The Motor Rangers Through the Sierras

"I wonder who he was?"

"There's a tin box," said Joe, pointing to a receptacle beneath the bunk, "maybe there's something in that to tell."

"Perhaps," said Nat, picking the article up. It was a much battered case of the type known as "despatch box." The marks of the rats' teeth showed upon it, but it had not been opened. A rusty hammer with the handle half gnawed off lay a short distance away. With one sharp blow of this tool Nat knocked the lock off the despatch box. He gave a cry of triumph as he opened it. Within, yellow and faded, were several papers.

"Let's get into the open air and examine these," suggested Nat, who was finding the ratty odor of the place almost overpowering. The others gladly followed him. Squatting down outside the hut in the fading light, they opened the first paper. It seemed to be a will of some sort and was signed Elias Goodale. Putting it aside for further perusal, Nat, in turn, opened and glanced at a packet of faded letters in a woman's handwriting, a folded paper containing a lock of hair, seemingly that of an infant, and at last a paper that seemed fresher than the others. This ink, instead of being a faded brown, was black and clear. The paper seemed to have been torn from a blank book.

"Read it out," begged Joe.

"All right," said Nat, "there doesn't seem to be much of it, so I will."

Holding the paper close to his eyes in the waning day, the boy read as follows: —

"I am writing this with what I fear is my last conscious effort. It will go with the other papers in the box, and some day perhaps may reach my friends. I hope and pray so. It has been snowing for weeks and weeks. In my solitude it is dreadful, but no more of that. I was took down ill three days ago and have been steadily getting worse. It is hard to die like this on the eve of my triumph, but if it is to be it must be. The sapphires – for I found them at last – are hid under the hearthstone. I pray whoever finds this to see that they are restored to my folks whom I wronged much in my life before I came out here.

"As I write this I feel myself growing weaker. The timber rats – those terrible creatures – have grown quite bold now. They openly invade the hut and steal my stores. Even if I recover I shall hardly have enough to live out the winter. The Lord have mercy on me and bring this paper to the hands of honest men. They will find details in the other papers of my identity."

"Is that all?" asked Joe as Nat came to a stop.

"That's all," rejoined Nat in a sober voice. "What do you think of it?"

"That we'd better tell Cal and see what he advises."

"That's my idea, too. Come on, let's tell him about it."

The Motor Rangers lost no time in hastening back to the camp and Cal's face of amazement as he heard their story was a sight to behold. As for Herr Muller he tore his hair in despair at not having secured a photograph of the rats as they poured out of the ruined hut.

"I've heard of this Elias Goodale," said Cal as he looked over the papers. "He was an odd sort of recluse that used to come to Lariat twice a year for his grub. The fellows all thought he was crazy. He was always talking about finding sapphires and making the folks at home rich. I gathered that some time he had done 'em a great wrong of some kind and wanted to repair it the best way he could. Anyhow, he had a claim hereabouts that he used to work on all the time. The boys all told him that the Injuns had taken all the sapphires there ever was in this part of the hills out of 'em, but he kep' right on. I last heard of him about a year ago – poor chap."

"Was he old?" asked Nat.

"Wall, maybe not in years, but in appearance he was the oldest, saddest chap you ever set eyes on. The boys all thought he was loony, but to me it always appeared that he had some sort of a secret sorrow."

"Poor fellow," exclaimed Nat, "whatever wrong he may have done his death atoned for it."

They were silent for a minute or so, thinking of the last scenes in that lonely hut with the snow drifting silently about it and the dying man within cringing from the timber rats.

"Say!" exclaimed Joe suddenly, starting them out of this sad reverie, "what's the matter with finding out if he told the truth about those sapphires or if it was only a crazy dream?"

"You're on, boy," exclaimed Cal, "I think myself that he must hev found a lot of junk and figgered out in his crazy mind they wuz sapphires and hid 'em away."

"It's worth investigating, anyhow," said Nat, starting up followed by the others.

It took them but a few seconds to reach the hut. Having entered they all crowded eagerly about the hearthstone. Cal dropped into the hole with his revolver ready for any stray rats that might remain, but not a trace of one was to be seen. Suddenly he gave a shout and seized a rough wooden box with both hands.

"Ketch hold, boys," he cried, "it's so heavy I can't hardly heft it."

Willing hands soon drew the box up upon the crazy floor, and Nat produced the rusty hammer.

"Now to see if it was all a dream or reality," he cried, as he brought the tool down on the half rotten covering. The wood split with a rending sound and displayed within a number of dull-looking, half translucent rocks.

"Junk!" cried Cal, who had hoisted himself out of the hole by this time, "a lot of blame worthless old pyrites."

"Not py a chug ful," came an excited voice as Herr Muller pressed forward, "dem is der purest sapphires I haf effer seen."

"How do you know?" demanded Nat quickly.

"Pecos vunce py Amstertam I vork py a cheweller's. I know stones in der rough and dese is an almost priceless gollecdion."

"Hoorooh!" yelled Cal, "we'll all be rich."

He stepped quickly forward and prepared to scoop up a handful of the rough-looking stones, but Nat held him back.

"They're not ours, Cal," he said, "they belong to the folks named in that will."

"You're right, boy," said Cal abashed, "I let my enthoosiasm git away with me. But what are we going to do about it? Them folks don't live around here."

"We'll have to find them and – Hark!"

The boy gave an alarmed exclamation and looked behind him. He could have sworn that a dark shadow passed the window as they bent above the dully-gleaming stones. But although he darted to the door like a flash, nothing was to be seen outside.

"What's the matter?" asked Cal, curiously.

"Nothing," was the quiet rejoinder, "I thought I saw another timber rat, but I guess I was mistaken."

CHAPTER XXIV

FACING THEIR FOES

"Nat, wake up!"

"Nat!"

"NAT!"

Joe's third exclamation awoke the slumbering boy and he raised himself on the rough couch on one arm.

"What is it, Joe?" he asked, gazing in a startled way at his chum. Joe was sitting bolt upright on the rough, wooden-framed bed, and gazing through a dilapidated window outside upon the moon-flooded canyon.

"Hark!" whispered Joe, "don't you hear something?"

"Nothing but the water running down that old flume behind the hut."

"That's queer, I don't hear it any more either," said Joe; "guess it was a false alarm."

"Guess so," assented Nat, settling down once more in the blankets. From various parts of the rough hut came the steady, regular breathing of Ding-dong Bell, Cal and Herr Muller. The latter must have been having a nightmare for he kept muttering: —

"Lookd oudt py der sapphires. Lookd oudt!"