But, indeed, there was no need to coach Tom in the matter of handling my old chance acquaintance. There was no need of my concern for the old man’s feelings. I need not have troubled myself about respecting his sturdy prejudices. Indeed, there was no need of our following that obscure trail at all. For Long Buck Sanderson’s cabin was closed up tight with a rough board nailed across the door. He had gone where there were no game wardens--or only good game wardens. And it mattered very little where his precious three thousand dollars were after all. CHAPTER X—The Storm Blows Over They told us at Sandyfield that old Buck had died of pneumonia and been buried somewhere near Mt. Ivy. As the old hunter had anticipated, and dreaded I think, June had been sent to an orphanage in the neighborhood of Haverstraw. Sandyfield, it seemed, was independent of the reservation, notwithstanding that it was within its boundaries; it was part of the township of Haverstraw. I suppose that this fact operated in the choice of an asylum for the girl. I had an idea of hunting the place up and going to see her, but you know how it is--good intentions. I was relieved to learn that old Buck had not been laid to rest in some potter’s field but in a quiet little rural cemetery in the region which he knew so well. He was the last inhabitant of Rattlesnake Gulch. “So that’s that,” I said, as we drove back down the state road. “I wish now that you could have seen him.” I don’t suppose I would have gone to see him again myself, but now that I couldn’t I felt that I would miss him. “Well, there’s one thing,” Tom said. “I’m going up there to camp and hunt for that money.” “Treasure, you should call it,” said Brent. “Well, then, treasure,” said Tom. “And when it comes to using the right words,” I said, “_nut_ is the word to use for a treasure hunter. I’ve known you to do many reckless things, but until now I’ve never known you to make yourself ridiculous!” He just drove along, lickety split, in his old Ford; I never was so shaken in my life. “It’s a stirring ride, isn’t it?” said Brent, in his funny way. “Don’t you feel all stirred up?” “You’re not in with me, then?” Tom asked. “I? I should hope not! Do you think I want to get my picture into the Pathé News, digging treasure? Do you suppose I want all the boy scouts up that way laughing at me?” “You coming?” he asked Brent. “If I thought I’d get into the Pathé News I’d certainly go,” Brent said. “I’ve seen so many airplanes and dirigibles in the Pathé News that it would be a pleasure to dig into the solid earth. What they need in the Pathé News is more underground stuff. I rather think I’ll go.” “Well,” I said, “all I can say is that I’m sorry I ever told you anything about it--either one of you. Brent, I would say that _you_ at least have too much sense of humor to go hunting for hidden treasure.” “That’s just what you need, a sense of humor,” said Brent.