Part 13 (2/2)
”Then dig and tomb your precious heap, And bid the dead your treasure keep.”
Springing to his feet, young Warlow cried aloud in his excitement:--
”Ah! it is all clear now--the blood on the gra.s.s and the newly made graves, of which Uncle Roger spoke! Yes, yes--they buried the dead and the gold in the same grave, and then decoyed the savages away! It may be that those bright doubloons, the red gold of the Walravens and my father, are buried but a few steps from where I stand.”
Flinging aside doubt and uncertainty, he hurried down the hill to the spot where his father had said the treasure-laden vehicle had stood on that fatal night, and long and eagerly young Warlow searched for a trace of the graves. But it was all in vain; for the vast tide of travel that had flowed for a quarter of a century over the spot had not only obliterated all trace of those lowly mounds, but had also worn the mellow soil into deep gullies, down the sloping sides of which the knotted buffalo-gra.s.s crept like webs of pale-green lace.
In the old trail, where once the cannon of Phil Kearney had rumbled, as with his army he hurried forward to Santa Fe, and along where Coronado, Lee, Fremont, and Kit Carson had ridden, now the wild mignonette, in spikes of purple, fragrant blossoms, grew, loading the sultry air with their rich odors. The sensitive-rose, its fern-like foliage tufted with rosy b.a.l.l.s of gold-flecked down, closed its leaves as Clifford hurriedly brushed by; but in the tangled thickets of wild indigo, now blooming in sprays of violet and creamy flowers, or among the tall, lush, blue stem-gra.s.s the young ”fortune hunter” found no traces of the lost wealth--no sunken graves were visible to tell of that tragedy of long ago; so it was with a slow step and feeling of despondency that our friend sought the shelter of his latticed porch.
While he sat, lost in speculation as to the best method of prosecuting his search, which he was too resolute to give up easily, his eyes rested on an implement that at a glance showed its adaptability for the very purpose. It was a long rod of iron, tipped with twisted steel. He remembered having had it made the year before for the men who were searching for a vein of water before sinking his wells. As he seized it eagerly, and started once again down the hill, he felt gratified and elated to perceive how easily he could now test the earth to the depth of five feet, and ascertain if there was any foreign substance in the mellow, loamy soil, which throughout the valley was a bed of rich, black loam, entirely free from stone or boulders.
He had but reached the spot near the river, when he saw his father riding through the wheat-field toward where our young schemer stood; and hastily tossing the iron rod into a thicket, Clifford met his father with an a.s.sumption of careless indifference; for all his allusions in the past to the lost fortune had only met with the sarcastic disapproval of his parent, who, being an intensely practical man himself, could not tolerate any thing so visionary as a search for the treasure seemed to be; and young Warlow had decided to keep his investigations secret, thus avoiding the censure and ridicule of the colonel. After a brief discussion in regard to the condition of the ripening grain, Clifford remarked:--
”It seems very strange, father, that no trace can be found of those graves which Uncle Roger mentioned having seen near the Old Corral, when he found you after the robbery and ma.s.sacre.”
”This is too busy a time for us to speculate on the past, my boy. The wheat has ripened splendidly--I never saw a field to equal that valley yonder--and we will have to start the header to-morrow; so if you will ride out on to the Flats and engage three more teams, I will go down to Squire Moreland's and tell them we shall begin early in the morning,”
said the colonel.
”But, father, first tell me as nearly as possible where those graves were located; for I have a strange curiosity regarding them of late. It must be near this very spot?”
”Yes, yes; near that old cottonwood-tree, or on the level s.p.a.ce of sod just this side. But Clifford,” continued he in a tone of suspicion quite foreign to the kindly colonel, ”what nonsense are you meditating now?
You are not still counting on that lost fortune?”
”Well, father, there has been a growing belief in my mind of late that the treasure is secreted near here. Think how impossible it would have been for a leader of such a band as those savages were, to divide the booty satisfactorily among the pack of drunken monsters. If the leader had the ac.u.men that I believe he possessed, he, no doubt, buried the gold, at least, in one of those graves while the others were stupefied by the liquor; and there is a chance that he may never have returned, owing to the dangers to which such turbulent villains are always exposed. I have thought this over carefully, until at last I am convinced--”
”That your father has a d.a.m.ned fool for a son!” broke in the colonel hotly, as he rode away.
After supper Clifford said he would go up to his house and spend the night--an announcement which caused no surprise, as he frequently stayed there; but on this occasion Robbie remarked to Maud:--
”Cliff must be _schooling his courage_ by staying of nights up at that old spook-ranch; but a fellow who can stand that, could pop the question to the witch of Macbeth without faltering.”
”What do you mean by his popping the question, Rob?” said Maud, setting her pail of foamy milk down on the cellar-steps, while she regarded the handsome youth with a puzzled look from her round, blue eyes.
”Why just this,” he replied, after ”swigging” down a pint of fresh milk from his own pail, and deliberately wiping his lips with his s.h.i.+rt-sleeve; ”Cliff has got more sand in his gizzard than most fellows; but I guess he feels too poor, or something, to talk _marry_ to Mora Estill, so he goes mooning off up there to that old spectre's nest--just like fellows do in novels, you know,” he added, lucidly.
But here the peremptory tones of his father called the young philosopher to take the colts down to the lower pasture.
When Clifford arrived at his dwelling he prepared several stakes, and fastened bits of white paper to their tops; then, securing the iron rod, he placed it with the small sticks, which he had left in the porch, and sought the dainty and comfortable bed which he owed to the thoughtful kindness of Maud and his mother.
Sinking into a profound slumber, he was only awakened by the alarm which sounded as the clock struck one. As its chime died away, he arose and stole forth into the tranquil night.
A waning moon had risen, and in its faint light the water of the brook glimmered coldly as it wimpled over the stony ford. The fluttering leaves of the old cottonwood flashed like silver, and the h.o.a.ry form of the great tree, every limb of which seemed outlined in white, towered vague and ghostly above the shadows cast by the more dense foliage of ash and willows.
Clifford paused in the level glade where his father had said the graves must have been when Roger Coble pa.s.sed the spot twenty-six years before.
Thrusting the rod deep into the soft, loamy soil, young Warlow threw his whole weight on the instrument, which penetrated to the depth of several feet with little difficulty. On meeting with no obstruction, he withdrew the rod; and after marking the spot with one of the stakes which he had provided, he began again to prosecute the search one step further south.
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