I was relieved to learn that old Buck had not been laid to rest in some potter’s field but in a quiet little rural cemetery in the region which he knew so well. He was the last inhabitant of Rattlesnake Gulch.
“So that’s that,” I said, as we drove back down the state road. “I wish now that you could have seen him.”
I don’t suppose I would have gone to see him again myself, but now that I couldn’t I felt that I would miss him.
“Well, there’s one thing,” Tom said. “I’m going up there to camp and hunt for that money.”
“Treasure, you should call it,” said Brent.
“Well, then, treasure,” said Tom.
“And when it comes to using the right words,” I said, “nut is the word to use for a treasure hunter. I’ve known you to do many reckless things, but until now I’ve never known you to make yourself ridiculous!”
He just drove along, lickety split, in his old Ford; I never was so shaken in my life.