“Maybe we don’t know the whole story,” Tom said. “Three thousand bucks was a lot----” “Oh, it was payment for much stock and service, I suppose,” I said. “I dare say those old hunters let their accounts run up. You don’t think old Buck was a highwayman, do you? They had a lot of rugged honesty, that old race.” “Law one, a scout is trustworthy,” said Brent. “Then, now, and always,” I added more seriously. So then we all sat in silence, the two of them swinging in the seat. “So there you are,” I said. “I don’t see that you’ve helped matters any, you’ve simply created a mystery.” “What could be nicer?” said Brent. “If the officials didn’t get their fists on the money, and if Mink Havers didn’t get it (which of course he didn’t), why, then, it’s still up there somewhere.” “We’ll go and get it,” said Brent. “With my share I’m going to get a Ford sedan--don’t try to talk me out of it, I always wanted a Ford sedan.” “Then, it’s still up there,” I said, with a complacent show of triumph. No sooner were the words out of my mouth than I was sorry I had said them. For there sat Tom Slade staring at me as if seized by a sudden thought. “Sure it’s up there,” he said. “But it won’t be, not when we get through.” “_Good heavens_, you’re not going hunting for buried treasure?” I gasped. “I always knew you were a bug, but I never supposed you’d go in for the Captain Kidd stuff.” “Have you got a couple of shovels you’re not using?” Brent asked. “You’ll have to take off those spectacles first,” I said. CHAPTER IX—End of the Trail “Anyway, let’s go up and call on the old fellow,” said Tom. “I’d kinder like to see him. We can go in my flivver----” “Speaking of rattles,” said Brent; “that is, rattlesnakes.” “We don’t have to go way up to Tuxedo,” said Tom. “I’ve got a map of that region. We can shoot in at Sloatsburg. I bet that’ll let us right into the section you’re talking about. They’re building a dam in there; there’s going to be a new lake. I’ve been in that way a mile or so already, it’s a pretty punk road.” “In that case we’ll go in your flivver,” I said. “That will have the advantage of making it unlikely that we’ll ever get there. I am not in favor of this trip. I’d like to show you my old settler but I don’t want to start anything.” “Come ahead, we’ll bang up there,” said Tom. I might have known it. Now there _is_ a way that you can get into the Interstate Park reservation by turning in at Sloatsburg. It was by some such route that Long Buck had entered that region on his memorable return from New York. But this route is so little known that even a state trooper in that very neighborhood told me he had never seen or heard of it.