do you make of that Indian stuff, Stone? Do you take any stock in it?"
"It sounds plausible to me," replied Stone. "I know something about Indians. I lived in New Mexico for awhile. They might easily resent our taking the gold so close to their lines. They know the value of it. They might not care to work it themselves for various reasons. Might be some superstition about it. More likely they figure that, if they did uncover it, so many men would rush to the place that they couldn't hold them off. Dog-in-the-manger spirit, but I fancy that's the most likely cause."
"Maybe," assented Healy. "What's his game? Playing each of us off against the others. Don't trust any of us, eh? Here's Lefty. For God's sake get it all out of him. Stone, before he croaks!"
"'Urry up," said Lefty. "'E's going, for fair."
Stone thought for the second time that Lyman was dead. Putting his ear down toward his chest, he caught a vague whisper. There was barely a movement of the lips, the eyes were sealed, the syllables hardly to be distinguished. With his head close to that of the dying man, listening to words that seemed echoes coming back from the Valley of Death itself. Stone pieced together the sense of what was said. It was jumbled. There were references to rock caves and carvings, to skulls, to dried bodies stacked like cordwood—but the main secret was clear. The gateway to the Madre d'Oro was open. His third of the knowledge was obtained.
