The Thing in the Stone

But who would believe what he had written? More to the point, who would bother to look at it? More than likely the books would gather dust on some hidden shelf until the end of time with no human hand ever laid upon them. And even if someone, in some future time, should take them down and read them, first blowing away the accumulated dust, would he or she be likely to believe?

The answer lay clear. He must convince someone. Words written by a man long dead—and by a man of no reputation—could be easily dismissed as the product of a neurotic mind. But if some scientist of solid reputation could be made to listen, could be made to endorse the record, the events that paraded across the hills and lay within them could stand on solid ground, worthy of full investigation at some future date.

A biologist? Or a neuropsychiatrist? Or a paleontologist?

Perhaps it didn’t matter what branch of science the man was in. Just so he’d listen without laughter. It was most important that he listen without laughter.

Sitting on the porch, staring at the hills dotted with grazing dinosaurs, the listener to the stars remembered the time he had gone to see the paleontologist.

“Ben,” the sheriff said. “you’re way out in left field. That Daniels fellow wouldn’t steal no chickens. He’s got chickens of his own.”

“The question is,” said Adams, “how did he get them chickens?”

“That makes no sense,” the sheriff said. “He’s a gentleman. You can tell that just by talking with him. An educated gentleman.”

“If he’s a gentleman,” asked Adams, “what’s he doing out here? This ain’t no place for gentlemen. He showed up two or three years ago and moved out to this place. Since that day he hasn’t done a tap of work. All he does is wander up and down the hills.”

“He’s a geologist,” said the sheriff. “Or anyway interested in geology. A sort of hobby with him. He tells me he looks for fossils.”

Adams assumed the alert look of a dog that has sighted a rabbit. “So that is it,” he said. “I bet you it ain’t fossils he is looking for.”

“No,” the sheriff said.

“He’s looking for minerals,” said Adams. “He’s prospecting, that’s what he’s doing. These hills crawl with minerals. All you have to do is know where to look.”

“You’ve spent a lot of time looking,” observed the sheriff. “I ain’t no geologist. A geologist would have a big advantage. He would know rocks and such.”

“He didn’t talk as if he were doing any prospecting. Just interested in the geology, is all. He found some fossil clams.”

“He might be looking for treasure caves,” said Adams. “He might have a map or something.”

“You know damn well,” the sheriff said, “there are no treasure caves.”

“There must be,” Adams insisted. “The French and Spanish were here in the early days. They were great ones for treasure, the French and Spanish. Always running after mines. Always hiding things in caves. There was that cave over across the river where they found a skeleton in Spanish armour and the skeleton of a bear beside him, with a rusty sword stuck into where the bear’s gizzard was.”

“That was just a story,” said the sheriff, disgusted. “Some damn fool started it and there was nothing to it. Some people from the university came out and tried to run it down. It developed that there wasn’t a word of truth in it.”

“But Daniels has been messing around with caves,” said Adams. “I’ve seen him. He spends a lot of time in that cave down on Cat Den Point. Got to climb a tree to get to it.”

“You been watching him?”

“Sure I been watching him. He’s up to something and I want to know what it is.”

“Just be sure he doesn’t catch you doing it,” the sheriff said.

Adams chose to let the matter pass. “Well, anyhow,” he said, “if there aren’t any treasure caves, there’s a lot of lead and zinc. The man who finds it is about to make a million.”

“Not unless he can find the capital to back him,” the sheriff pointed out.

Adams dug at the ground with his heel. “You think he’s all right, do you?”

“He tells me he’s been losing some chickens to a fox. More than likely that’s what has been happening to yours.”

“If a fox is taking his chickens,” Adams asked, “why don’t he shoot it?”

“He isn’t sore about it. He seems to think the fox has got a right to. He hasn’t even got a gun.”

“Well, if he hasn’t got a gun and doesn’t care to hunt himself—then why won’t he let other people hunt? He won’t let me and my boys on his place with a gun. He has his place all posted. That seems to me to be un-neighborly. That’s one of the things that makes it so hard to get along with him. We’ve always hunted on that place. Old Amos wasn’t an easy man to get along with but he never cared if we did some hunting. We’ve always hunted all around here. No one ever minded. Seems to me hunting should be free. Seems right for a man to hunt wherever he’s a mind to.”