It's a big chunk of money, and a little
thing like killing a man or two won't trouble them. We'll be watched
every minute of the time that we prowl around those painted rocks;
that's a cinch. And when we've pulled the chestnut out of the fire
they'll gobble it--if there's the ghost of a chance."
While I was digesting this unpalatable information, Hicks and Gregory
spurred abreast of us; for the remainder of the journey we four rode
elbow to elbow, and conversation was scant.
Mid-afternoon found us camped under the Stone. Once on the ground, I
began to think we were in no immediate danger of getting our throats cut
for the sake of the treasure. Rutter had said "under the Stone"--and the
vagueness of his words came home to me with considerable force, for the
Stone, roughly estimated, was a good mile in length. It paralleled the
river, a perpendicular wall of gray sandstone. An aptly-named place;
wherever a ledge offered foothold, and even in places that seemed wholly
beyond reach of human hands, the bald front of the cliff was chiseled
with rude traceries--the picture-writing of the Blackfoot tribe. The
history of a thousand battles and buffalo-hunts was written there. And
somewhere at the foot of that mile-long cliff, under the uncouth figures
carved by the red men in their hour of triumphant ease, rested that
which we had come to find.
Pages:
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115