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 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
Mormon Bible that had been taken from the hand of murdered
“Utah” Banning.
“You’ve found something,” added Roy, almost catching his breath.
“This was the first Mormon Bible I ever saw,” said Mr. Cook,
pushing the supper things aside, and bringing a lamp to the dining
table. “Several times in your absence, I’ve amused myself looking it
over. A very curious religion,” he added, as he drew up a chair and
motioned Roy to do the same. “You saw the notes on the back
flyleaf didn’t you?” he asked, turning to Roy.
The boy flushed with chagrin. He had not. Nor had he looked at
the book since his first cursory examination of it.
Hanging over Mr. Cook’s shoulder, he watched the manager turn to
the back of the book and finally expose a yellow edged page. In ink
that had turned to a faint brown, the boy read, at the top of the
page, these words:
“Deseret Alphabet.”
Beneath it, in a fine, close hand, were two columns of characters.
Manifestly, it was the Mormon phonetic alphabet. After each odd
character, the sound was indicated with a syllable in English.
“That’s it,” shouted Roy, almost snatching the book from Mr.
Cook’s hand. “Those are the letters on Mr. Weston’s paper. Here,
see,” he added nervously catching up the paper and confirming his
theory. “They’re the same. We found it. Sink’s found his treasure.”
“One moment,” interrupted the less exuberant Mr. Cook. “Let’s see
what we can make of it.”
“We’ve got to make something,” insisted the boy, impulsively. “It
has to work out. The man who wrote on Mr. Weston’s paper was my
great uncle. He helped to make this alphabet. I know that. That’s
what the Banks’ history says.”
“Then I reckon we’ve got it,” answered Mr. Cook. He began to
read off the characters with their equivalents in English.
 “Come on,” broke in Roy, “let’s see what we can find. Here, what’s
this?”
He pointed to a letter like a capital “O” with a little ridge in the
bottom. It was easily found.
“‘K,’” answered Mr. Cook. “Put it down.”
Chuckling and enthusiastic, the boy ran to Mr. Cook’s desk for a
piece of paper. With this before them, the boy and his hardly less
interested elder, began to work out the mystery. Both the flyleaf
characters and Mr. Weston’s scrap were dim with age, but, by finally
applying a reading glass to the Bible key, the first line of characters
was turned into this—two of the Mormon letters standing in English
for sounds instead of letters:
“K A I P U R O W I T T S”
“That’s easy,” announced Mr. Cook, when the interpretation was
complete. “Should have been ‘Kaiparowits’. But it’s close enough.
There’s a peak o’ that name at the north end of the Kaiparowits
Plateau.”
“Where’s that?” exclaimed Roy.
“The plateau’s northwest of where the San Juan hits the
Colorado.”
“That’s it,” almost shouted the excited boy. “That’s where Weston
got out of the canyon.”
Mr. Cook was already busy on the next line. It resulted in this
word:
“E L L S U R T H”
“Another mountain?” asked Roy.
“Probably means Ellsworth. There is such a peak east of Pine
Alcove River. Hi. Clark worked up that way this summer.”
“But they are a long ways apart,” exclaimed the boy. “How far?”
Mr. Cook consulted the large wall map.
 “Nearly a hundred miles.”
The boy’s face fell.
“Anyway,” he said, “these mountains have something to do with
each other and the Sink Hole. Looks as if it might be between ’em,
don’t it?”
“Let’s spell the other word,” suggested his companion. When this
had been done, the letters read:
“S K A L A E N T E”
Mr. Cook eyed it a long time and then shook his head. Finally, he
went to the map again, but apparently with no better success.
“Looks like Swedish,” suggested Roy.
Mr. Cook returned to the table, held the sheet at all angles before
him and then suddenly broke out into a laugh.
“Escalante!” he exclaimed. “Mustn’t forget the characters are
phonetic. That’s the Escalante River—first one south of Horse Creek.
I guess that’s it.”
Roy had hurried to the map. With his pencil he drew a line under
Mr. Cook’s direction, from Ellsworth mountain to Kaiparowits. Where
it crossed the river, he made a cross.
Then, his hand trembling, he wrote at the intersection, “Sink Hole
of the Lost Indians.”
“What do you think of Sink’s story now?” he broke out, boy
fashion.
“All he has to do,” answered Mr. Cook, relieving his excitement by
lighting a cigar, “is to find something there. What he tells about, he
saw fifteen years ago. A good many people have been prowling
about there in fifteen years.”
“Anyway,” exclaimed Roy, “he can have another look at the place.”
“But,” said Mr. Cook, after a pause, “I never saw a sink hole on or
near a flowing river.”
 Roy’s jaw fell. He was looking at Weston’s paper. Suddenly his face
lit up. Then he pointed to the arrow.
“That’s pointin’ south,” he exclaimed. “Now, we got it. Where a
line between the two mountains crosses the Escalante, turn south
until you come to the Sink Hole.”
“Not bad,” said Mr. Cook. “Very probable. That’s the trail I’d take.”
The excited boy wanted to rush out on a search for Weston, but
Mr. Cook stopped him.
“Leave that to me,” he said, after he and Roy had retired to the
cool porch. “When Weston comes, say nothing. Let me do the
talking.”
They had not long to wait. In a short time, the veteran guide was
with them. As Mr. Cook handed Weston his precious paper and
proffered him a cigar, he said:
“Sink, that looks mighty interesting. Why don’t you find the
Treasure Cave?”
“Humph,” grunted Weston, as he lit his cigar. “Why don’t I? Read
this fur me an’ I will.”
“What’ll you give to have it read?”
“I’ll give you my livery stable, an’ my house—yes, sir,” he added
with a grim smile, “I’ll even throw in my real ’state office.”
“Would you give half of anything you might find in your
underground safety deposit vault?”
Weston looked up, without any trace of liquor now, and said:
“To the man ’at’ll take me to that pint, I’ll give ever’ other dish and
bowl we git. I reckon that’d be fair.”
“Well,” went on Mr. Cook, “here’s the man that can do it,” pointing
to Roy. “He knows where your cave is. Is it an even divide?”
Weston sprang up with a shout. At the same time, Roy stepped to
Mr. Cook’s side in protest. The only answer he got was:
 “I’ve got to pay you for what you said when you gave me the ring,
Kid. This is my contract.”
Weston’s shout had died to a note of alarm.
“You ain’t kiddin’ me, Colonel? I’m sober.”
“Be sure you are in the same condition to-morrow morning at
seven o’clock, Sink,” exclaimed Mr. Cook. “Roy’s put off his return a
day or so. He’s goin’ to give you a little ride in the Parowan. And
remember our bargain.”
 CHAPTER XVIII
THE LAST OF THE LOST INDIANS

From the day he entered southwestern Colorado, Roy had heard

the tales of the ancient Indian Cliff Dwellers. Mr. Cook had often
explained to him the history of this disappeared race. Whence they
came, he told Roy, ethnologists could not say.
“Some,” he had explained, “believe the Cliff Dwellers drifted from
Mexico—that they are the last of the Aztecs, the most highly
cultured of all red men. Others have urged that they may as well
have come from the north—even from Asia and its ancient
civilization.”
“Mr. Cook,” exclaimed Roy suddenly that evening, after Weston
had finally withdrawn to prepare for the trip he had anticipated for
years, “you have told me that the old Cliff Dwellers may have come
down the coast from Asia by way of Bering Sea.”
“That’s one theory. Students have found shell remains and ivory
knives up in Yakima Valley, Washington. They look like Eskimo
articles.”
“Weston says his Lost Indians looked like Chinamen. He means
Eskimos, of course. If we found such people over there, would that
prove anything?”
“It might mean this,” he said at last. “Weston’s Asiatics may have
met the Aztecs coming north. The two streams may have clashed
and the Asiatics may have been licked. Naturally they’d retreat. They
may have hidden themselves in the mountains.”
“Then there really may have been Lost Indians?” exclaimed Roy.
 The prospector laughed outright and shrugged his shoulders. Then
he leaned forward, and checking the points on his fingers, said:
“Somewhere in the heart of the lower California or Nevada
mountains these Asiatics may have concealed themselves for
centuries. There they may have lived, built their towns,
manufactured their own strange implements and wares in their own
way, and, lost to the world, worshiped their own gods. At last,
discovered by other incoming and increasing red men, they fly to a
new home. Hemmed in by other savages, worn with flight and war,
lessened by disease, the remnant of the band takes refuge beneath
the desert.”
“Is that right?” almost shouted Roy.
“Go and find out,” answered Mr. Cook, with another laugh.
Mt. Ellsworth was, by the map, sixty-seven miles northwest of
Bluff, a few points west of northwest. From that peak Kaiparowits lay
seventy miles south of west. In passing from Ellsworth to
Kaiparowits, Pine Alcove Creek would be crossed not far west at Hi.
Clark’s camp. Here there was food and a small supply of gasoline.
Roy and Weston took breakfast with Clark’s men the next morning,
having left the corral in the Parowan a little before five o’clock.
At eight o’clock with the Escalante River not more than twenty
miles away, the Parowan was started on the real search for the Sink
Hole. All of Weston’s conviviality of the night before was gone. Roy
was nervous. The prospect of meeting belligerent Indians did not
frighten him, but he was surprised that neither Weston nor Mr. Cook
seemed to reckon this as an item of danger.
“If we find the place,” Roy had asked in their flight in the early
dawn, “do you look for trouble?”
“Them old grandpa baldies?” answered Weston, as if surprised.
“They ain’t got a gun among ’em.”
It was the first day of September. The depressing monotony of the
lifeless plains was accentuated by a choking dust. The rose tints of
early days had disappeared in a dead blue, cloudless sky. The heat
seemed to penetrate to the lungs and brain.
“There’s the Escalante,” said Roy a half hour after Clark’s camp
was left.
“Now fur the south,” added Weston in a dry, harsh voice. “Hold
her true an’ don’t ye stop till ye see somepin, ef it takes us acrost
Arizony.”
The great wonder was, how Weston had missed finding the hole
in his several searches. Within five miles of where the aeroplane
turned south from the river, the mysterious hole suddenly appeared
directly beneath the swiftly sailing Parowan. No dark depths greeted
the approaching eye. What had at first seemed but a slight
depression in the desert suddenly became a large circular shaft. The
fumes of sulphur had colored its sides a yellowish white.
The Parowan came to a stop several hundred yards beyond the
hole. Too excited to return in the airship, Weston and the boy sprang
to the sand and started on a run back to the chasm. Then they
discovered that their path lay along the dry bed of a watercourse.
“That’s it,” exclaimed Weston. “This is my river bed. But it comes
from the south. It comes off the Straight Cliffs. I allers reckoned it
come out o’ the west. An’ I sarched mainly along the Sevier Range.”
In a few moments they reached the point where the river bed
ended in a worn gully leading down to the top rock shelf of the Sink
Hole. Weston sprang into the depression, and, Roy at his heels, was
soon on the rough, rocky shoulder that dropped, screw-like, lower
and lower toward the north face of the circular opening.
About sixty feet beneath the surface of the ground, the hard ledge
—which Roy now saw was not wholly the work of nature—
disappeared beneath an overhanging arch of rock. No living thing
was in sight, but Roy saw Weston draw his revolver and he did the
same. Then, peering over his companion’s shoulder, he saw first, a
half-lit gallery. The trail on the ledge seemed to disappear within the
tunnel. Into this, every few yards, fell rays of light entering through
openings in the front of the overhanging rock.
“Seems to be nobody to home,” suggested Weston.
He pushed forward. As he and Roy got well within the gallery, they
paused to accustom themselves to the half light. Still no sound.
“Might as well have it over,” went on Weston. “E yawp!” he
shouted suddenly, springing close to the wall and raising his revolver
to his hip.
“I wonder if they’re all dead?” asked Roy. He had already
wondered that many times to himself.
“I’ve kind o’ calkerlated that way. Anyhow, they shore air so old
an’ dried up ’at they ain’t no more worth shootin’ an’ a rattler,”
Weston answered.
As if reassured by this, Weston moved forward again. Two
irregular tunnel-like openings he passed, and then pointed to the
next opening.
“Thar she be, Kid. Now I’m a liar er I ain’t. Thar’s the selfsame
room er temple o’ them dishes. Hyar’s whar we win er lose.”
One of the light openings was nearly opposite this chamber, and
the light from it fell full on the entrance to Weston’s treasure temple.
Unable to control his curiosity, Roy hastened to the old guide’s side.
Together the two faced the chamber entrance. Before they had even
a chance to look within, an object whirred through the air, grazed
Roy’s left shoulder, and then struck the rock floor with a dull crack. It
was an oval rock attached to a thong.
Both Weston and Roy rushed into the cave. A few yards from the
door, on his hands and knees, was the shriveled figure of an aged
man. As the intruders paused, the decrepit figure collapsed. Before
either Weston or the boy could reach his side, the man was in a
heap on the floor. Weston caught the prostrate Indian by the
shoulders, but the figure slid from his grasp and fell upon its back.
The man opened his eyes once and then seemed to pass into
unconsciousness. In his left hand was a white, polished knife of
ivory.
The lone guardian of the cave was emaciated. Clay-brown
parchment-like skin seemed barely to encase his bones.
“He’s one of ’em,” exclaimed Weston, who was visibly affected by
the sight. “He’s one o’ them Lost Injuns. An’, ef I ain’t mistook, he’s
the last uv ’em.”

The Last of the Lost Indians

“The last of the Lost Indians,” exclaimed Roy half aloud.

 The man was bald and toothless. About his loins he wore an
almost black breech-clout of some sort of skin. A brown blanket,
woven of some vegetable fiber, lay beneath his extended form. And
the eyes—they resembled those of no Indian Roy had ever seen—
had the slant of the Asiatic.
But there was the spell of the apartment. Did it contain the
treasures described by the veteran westerner? Although the
sympathetic boy was held by the sight of the ancient Indian, he
heard Weston springing forward. Roy turned. The plainsman was
already hastening toward a group of strange objects at the side of
the apartment opposite the entrance. Roy followed—his mind full of
the tale of silver and gold vessels.
To the right and left of the objects toward which Weston was
making his way, were two decorated columns of wood wedged
between the floor and the ceiling. Designs on them caught the boy’s
eye. As he sprang toward the nearest one, a shadow shot across the
ray of light falling through the door. The boy had just time to turn
and make out the tottering form of the old Indian.
As Roy sprang forward, the Indian made a feeble leap toward the
unperceiving Weston. In his withered, talon-like fingers, glinted the
polished blade of the ivory knife. As it would have entered Weston’s
back, Roy’s desperate lunge intercepted the blow. As the lad’s arm
struck the palsied fingers of the would-be assassin, the ivory weapon
flew into the air, and the Indian reeled to the far side of the room.
Weston’s revolver flashed. But again Roy saved a life. As the point
of the plainsman’s weapon fell upon the Indian, the boy threw it
upward. The explosion filled the hollow room. When the smoke rose
to the ceiling, the wavering Indian, untouched by the bullet, faced
them once more.
His fleshless arms extended high above his head; the palsied,
spectral form swayed for a moment, and then, with a wail of anguish
—perhaps the last expression of an extinct race—the figure stumbled
across the cave and hurled itself upon the floor.
 Awe-stricken, the man and the boy gazed upon the shadowy
human being. When they attempted to move the mummy-like shape,
they knew that the Indian was dead. On the sole surviving treasures
of his people, the old man had died.
“Faithful to the end,” whispered Roy.
“The last of the Lost Indians,” added Weston solemnly.
It was ten days later when Roy finally left Bluff for Dolores. The
discoveries made in the Underground City of the Lost Indians were
so astounding that, before noon, the Parowan, with Roy as the sole
passenger, was on a bee-line flight to Bluff. By night Roy was
carrying Mr. Cook to the wonderful Sink Hole. With the manager’s
assistance, the wonders of the caves were gradually brought to light.
Camping at night on the dry bed of the river for two days, the men
and Roy studied the puzzles of each separate chamber.
Beyond question, the dead Indian was the last of his race. What
that race represented, they could only conjecture. That it came
originally from the far north was certain. Strangely wrought vessels
of wood inlaid with ivory could not have been made in or near this
last refuge of the dead race. Representations of the walrus, of the
whale, and of the polar bear ran through decorations as certain
proof of a one-time tribal knowledge of the far northern seas.
But, with these carefully preserved articles, were others of a later
date. In their wanderings, the tribe had evidently come south by
way of the sea. For, in addition to ivory utensils and ornaments,
there had been a later utilization of the beautiful Abalone shell found
only near Catalina Island off the California Coast. Mosaics of this in
various local woods were discovered.
“Lastly,” suggested Mr. Cook, “in these mountains of the
southwest, long before this people began to degenerate, there came
to it a knowledge of metals. Before the wanderers began to decline
and long before the last of them were driven to this refuge, they
were skilful workers in gold, silver and copper.”
 In these remains, both shell and the jewel of the southwest—
turquoise—had been freely used. Battered and worn samples of each
of these periods of craftsmanship were found in the tomb of the
unknown race. Most of them, and the best preserved, were found in
the cave where the last survivor came to his death.
Apparently the tribe neither cremated nor mummified its dead. In
one of the deepest recesses of a far gallery a burial chamber was
discovered. At the foot of a carved post, over a foot in diameter and
resembling an Alaska totem pole, there were found in this catacomb
some of the most curious and valuable relics. At the urgent request
of Mr. Cook, Roy counted the human skulls in this sepulchre and
found there were four hundred and twenty-three. In this work the
acetylene headlight was useful.
After the complete survey of the caves had been made, and
detailed maps made, showing their ramifications and apartments,
Mr. Cook was carried back to Bluff. For five days the Parowan was in
truth an Aeroplane Express. Three hundred and eighty-five objects,
large and small; gold, silver, copper, wood, ivory and shell; worn
textile fabrics, feather decorations, and the few pieces of pottery
found were all carried to Mr. Cook’s bungalow in Bluff. The four
immense wooden posts or “totem poles,” as Mr. Cook called them,
were hauled to Bluff two months later by wagon.
Then came the question of dividing the treasure. There was
nothing avaricious in Roy.
“It belongs to Weston,” he repeatedly insisted. “Weston suffered
for it, and he found it. He ought to have it all.”
“A contrack is a contrack,” Weston would declare. “Ef I found it, I
lost it, too. An’ you and Mr. Cook is the gents as really diskivered it.
Hep yourselves. They’s a plenty fur all!”
A few of the simpler and best preserved pieces were what
interested Mr. Cook most. These he consented to accept. And, at Mr.
Weston’s and Roy’s joint request, he finally took for himself one of
the prize specimens. This was a heavy copper bowl—eighteen inches
across the top—with a beautifully carved silver lid. In the top of the
lid, as a handle, was set an oblong piece of ivory in each side of
which was traced the outlines of a seal. Around the edge of the lid,
set deep in the silver, was a continuous band of turquoise almost
imperceptibly joined.
Roy’s first selection was a bowl of dark odorous wood, almost a
duplicate of the silver-copper vessel in size and shape. The inside of
this, when it had been cleaned, was found to be almost as smooth
as glass. The outside was a mosaic of tiny bits of iridescent Abalone
shell set in a hard, pitch-like substance.
When Weston and Roy returned to Bluff an agreement was
reached that their joint treasure was to be sent east in one shipment
in care of President Atkinson, of the aeroplane company in Newark.
Before this was done, an inventory was made of each item. Copies
of this were kept by Weston and Roy, and when the treasure had
been carefully packed and boxed, a third copy was forwarded to Mr.
Atkinson. It had been finally arranged that Roy was to receive a third
of the value of the remarkable find.
Weston remained in Bluff awaiting the arrival of Dan Doolin to
freight the precious cargo to Dolores. But, on the eleventh of
September Roy at last took farewell of his western friends. Vic.
Christian was to carry him to Dolores in the Parowan.
“I can’t feel as if it is good bye forever,” said Roy, grasping Mr.
Cook’s hand.
“I know it isn’t,” answered the set-faced manager. “You’ll come
again. They all do. The salt marshes o’ New Jersey’ll never satisfy
you now.”
“As fur me,” added Sink Weston, “I’ll see you soon. When you
write me ’at that truck’s been sold, I’m comin’ out to New York and
collect. I ain’t never been east o’ Kansas City, but ole Sink Weston
an’ his lady is agoin’ to see Broadway ef it costs us all them thar
Injun dishes. An’ ef they’s any o’ the long green left, I’m agoin’ to
hire some reporter to write up what we discivered an’ send it to
ever’ one o’ them wise boys ’at said I was cracked.”
When that long-looked-for letter reached Dolores in December,
addressed to Mr. A. B. Weston, the last lines of it read:

“——or a total of $22,000, which makes your share about

$14,666. Mr. Atkinson is anticipating the closing of the deal by
sending you a draft for $1,000. Come and see us.
“Your true friend,
“Roy Osborne.”

The last survivor of the Lost Indians of the Sink Hole was interred,
nameless and without rites, in the hidden tomb of his race.

While Roy Osborne was solving the mystery of the Lost Indians of
Utah, a club of Pensacola, Florida, lads was engaged on an equally
interesting task—the discovery of the “Secret City of the Seminoles”
in the Everglades of Florida. This story may be read in “The Boy
Aeronauts’ Club, or, Flying for Fun.” See advertisement page 2.

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 Transcriber’s Notes:
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Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
 Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been
preserved.
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