“Very well, we'll try that scheme.”
Accordingly, after they had left the suspicious miner the two proceeded to a small milling town, not far from Indian Ridge. There they engaged rooms for the night at the only hotel, and, after supper they sat around the combined dance hall and gambling place.
There were wild, rough scenes, which were distasteful to Tom, and to Mr. Jenks, but they felt that this was their only chance to get on the right trail, and so they stayed. As strangers in a western mining settlement they were made roughly welcome, and in response to their inquiries about the country, they were told many tales, some of which were evidently gotten up for the benefit of the “tenderfeet.”
“Is there a place around here called Phantom Mountain?” asked Tom, at length, as quietly as he could.
“Never heard of it, stranger,” replied a miner who had done most of the talking. “I never heard of it, and what Bill Slatterly don't know ain't worth knowin'. I'm Bill Slatterly,” he added, lest there be some doubt on that score.
“Isn't there some sort of a landmark around here shaped like a great stone head?” went on Tom, after some unimportant questions. “Seems to me I've heard of that.”
“Nary a one,” answered Mr. Slatterly. “No stone heads, and no Phantom Mountains—nary a one.
“Who says there ain't no Phantom Mountains?” demanded an elderly miner, who had been dozing in one corner of the room, but who was awakened by Slatterly's loud voice. “Who says so?”
“I do,” answered the one who claimed to know everything.
“Then you're wrong!” Tom's heart commenced beating faster than usual.