"They were after us--a long time. Lyn's at Walsh. There's a--a good
stake. Get it--for her. It's _cached_--under the Stone--yuh
know--Writin'-Stone. Three sacks. That's what--they wanted.
You'll--you'll--on the rock above--marked--gold--raw gold--that's
it--gold--raw gold--Mac--I want--I want----"
That was all. The tense muscles relaxed. His head fell back limp on
MacRae's arm, and the rest of the message went with the game old
Dutchman across the big divide. We laid him down gently, folded his arms
on his breast, and for a moment held our peace in tribute to his
passing.
MacRae was first to speak.
"There's a lot back of this that I can't understand," he said, more to
himself than to the rest of us. "It beats me why these two old cowmen
should be here in this country, tangled up with buried gold-dust, and
being hunted like beasts for its possession. Old Hans was certainly in
his right mind or he wouldn't have known us; and if he told us right,
Hank Rowan has been murdered too. If Lyn is at Walsh, she may be able to
shed some light on this. But I'll swear I feel like a man groping in a
dark room."
"If Lyn is at Walsh," I asserted stoutly, "she got there since I left
this morning. I was there two days, and I wasn't in the background by
any means; and she's the sort of girl that isn't backward about hailing
a friend.
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