The Treasure of Hidden Valley

“I believe in the immortality of the soul. I believe in the religion of humanity. Yes, on the far away rim of eternity, Faith seeks a beckoning hand and the human heart pulses anew with inspiration and unfaltering belief in the immortality of the soul. Let us believe there are songs sung and harps touched and kisses given and greetings exchanged in that other world. It is better that all other words should turn to ashes upon the lips of man rather than the word immortality. Our hearts once filled with this belief – this great truth – then every tear becomes a jewel, the darkest night flees before the breaking dawn and every hope turns into reality.

“Before us, my friends, lies the dust of the dead – Grant Jones. Away from home – away from father and mother, brother and sister – far up in these hills where the shoulders of the mountains are clothed with treacherous banks of sliding snow – he was here seeking to carve out a destiny for himself, in the morning of early manhood. The Kismet of his life, clothed in mystery, caused him to lay down his tools and leave to others his but partially accomplished mission. He was journeying upward toward life’s mountain-crest – already the clouds were below him and the stars about him. For do we not know from his gifted writings that this man held communion with the gods? His heart beat full of loftiest hope. And then – even before high twelve – he fell asleep. He is gone; but a myriad of memories of his achievements gather thick about us. We see him as he was, and this virion will abide with us throughout the years.

“He was a student and a scholar. He read books that had souls in them – he read books that converse with the hearts of men and speak to them of an exalted life – a life that unfolds an ethical and a higher duty incumbent upon the children of men. He knew much about the literature of his day – was acquainted with the great authors through their writings. Keats was his favorite poet, Victor Hugo his favorite prose author and ‘Les Misérables’ his favorite book. Music had a thrilling charm for him. To his heart it was the language of the eternal. He heard songs in the rocks of towering cliffs, in primeval forests, in deep gorges, in night winds, in browned grasses and in tempestuous storms and in the pebbled mountain brooks.

“We need have no fear for his future, my friends – with him all is well. A heroic soul, a matchless man, cannot be lost. His heart was a fountain of love. Virtue was his motto – hope his star – love his guide. Farewell, Grant, farewell. When with the silent boatman we too shall cross the river of death and steal away into the infinite, we believe that you will be standing there in the rosy dawn of eternity to welcome us, to renew the sweet ties of love and friendship that here on earth have bound our hearts to yours.”

Thus spoke the Reverend Stephen Grannon, the Flockmaster of the Hills.

CHAPTER XXXV – A CALL TO SAN FRANCISCO

DOROTHY mourned for Grant Jones – for days she wept and would not be consoled. Roderick had not seen her since the disaster; when he had called at the ranch Barbara had brought a message from her room that she dared not trust herself yet to speak to anyone, least of all to the one whom she knew to have been Grant’s closest and dearest friend.

Roderick had now taken apartments in the Bonhomme Hotel – it would have been too heartrending an experience to return to the shack where everything was associated with the memory of his lost comrade. It had been his painful task to pack the books, the little ornaments, the trophies of the chase, the other odds and ends of sacred relics, and send them back East to the old folks at home. He had known it to have been Grant’s own wish that, when death should come, his body should rest among the hills of Wyoming. So when a simple headstone had been placed on the grave in God’s acre at Encampment, the last sad duty had been performed. Grief was now deadened. The sweet pleasures of fond reminiscence remained, the richest legacy that man can leave behind him.

Buell Hampton and Roderick never met without speaking of Grant, without recalling some pleasant episode in their association, some brilliant or thoughtful contribution he had made to their past conversations. With the aid of fragments of torn paper that had been clutched in the dead man’s left hand, the hand that had been doubled under him when the body was found, they had pieced together the story of that fateful encounter with Grady. The latter, bent on discovering and jumping Buell Hampton’s secret mine, had carried into the mountains the proper declaration papers in printed forms, with only the blanks to be filled in – name, date, exact location, etc. Grant must have become aware that these papers were all ready signed in Grady’s pocket – perhaps in defiance the claim-jumper had flaunted them in his face. For the struggle had been for the possession of these documents, the torn quarters of which were still in Grant’s hand when the fatal dislodgement of snow had taken place. The full infamy of Grady’s long contrived plot was revealed. Righteously indeed had he gone to his doom.

A week had passed when Roderick found a letter on the breakfast table at his hotel. It was from Barbara Shields.

“My dear Mr. Warfield: —

“I write to tell you that we are going to California – to spend the winter in Los Angeles. We are all sorrow-stricken over the great calamity up in the hills, and Dorothy – the poor dear girl is simply stunned. I have known for a long while that she was very fond of Grant, but I had no idea of the depths of her feelings.

“Papa says Mama and I must start at once and endeavor to cheer up Dorothy and help her forget as much as possible the sadness of this terrible affair.

“Mr. Bragdon called last night, and is to be our escort to the coast. We shall probably return about the first of May. Please accept this as an affectionate good-by for the time being from us all.

“With cordial good wishes,“Sincerely your friend,“Barbara.”

Meanwhile snow had been descending off and on day after day, until now the whole of the mountain country was effectively sealed. Evidently a rigorous winter had set in, and it would be many months before Hidden Valley would be again accessible. Roderick was not sorry – the very mention of gold and mining had become distasteful to his ears. Even when with the Major, they, never now spoke about the secret canyon and its hoarded treasures – in subtle sympathy with each other’s feelings the subject was tabooed for the present Bud Bledsoe had disappeared from the district, no doubt temporarily enriched by the nuggets with which he had filled his pockets. In the spring most likely he would return and rally his gang of mountain outlaws. But until then there need be no worry about the snow-enshrouded claims, the location papers for which had been now duly registered at the county seat in the names of their proper owners.

Buell Hampton had his books and his work for the poor wherewith to occupy his mind. Roderick found his consolation at the smelter. Early and late now he worked there, learning the practical operations from Boney Earnest, mastering the business details with the aid of a trustworthy old clerk whose services had been retained as secretary. Boney, having been made the choice of his brother foremen in accordance with the new plan of operations, was duly confirmed in his position of general manager, while Roderick, formally elected vice-president by the board, held the salaried and responsible post of managing-director.

Major Hampton withdrew himself more and more into the seclusion of his library; he rarely came to the smelter plant; he left everything in Roderick’s hands once he had become satisfied of the young man’s aptitude for the work; he was content to read the managing director’s weekly report showing steady progress all along the line – increased output, decreased operating costs, large reductions in waste and breakages, in a word the all-round benefits resulting from friendly cooperation between capital and labor, no longer treating each other as enemies, but pulling together in happy conjunction and for mutual advantage.

Another circumstance contributing to the general harmony of the community was the departure of W. Henry Carlisle, the deposed attorney of the smelter company. One of Senator Greed’s hirelings, Carlisle had been rewarded by that master of political jobbery with a judgeship in Alaska. Thus was the whole country made to pay the price of shameful underhand services that had tainted the very atmosphere and might well have caused the man in the moon to hold his nose when crossing the state of Wyoming.

However, Carlisle’s going put an end to much bitterness and squabbling in Encampment, and now month succeeded month in peaceful routine. As both smelter and mine were now working Sundays as well as week days, Roderick could rarely take a day off – or at least he would not allow himself a day off.

However, along with Major Buell Hampton he was the guest of Mr. Shields for Christmas Day dinner, and learned the latest news of the exiles in California; that mother and daughters were well, Dorothy something like her old happy self if chastened with a sorrow that would always leave its memory, and all thoroughly enjoying the unaccustomed luxury of a winter of warmth and perpetual sunshine. There was another item in Mr. Shields’ budget. Whitley Adams had spent a month in the capital of the southwest, had brought along his big touring car, and had given the girls no end of a good time.

“What took him to Los Angeles?’ asked Roderick.

“Oh, important banking business, Barbara says,” replied Mr. Shields quite innocently.

Roderick smiled. “Would Dorothy be consoled,” he asked himself. The enterprising youth certainly deserved the prize; Roderick recalled the mirthful warning sent to dear old Grant in the latter’s dilatory courting days about the tempting peach and the risk of a plundering hand. Indeed Whitley and Grant had been wonderfully akin in their boyish good-nature and irrepressible enthusiasm. With Grant gone, it seemed quite natural that Whitley and Dorothy should be drawn together. Roderick could wish no greater happiness for Dorothy, no better luck for his old college chum. Such was the train of his musing the while Buell Hampton and their host were discussing the wonderful growth and unbounded future of Los Angeles, the beautiful city of garden homes and cultured family life.

For New Year’s Day Roderick was invited to the Holdens’ place, and spent a delightful afternoon and evening. Gail sang and played, and the General seemed to be mightily interested in all the wonderful results being achieved at the smelter under the new régime. Gail listened somewhat distrait, but when the conversation about ores and fluxes and cupola furnaces and all that sort of thing seemed likely to be indefinitely prolonged she stole back to her piano and began singing to herself, soft and low.

And presently, while the General meandered on in a disquisition about refractory ores, Roderick was no longer paying attention. He was listening to the warbling of a thrush in the forest, and his straining ears caught the words of the song – “Just a-Wearyin’ for You.” A thrill ran through his nerves. He excused himself to the General, and crossed over to the piano. Gail instantly changed her song; by a skillful transition she was humming now, “Ye Banks and Braes o’ Bonnie Dhon.” But their eyes met, and she blushed deeply.

During the following weeks Roderick thought much and often about the beautiful Gail Holden, and occasionally now he would relax from business duties to enjoy a gallop with her on a sunny afternoon over the foothill ranges. They talked on many themes, and, although words of love were as yet unspoken, there came to them the quiet sense of happiness in companionship, of interest in each other’s thoughts and undertakings, of mutual understanding that they were already closer and dearer to each other than friendship alone could make them.

Spring was now rapidly approaching. The meadowlarks were singing, and the grass beginning to grow green in the valleys and foothills, the wild flowers to paint the slopes and dells in vivid colors. General Holden had several days before gone to San Francisco, to visit his brother there in regard to some family business. Gail had been unable to accompany her father; she had declared that the little ranch at this season required all her attention. To comfort her in her loneliness Roderick had promised to go riding with her for an hour or two every afternoon. This pleasant duty had been properly fulfilled for several days, and one afternoon, with Badger ready saddled in front of his office, the young vice-president of the smelter company was just clearing up a few items of business at his desk before mounting and taking the road for the Conchshell Ranch.

A telegram was laid at his hand. He opened it casually, talking the while with Boney Earnest. But when he saw the name on the slip of paper, he started erect. The message was from Gail, and had come from Rawlins: “My father is in hospital, having met with a street accident in San Francisco. Have just had time to catch the afternoon train at Rawlins. My address will be the Palace Hotel. Will telegraph news about father on arrival.”

“Good God!” exclaimed Roderick. “She has taken that journey alone. And no one to help her in her trouble and sorrow.”

There was no alternative – he could but wait with all the patience he could command for the next day’s overland. For he had instantly resolved to follow Gail. Like a flash had come the revelation how deeply he loved the girl; it had only needed the presence of tribulation to cause the long-smouldering spark of the fire divine in his heart to leap into flame – to make him realize that, come weal, come woe, his place now was by her side.

That afternoon he made all his preparations for departure. The evening he spent with Buell Hampton, and frankly told his friend of his great love for Gail. The Major listened sympathetically.

“All the world loves a lover,” he said, a kindly glow upon his face. “Humanity demands, conscience approves, and good people everywhere applaud the genial and glowing warmth of honest love of man for maid. And I commend the choice of your heart, Roderick, for surely nowhere can be found a finer woman than Gail Holden. Go in and win, and may good luck follow you. For friendship’s sake, too, I think it highly proper you should proceed at once to San Francisco and look after General Holden. I hope he is not dangerously hurt.”

“I have no other information except this telegram,” replied Roderick. “But I’ll surely wire you from San Francisco.”

Jim Rankin drove the stage next morning. Roderick took his accustomed place on the box seat, and listened to Jim’s accustomed flow of language on all the local topics of interest. But during the long drive of fifty miles there was only one little part of the one-sided conversation that Roderick ever remembered.

“Yes, siree,” Jim said, “all the folks is readin’ books these days. I myself have took the craze – I’ve got a book about the horse out of our new libr’y an’ I’ll be dog-busted if I ever knew the critter had so many bones. Tom Sun is readin’ about wool growin’ in Australia, and is already figgerin’ on gettin’ over Tasmanian merino blood for his flocks. And I’m danged if old Wren the saloon-keeper ain’t got stuck with a volume on temperance. ‘Ten Bar-Rooms in One Night’. no, by gunnies, that’s not it – ’Ten Nights in a Bar-Room’ – now I’ve got it right Guess it will do him a power o’ good too. Then all the young fellers have started goin’ to night classes. I tell you the Reverend Grannon with his schools an’ his libr’ies is just workin’ wonders. An’ who do you think is his right hand man, or boy, or devil – call him which you like?”

“Who?” asked Roderick vaguely.

“Scotty Meisch, that little tad of a cow-puncher you and poor old Grant Jones took up and made a printer’s devil of. Well, the parson got his hooks in him and tells me he’s turned out to be a first-class organizer – that’s his word. It’s Scotty who goes around, starts each new lib’iy, and sets the machin’ry goin’ smooth an’ proper. It’s a case of a round peg in a round hole, although who the hell would have thought it?”

Roderick was pleased to hear this good news of Scotty Meisch, but, returning to his thoughts about Gail, failed to follow Jim as the latter switched off into another line of “unbosomings.”

He was glad to be alone at last and in the drawing room of the Pullman car which he had reserved by telegraph.

CHAPTER XXXVI – IN THE CITY THAT NEVER SLEEPS

AFTER a tedious and delayed trip of three days and nights Roderick’s train steamed onto the mole at Oakland. During the last night he had refused to have the berth in his drawing room made down, and had lounged and dozed in his seat, occasionally peering out of the car window. The hour was late – almost three o’clock in the morning. The train should have arrived at seven o’clock the evening before.

There was the usual scramble of disembarking, red-capped porters pressing forward to carry hand baggage from the train to the ferryboat.

“Last boat to San Francisco will leave in five minutes,” was shouted from somewhere, and Roderick found himself with his valise in hand being pushed along with the throng of passengers who had just alighted from the train. Once on the ferryboat, he climbed to the upper deck and went well forward for the view. The waters of the bay were illumed with a half-crescent moon. Far across, six miles away, was San Francisco with its innumerable lights along the waterfront and on the slopes of her hills. To the right were Alcatras Island and the lighthouse.

Then the sharp ping-ping of bells sounded and the great wheels of the boat began to turn. Roderick was filled with the excitement of an impatient lover. “Gail, Gail, Gail,” his throbbing heart kept thrumming. Would he be able to find her? San Francisco was a strange city to Gail as well as to himself. She had been on the train ahead of him, and might by this time have left the Palace Hotel, the address her telegram had given. But he had learned from one of the porters that Gail’s train had been greatly delayed and would not have arrived before eleven o’clock the previous night. He reasoned that she would perforce have gone to the hotel at such a late hour, and would wait until morning to hunt up the hospital where her father was being cared for.

The boat had hardly touched the slip and the apron been lowered than he bounded forward, hastened through the ferryhouse and came out into the open where he was greeted by the tumultuous calls of a hundred solicitous cab-drivers. Roderick did not stand on the order of things, but climbing into the first vehicle that offered directed to be taken to the Palace Hotel.

Arriving at the hotel Roderick paid his fare while the door porter took possession of his grips. Glancing at a huge clock just over the cashier’s desk, he noticed the hour was three-thirty a. m. Taking the pen handed to him by the rooming clerk, he signed his name on the register, and then let his eyes glance backward over the names of recent arrivals. Ah, there was the signature of Gail Holden. Fortune was favoring him and he breathed a silent prayer of thankfulness that he had overtaken her.

Yes, he would serve her. He would help her. She should see and she should know without his telling her, that nothing else mattered if he could only be with her, near her and permitted to relieve her of all troubles and difficulties.

“Show the gentleman to his room,” said the night clerk and bowed to Roderick with a cordial good night.

As Roderick turned and followed the boy to the elevator, he realized that he was not sleepy – indeed that he was nervously alert and wide awake. After the boy had brought a pitcher of ice-water to the room, received his tip and departed, Roderick sat down to think it all over. But what was the use? “I cannot see her until perhaps eight o’clock in the morning. However, I will be on the outlook and in waiting when she is ready for breakfast. And then – ” his heart was beating fast “I certainly am terribly upset,” he acknowledged to himself.

Taking up his hat, he went out, locked the door, rang for the elevator and a minute later was out on the street. He was still wearing his costume of the mountains – coat, shirt, trousers, and puttees, all of khaki, with a broad-brimmed sombrero to match. A little way up Market Street he noticed a florist’s establishment. Great bouquets of California roses were in the windows, chrysanthemums and jars of violets.

He walked on, deciding to provide himself later on with a floral offering wherewith to decorate the breakfast table. He had often heard San Francisco described as a city that turned night into day, and the truth of the remark impressed him. Jolly crowds were going along the streets singing in roistering fashion – everyone seemed to be good-natured – the cafés were open, the saloon doors swung both ways and were evidently ready for all-comers. When he came to Tate’s restaurant, he went down the broad marble steps and found – notwithstanding the lateness or rather earliness of the hour – several hundred people still around the supper tables. The scene had the appearance of a merry banquet where everyone was talking at the same time. An air of joviality pervaded the place. The great fountain was throwing up glittering columns of water through colored lights as varied as the tints of a rainbow. The splash of the waters, the cool spray, the wealth of ferns and flowers surrounding this sunken garden in the center of a great dining room – the soft strains of the orchestra, all combined to fill Roderick with wonder that was almost awe. He sank into a chair at a vacant little table near the fountain and endeavored to comprehend it all He was fresh from the brown hills, from the gray and purple sage and the desert cacti, from the very heart of nature, so utterly different to this spectacle of a bacchanalian civilization.

The wilderness waif soon discovered that he would be de trop unless he responded to the urgent inquiries of the waiter as to what he would have to drink.

“A bottle of White Rock to begin with,” ordered Roderick.

As he was sipping the cold and refreshing water it occurred to him that he had not tasted food since breakfast the day before in the dining car of the train. Yes, he would have something to eat and he motioned to the waiter.

After giving his order he had to wait a long time, and the longer he waited the hungrier he became. Presently a generous steak was placed before him. Potatoes au gratin, olives, asparagus, and French peas made up the side dishes, and a steaming pot of coffee completed a sumptuous meal.

When he had paid his check he discovered it was almost five o’clock in the morning, and as he mounted the marble stairway he laughingly told himself he wouldn’t have much of an appetite at seven or eight o’clock when he came to sit down at the breakfast table with Gail Holden. Gaining the sidewalk he found that darkness was shading into dawn.

Instead of returning by way of Market Street, Roderick lit a cigar and turning to the right walked up a cross street toward the St. Francis Hotel. In front was a beautiful little park; shrubbery and flowers lined the winding walks, while here and there large shade trees gave an added touch of rural charm.

He seated himself on one of the iron benches, took out his watch and counted up the number of minutes until, probably, he would see the object of his heart’s desire. How slow the time was going. He heard the laughter of a banqueting party over at the Poodle Dog, although at the time he did not know the place by name.

“Yes,” he murmured, “San Francisco is certainly in a class by itself. This is the land where there is no night.”

The contrast between the scenes in this gay city and the quiet hill life away up among the crags, the deep canyons and snow-clad peaks of southern Wyoming was indeed remarkable.

It was the morning of April eighteen, 1906, and the night had almost ended. There was a suggestion of purple on the eastern horizon – the forerunner of coming day. The crescent moon was hanging high above Mt. Tamalpais.

The town clock tolled the hour of five and still Roderick waited. Presently he was filled with a strange foreboding, a sense of oppression, that he was unable to analyze. He wondered if it presaged refusal of the great love surging in his heart for Gail Holden, the fair rider of the ranges, the sweet singer of the hills. An indescribable agitation seized him.