“What is it?  What is it?” inquired Fred eagerly.

“It looks to me like it was a diary.  Some of it is missing and some is faded, but it looks to me on the whole as if the man was keeping an account every day of what he was doing and where he went.”

“Can’t you find his name in there somewhere?” inquired John.

“I haven’t yet.  I have a suspicion that these bones belong to old Simon Moultrie.  He was an odd stick and I guess was more than half crazy.  He was prospecting most of his life, leastwise as soon as he came out to these regions.  The funny part of it all was that he wouldn’t go with anybody and wouldn’t let anybody go with him.  Once or twice he thought he had struck it rich, but I never heard that anything panned out.”

“What makes you think the dead man was Simon Moultrie?”

“Mostly because he hasn’t been heard from of late.  It must be seven or eight months since he has shown up.  You see he used to come in twice a year for supplies and then he would start out prospecting and not show up again for six months, or until his supplies ran low.”

“How old a man was he?” inquired John.

“Sixty-three or sixty-six, I should reckon,” replied Zeke glibly.  “He was a bit off, same as I was telling you, and had just gone dippy on the subject of finding a mine.”

“And you say he did find one or two?”

“He thought he did find one or two, but when he came to follow them up, why the stuff didn’t assay worth a cent, or else it was just a little pocket he had happened to find.  What do you think ought to be done with these bones?” again inquired the guide.

“The best thing to do is to bury them and mark the spot just as John said,” said Fred.

The suggestion was speedily acted upon and taking the spade which had been found Zeke soon digged a grave in the soft soil.  Then carefully and silently the bones of the unfortunate man were collected and covered.  A bleached limb of a mesquite tree which had doubtless been torn away and been carried far from its location by one of the terrific wind storms that occasionally sweep over the region, was thrust into the ground at the head of the little grave.  Next a piece of paper was taken from his pocket by John.  Upon it he wrote, “The grave of an unknown man, supposedly Simon Moultrie.  The bones were found July 13, 1914, by Fred Button, John Clemens and Zeke Rattray.”

“Don’t you think,” inquired John, “that I had better put our addresses on this paper too?”

“Good scheme,” replied Fred.

Accordingly the permanent address of each member of the party was added to the brief statement.

“Do you suppose we’ll ever hear from anybody?” inquired John in a low voice.

“I don’t know,” answered Fred, shaking his head as he spoke.  “It’s one of those things you never can tell about.”

Fred Button was one of the four boys who among their friends and themselves, for the matter of that, were commonly known as the Go Ahead Boys.  They were schoolmates and classmates and were nearly of the same age, John being the only one who was eighteen, while his three companions were each seventeen years old.