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Updated: May 7, 2025
I sat with my back against a cottonwood and smoked a cigarette while I considered the impassive front of Writing-On-the-Stone; and the fruit of my consideration was that he who sought for the needle in the haystack had no more difficult task than ours. In due time we ate supper, and dark spread its mantle over the land.
I drew back from the rim of Writing-On-the-Stone, that set of whispered phrases echoing in my ears. Mac caught my eye and grinned. "Gold raw gold on the rock above." I mouthed the words parrotlike, and he nodded comprehendingly. "Oh, thunder!" I exclaimed. "Do you reckon that's what he meant?" "What else?" Mac reasoned. "They'd mark the place somehow and aren't those his exact words?
"There's Stony Crossing, Sarge; and over yonder, at the west end of that blue ridge, is Writing-on-the-Stone."
Half an hour later, with the sacks of gold securely lashed on the aparejos of the pack-horse, we climbed out of Writing-Stone bottom and swung away over the silent tablelands. With Writing-on-the-Stone scarcely three miles behind, the long-abandoned burrow of a badger betrayed us into the hands of the enemy. The sidelong, covetous glance that passed between them bespoke what was in their minds.
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