THE TREASURE OF HIDDEN VALLEY

By Willis George Emerson

Chicago: Forbes & Company

1915

Sons of the rugged, rock-ribbed hills,

Far from the gaudy show

Of Fashion’s world-its shams and frills

Brothers of rain and snow:

Kith of the crags and the forest pines,

Kin of the herd and flock;

Wise in the lore of Nature signs

Writ in the grass and rock.

Beings of lithe and lusty limb,

Breathing the broad, new life,

Chanting the forest’s primal hymn

Free from the world’s crude strife.

Your witching lure my being thrills,

O rugged sons! O rugged hills!

DEDICATED

TO

THE MEMORY OF MY FATHER

REVEREND STEPHEN LAFAYETTE EMERSON

(The Flockmaster of this story)

CONTENTS

THE TREASURE OF HIDDEN VALLEY

CHAPTER I—AT THE PARTING OF THE WAYS

CHAPTER II—A MESSAGE FROM THE GRAVE

CHAPTER III—FINANCIAL WOLVES

CHAPTER IV.—THE COLLEGE WIDOW

CHAPTER V.—WESTWARD HO!

CHAPTER VI.—RODERICK MEETS JIM RANKIN

CHAPTER VII—GETTING ACQUAINTED

CHAPTER VIII.—A PHILOSOPHER AMONG THE MOUNTAINS

CHAPTER IX—THE HIDDEN VALLEY

CHAPTER X.—THE FAIR RIDER OF THE RANGE

CHAPTER XI.—WINTER PASSES

CHAPTER XII—THE MAJOR’S FIND

CHAPTER XIV.—THE EVENING PARTY

CHAPTER XV.—BRONCHO-BUSTING

CHAPTER XVI.—THE MYSTERIOUS TOILERS OF THE NIGHT

CHAPTER XVII—A TROUT FISHING EPISODE

CHAPTER XVIII.—A COUNTRY FAIR ON THE FRONTIER

CHAPTER XIX.—A LETTER FROM THE COLLEGE WIDOW

CHAPTER XX.—THE STORE OF GOLD

CHAPTER XXI.—A WARNING

CHAPTER XXII.—THE TRAGEDY AT JACK CREEK

CHAPTER XXIII.—THE FIGHT ON THE ROAD

CHAPTER XXIV—SUMMER DAYS

CHAPTER XXV.—RUNNING FOR STATE SENATOR

CHAPTER XXVI.—UNEXPECTED POLITICAL HARMONY

CHAPTER XXVII.—THE UPLIFTING OF HUMANITY

CHAPTER XXVIII.—JUSTICE FOR THE WORKERS

CHAPTER XXIX.—SLEIGH BELLS

CHAPTER XXX.—WHITLEY ADAMS BLOWS IN

CHAPTER XXXI.—RODERICK’S DISCOVERY

CHAPTER XXXII.—STAKING THE CLAIMS

CHAPTER XXXIII—THE SNOW SLIDE

CHAPTER XXXIV—THE PASSING OF GRANT JONES

CHAPTER XXXV.—A CALL TO SAN FRANCISCO

CHAPTER XXXVI—IN THE CITY THAT NEVER SLEEPS

CHAPTER XXXVII—RODERICK RESCUES GAIL

CHAPTER XXXVIII—THE SEARCH FOR RODERICK

CHAPTER XXXIX—REUNIONS

CHAPTER XL—BUELL HAMPTON’S GOOD-BY

CHAPTER XLI.—-UNDER THE BIG PINE

AFTERWORD

THE TREASURE OF HIDDEN VALLEY

CHAPTER I—AT THE PARTING OF THE WAYS

IT was a dear, crisp October morning. There was a shrill whistle of a locomotive, and then a westbound passenger train dashed into the depot of an Iowa town. A young man descended the car steps with an armful of luggage. He deposited his parcels on the platform, and half expectantly looked about him.

Just then there was a “honk! honk!” from a huge automobile as it came to a palpitating halt, and a familiar voice called out: “Hello, Roderick, old man!” And a moment later Roderick Warfield was shaking hands with his boon friend of former college days, Whitley Adams. Both were in their early twenties, stalwart, well set up, clean-cut young fellows.

Whitley’s face was all aglow in the happiness of reunion. But Roderick, after the first cordial greeting, wore a graver look. He listened quietly while his comrade rambled on.

“Mighty glad to receive your wire last night at the club. But what brings you home so unexpectedly? We’ve been hearing all sorts of glowing stories—about your being in the thick of affairs in little old New York and rolling in the shekels to beat the band.”

“Fairy tales,” was the laconic reply, accompanied by a look that was compounded of a sigh and a wistful smile.

“How’s that?” asked young Adams, glancing up into the other’s face and for the first time noticing its serious expression. “Don’t tell me you’ve struck a financial snag thus early in your Stock Exchange career.”

“Several financial snags—and struck ‘em pretty badly too, I’m afraid.”

“Whew!” exclaimed Adams.

“Oh, I’m not down and out,” laughed Roderick, half amused at the look of utter discomfiture on his companion’s countenance. “Not by a long chalk! I’m in on several good deals, and six months from date will be standing on velvet. That is to say,” he added, somewhat dubiously, “if Uncle Allen opens up his money bags to tide me over meanwhile.”

“A pretty big ‘if,’ eh?” For the moment there was sympathetic sobriety in the youth’s tone, but he quickly regained his cheerfulness. “However, he’ll come through probably all right, Rod, dear boy. It’s the older fellows’ privilege, isn’t it? My good dad has had the same experience, as you will no doubt have guessed. There, let me see; how long have you been away? Eight months! Gee! However, I have just gotten home myself. My old man was a bit furious at my tardiness in coming and the geometrical increase of my expense account. To do Los Angeles and San Francisco thoroughly, you know, runs into a pot of money. But now everything is fixed up after a fashion with no evidence in sight of further squalls.” He laughed the laugh of an overgrown boy laboring under the delusion that because he has finished a collegiate course he is a “man.”

“Of course,” he continued with a swagger, “we chaps who put in four long years at college should not be expected to settle down without having some sort of a valedictory fling.”

“There has not been much of a fling in my case,” protested Warfield. “I tackled life seriously in New York from the start.”

“But got a tumble all the same,” grinned Adams. “However, there’s no use in pulling a long face—at least not until your Uncle Allen has been interviewed and judiciously put through his paces. Come now, let us get your things aboard.”

The conversation was halted while the young owner of the big 60 H. P. car helped his chauffeur to stow away the luggage. “To the club,” he called out as he seated himself in the tonneau with his boyhood friend—college chum and classmate.

“Not this morning!” exclaimed Roderick, shaking his head as he looked frankly and a bit nervously into the eyes of Whitley Adams. “No club for me until I have squared things up on the hill.”

“Oh, well, just as you say; if it’s as bad as that, why of course—” He broke off and did not finish the sentence, but directed the chauffeur to the residence of Allen Miller, the banker.

They rode a little way in silence and then Whitley Adams observed: “You’ve made a muddle of things, no doubt,” and he turned with a knowing look and a smile toward Roderick, who in turn flushed, as though hit.

“No doubt,” he concurred curtly.

“Then when shall I see you?” asked Whitley as the auto slowed down at the approach to the stately Miller home.

“I’ll ‘phone you,” replied Roderick. “Think I can arrange to be at the club this evening.”

“Very well,” said his friend, and a minute later he had whirled away leaving a cloud of dust in the trail of the machine.

Roderick Warfield met with a motherly reception at the hands of his Aunt Lois, Mrs. Allen Miller. The greetings over and a score of solicitous questions by his Aunt Lois answered, he went to his room for a bath and a change of clothes. Then without further delay he presented himself at the bank, and in a few moments was closeted in the president’s private room with his uncle and guardian, Allen Miller.

The first friendly greetings were soon followed by the banker skidding from social to business considerations. “Yes,” said Allen Miller, “I am glad to see you, Roderick, mighty glad. But what do you mean by writing a day ahead that a good big sum is required immediately, this without mention of securities or explanation of any kind?“ He held up in his hand a letter that ran to just a few niggardly lines. “This apology for a business communication only reached me by last night’s mail.”

The kindly look of greeting had changed to one that was fairly flinty in its hardness. “What am I to expect from such a demand? A bunch of unpaid accounts, I suppose.” As he uttered this last sentence, there was a wicked twang in his voice—a suggestion of the snarl of an angry wolf ready for a fierce encounter. It at least proved him a financier.

A flush of resentment stole over Roderick’s brow. His look was more than half-defiant. On his side it showed at once that there would be no cringing for the favor he had come to ask.

But he controlled himself, and spoke with perfect calm.

“My obligations are not necessarily disgraceful ones, as your manner and tone, Uncle, might imply. As for any detailed explanation by letter, I thought it best to come and put the whole business before you personally.”

“And the nature of the business?” asked the banker in a dry harsh voice.

“I am in a big deal and have to find my pro rata contribution immediately.”

“A speculative deal?” rasped the old man.

“Yes; I suppose it would be called speculative, but it is gilt-edged all the same. I have all the papers here, and will show them to you.” He plunged a hand into the breast pocket of his coat and produced a neatly folded little bundle of documents.

“Stop,” exclaimed the banker. “You need not even undo that piece of tape until you have answered my questions. A speculative deal, you admit.”

“Be it so.”

“A mining deal, may I ask?”

Roderick’s face showed some confusion. But he faced the issue promptly and squarely.

“Yes, sir, a mining deal.”

The banker’s eyes fairly glittered with steely wrathfulness.

“As I expected. By gad, it seems to run in the blood! Did I not warn you, when you insisted on risking your meagre capital of two thousand dollars in New York instead of settling down with what would have been a comfortable nest egg here, that if you ever touched mining it would be your ruin? Did I not tell you your father’s story, how the lure of prospecting possessed him, how he could never throw it off, how it doomed him to a life of hardship and poverty, and how it would have left you, his child, a pauper but for an insurance policy which it was his one redeeming act of prudence in carrying?”

“Please do not speak like that of my father,” protested Roderick, drawing himself up with proud

The banker’s manner softened; a kindlier glow came into his eyes.

“Well, boy, you know I loved your father. If your father had only followed my path he would have shared my prosperity. But it was not to be. He lost all he ever made in mining, and now you are flinging the little provision his death secured for you into the same bottomless pool. And this despite all my warnings, despite my stern injunctions so long as it was my right as your guardian to enjoin. The whole thing disgusts me more than words can tell.”

Into the banker’s voice the old bitterness, if not the anger, had returned. He rose and restlessly paced the room. A silence followed that was oppressive. Roderick Warfield’s mind was in the future; he was wondering what would happen should his uncle remain obdurate. The older man’s mind was in the past; he was recalling events of the long ago.

Roderick Warfield’s father and Allen Miller had as young men braved perils together in an unsuccessful overland trip when the great California gold rush in the early fifties occurred. At that time they were only boys in their ‘teens. Years afterward they married sisters and settled down in their Iowa homes—or tried to settle down in Warfield’s case, for in his wanderings he had been smitten with the gold fever and he remained a mining nomad to the end of his days. Allen Miller had never been blessed with a child, and it was not until late in their married life that any addition came to the Warfield family. This was the beginning of Roderick Warfield’s career, but cost the mother’s life. Ten years later John Warfield died and his young son Roderick was given a home with Mr. and Mrs. Allen Miller, the banker accepting the guardianship of his old friend’s only child.

The boy’s inheritance was limited to a few thousand dollars of life insurance, which in the hands of anyone but Allen Miller would have fallen far short of putting him through college. However, that was not only accomplished, but at the close of a fairly brilliant college career the young man had found himself possessed of a round couple of thousand dollars. Among his college friends had been the son of a well-to-do New York broker, and it was on this friend’s advice that Roderick had at the outset of his business life adventured the maelstrom of Gotham instead of accepting the placid backwaters of his Iowan home town. Hence the young man’s present difficulties and precarious future, and his uncle’s bitterness of spirit because all his past efforts on Roderick’s account had proved of such little avail.

At last the banker resumed his chair. The tightly closed lips showed that his mind was made up to a definite line of action. Roderick awaited the decision in silence—it was not in his nature to plead a cause at the cost of losing his own self-respect He had already returned the unopened bundle of mining papers to the inner pocket of his coat.

“As for any advance to meet speculative mining commitments,” began the man of finance, “I do not even desire to know the amount you have had in mind. That is a proposition I cannot even entertain—on principle and for your own ultimate good, young man.”

“Then I lose all the money I have put in to date.”

“Better a present loss than hopeless future entanglements. Your personal obligations? As you have been using all available funds for speculation, I presume you are not free from some debts.”

“Less than a thousand dollars all told.”

“Well, you have, I believe, $285.75 standing to your personal credit in this bank—the remnant of your patrimony.”

“I did not know I had so much,” remarked Roderick with a faint smile.

“All the better, perhaps,” replied the banker, also smiling grimly. “The amount would have doubtless been swallowed up with the rest of your money. As matters stand, some payment can be made to account of your obligations and arrangements entered into for the gradual liquidation of the outstanding balance.” Young Warfield winced. The banker continued: “This may involve some personal humiliation for you. But again it is against my principles to pay any man’s debts. Anyone who deliberately incurs a liability should have the highly beneficial experience of earning the money to liquidate it I propose to give you the chance to do so.”

Roderick raised his eyebrows in some surprise. “In New York?” he enquired.

“No, sir,” replied Allen Miller rather brusquely and evidently nettled at the very audacity of the question. “Not in New York, but right here—in Keokuk. Calm your impatience, please. Just listen to the proposals I have to make—they have been carefully thought out by me and by your Aunt Lois as well. In the first place, despite your rather reckless and improvident start in life, I am prepared to make you assistant cashier of this bank at a good salary.” Again Roderick evinced amazement. He was quite nonplussed at his uncle’s changed demeanor. The conciliatory manner and kindly tone disarmed him. But could he ever come to renounce his New York ambitions for humdrum existence in the old river town of Keokuk? He knew the answer in his heart. The thing was impossible.

“And if you are diligent,” continued the banker, “prove capable and make good, you may expect in time to be rewarded with a liberal block of stock in the bank. Come now, what do you say to this part of my programme?” urged the speaker as Roderick hesitated.

The young man’s mind was already made up. The offer was not even worth considering. And yet, he must not offend his guardian. It was true, Allen Miller’s guardianship days were past, but still in his rapid mental calculations Roderick thought of his stanch old stand-by, Uncle Allen Miller, as “Guardian.” He lighted a cigar to gain time for the framing of a diplomatic answer.

“Well,” said the banker, with a rising inflection, “does it require any time to consider the generous offer I make?”

Roderick pulled a long breath at his cigar and blew rings of smoke toward the ceiling, and said: “Your offer, Uncle, is princely, but I hardly feel that I should accept until I have thought it all over from different points of view and have the whole question of my future plans fully considered. What are the other items on your programme?”

“They should be rather counted as conditions,” replied the banker drily. “The conditions on which the offer I have just made are based.”

“And they are what?”

“You must quit speculation, give up all expensive habits, marry and settle down.” The words were spoken with all the definiteness of an ultimatum.

Again Roderick winced. He might have been led to all or at least some of these things. But to be driven, and by such rough horse-breaking methods—. never! no, never. He managed to restrain himself, however, and replied quietly: “My dear uncle, the idea of marrying for some years yet, to tell you the truth, has never entered my head. Of course,” he went on lightly, “there is a young lady over at Galesburg, Stella Rain, where my Knox college days were spent, the ‘college widow,’ in a way a very lovely sort and in whom I have been rather interested for some two years, but—”

“That will do, young man,” interrupted Allen Miller, sharply and severely. “Never mind your society flyers—these lady friends of yours in Galesburg. Your Aunt Lois and myself have already selected your future wife.”

He laughed hoarsely, and the laugh sounded brutal even to his own ears. Allen Miller realized uncomfortably that he had been premature and scored against himself.

“Oh, is that so?” ejaculated Roderick in delicate irony. A pink flush had stolen into his cheeks.

The old banker hesitated in making reply. He grew hot and red and wondered if he had begun his match-making too abruptly—the very thing about which his good wife Lois had cautioned him. In truth, despite the harsh methods often imposed on him by his profession as a banker, a kinder heart than Allen Miller’s never beat. But in this new rôle he was out of his element and readily confused. Finally after clearing his throat several times, he replied: “Yes, Roderick, in a way, your Aunt Lois and I have picked out the girl we want you to marry. Her father’s wealth is equal to mine and some day perhaps—well, you can’t tell—I’ll not live always and, provided you don’t disobey me, you may inherit under my will a control of the stock of this banking house, and so be at the head of an important and growing financial institution.”

Roderick instead of being fifty-four and calculating, was only twenty-four and indifferent to wealth, and the red blood of his generous youth revolted at the mercenary methods suggested by his uncle regarding this unknown girl’s financial prospects. And then, too, the inducement thrown out that under conditions of obedience he might inherit the fortune of his uncle, was, he interpreted, nothing short of an attempt to bribe and deprive him of his liberty. He flushed with indignation and anger. Yet with a strong effort he still controlled his feelings, and presently asked: “Who is the fair lady?”

“The daughter of an old friend of mine. They live only a short distance down the river. Their home is at Quincy, Illinois. Mighty fine old family, I can tell you. Am sure you’ll like her immensely.”

“Am I to understand,” asked Roderick rather caustically, “that the young lady acquiesces and enters graciously into your plans?”

“Well, I can’t say that!” replied Allen Miller, rubbing his chin. “But your Aunt Lois and I have talked over the possible alliance in all its lights.”

“With the young lady’s family, I presume?”

“No, not even that. But we are perfectly certain that we have only to speak the word to put the business through all right.”

“Business!”—Roderick repeated the word with bitter emphasis.

“Yes, sir, business,” retorted Allen Miller, with some warmth. “To my mind matrimony is one of the most important deals in life—perhaps the most important.”

“If the money is right,” laughed the young man contemptuously. “But don’t you think that before another word is said about such a matter I should have the chance of seeing the young lady and the young lady a chance of seeing me?”

The humor of the situation had brought a pleasant smile to his face. The banker looked relieved.

“Wait now, my boy,” he replied musingly. “Do you remember when you were a little chap, perhaps twelve or thirteen years old, going with your Aunt Lois and myself to St. Louis on the Diamond Joe boat line?”

“Yes, I remember it perfectly.”

“Well, then,” continued Allen Miller, “you perhaps haven’t forgotten a lady and gentleman with a little tot of a girl only five or six years old, who joined us at Quincy. You engaged in a regular boyish love affair at first sight with that little girl. Well, she is the one—a mighty fine young lady now—just passed eighteen and her father is rated away up in the financial world.”

For the moment Roderick’s indignation over the cold-blooded, cut-and-dried, matrimonial proposition was arrested, and he did not even notice the renewed reference to finance. He had become pensive and retrospective.

“How very long ago,” he mused more to himself than to his Uncle Allen—“How very long ago since that trip down the river. Yes, I remember well the little blue-eyed, black-curly-headed chick of a girl. It was my first steamboat ride and of course it was a holiday and a fairyland affair to my boyish fancy.”

He drew in a long breath and looked out through the window at the snow which was now falling, as if many chapters of the world’s history had been written in his own life since that far away yet well remembered trip. He fell silent for a spell.

Allen Miller chuckled to himself. At last his scheme was working. All his life he had been a success with men and affairs, and his self-confidence was great. He rubbed his hands together and smiled, while he humored Roderick’s silence. He would tell his wife Lois of his progress. Presently he said: “She is an only child, Roderick, and I think her father could qualify for better than a quarter of a million.”

This time the reiterated money recommendation jarred unpleasantly on Roderick’s nerves and revived his antagonism. He hastily arose from his chair and walked back and forth across the room. Presently he halted before his uncle and with forced deliberation—for his anger was keyed to a high tension—said: “I am pleased, Uncle, to know the young lady is not a party to this shameful piece of attempted barter and sale business. When I marry, if ever, it shall be someone as regards whom wealth will count as of least importance. True love loathes avarice and greed. I require no further time to consider your proposals. I flatly reject your offer of a position in the bank, and shall leave Keokuk tomorrow. I prefer hewing out my own destiny and while doing so retaining my freedom and my self-respect. This is my decision, and it is an irrevocable one.”

The ebullition of pent-up feelings had come so suddenly and unexpectedly that Allen Miller was momentarily overwhelmed. He had arisen and was noticeably agitated. His face was very white, and there was a look in his eyes that Roderick Warfield had never seen before.

“Young man,” he said, and his voice was husky and trembling with suppressed rage—“you shall never have a dollar of my fortune unless you marry as I direct I will give you until tomorrow to agree to my plans. If you do not desire to accept my offer without change or modification in any shape, then take the balance of your money in the bank and go your way. I wash my hands of you and your affairs. Go and play football with the world or let the world play football with you, and see how it feels to be the ‘pigskin’ in life’s game.”

With these words the old man swung a chair round to the fireplace, dropped into it, and began vigorously and viciously pounding at a lump of coal. There was an interval of silence. At last Roderick spoke; his voice was firm and low.

“There will not be the slightest use, Uncle, in reopening this question tomorrow. My mind, as I have said, is already made up—unalterably.” The last word was uttered with an emphasis that rang finality.

The banker flung down the poker, and rose to his feet. His look was equally determined, equally final, equally unalterable.

“All right,” he snapped. “Then we’ll get through the banking business now.”

He touched a push-button by the side of the mantel. During the brief interval before a clerk responded to the summons, not another word was spoken.

“Bring me the exact figure of Mr. Warfield’s credit balance,” he said to his subordinate, “and cash for the amount. He will sign a check to close the account.”

Five minutes later Roderick had the little wad of bills in his pocket, and was ready to depart Uncle and nephew were again alone.

“There is one other matter,” said the banker with cold formality. “There is a paper in my possession which was entrusted to my keeping by your father just before he died. I was to deliver it to you at my discretion after you had attained your majority, but in any case on your reaching the age of twenty-five. I will exercise my discretion, and hand over the paper to you now.”

He advanced to a safe that stood open at one side of the room, unlocked a little drawer, and returned to the fireplace with a long linen envelope in his hand. A big red splash of wax showed that it had been carefully sealed.

“This is yours,” said the banker shortly, handing it over to the young man.

The latter was greatly agitated. A message from his dead father! What could it mean? But he mastered his emotions and quietly bestowed the packet in his breast pocket—beside the papers connected with the mining deal.

“I’ll read this later,” he said. And then he extended his hand. There was yearning affection in his eyes, in the tremor of his voice: “Uncle, we surely will part as friends.”

“You can regain my friendship only by doing my will. I have nothing more to say. Good-by.”

And without taking the proffered hand, Allen Miller turned away, leaning an elbow on the mantelshelf. His attitude showed that the interview was at an end.

Without another word Roderick Warfield left the room. Outside the soft snow was falling in feathery silence. At a street corner the young man hesitated. He glanced up the road that led to his old home—Allen Miller’s stately mansion on the hill. Then he took the other turning.

“I guess I’ll sleep at the Club to-night,” he murmured to himself. “I can bid Aunt Lois good-by in the morning.”

CHAPTER II—A MESSAGE FROM THE GRAVE

ALLEN MILLER, the rich banker, was alone—alone in the president’s room at his bank, and feeling alone in the fullest sense of the word now that Roderick Warfield had gone, the youth he had reared and loved and cherished as his own child, now turned out of doors by the old man’s deliberate act.

For full an hour he walked slowly back and forth the whole length of the apartment But at last he halted once again before the open grate where some slumbering chunks of coal were burning indifferently. He pushed them together with the iron poker, and a bright blaze sprung up.

Looking deep into the fire his thoughts went back to his boyhood days and he saw John Warfield, his chum of many years. He thought of their experience in the terrible massacre in the Sierra Madre Mountains in the region of Bridger Peak, of a lost trail, of hunger and thirst and weary tramps over mountain and down precipitous canyons, of abrupt gashes that cut the rocky gorges, of great bubbling springs and torrents of mountain streams, of a narrow valley between high mountains—a valley without a discoverable outlet—of a beautiful waterway that traversed this valley and lost itself in the sides of an abrupt mountain, and of the exhausting hardships in getting back to civilization.

Then Allen Miller, the flint-hearted financier, the stoic, the man of taciturn habits, did a strange thing. Standing there before the blazing fire, leaning against the mantel, he put his handkerchief to his eyes and his frame was convulsed with a sob. Presently he turned away from the open grate and muttered aloud: “Yes, John Warfield, I loved you and I love your boy, Roderick. Some day he shall have all I’ve got. But he is self-willed—a regular outlaw—and I must wake him up to the demands of a bread-winner, put the bits into his mouth and make him bridle-wise. Gad! He’s a dynamo, but I love him;” and he half smiled, while his eyes were yet red and his voice husky.

“Ah, John,” he mused as he looked again into the fire, “you might have been alive today to help me break this young colt to the plough, if you had only taken my advice and given up the search for that gold mine in the mountains. Thank God for the compact of secrecy between us—the secret shall die with me. The years, John, you spent in trying to re-dis-cover the vault of wealth—and what a will-o’-the-wisp it proved to be—and then the accident. But now I shall be firm—firm as a rock—and Roderick, the reckless would-be plunger, shall at last feel the iron hand of his old guardian beneath the silken glove of my foolish kindness. He’s got to be subdued and broken, even if I have to let him live on husks for a while. Firm, firm—that’s the only thing to be.”

As he muttered the last words, Allen Miller shut his square jaws together with an ugly snap that plainly told the stern policy he had resolved on and would henceforth determinedly pursue. He put on his great fur-lined cloak, and silently went out into the evening shadows and thick maze of descending snow-flakes.

Meanwhile Roderick Warfield had reached his club, engaged a bedroom, and got a cheerful fire alight for companionship as well as comfort. He had telephoned to Whitley Adams to dine with him, but for two hours he would be by himself and undisturbed. He wanted a little time to think. And then there was the letter from his father. He had settled himself in an easy chair before the fire, the sealed envelope was in his hand, and the strange solemn feeling had descended upon him that he was going to hear his dead father speak to him again.

There was in the silence that enveloped him the pulsing sensation of a mysterious presence. The ordeal now to be faced came as a climax to the stormy interview he had just passed through. He had reached a parting of the ways, and dimly realized that something was going to happen that would guide him as to the path he should follow. The letter seemed a message from another world. Unknown to himself the supreme moment that had now arrived was a moment of transfiguration—the youth became a man—old things passed away.

With grave deliberation he broke the seal. Inside the folds of a long and closely written letter was a second cover with somewhat bulky contents. This he laid for the meantime on a little table by his side. Then he set himself to a perusal of the letter. It ran as follows:

“My dear Son:—

“This is for you to read when you have come to man’s estate—when you are no longer a thoughtless boy, but a thoughtful man. With this letter you will find your mother’s picture and a ring of pure gold which I placed upon her finger the day I married her—gold with a special sentiment attached to it, for I took it from the earth myself—also a few letters—love letters written by her to me and a tress of her hair. I am sure you will honor her memory by noble deeds. I loved her dearly.

“I was younger at the time than you are now, Roderick, my son. Your Uncle Allen Miller—about my own age—and myself planned a trip to California. It was at the time of the great gold excitement in that far off land.

“The Overland Train of some two score of ox teams that we were with traveled but slowly; frequently not more than eight or ten miles a day. I remembered we had crossed the south fork of the Platte River and had traveled some two days on westward into the mountains and were near a place called Bridger Peak. It must have been about midnight when our camp was startled with the most terrific and unearthly yells ever heard by mortals. It was a band of murderous Indians, and in less time than it takes to describe the scene of devastation, all of our stock was stampeded; our wagons looted and then set on fire. Following this a general massacre began. Your Uncle Allen and myself, both of us mere boys in our ‘teens, alert and active, managed to make our escape in the darkness. Being fleet of foot we ran along the mountain side, following an opening but keeping close to a dense forest of pine trees. In this way we saved our lives. I afterwards learned that every other member of the party was killed.

“We were each equipped with two revolvers and a bowie knife and perhaps jointly had one hundred rounds of cartridges. A couple of pounds of jerked beef and a half a loaf of bread constituted our provisions. Fortunately, Allen Miller carried with him a flint and steel, so that we were enabled to sustain ourselves with cooked food of game we killed during the weary days that followed.

“With this letter I enclose a map, roughly drawn, but I am sure it will help you find the lost canyon where flows a beautiful stream of water, and where your Uncle Allen and myself discovered an amazing quantity of gold—placer gold. It is in a valley, and the sandbar of gold is about a mile up stream from where the torrent of rapid water loses itself at the lower end of the valley—seemingly flowing into the abrupt side of a mountain. At the place where we found the gold, I remember, there was a sandbar next to the mountain brook, then a gorge or pocket like an old channel of a creek bed, and it was here in this old sandbar of a channel that the nuggets of gold were found—so plentiful indeed, that notwithstanding we loaded ourselves with them to the limit of our strength, yet our ‘takings’ could scarcely be missed from this phenomenal sandbar of riches. We brought all we could possibly carry away with us in two bags which we made from extra clothing. Unfortunately we lost our way and could not find an opening from the valley, because the waters of the stream disappeared, as I have described, and we were compelled, after many unsuccessful attempts to find a water grade opening, to retrace our steps and climb out by the same precipitous trail that we had followed in going down into this strange valley.

“We wandered in the mountains as far south as a place now known as Hahn’s Peak, and then eastward, circling in every direction for many miles in extent. After tramping in an unknown wilderness for forty-seven days we finally came to the hut of a mountaineer, and were overjoyed to learn it was on a branch of the Overland trail Not long after this we fell in with a returning caravan of ox team freighters and after many weeks of tedious travel arrived at St. Joseph, Mo., footsore and weary, but still in possession of our gold. A little later we reached our home near Keokuk, Iowa, and to our great joy learned that our treasure was worth many thousands of dollars. Your Uncle Allen Miller’s half was the beginning of his fortune. An oath of secrecy exists between your Uncle Allen Miller and myself that neither shall divulge during our lifetime that which I am now writing to you, but in thus communicating my story to you, my own flesh and blood, I do not feel that I am violating my promise, because the information will not come to you until years after my death.

“Since your mother’s death, I have made seven trips into the Rocky Mountain region hunting most diligently for an odd-shaped valley where abrupt mountains wall it in, seemingly on every side, and where we found the fabulously rich sandbar of gold.

“But I have not succeeded in locating the exact place, not even finding the lost stream—or rather the spot where the waters disappeared out of sight at the base of a high mountain range. On my last trip, made less than one year ago, I met with a most serious accident that has permanently crippled me and will probably hasten my taking off. On the map I have made many notes while lying here ill and confined to my room, and they will give you my ideas of the location where the treasure may be found. To you, my beloved son, Roderick, I entrust this map. Study it well and if, as I believe, you have inherited my adventurous spirit, you will never rest until you find this lost valley and its treasure box of phenomenal wealth. In Rawlins, Wyoming, you will find an old frontiersman by the name of Jim Rankin. He has two cronies, or partners, Tom Sun and Boney Earnest. These three men rendered me great assistance. If you find the lost mine, reward them liberally.

“I have communicated to no one, not even your good Uncle Allen Miller, that I have decided on leaving this letter, and the information which it contains is for your eyes alone to peruse long after my mortal body has crumbled to dust In imparting this information I do so feeling sure that your Uncle Allen will never make any effort to relocate the treasure, so that it is quite right and proper the secret should descend to you.

“My pen drags a little—I am weary and quite exhausted with the effort of writing. I now find myself wondering whether this legacy—a legacy telling you of a lost gold mine that may be found somewhere in the fastnesses of the mountains of Wyoming—will prove a blessing to you or a disquieting evil. I shall die hoping that it will prove to your good and that your efforts in seeking this lost mine will be rewarded.

“With tenderest love and affection,

“Your father,

“John Warfield.”

When Roderick reached the end of the letter, he remained for a long time still holding it in his hands and gazing fixedly into the glowing embers. He was seeing visions—visions of a Wyoming gold mine that would bring him unbounded wealth. At last he broke from his reveries, and examined the other package. It was unsealed. The first paper to come forth proved to be the map to which his father had referred—it was a pencil drawing with numerous marginal notes that would require close examination. For the present he laid the document on the table. Then reverently and tenderly he examined the little bunch of love letters tied together by a ribbon, the tress of hair placed between two protecting pieces of cardboard, and the plain hoop of gold wrapped carefully in several folds of tissue paper. Lastly he gazed upon the photograph of his mother—the mother he had never seen, the mother who had given her life so that he might live. There were tears in his eyes as he gently kissed the sweet girlish countenance.

With thought of her and memories of the old boyhood days again he fell into a musing mood. Time sped unnoticed, and it was only the chiming of a church clock outside that aroused him to the fact that the dinner hour had arrived and that Whitley Adams would be waiting for him downstairs. He carefully placed all the papers in a writing desk that stood in a corner of the room, locked it, and put the key in his pocket. Then he descended to meet his friend.

“Nothing doing, I can see,” exclaimed Whitley the moment he saw Roderick’s grave face.

“You’ve got it right,” he answered quietly. “The big ‘if’ you feared this morning turned out to be an uncompromising ‘no.’ Uncle Allen and I have said good-by.”

“No wonder you are looking so glum.”

“Not glum, old fellow. I never felt more tranquilly happy in my life. But naturally I may seem a bit serious. I have to cut out old things in my life, take up new lines.”

“I suppose it’s back to New York for you.”

“No. Everything goes by the board there. I have to cut my losses and quit.”

“What a cruel sacrifice!”

“Or what a happy release,” smiled Roderick. “There is something calling me elsewhere—a call I cannot resist—a call I believe that beckons me to success.”

“Where?”

“Well, we won’t say anything about that at present I’ll write you later on when the outlook becomes clearer. Meanwhile we’ll dine, and I’m going to put up a little business proposition to you. I want you to buy my half share in the Black Swan.”

“Guess that can be fixed up all right,” replied Whitley, as they moved toward the dining room. And, dull care laid aside, the two old college chums gave themselves up to a pleasant evening—the last they would spend together for many a long day, as both realized.

By eleven o’clock next morning Roderick Warfield had adjusted his financial affairs. He had received cash for his half interest in the Black Swan, a river pleasure launch which he and Whitley Adams had owned in common for several years. He had written one letter, to New York surrendering his holding in the mining syndicate, and other letters to his three or four creditors enclosing bank drafts for one-half of his indebtedness and requesting six months’ time for the payment of the balance. With less than a hundred dollars left he was cheerfully prepared to face the world.

Then had come the most painful episode of the whole visit—the parting from Aunt Lois, the woman of gentle ways and kindly heart who had always loved him like a mother, who loved him still, and who tearfully pleaded with him to submit even at this eleventh hour to his uncle’s will and come back to his room in the old home. But the adieus had been spoken, resolutely though tenderly, and now Whitley Adams in his big motor car had whisked Roderick and his belongings back to the railway depot.

He had barely time to check his trunk to Burlington and swing onto the moving train. “So long,” he shouted to his friend. “Good luck,” responded Whitley as he waved farewell. And Roderick Warfield was being borne out into the big new world of venture and endeavor.

Would he succeed in cuffing the ears of chance and conquer, or would heartless fate play football with him and make him indeed the “pig-skin” as his uncle had prophesied in the coming events of his destiny—a destiny that was carrying him away among strangers and to unfamiliar scenes? As the train rushed along his mind was full of his father’s letter and his blood tingled with excitement over the secret that had come to him from the darkness of the very grave. The primal man within him was crying out with mad impatience to be in the thick of the fierce struggle for the golden spoil.

A witchery was thrumming in his heart—the witchery of the West; and instead of struggling against the impulse, he was actually encouraging it to lead him blindly on toward an unsolved mystery of the hills. He was lifted up into the heights, his soul filled with exalted thoughts and hopes.

Then came whisperings in a softer strain—gentle whisperings that brought with them memories of happy college days and the name of Stella Rain. It was perhaps nothing more nor less than the crude brutality with which his uncle had pressed his meretricious matrimonial scheme that caused Roderick now to think so longingly and so fondly of the charming little “college widow” who had been the object of his youthful aspirations.

All at once he came to a resolution. Yes; he would spend at least one day on the old campus grounds at Knox College. The call of the hills was singing in his heart, the luring irresistible call. But before responding to it he would once again press the hand and peep into the eyes of Stella Rain.

CHAPTER III—FINANCIAL WOLVES

ON the very day following Roderick Warfield’s departure from Keokuk there appeared in one of the morning newspapers an item of intelligence that greatly surprised and shocked the banker, Allen Miller. It announced the death of the wife of his old friend General John Holden, of Quincy, Illinois, and with the ghoulish instincts of latter-day journalism laid bare a story of financial disaster that had, at least indirectly, led to the lady’s lamented demise. It set forth how some years before the General had invested practically the whole of his fortune in a western smelter company, how the minority stockholders had been frozen out by a gang of financial sharps in Pennsylvania, and how Mrs. Holden’s already enfeebled health had been unable to withstand the blow of swift and sudden family ruin. The General, however, was bearing his sad bereavement and his monetary losses with the courage and fortitude that had characterized his military career, and had announced his intention of retiring to a lonely spot among the mountains of Wyoming where his daughter, the beautiful and accomplished Gail Holden, owned a half section of land which had been gifted to her in early infancy by an unde, a prominent business man in San Francisco. Allen Miller was sincerely grieved over the misfortunes that had so cruelly smitten a life-long friend. But what momentarily stunned him was the thought that Gail Holden was the very girl designated, in mind at least, by himself and his wife as a desirable match for Roderick. And because the latter had not at once fallen in with these matrimonial plans, there had been the bitter quarrel, the stinging words of rebuke that could never be recalled, and the departure of the young man, as he had told his aunt, to places where they would never hear of him unless and until he had made his own fortune in the world.

As the newspaper dropped from his hands, the old banker uttered a great groan—he had sacrificed the boy, whom in his heart he had cherished, and still cherished, as a son, for a visionary scheme that had already vanished into nothingness like a fragile iridescent soap-bubble. For obviously Gail Holden, her only possessions an impoverished father and a few acres of rocky soil, was no longer eligible as the bride of a future bank president and leader in the financial world. The one crumb of consolation for Allen Miller was that he had never mentioned her name to Roderick—that when the sponge of time came to efface the quarrel the whole incident could be consigned to oblivion without any humiliating admission on his side. For financial foresight was the very essence of his faith in himself, his hold over Roderick, and his reputation in the business world.

The afternoon mail brought detailed news of General Holden’s speculative venture and downfall. Allen Miller’s correspondent was a lawyer friend in Quincy, who wrote in strict confidence but with a free and sharply pointed pen. It appeared that Holden’s initial investment had been on a sound basis. He had held bonds that were underlying securities on a big smelting plant in Wyoming, in the very district where his daughter’s patch of range lands was situated. It was during a visit to the little ranch that the general’s attention had been drawn to the great possibilities of a local smelter, and he had been the main one to finance the proposition and render the erection of the plant possible. At this stage a group of eastern capitalists had been attracted to the region, and there had come to be mooted a big consolidation of several companies, an electric lighting plant, an aerial tramway, a valuable producing copper mine and several other different concerns that were closely associated with the smelting enterprise.

In the days that followed a Pennsylvanian financier with a lightning rod education, by the name of W. B. Grady had visited Holden at his Quincy home, partaken of his hospitality, and persuaded him to exchange his underlying bonds for stock in a re-organized and consolidated company.

By reputation this man Grady was already well known to Allen Miller as one belonging to the new school of unscrupulous stock manipulators that has grown up, developed, flourished and waxed fat under the blighting influence and domination of the Well Known Oil crowd. This new school of financiers is composed of financial degenerates, where the words “honor,” “fair dealing” or the “square deal” have all been effectually expunged—marked off from their business vocabulary and by them regarded as obsolete terms. Grady was still a comparatively young man, of attractive manners and commanding presence, with the rapacity, however, of a wolf and the cunning of a fox. He stood fully six feet, and his hair, once black as a raven’s, was now streaked with premature gray which was in no way traceable to early piety. But to have mentioned his name even in a remote comparison to such a respectable bird as the raven rendered an apology due to the raven. It was more consistent with the eternal truth and fitness of things to substitute the term “vulture”—to designate him “a financial vulture,” that detestable bird of prey whose chief occupation is feasting on carrion and all things where the life has been squeezed out by the financial octopus, known as “the system.”

It developed, according to Banker Miller’s correspondent, that no sooner had General Holden given up his underlying bonds of the smelter company and accepted stock, than foreclosure proceedings were instituted in the U. S. District Court, and the whole business closed out and sold and grabbed by Grady and a small coterie of financial pirates no better than himself. And all this was done many hundreds of miles away from the home of the unsuspecting old general, who until it was too late remained wholly ignorant and unadvised of the true character of the suave and pleasant appearing Mr. Grady whose promises were innumerable, yet whose every promise was based upon a despicable prevarication.

And thus it was when the affairs of General Holden were fairly threshed out, that Allen Miller discovered his old friend had been the prey of a financial vampire, one skilled in sharp practice and whose artful cunning technically protected him from being arrested and convicted of looting the victim of his fortune. Holden had fallen into the hands of a highwayman as vicious as any stage robber that ever infested the highways of the frontier. The evidence of the fellow’s rascality was most apparent; indeed, he was in a way caught redhanded with the goods as surely as ever a sheep-killing dog was found with wool on its teeth.

To the credit of Allen Miller, he never hesitated or wavered in his generosity to anyone he counted as a true and worthy friend. That very evening Mrs. Miller departed for Quincy, to offer in person more discreetly than a letter could offer any financial assistance that might be required to meet present emergencies, and at the same time convey sympathy to the husband and daughter in their sad bereavement.

“Lois, my dear,” the banker had said to his wife, “remain a few days with them if necessary. Make them comfortable, no matter what the expense. If they had means they wouldn’t need us, but now—well, no difference about the why and wherefore—you just go and comfort and help them materially and substantially.”

It was in such a deed as this that the true nobility of Allen Miller’s character shone forth like a star of the brightest magnitude—a star guaranteeing forgiveness of all his blunders and stupid attempts to curb the impulsive and proud spirit of Roderick War-field Yet sympathy for Gail and her father in no way condoned their poverty to his judgment as a man of finance or reinstated the girl as an eligible match for the young man. He would have been glad of tidings of Roderick—to have him home again and the offensive matrimonial condition he had attached to his offer of an appointment in the bank finally eliminated.

But there was no news, and meanwhile his wife had returned from her mission, to report that the Holdens, while sincerely grateful, had declined all offers of assistance. As Mrs. Miller described, it was the girl herself who had declared, with the light of quiet self-reliance in her eyes, that by working the ranch in Wyoming as she proposed to work it there would be ample provision for her father’s little luxuries and her own simple needs.

So Allen Miller put Gail Holden out of mind. But he had many secret heartaches over his rupture with Roderick, and every little stack of mail matter laid upon his desk was eagerly turned over in the hope that at last the wanderer’s whereabouts would be disclosed.

CHAPTER IV.—THE COLLEGE WIDOW

STELLA RAIN belonged to one of the first families of Galesburg. Their beautiful home, an old style Southern mansion, painted white with green shutters, was just across from the college campus ground. It was the usual fate of seniors about to pass out of Knox College to be in love, avowedly or secretly, with this fair “college widow.” She was petite of form and face, and had a beautiful smile that radiated cheerfulness to the scores of college boys. There was a merry-come-on twinkle in her eyes that set the hearts of the young farmer lad students and the city chaps as well, in tumultuous riot. Beneath it all she was kind of heart, and it was this innate consideration for others that caused her to introduce all the new boys and the old ones too, as they came to college year after year, to Galesburg’s fairest girls. She was ready to fit in anywhere—a true “college widow” in the broadest sense of the term. Her parents were wealthy and she had no greater ambition than to be a queen among the college boys. Those who knew her best said that she would live and die a spinster because of her inability to select someone from among the hundreds of her admirers. Others said she had had a serious affair of the heart when quite young. But that was several years before Roderick Warfield had come upon the scene and been in due course smitten by her charms. How badly smitten he only now fully realized when, after nearly a year of absence, he found himself once again tête-à-tête with her in the old familiar drawing-room of her home.

There had been an hour of pleasant desultory conversation, the exchange of reminiscences and of little sympathetic confidences, a subtly growing tension in the situation which she had somewhat abruptly broken by going to the piano and dashing off a brilliant Hungarian rhapsody.

“And so you are determined to go West?” she inquired as she rose to select from the cabinet another sheet of music.

“Yes,” replied Roderick, “I’m going far West. I am going after a fortune.”

“How courageous you are,” she replied, glancing at him over her shoulder with merry, twinkling eyes, as if she were proud of his ambition.

“Stella,” said Roderick, as she returned to the piano, where he was now standing.

“Yes?” said she, looking up encouragingly.

“Why; you see, Stella—you don’t mind me telling you—well, Stella, if I find the lost gold mine—”

“If you find what?” she exclaimed.

“Oh, I mean,” said Roderick in confusion, “I mean if I find a fortune. Don’t you know, if I get rich out in that western country—”

“And I hope and believe you will,” broke in Stella, vivaciously.

“Yes—I say, if I do succeed, may I come back for you—yes, marry you, and will you go out there with me to live?”

“Oh, Roderick, are you jesting now? You are just one of these mischievous college boys trying to touch the heart of the little college widow.” She laughed gaily at him, as if full of disbelief.

“No,” protested Roderick, “I am sincere.”

Stella Rain looked at him a moment in admiration. He was tall and strong—a veritable athlete. His face was oval and yet there was a square-jawed effect in its moulding. His eyes were dark and luminous and frank, and wore a look of matureness, of determined purpose, she had never seen there before. Finally she asked: “Do you know, Roderick, how old I am?”

As Roderick looked at her he saw there was plaintive regret in her dark sincere eyes. There was no merry-come-on in them now; at last she was serious.

“Why, no,” said Roderick, “I don’t know how old you are and I don’t care. I only know that you appeal to me more than any other woman I have ever met, and all the boys like, you, and I love you, and I want you for my wife.”

“Sit down here by my side,” said Stella. “Let me talk to you in great frankness.”

Roderick seated himself by her side and reaching over took one of her hands in his. He fondled it with appreciation—it was small, delicate and tapering.

“Roderick,” she said, “my heart was given to a college boy when I was only eighteen years old. He went away to his home in an eastern state, and then he forgot me and married the girl he had gone to school with as a little boy—during the red apple period of their lives. It pleased his family better and perhaps it was better; and it will not please your family, Roderick, if you marry me.”

“My family be hanged,” said Roderick with emphasis. “I have just had a quarrel with my uncle, Allen Miller, and I am alone in the world. I have no family. If you become my wife, why, we’ll—. we’ll be a family to ourselves.”

Stella smiled sadly and said: “You enthusiastic boy. How old are you, Roderick?”

“I am twenty-four and getting older every day.” They both laughed and Stella sighed and said: “Oh, dear, how the years are running against us—I mean running against me. No, no,” she said, half to herself, “it never can be—it is impossible.”

“What,” said Roderick, rising to his feet, and at the same moment she also stood before him—“What’s impossible? Is it impossible for you to love me?”

“No, not that,” said Stella, and he noticed tears in her eyes. “No, Roderick,” and she stood before him holding both his hands in hers—“Listen,” she said, “listen!”

“I am all attention,” said Roderick.

“I will tell you how it will all end—we will never marry.”

“Well, I say we shall marry,” said Roderick. “If you will have me—if you love me—for I love you better than all else on earth.” He started to take her in his arms and she raised her hand remonstratingly, and said: “Wait! Here is what I mean,” and she looked up at him helplessly. “I mean,”—she was speaking slowly—“I mean that you believe today, this hour, this minute that you want me for your wife.”

“I certainly do,” insisted Roderick, emphatically.

“Yes, but wait—wait until I finish. I will promise to be your wife, Roderick—yes, I will promise—if you come for me I will marry you. But, oh, Roderick,”—and there were tears this time in her voice as well as in her eyes—“You will never come back—you will meet others not so old as I am, for I am very, very old, and tonight I feel that I would give worlds and worlds if they were mine to give, were I young once again. Of course, in your youthful generosity you don’t know what the disparagement of age means between husband and wife, when the husband is younger. A man may be a score of years older than a woman and all will be well—if they grow old together. It is God’s way. But if a woman is eight or ten years older than her husband, it is all different. No, Roderick, don’t take me in your arms, don’t even kiss me until I bid you good-by when you start for that gold’ mine of yours”—and as she said this she tried to laugh in her old way.

“You seem to think,” said Roderick in a half-vexed, determined tone, “that I don’t know my own mind—that I do not know my own heart. Why, do you know, Stella, I have never loved any other girl nor ever had even a love affair?”

She looked at him quickly and said: “Roderick, that’s just the trouble—you do not know—you cannot make a comparison, nor you won’t know until the other girl comes along. And then, then,” she said wearily, “I shall be weighed in the balance and found wanting, because—oh, Roderick, I am so old, and I am so sorry—” and she turned away and hid her face in her hands. “I believe in you and I could love you with all my strength and soul. I am willing—listen Roderick,” she put up her hands protectingly, “don’t be impatient—I am willing to believe that you will be constant—that you will come back—I am willing to promise to be your wife.”

“You make me the happiest man in the world,” exclaimed Roderick, crushing her to him with a sense of possession.

“But there is one promise I am going to ask you to make,” she said.

“Yes, yes,” said he, “I will promise anything.”

“Well, it is this: If the other girl should come along, don’t fail to follow the inclination of your heart, for I could not be your wife and believe that the image of another woman was kept sacredly hidden away in the deep recesses of your soul. Do you understand?” There was something in her words—something in the way she spoke them—something in the thought, that struck Roderick as love itself, and it pleased him, because love is unselfish. Then he remembered that as yet he was penniless—it stung him. However, the world was before him and he must carve out a future and a fortune. It might take years, and in the meantime what of Stella Rain, who was even now deploring her many years? She would be getting older, and her chances, perhaps, for finding a home and settling down with a husband would be less and less.

But he knew there was no such thought of selfishness on her part—her very unselfishness appealed to him strongly and added a touch of chivalry to his determination.

Stella Rain sank into a cushioned chair and rested her chin upon one hand while, reaching to the piano keys with the other, she thrummed them softly. Roderick walked back and forth slowly before her in deep meditation. At last he paused and said: “I love you, I will prove I am worthy. There is no time to lose. The hour grows late. I have but an hour to reach my hotel, get my luggage and go to the depot I am going West tonight I will come for you within one year, provided I make my fortune; and I firmly believe in my destiny. If not—if I do not come—I will release you from your betrothal, if it is your wish that I do so.”

Stella Rain laughed more naturally, and the old “come-on” twinkling was in her eyes again as she said: “Roderick, I don’t want to be released, because I love you very, very much. It is not that—it’s because—well, no difference—if you come, Roderick,” and she raised her hand to him from the piano—“if you come, and still want me to be your wife, I will go with you and live in the mountains or the remotest corner of the earth.”

He took her hand in both his own and kissed it tenderly. “Very well, Stella,—you make it plain to me. But you shall see—you shall see,” and he looked squarely into her beautiful eyes.

“Yes,” she said, rising to her feet, “we shall see, Roderick, we shall see. And do you know,” the twinkling was now gone from her eyes once more and she became serious again—“do you know, Roderick, it is the dearest hope of my life that you will come? But I shall love you just as much as I do now, Roderick, if for any cause—for whatever reason—you do not come. Do you understand?”

“But,” interposed Roderick, “we are betrothed, are we not?”

She looked at him and said, smiling half sadly: “Surely, Roderick, we are betrothed.”

He put his big strong hands up to her cheeks, lifted her face to his and kissed her reverently. Then with a hasty good-by he turned and was gone.

As Roderick hurried across the old campus he felt the elation of a gladiator. Of course, he would win in life’s battle, and would return for Stella Rain, the dearest girl in all the world. The stars were twinkling bright, the moon in the heavens was in the last quarter—bright moon and stars, fit companions for him in his all-conquering spirit of optimism.

CHAPTER V.—WESTWARD HO!

AS the train rumbled along carrying Roderick back to Burlington, he was lost in reverie and exultation. He was making plans for a mighty future, into which now a romance of love was interwoven as well as the romance of a mysterious gold mine awaiting rediscovery in some hidden valley among rugged mountains. Yes; he would lose no further time in starting out for Wyoming. The winning of the one treasure meant the winning of the other—the making of both his own. As he dreamed of wealth unbounded, there was always singing in his heart the name of Stella Rain.

Next day he was aboard a westbound train, booked for Rawlins, Wyoming, where, as his father’s letter had directed, he was likely to find the old frontiersman, Jim Rankin; perhaps also the other “cronies” referred to by name, Tom Sun and Boney Earnest At Omaha a young westerner boarded the train, and took a seat in the Pullman car opposite to Roderick. In easy western style the two fell into conversation, and Roderick soon learned that the newcomer’s name was Grant Jones, that he was a newspaper man by calling and resided in Dillon, Wyoming, right in the midst of the rich copper mines.

“We are just over the mountain,” explained Jones, “from the town of Encampment, where the big smelter is located.”

As the train sped along and they became better acquainted, Grant Jones pointed out to Roderick a dignified gentleman with glasses and a gray mustache occupying a seat well to the front of the car, and told him that this particular individual was no other than the “Boss of Montana”—Senator “Fence Everything” Greed. Jones laughed heartily at the name.

“Of course, he is the U. S. Senator from Montana,” continued Jones, soberly, “and his name is F. E. Greed. His enemies out in Montana will be highly pleased at the new name I have given him—’Fence Everything,’ because he has fenced in over 150,000 acres of Government land, it is claimed, and run the actual home-settlers out of his fenced enclosures while his immense herds of cattle trampled under foot and ate up the poor evicted people’s crops. Oh, he’s some ‘boss,’ all right, all right.”

“Why,” exclaimed Roderick, “that’s lawlessness.”

Grant Jones turned and looked at Roderick and said: “The rich are never lawless, especially United States Senators—not out in Montana. Why, bless your heart, they say the superintendent of his ranch is on the payroll down at Washington at $1800 a year.

“Likewise the superintendent of the electric lighting plant which Senator Greed owns, as well as the superintendent of his big general store, are said to be on the government payroll.

“It has also been charged that his son was on the public payroll while at college. Oh, no, it is not lawless; it is just a dignified form of graft. Of course,” Jones went on with arched eyebrows, “I remember one case where a homesteader shot one of the Senator’s fatted cattle—fine stock, blooded, you know. It was perhaps worth $100. Of course the man was arrested, had a ‘fair trial’ and is now doing time in the penitentiary. In the meantime, his wife and little children have been sent back East to her people. You see,” said Jones, smiling, “this small rancher, both poor in purse and without influence, was foolish enough to lose his temper because five or six hundred head of Senator Greed’s cattle were driven by his cowboys over the rancher’s land and the cattle incidentally, as they went along, ate up his crops. Little thing to get angry about, wasn’t it?” and Jones laughed sarcastically.

“Well, don’t the state conventions pass resolutions denouncing their U. S. Senator for such cold-blooded tyrannizing methods?”

“If the state of Montana,” replied Grant Jones, “should ever hold a state convention of its representative people—the bone and sinew of its sovereign citizens, why, they would not only retire Senator Greed to private life, but they would consign him to the warmer regions.”

“You surprise me,” replied Roderick. “I supposed that every state held conventions—delegates you know, from each county.”

“They think they do,” said Jones, winking one eye, “but they are only ratification meetings. The ‘Boss,’”he continued, nodding his head towards Senator Greed, “has his faithful lieutenants in each precinct of every county. His henchmen select the alleged delegates and when they all get together in a so-called state convention they are by pre-arrangement program men. The slate is fixed up by the ‘Boss’ and is duly ratified without a hitch. Therefore instead of being a convention representing the people it is a great big farce—a ratification picnic where ‘plums’ are dealt out and the ears of any who become fractious duly cuffed.”

At Grand Island in the afternoon, during a stop while engines were changed, Roderick left the train and stretched his legs by walking up and down the depot platform. Here he saw Grant Jones in a new rôle. Notwithstanding Jones was in rough western garb—khaki Norfolk coat, trousers to match, and leather leggings—yet he was the center of attraction for a bevy of young ladies. Two of these in particular were remarkable for their beauty; both had the same burnished golden hair and large brown eyes; they were almost identical in height and figure, petite and graceful, dressed alike, so that anyone at a first glance would have recognized them to be not only sisters but doubtless twins.

When the train was about ready to start, these two girls bade adieu to their numerous friends and permitted Grant Jones with all the gallantry of a Beau Brummel to assist them onto the car.

Later Grant Jones took great pains to assure Roderick that it was a pleasure to introduce him to the Misses Barbara and Dorothy Shields—“Two of our’ mountain wild flowers,” Grant said, laughing pleasantly, “who reside with their people way over south in the Wyoming hills, not far from Encampment, on one of the biggest cattle ranges in the state.”

Roderick, already captivated by the whole-souled, frank manner of Grant Jones, now found himself much interested in the beautiful twin sisters as well. Hour followed hour in bright and sprightly conversation, and soon the tenderfoot who had been inclined to condole with himself as a lonely stranger among strangers was feeling quite at home in the great western world of hospitable welcome and good comradeship.

At an early hour next morning Grant Jones, the Shields girls and a dozen other people left the train at the little town of Walcott. They extended hearty invitations for Roderick to come over to southern Wyoming to see the country, its great mines and the big smelter. “If you pay us a visit,” said Grant Jones, laughing, “I’ll promise you a fine big personal in the Dillon Doublejack, of which mighty organ of public opinion I have the honor to be editor.”

Roderick, with a bow of due reverence for his editorial majesty and a bright smile for the sisters, promised that he likely would make the trip before very long. Then he swung himself onto the already moving train and continued his westward journey to Rawlins.

CHAPTER VI.—RODERICK MEETS JIM RANKIN

IT was seven o’clock the same morning when Roderick left the train at Rawlins.

The raw, cold wind was blowing a terrific gale, the streets were deserted save for a few half drunken stragglers who had been making a night of it, going the rounds of saloons and gambling dens.

A bright-faced lad took charge of the mail bags, threw them into a push cart and started rumbling away up the street. Warfield followed and coming up with him inquired for a hotel.

“Right over there is the Ferris House,” said the young fellow, nodding his head in the direction indicated.

As Roderick approached the hotel he met a grizzled keen-eyed frontiersman who saluted him with a friendly “Hello, partner, you be a stranger in these yere parts, I’m assoomin’.”

“Yes, I just arrived on this morning’s train.”

“Waal, my handle is Jim Rankin. Been prospectin’ the range hereabouts nigh thirty years; uster be sheriff of this yere county when people wuz hostile a plenty—have the best livery stable today in Wyomin’, and always glad to see strangers loiterin’ ‘round and help ‘em to git their bearin’s if I can be of service—you bet I am.”

Thus early had Roderick encountered his father’s old friend. He was delighted, but for the present kept his own counsel. A more fitting time and place must be found to tell the reason of his coming.

“Thank you,” he contented himself with saying as he accepted the frontiersman’s hand of welcome; “glad to meet you, Mr. Rankin.”

“Here, boy,” shouted the latter to an attache of the hotel, “take care of this yere baggage; it belongs to this yere gentleman, a dangnation good friend uv mine. He’ll be back soon fur breakfast. Come on, stranger, let’s go over to Wren’s. I’m as dry as a fish.”

Roderick smiled and turning about, accompanied his new discovery down the street to Wren’s. As they walked along Rankin said: “Here’s my barn and here’s the alley. We’ll turn in here and get into Wren’s by the back door. I never pester the front door. Lots uv fellers git a heap careless with their artillery on front steps that are docile ‘nuff inside.” As they passed through a back gate, Jim Rankin, the typical old-time westerner, pushed his hat well back on his head, fished out of his pocket a pouch of “fine cut” tobacco, and stowing away a large wad in his mouth began masticating rapidly, like an automobile on the low gear. Between vigorous “chaws” he observed that the sun would be up in a “minute” and then the wind would go down. “Strange but true as gospel,” he chuckled—perhaps at his superior knowledge of the West—“when the sun comes up the wind goes down.”

He expectorated a huge pit-tew of tobacco juice at an old ash barrel, wiped his iron gray mustache with the back of his hand, pushed open the back door of the saloon and invited Roderick to enter.

A fire was burning briskly in a round sheet iron stove, and a half dozen wooden-backed chairs were distributed about a round-topped table covered with a green cloth.

Rankin touched a press button, and when a white-aproned waiter responded and stood with a silent look of inquiry on his face the frontiersman cleared his throat and said: “A dry Martini fur me; what pizen do you nominate, partner?”

“Same,” was Roderick’s rather abbreviated reply as he took in the surroundings with a furtive glance.

As soon as the waiter retired to fill the orders, Roderick’s new found friend pulled a coal scuttle close to his chair to serve as a receptacle for his tobacco expectorations, and began: “You see, speakin’ wide open like, I know all these yere fellers—know ‘em like a book. Out at the bar in front is a lot uv booze-fightin’ sheep herders makin’ things gay and genial, mixin’ up with a lot uv discharged railroad men. Been makin’ some big shipments uv sheep east, lately, and when they get tumultuous like with a whole night’s jag of red liquor under their belt, they forgit about the true artickle uv manhood and I cut ‘em out. Hope they’ll get away afore the cattle men come in from over north, otherwise there’ll be plenty uv ugly shootin’. Last year we made seven new graves back there,” and he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, “seven graves as a result uv a lot uv sheep herders and cow punchers tryin’ to do the perlite thing here at Wren’s parlors the same night They got to shootin’ in a onrestrained fashion and a heap careless. You bet if I wuz sheriff uv this yere county agin I’d see to it that law and order had the long end uv the stick—though I must allow they did git hostile and hang Big Nose George when I wuz in office,” he added after a pause. Then he chuckled quietly to himself, for the moment lost in retrospection.

Presently the waiter brought in the drinks and when he retired Rankin got up very cautiously, tried the door to see if it was tightly shut. Coming back to the table and seating himself he lifted his glass, but before drinking said: “Say, pard, I don’t want to be too presumin’, but what’s your handle?”

Roderick felt that the proper moment had arrived, and went straight to his story.

“My name is Roderick Warfield. I am the son of John Warfield with whom I believe you had some acquaintance a number of years ago. My father is dead, as you doubtless may have heard—died some fourteen years since. He left a letter for me which only recently came into my possession, and in the letter he spoke of three men—Jim Rankin, Tom Sun and Boney Earnest.”

As Roderick was speaking, the frontiersman reverently returned his cocktail to the table.

“Geewhillikins!” he exclaimed, “you the son uv John Warfield! Well, I’ll be jiggered. This just nachurly gits on my wind. Shake, young man.” And Jim Rankin gave Roderick’s hand the clinch of a vise; “I’m a mighty sight more than delighted to see you, and you can count on my advice and help, every day in the week and Sundays thrown in. As you’re a stranger in these parts, I’m assoomin’ you’ll need it a plenty, you bet. Gee, but I’m as glad to see you as I’d be to see a brother. Let’s drink to the memory uv your good father.”

He again lifted his cocktail and Roderick joined him by picking up a side glass of water.

“What?” asked Rankin, “not drinkin’ yer cocktail? What’s squirmin’ in yer vitals?”

“I drink nothing stronger than water,” replied Roderick, looking his father’s old friend squarely in the eyes. Thus early in their association he was glad to settle this issue once and for all time.

“Shake again,” said Rankin, after tossing off his drink at a single swallow and setting down his empty glass, “you sure ‘nuff are the son uv John Warfield. Wuz with him off and on fur many a year and he never drank spirits under no circumstances. You bet I wuz just nachurly so dangnation flabbergasted at meetin’ yer I got plumb locoed and sure did fergit. Boney and Tom and me often speak uv him to this day, and they’ll be dangnation glad to see you.”

“So you’re all three still in the ring?” queried Roderick with a smile.

“Bet yer life,” replied Rankin sturdily. “Why, Tom Sun and Boney Earnest and me have been chums fur nigh on to thirty years. They’re the best scouts that ever hunted in the hills. They’re the chaps who put up my name at the convenshun, got me nominated and then elected me sheriff of this yere county over twenty-five years ago. Gosh but I’m certainly glad to see yer and that’s my attitood.” He smiled broadly.

“Now, Warfield,” he continued, “what yer out here fur? But first, hold on a minute afore yer prognosticate yer answer. Just shove that ‘tother cocktail over this way—dangnation afeerd you’ll spill it; no use letting it go to waste.”

“I’ve come,” replied Roderick, smiling and pushing the cocktail across to Jim Rankin, “to grow up with the country. A young fellow when he gets through college days has got to get out and do something, and some way I’ve drifted out to Wyoming to try and make a start. I have lots of good health, but precious little money.”

Jim Rankin drank the remaining cocktail, pulled his chair a little closer to Roderick’s and spoke in a stage whisper: “You know, I’m assoomin’, what yer father was huntin’ fur when he got hurt?”

Roderick flushed slightly and remained silent for a moment. Was it possible that his father’s old friend, Jim Rankin, knew of the lost mine? Finally he replied: “Well, yes, I know in a general way.”

“Don’t speak too dangnation loud,” enjoined Rankin. “Come on and we’ll hike out uv this and go into one uv the back stalls uv my livery stable. This’s no place to talk about sich things—even walls have ears.”

As they went out again by the back door the morning sun was looking at them from the rim of the eastern hills. Side by side and in silence they walked along the alley to the street, then turned and went into a big barn-like building bearing a sign-board inscribed: “Rankin’s Livery, Feed and Sale Stable.”

Although there was not a soul in sight, Rankin led his new acquaintance far back to the rear of the building. As they passed, a dozen or more horses whinnied, impatient for their morning feed.

Cautiously and without a word being spoken they went into an empty stall in a far corner, and there in a deep whisper, Rankin said: “I know the hull shootin’ match about that ‘ere lost gold mine, but Tom and Boney don’t—they’ve been peevish, good and plenty, two or three different times thinkin’ I know’d suthin’ they didn’t. Not a blamed thing does anybody know but me, you bet I went with your father on three different trips, but we didn’t quite locate the place. I believe it’s on Jack Creek or Cow Creek—maybe furder over—don’t know which, somewhere this side or t’other side of Encampment River. You kin bet big money I kin help a heap—a mighty lot But say nothin’ to nobody—specially to these soopercilious high-steppin’ chaps ‘round here—not a dangnation word—keep it mum. This is a razzle-dazzle just ‘tween you an’ me, young man.”

A silence followed, and the two stood there looking at each other. Presently Roderick said: “I believe I’ll go over to the hotel and get some breakfast; this western air gives one a ravenous appetite.”

Then they both laughed a little as if anxious to relieve an embarrassing situation, and went out to the street together. Jim knew in his heart he had been outclassed; he had shown his whole hand, the other not one single card.

“All right,” Rankin finally said, as if an invitation had been extended to him. “All right, I’ll jist loiter along with yer over to’rd the hotel.”

“At another time,” observed Roderick, “we will talk further about my father’s errand into this western country.”

“That’s the dope that sure ‘nuff suits me, Mr. War-field,” replied Rankin. “Whatever you say goes. Yer can unbosom yerself to me any time to the limit. I’ve got a dozen good mining deals to talk to you about; they’re dandies—a fortune in every one uv ‘em—’a bird in every shell,’ I might say,” and Rankin laughed heartily at his happy comparison. “Remember one thing, Warfield,”—he stopped and took hold of the lapel of Roderick’s coat, and again spoke in a whisper—“this yere town is full uv ‘hot air’ merchants. Don’t have nuthin’ to do with ‘em—stand pat with me and I’ll see by the great horn spoon the worst you get will be the best uv everythin’ we tackle. Well, so long until after breakfast; I’ll see you later.” And with this Rankin turned and walked briskly back to his stables, whistling a melody from the “Irish Washerwoman” as he went along.

Arriving at his stables he lighted a fire in a drumshaped stove, threw his cud of tobacco away and said: “Hell, I wish this young Warfield had money. I’ve got a copper prospect within three mile uv this here town that’ll knock the spots out uv the Ferris-Haggerty mine all holler. Geewhillikins, it’ll jist nachur-ally make all the best mines in Wyomin’ look like small-sized Shetland ponies at a Perch’ron draft horse show. You bet that’s what I’ve got.”

After feeding his horses he came back to the livery barn office, now quite warm and comfortable, pulled up an old broken backed chair, sat down and lit his pipe. After a few puffs he muttered half aloud: “Expect I’m the only man in Wyomin’ who remembers all the early hist’ry and traditions about that cussed lost mine. I’ve hunted the hills high and low, north, south, east and west, and dang my buttons if I can imagine where them blamed nuggets came from. And my failure used to make me at times a plenty hostile and peevish. John Warfield brought three of ‘em out with him on his last trip. He gave Tom one, Boney one and me one.”

Thrusting his hand into his pocket Rankin produced a native nugget of gold, worn smooth and shiny, and looked at it long in silent meditation. It was a fine specimen of almost pure gold, and was worth perhaps five and twenty dollars.

Presently the old frontiersman brought his fist down with a startling thump on his knee and said aloud: “I’ll be blankety-blanked if I don’t believe in that dangnation fairy story yet. You bet I do, and I’ll help John Warfield’s boy find it, by the great horn spoon I will, if it takes every horse in the stable.”

Jim Rankin relit his pipe, smoked vigorously and thought. The power of silence was strong upon him. The restless spirit of the fortune hunter was again surging in his blood and awaking slumbering half-forgotten hopes—yes, tugging at his heart-strings and calling to him to forsake all else and flee to the hills.

Rankin was a character, a representative of the advance band of sturdy trail-blazers of the West—tender-hearted as a child, generous to a fault, ready to divide his last crust with a friend, yet quick to resent an injury, and stubborn as a bullock when roused to self-defense. There was nothing cunning about him, nothing of greed and avarice, no spirit of envy for the possession of things for the things’ sake. But for him there was real joy in the mad pursuit of things unattainable—a joy that enthralled and enthused him with the fervor of eternal youth. His was the simple life of the hills, loving his few chums and turning his back on all whom he disliked or mistrusted.

Other men and greater men there may be, but it was men of Jim Rankin’s type that could build, and did build, monuments among the wild western waste of heat-blistered plains and gaunt rock-ribbed mountains, men who braved the wilderness and there laid the first foundation stones of a splendid civilization—splendid, yet even now only in its first beginnings, a civilization that means happy homes and smiling fields where before all was barrenness and desolation.

CHAPTER VII—GETTING ACQUAINTED

RODERICK spent a few days in Rawlins, improving his acquaintance with Jim Rankin and making a general survey of the situation. The ex-sheriff proved to be a veritable repository of local information, and Roderick soon knew a little about everyone and everything in the district. He learned that Tom Sun, one of his father’s old associates, had from small beginnings come to be the largest sheep owner in the state; he was rich and prosperous. With Boney Earnest, however, the other friend mentioned in the letter, the case was different. Boney had stuck for years to prospecting and desultory mining without achieving any substantial success, but had eventually become a blast furnace man in the big smelting plant at Encampment. There he had worked his way up to a foreman’s position, and with his practical knowledge of all the ores in the region was the real brains of the establishment, as Jim Rankin forcibly declared. He had a large family which absorbed all his earnings and always kept him on the ragged edge of necessity.

Rankin himself was not too well fixed—just making a more or less precarious subsistence out of his stage line and livery stable business. But he had several big mining deals in hand or at least in prospect, one or other of which was “dead sure to turn up trumps some day.” The “some day” appeared to be indefinitely postponed, but meanwhile Jim had the happiness of living in the genial sunshiny atmosphere of hope. And the coming of Roderick had changed this mellowed sunshine into positive radiance, rekindling all the old fires of enthusiasm in the heart of the old-time prospector. With Roderick the first surge of eager impetuosity had now settled down into quiet determination. But old Jim Rankin’s blood was at fever-heat in his eagerness to find the hidden valley. When alone with Roderick he could talk of nothing else.

Roderick, however, had shrewdly and cautiously summed up the measure of his usefulness. Jim Rankin had not the necessary capital to finance a systematic search among the mountain fastnesses where nature so jealously guarded her secret. Nor could he leave his horses and his livery business for any long period, however glibly he might talk about “going out and finding the blamed place.” As for any precise knowledge of where the quest should be commenced, he had none. He had shared in the frequent attempts and failures of Roderick’s father, and after a lapse of some fifteen or sixteen years had even a slimmer chance now than then of hitting the spot. So, all things duly considered, Roderick had adhered to his original resolution of playing a lone hand. Not even to Rankin did he show his father’s letter and map; their relations were simply an understanding that the old frontiersman would help Roderick out to the best of his power whenever opportunity offered and in all possible ways, and that for services rendered there would be liberal recompense should golden dreams come to be realized.

Another reason weighed with Roderick in holding to a policy of reticence. Despite Jim’s own frequent cautions to “keep mum—say nothing to nobody,” he himself was not the best hand at keeping a secret, especially after a few cocktails had lubricated his natural loquacity. At such moments, under the mildly stimulating influence, Jim dearly loved to hint at mysterious knowledge locked up in his breast. And in a mining camp vague hints are liable to become finger posts and signboards—the very rocks and trees seem to be possessed of ears. So young Warfield was at least erring on the safe side in keeping his own counsel and giving no unnecessary confidences anywhere.

There was nothing to be gained by remaining longer at Rawlins. Roderick’s slender finances rendered it imperative that he should find work of some kind—work that would enable him to save a sufficient stake for the prospecting venture, or give him the chance to search out the proper moneyed partner who would be ready to share in the undertaking. And since he had to work it would be well that his work should, if possible, be on the range, where while earning his maintenance and husbanding his resources, he could at the same time be spying out the land and gaining invaluable experience. So he had on several occasions discussed with Jim Rankin the chances of finding a temporary job on one of the big cattle ranches, and after one of these conversations had come his decision to move at once from Rawlins. His first “voyage of discovery” would be to Encampment, the busy smelter town. He remembered the cordial invitation extended to him by Grant Jones, the newspaper man, and felt sure he would run across him there. From the first he had felt strongly drawn to this buoyant young spirit of the West, and mingled with his desire for such comradeship was just a little longing, maybe, to glimpse again the fair smiling faces of the twin sisters—“mountain wild flowers” as Grant Jones had so happily described Barbara and Dorothy Shields.

So one fine morning Roderick found himself seated beside Jim Rankin on the driver’s seat of an old-fashioned Concord stage coach. With a crack of Jim’s whip, the six frisky horses, as was their wont at the beginning of a journey, started off at a gallop down the street. Five or six passengers were stowed away in the coach. But these were nothing to Jim Rankin and Roderick Warfield. They could converse on their own affairs during the long day’s drive. The old frontiersman was, as usual, in talkative mood.

“By gunnies,” he exclaimed sotto-voce, as they wheeled along, “we’ll find that pesky lost gold mine, don’t you forget it. I know pretty dangnation near its location now. You bet I do and I’ll unbosom myself and take you to it—jist you and me. I’m thinkin’ a heap these yere days, you bet I am.”

Along in the afternoon they crossed over Jack Creek, an important stream of water flowing from the west into the North Platte River. Jim Rankin stopped the stage coach and pointed out to our hero the “deadline” between the cattle and sheep range. “All this yere territory,” said Jim, “lying north uv Jack Creek is nachure’s sheep pasture and all lyin’ south uv Jack is cattle range.”

“It’s well known,” he went on, “where them blamed pesky sheep feed and graze, by gunnies, vegetation don’t grow agin successful for several years. The sheep not only nachurlly eat the grass down to its roots, but their sharp hoofs cut the earth into fine pulp fields uv dust. Jack Creek is the dividin’ line—the ‘dead line.’.rdquo;

“What do you mean by the ‘dead line’.” asked Roderick.

“The ‘dead line,’”replied old Jim as he clucked to his horses and swung his long whip at the off-leader—“the ‘dead line’ is where by the great horn spoon the sheep can’t go any furder south and the cattle darsn’t come any furder north, or when they do, Hell’s a-pop-pin.’.rdquo;

“What happens?”

“What happens?” repeated the frontiersman as he expectorated a huge pit-tew of tobacco juice at a cactus that stood near the roadway. “Why, by gunnies, hundreds uv ondefensible sheep have been actooally clubbed to death in a single night by raidin’ cowboys and the sheep-herders shot to death while sleepin’ in their camp wagons: and their cookin’ outfit, which is usually in one end uv the wagon, as well as the camp wagons, burned to conceal evidence of these dastardly murders. Oh, they sure do make things gay and genial like.”

“Astonishing! The cowboys must be a pretty wicked lot,” interrogated Roderick.

“Well, it’s about six uv one and half a dozen uv the other. You see these pesky sheep herders and the cowboys are all torn off the same piece uv cloth. Many a range rider has been picked from his hoss by these sheep men hidden away in these here rocky cliffs which overlook the valley. They sure ‘nuff get tumultuous.”

“But what about the law?” inquired Roderick. “Does it afford no protection?”

Jim laughed derisively, pushed his hat far back and replied: “Everybody that does any killin’ in these here parts sure does it in self-defense.” He chuckled at his superior knowledge of the West. “Leastways, that’s what the evidence brings out afore the courts. However, Tom Sun says the fussin’ is about over with. Last year more’n twenty cattle men were sentenced to the pen’tentiary up in the Big Horn country. Sort uv an offset fur about a score uv sheep men that’s been killed by the cow punchers while tendin’ their flocks on the range. You bet they’ve been mixin’ things up with artil’ry a heap.”

“I clearly perceive,” said Roderick, “that your sympathies are with the cattle men.”

Jim Rankin turned quickly and with his piercing black eyes glared at Roderick as if he would rebuke him for his presumption.

“Young man, don’t be assoomin’. I ain’t got no sympathy fur neither one uv ‘em. I don’t believe in murder and I don’t believe very much in the pen’tentiary. ‘Course when I was sheriff, I had to do some shootin’ but my shootin’ wuz all within the law. No, I don’t care a cuss one way or ‘tother. There are lots uv good fellers ridin’ range. Expect yer will be ridin’ before long. Think I can help yer get a job on the Shields ranch; if I can’t Grant Jones can. And ther’s lots uv mighty good sheep-herders too. My old pal, Tom Sun, is the biggest sheep-man in this whole dang-nation country and he’s square, he is. So you see I ain’t got no preference, ‘tho’ I do say the hull kit and bilin’ uv ‘em could be improved. Yes, I’m nootral. Put that in yer pipe and smoke it, fur it goes dangnation long ways in this man’s country to be nootral, and don’t git to furgit’n it.”

It was late in the afternoon when they neared the little town of Encampment. Old Jim Rankin began to cluck to his horses and swing his whip gently and finally more pronouncedly.

If it is the invariable habit of stage drivers at the point of departure to start off their horses in a full swinging gallop, it is an equally inviolable rule, when they approach the point of arrival, that they come in with a whoop and a hooray. These laws are just as immutable as ringing the bell or blowing the locomotive whistle when leaving or nearing a station. So when Jim Rankin cracked his whip, all six horses leaned forward in their collars, wheeled up the main street in a swinging gallop, and stopped abruptly in front of the little hotel.

As Roderick climbed down from the driver’s seat he was greeted with a hearty “Hello, Warfield, welcome to our city.” The speaker was none other than Grant Jones himself, for his newspaper instincts always brought him, when in town, to meet the stage.

The two young men shook hands with all the cordiality of old friends.

“If you cannot get a room here at the hotel, you can bunk with me,” continued Grant. “I have a little shack down towards the smelter.”

Roderick laughed and said: “Suppose, then, we don’t look for a room. I’ll be mighty pleased to carry my baggage to your shack now.”

“All right, that’s a go,” said Grant; and together they started down the street.

Grant Jones’ bachelor home consisted of a single room—a hastily improvised shack, as he had correctly called it, that had cost no very large sum to build. It was decorated with many trophies of college life and of the chase. Various college pennants were on the walls, innumerable pipes, some rusty antiquated firearms, besides a brace of pistols which Jim Rankin had given to Grant, supposed to be the identical flint-locks carried by Big Nose George, a desperado of the early days.

“You see,” explained Grant as he welcomed his guest, “this is my Encampment residence. I have another shack over at Dillon where I edit my paper, the Dillon Doublejack. I spend part of my time in one place and part in the other. My business is in Dillon but social attractions—Dorothy Shields, you may have already guessed—are over this way.” And he blushed red as he laughingly made the confession.

“And talking of the Shields, by the way,” resumed Grant. “I want to tell you I took the liberty of mentioning your name to the old man. He is badly in need of some more hands on the ranch—young fellows who can ride and are reliable.”

Roderick was all alert.

“The very thing I’m looking for,” he said eagerly. “Would he give me a place, do you think?”

“I’m certain of it. In fact I promised to bring you over to the ranch as soon as you turned up at Encampment.”

“Mighty kind of you, old fellow,” remarked Roderick, gratefully and with growing familiarity.

“Well, you can take that bed over there,” said the host. “This one is mine. You’ll excuse the humble stretchers, I know. Then after you have opened your grip and made yourself a little at home, we’ll take a stroll. I fancy that a good big porterhouse won’t come amiss after your long day’s drive. We’ve got some pretty good restaurants in the town. I suppose you’ve already discovered that a properly cooked juicy Wyoming steak is hard to beat, eh, you pampered New Yorker?”

Roderick laughed as he threw open his valise and arranged his brushes and other toilet appurtenances on the small table that stood at the head of the narrow iron stretcher.

A little later, when night had fallen, the young men went out into the main street to dine and look over the town. It was right at the edge of the valley with mountains rising in a semi-circle to south and west, a typical mountain settlement.

“You see everything is wide open,” said Grant, as he escorted Roderick along the streets, arm linked in arm. For they had just discovered that they belonged to the same college fraternity—Kappa Gamma Delta, so the bonds of friendship had been drawn tighter still.

“You have a great town here,” observed Roderick.

“We have about 1200 to 1500 people and 18 saloons!” laughed the other. “And every saloon has a gambling lay-out—anything from roulette to stud-poker. Over yonder is Brig Young’s place. Here is Southpaw’s Bazaar. The Red Dog is a little farther along; the Golden Eagle is one of the largest gambling houses in the town. We’ll have our supper first, and then I’ll take you over to Brig Young’s and introduce you.”

As they turned across the street they met a man coming toward them. He was straight and tall, rather handsome, but a gray mustache made him seem older than his years.

“Hello, here is Mr. Grady. Mr. Grady, I want to introduce you to a newcomer. This is Mr. Roderick Warfield.”

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Warfield,” said Grady in a smooth voice and with an oleaginous smile. To Roderick the face seemed a sinister one; instinctively he felt a dislike for the man.

“Your town is quite up-to-date, with all its brilliant electric lights,” he observed with a polite effort at conversation.

“Yes,” replied Grady, “but it is the monthly pay roll of my big smelting company that supports the whole place.”

There was a pomposity in the remark and the look that accompanied it which added to Roderick’s feelings of repulsion.

“Oh, I don’t know,” interposed Grant Jones, in a laughing way. “We have about five hundred prospectors up in the hills who may not yet be producers, but their monthly expenditures run up into pretty big figures.”

“Of course, that amounts to something; but think of my pay roll,” replied Grady, boastingly. “Almost a thousand men on my pay roll. We have the biggest copper mine in the Rocky Mountain region, Mr. War-field. Come down some day and see the smelter,” he added as he extended his hand in farewell greeting, with a leer rather than a smile on his face. “I’ll give you a pass.”

“Thank you,” said Roderick coldly. And the two friends resumed their walk toward Brig Young’s saloon.

“I don’t mind telling you,” remarked Grant, “that Grady is the most pompous, arrogant and all-round hated man in this mining camp.”

“He looks the part,” replied Roderick, and they both laughed.

A minute later they were seated in a cosy little restaurant. Ample justice was done to the succulent Wyoming porterhouse, and cigars were lighted over the cups of fragrant coffee that completed the meal. Then the young men resumed their peregrinations pursuant to the programme of visiting Brig Young’s place, certified by Grant Jones to be one of the sights of the town.

The saloon proved to be an immense room with a bar in the corner near the entrance. Roulette tables, faro lay-outs and a dozen poker tables surrounded with feverish players were all running full blast, while half a hundred men were standing around waiting to take the place of any player who went broke or for any reason dropped out of the game.

“I guess nearly all the gambling is done here, isn’t it?” asked Roderick.

“Not by a big sight. There are eighteen joints of this kind, and they are all running wide open and doing business all the time.”

“When do they close?” inquired Roderick.

“They never close,” replied Grant. “Brig Young boasts that he threw the key away when this place opened, and the door has never been locked since.”

As they spoke their attention was attracted to one corner of the gaming room. Seven players were grouped around a table, in the centre of which was stacked a pile of several thousand dollars in gold pieces. Grant and Roderick strolled over.

A score of miners and cowboys were standing around watching the game. One of them said to Grant Jones: “It’s a jack pot and they’re dealing for openers.”

Finally someone opened the pot for $500. “It’s an all-fired juicy pot and I wouldn’t think of openin’ it for less.” Tom Lester was the player’s name, as Grant whispered to Roderick.

“I’ll stay,” said One-Eyed Joe.

“So will I,” said another.

The players were quickly assisted with cards—four refused to come in, and the other three, having thrown their discards into the deck, sat facing each other ready for the final struggle in determining the ownership of the big pot before them. It was a neck and neck proposition. First one would see and raise and then another would see and go better. Finally, the showdown came, and it created consternation when it was discovered that there were five aces in sight.

Instantly Tom Lester jerked his Colt’s revolver from his belt and laid it carefully down on top of his three aces and said: “Steady, boys, don’t move a muscle or a hand until I talk.” The onlookers pushed back and quickly enlarged the circle.

“Sit perfectly still, gentlemen,” said Tom Lester, quietly and in a low tone of voice, with his cocked revolver in front of him. “I’m not makin’ any accusations or loud talk—I’m not accusin’ anybody in particular of anything. Keep perfectly cool an’ hear a cool determined man talk. Far be it from me to accuse anyone of crooked dealin’ or holdin’ high cards up their sleeves.”

As he spoke he looked at One-Eyed Joe who had both a reputation at card skin games and a record of several notches on his gun handle.

“I want to say,” Lester continued, “that I recognize in the game we’re playin’ every man is a perfect gentleman and it’s not Tom Lester who suspicions any impure motives or crooked work.

“We will now order a new deck of cards,” said Tom while fire was flashing out of his steel gray eyes. “We will play this game to a finish, by God, and the honest winner will take the stakes. But I will say here and now so there may be no misunderstandin’ and without further notice, that if a fifth ace shows up again around this table, I’ll shoot his other eye out.” And he looked straight at One-Eyed Joe, who never quivered or moved a muscle.

“This ends my remarks concernin’ the rules. How d’ye like ‘em, Joe?”

“Me?” said Joe, looking up in a surprised way with his one eye. “I’m ‘lowin’ you have made yer position plain—so dangnation plain that even a blind man kin see the pint.”

The new deck was brought and the game went on in silence. After a few deals the pot was again opened, and was in due course won by a player who had taken no part in the previous mix-up, without a word falling from the lips of either Tom Lester or One-Eyed Joe.

Roderick and Grant moved away.

“Great guns,” exclaimed the former. “But that’s a rare glimpse of western life.”

“Oh, there are incidents like that every night,” replied Grant, “and shooting too at times. Have a drink?” he added as they approached the bar.

“Yes, I will have a great big lemonade.”

“Well,” laughed Grant, “I’ll surprise both you and my stomach by taking the same.”

As they sipped their drinks, Grant’s face became a little serious as he said: “I’m mighty glad you have come. You seem to be of my own kind. Lots of good boys out here, but they are a little rough and many of them are rather careless. Guess I am getting a little careless myself. There are just two men in these mountains who have a good influence over the boys. One is Major Buell Hampton. Everybody trusts him. By the way, I must introduce you to him. He is one of the grandest men I have ever met” As Grant said this he brought his fist down decisively on the bar.

“The other is the Reverend Stephen Grannon,” he went on, “the travelling horseback preacher—carries saddle bags, and all that. Why, do you know, the boys are so respectful to Reverend Grannon that they hire a man to go up and down the street ringing a bell, and they close up all their places for an hour every time he comes to town. He preaches mostly in the big tent you perhaps saw further up the street, at other times in the little church. The boys are mighty respectful to him, and all because they know he goes about doing good. If anyone falls ill, Reverend Grannon is the first to offer help. He visits the poor and cheers them with a spirit of hope. He never leaves town without going into every saloon and shaking hands with the barkeepers, giving them the same kind of advice but not in the same way—the same advice that we used to get when we stood around our mother’s knee before we had learned the sorrows of the big world.”

For a moment Grant was serious. Then looking up at Roderick, he laughed and said: “We all have to think of those old days once in a while, don’t we?”

Roderick nodded gravely.

“Now I come to think of it,” said Grant, “the present moment’s a very good time. We’ll go down and call on one of Nature’s noblemen. He is somewhat of an enigma. You cannot tell how old he is by looking at him. He may have seen fifty years or a hundred and fifty—the Lord only knows, for nobody in this camp has any idea. But you will meet a magnificent character. Come along. I’m going to present you to my friend, Major Buell Hampton, about whom I’ve just been speaking. I guess we’ll catch him at home.”

CHAPTER VIII.—A PHILOSOPHER AMONG THE MOUNTAINS

AS THE two young men walked down the brilliantly lighted main street of Encampment, Grant Jones explained that the water had been dammed several miles up the south fork of the Encampment river and conducted in a California red-wood pipe down to the smelter plant for power purposes; and that the town of Encampment was lighted at a less cost per capita than any other town in the world. It simply cost nothing, so to speak.

Grant had pointed out several residences of local celebrities, but at last a familiar name drew Roderick’s special attention—the name of one of his father’s old friends.

“This is Boney Earnest’s home,” Grant was remarking. “He is the fellow who stands in front of the furnaces at the smelter in a sleeveless shirt and with a red bandana around his neck. They have a family of ten children, every one of them as bright as a new silver dollar. Oh, we have lots of children here and by the way a good public school. You see that log house just beyond? That is where Boney Earnest used to live when he first came into camp—before his brood was quite so numerous. It now belongs to Major Buell Hampton. It is not much to look at, but just wait until you get inside.”

“Then this Major Hampton, I presume, has furnished it up in great shape?”

“No, nothing but rough benches, a table, some chairs and a few shelves full of books. What I mean is that Major Hampton’s personality is there and that beats all the rich furniture and all the bric-à-brac on earth. As a college man you will appreciate him.”

Without ceremony Grant rapped vigorously at the door and received a loud response to “come in.” At the far end of a room that was perhaps 40 feet long by 20 feet in width was an open fireplace in which huge logs of wood were burning. Here Major Hampton was standing with his back to the fire and his hands crossed behind him.

As his visitors entered, the Major said in courtly welcome: “Mr. Grant Jones, I am glad to see you.” And he advanced with hand extended.

“Major, let me introduce you to a newcomer, Roderick Warfield. We belong to the same ‘frat.’.rdquo;

“Mr. Warfield,” responded the Major, shaking the visitor’s hand, “I welcome you not only to the camp but to my humble dwelling.”

He led them forward and provided chairs in front of the open fire. On the center table was a humidor filled with tobacco and beside it lay several pipes.

“Mr. Warfield,” observed the Major, speaking with a marked southern accent, “I am indeed pleased, suh, to meet anyone who is a friend of Mr. Jones. I have found him a most delightful companion and I hope you will make free to call on me often. Interested in mining, I presume?”

“Well,” replied Roderick, “interested, yes, in a way. But tentative arrangements have been made for me to join the cowboy brigade. I am to ride the range if Mr. Shields is pleased with me, as our friend here seems to think he will be. He is looking for some more cowboys and my name has been mentioned to him.”

“Yes,” concurred Grant, “Mr. Shields needs some more cowboys very badly, and as Warfield is accustomed to riding, I’m quite sure he’ll fill the bill.”

“Personally,” observed the Major, “I am very much interested in mining. It has a great charm for me. The taking out of wealth from the bosom of the earth—wealth that has never been tainted by commercialism—appeals to me very much.”

“Then I presume you are doing some mining yourself.”

“No,” replied the Major. “If I had capital, doubtless I would be in the mining business. But my profession, if I may term it so, is that of a hunter. These hills and mountains are pretty full of game, and I manage to find two or three deer a week. My friend and next door neighbor, Mr. Boney Earnest, and his family consisting of a wife and ten children, have been very considerate of me and I have undertaken the responsibility of furnishing the meat for their table. Are you fond of venison, Mr. Warfield?”

“I must confess,” said Roderick, “I have never tasted venison.”

“Finest meat in the world,” responded the Major. “Of course,” he went on, “I aim to sell about one deer a week, which brings me a fair compensation. It enables me to buy tobacco and ammunition,” and he laughed good naturedly at his limited wants.

“One would suppose,” interjected Grant Jones, “that the Boney Earnest family must be provided with phenomenal appetites if they eat the meat of two deer each week. But if you knew the Major’s practice of supplying not less than a dozen poor families with venison because they are needy, you would understand why he does not have a greater income from the sale of these antlered trophies of the hills.”

The Major waved the compliment aside and lit his pipe. As he threw his head well back after the pipe was going, Roderick was impressed that Major Buell Hampton most certainly was an exceptional specimen of manhood. He was over six feet tall, splendidly proportioned, and perhaps weighed considerably more than two hundred pounds.

There were little things here and there that gave an insight into the character of the man. Hanging on the wall was a broad-brimmed slouch hat of the southern planter style. Around his neck the Major wore a heavy gold watch guard with many a link. To those who knew him best, as Roderick came subsequently to learn, this chain was symbolical of his endless kindnesses to the poor—notwithstanding his own poverty, of such as he had he freely gave; like the chain his charities seemed linked together without a beginning—without an end. His well-brushed shoes and puttees, his neatly arranged Windsor tie, denoted the old school of refinement and good breeding.

His long dark hair and flowing mustaches were well streaked with gray. His forehead was knotted, his nose was large but well formed, while the tangled lines of his face were deep cut and noticeable. From under heavily thatched eyebrows the eyes beamed forth the rare tenderness and gentle consideration for others which his conversation suggested. Long before the evening’s visit was over, a conviction was fixed in Roderick’s heart that here indeed was a king among men—one on whom God had set His seal of greatness.

In later days, when both had become well acquainted, Roderick sometimes discovered moments when this strange man was in deep meditation—when his eyes seemed resting far away on some mysterious past or inscrutable future. And Roderick would wonder whether it was a dark cloud of memory or anxiety for what was to come that obscured and momentarily dimmed the radiance of this great soul. It was in such moments that Major Buell Hampton became patriarchal in appearance; and an observer might well have exclaimed: “Here is one over whom a hundred winters or even countless centuries have blown their fiercest chilling winds.” But when Buell Hampton had turned again to things of the present, his face was lit up with his usual inspiring smile of preparedness to consider the simplest questions of the poorest among the poor of his acquaintances—a transfiguration indescribable, as if the magic work of some ancient alchemist had pushed the years away, transforming the centenarian into a comparatively young man who had seen, perhaps, not more than half a century. He was, indeed, changeable as a chameleon. But in all phases he looked, in the broadest sense of the word, the humanitarian.

As the three men sat that night around the fire and gazed into the leaping flames and glowing embers, there had been a momentary lull in the conversation, broken at last by the Major.

“I hope we shall become great friends, Mr. War-field,” he said. “But to be friends we must be acquainted, and in order to be really acquainted with a man I must know his views on politics, religion, social questions, and the economic problems of the age in which we live.”

He waved his hand at the bookshelves well filled with volumes whose worn bindings showed that they were there for reading and not for show. Long rows of periodicals, even stacks of newspapers, indicated close attention to the current questions of the day.

“Rather a large order,” replied Roderick, smiling. “It would take a long time to test out a man in such a thorough way.”

The Major paid no heed to the comment. Still fixedly regarding the bookshelves, he continued: “You see my library, while not extensive, represents my possessions. Each day is a link in life’s chain, and I endeavor to keep pace with the latest thought and the latest steps in the world’s progress.”

Then he turned round suddenly and asked the direct question: “By the way, Mr. Warfield, are you a married man?”

Roderick blushed the blush of a young bachelor and confessed that he was not.

“Whom God hath joined let no man put asunder,” laughed Grant Jones. “The good Lord has not joined me to anyone yet, but I am hoping He will.”

“Grant, you are a boy,” laughed the Major. “You always will be a boy. You are quick to discover the ridiculous; and yet,” went on the Major reflectively, “I have seen my friend Jones in serious mood at times. But I like him whether he is frivolous or serious. When you boys speak of marriage as something that is arranged by a Divine power, you are certainly laboring under one of the many delusions of this world.”

Roderick remembered his compact with Stella Rain, the pretty little college widow. For a moment his mind was back at the campus grounds in old Galesburg. Presently he said: “I beg your pardon, Major, but would you mind giving me your ideas of an ideal marriage?”

“An ideal marriage,” repeated the Major, smiling, as he knocked the ashes from his meerschaum. “Well, an ideal marriage is a something the young girl dreams about, a something the engaged girl believes she has found, and a something the married woman knows never existed.”

He looked deep into the open grate as if re-reading a half forgotten chapter in his own life. Presently refilling and lighting his pipe he turned to Roderick and said: “When people enter into marriage—a purely civil institution—a man agrees to bring in the raw products—the meat, the flour, the corn, the fuel; and the woman agrees to manufacture the goods into usable condition. The husband agrees to provide a home—the wife agrees to take care of it and keep it habitable. In one respect marriage is slavery,” continued the Major, “slavery in the sense that each mutually sentences himself or herself to a life of servitude, each serving the other in, faithfully carrying out, when health permits, their contract or agreement of partnership. Therefore marriages are made on earth—not in heaven. There is nothing divine about them. They are, as I have said, purely a civil institution.”

The speaker paused. His listeners, deeply interested, were reluctant by any interruption to break the flow of thought. They waited patiently, and presently the Major resumed: “Since the laws of all civilized nations recognize the validity of a partnership contract, they should also furnish an honorable method of nullifying and cancelling it when either party willfully breaks the marriage agreement of partnership by act of omission or commission. Individuals belonging to those isolated cases ‘Whom God hath joined’—if perchance there are any—of course have no objections to complying with the formalities of the institutions of marriage; they are really mated and so the divorce court has no terrors for them. It is only from among the great rank and file of the other class whom ‘God hath not joined’ that the unhappy victims are found hovering around the divorce courts, claiming that the partnership contract has been violated and broken and the erring one has proven a false and faithless partner.

“In most instances, I believe, and it is the saddest part of it all, the complainant is usually justified. And it is certainly a most wise, necessary, and humane law that enables an injured wife or husband to terminate a distasteful or repulsive union. Only in this way can the standard of humanity be raised by peopling the earth with natural love-begotten children, free from the effects of unfavorable pre-natal influences which not infrequently warp and twist the unborn into embryonic imbeciles or moral perverts with degenerate tendencies.

“Society as well as posterity is indebted fully as much to the civil institution of divorce as it is to the civil institution of marriage. Oh, yes, I well know, pious-faced church folks walk about throughout the land with dubs to bludgeon those of my belief without going to the trouble of submitting these vital questions to an unprejudiced court of inquiry.”

The Major smiled, and said: “I see you young men are interested in my diatribe, or my sermon—call it which you will—so I’ll go on. Well, the churches that are nearest to the crudeness of antiquity, superstition, and ignorance are the ones most unyielding and denunciatory to the institution of divorce. The more progressive the church or the community and the more enlightened the human race becomes, the less objectionable and the more desirable is an adequate system of divorce laws—laws that enable an injured wife or husband to refuse to stultify their conscience and every instinct of decency by bringing children into the world that are not welcome. A womanly woman covets motherhood—desires children—love offerings with which to people the earth—babes that are not handicapped with parental hatreds, regrets, or disgust. Marriage is not a flippant holiday affair but a most serious one, freighted not alone with grave responsibilities to the mutual happiness of both parties to the civil contract, but doubly so to the offspring resultant from the union. But I guess that is about enough of my philosophy for one evening, isn’t it?” he concluded, with a little laugh that was not devoid of bitterness—it might have been the bitterness of personal reminiscence, or bitterness toward a blind and misguided world in general, or perhaps both combined.

Grant Jones turning to Roderick said: “Well, what do you think of the Major’s theory?”

“I fear,” said Roderick in a serious tone, “that it is not a theory but an actual condition.”

“Bravo,” said the Major as he arose from his chair and advanced to Roderick, extending his hand. “All truth,” said he, “in time will be uncovered, truth that today is hidden beneath the débris of formalities, ignorance, and superstition.”

“But why, Major,” asked Grant, “are there so many divorces? Do not contracting parties know their own minds? Now it seems impossible to conceive of my ever wanting a divorce from a certain little lady I know,” he added with a pleasant laugh—the care-free, confiding laugh of a boy.

“My dear Jones,” said the Major, “the supposed reasons for divorce are legion—the actual reasons are perhaps few. However it is not for me to say that all the alleged reasons are not potent and sufficient. When we hear two people maligning each other in or out of the court we are prone to believe both are telling the truth. Truth is the underlying foundation of respect, respect begets friendship, and friendship sometimes is followed by the more tender passion we call love. A man meets a woman,” the Major went on, thoughtfully, “whom he knows is not what the world calls virtuous. He may fall in love with her and may marry her and be happy with her. But if a man loves a woman he believes to be virtuous and then finds she is not—it is secretly regarded by him as the unforgivable sin and is doubtless the unspoken and unwritten allegation in many a divorce paper.”

He mused for a moment, then went on: “Sometime there will be a single standard of morals for the sexes, but as yet we are not far enough away from the brutality of our ancestors. Yes, it is infinitely better,” he added, rising from his chair, “that a home should be broken into a thousand fragments through the kindly assistance of a divorce court rather than it should only exist as a family battle ground.” The tone of his voice showed that the talk was at an end, and he bade his visitors a courteous good-night, with the cordial addition: “Come again.”

“It was great,” remarked Roderick, as the young men wended their homeward way. “What a wealth of new thought a fellow can bring away from such a conversation!”

“Just as I told you,” replied Grant “But the Major opens his inmost heart like that only to his chosen friends.”

“Then I’m mighty glad to be enrolled among the number,” said Roderick. “Makes a chap feel rather shy of matrimony though, doesn’t it?”

“Not on your life. True love can never change—can never wrong itself. When you feel that way toward a girl, Warfield, and know that the girl is of the same mind, go and get the license—no possible mistake can be made.”

Grant Jones was thinking of Dorothy Shields, and his face was aglow. To Roderick had come thought of Stella Rain, and he felt depressed. Was there no mistake in his love affair?—this was the uneasy question that was beginning to call for an answer. And yet he had never met a girl whom he would prefer to the dainty, sweet, unselfish, brave little “college widow” of Galesburg.

CHAPTER IX—THE HIDDEN VALLEY

WITHIN a few days of Roderick’s advent into the camp he was duly added to the cowboy list on the ranch of the wealthy cattleman, Mr. Shields, whose property was located a few miles east from the little mining town and near the banks of the Platte River. A commodious and handsome home stood apart from the cattle corral and bunk house lodgings for the cowboy helpers. There were perhaps twenty cowboys in Mr. Shields’ employment. His vast herds of cattle ranged in the adjoining hills and mountain canyons that rimmed the eastern edge of the valley.

Grant Jones had proved his friendship in the strongest sort of an introduction, and was really responsible for Roderick securing a job so quickly. But it was not many days before Roderick discovered that Doro-try Shields was perhaps the principal reason why Grant rode over to the ranch so often, ostensibly to visit him.

During the first month Roderick did not leave the ranch but daily familiarized himself with horse and saddle. He had always been a good rider, but here he learned the difference between a trained steed and an unbroken mustang. Many were his falls and many his bruises, but finally he came to be quite at home on the back of the fiercest bucking broncho.

One Saturday evening he concluded to look up Grant Jones and perhaps have another evening with Major Buell Hampton. So he saddled a pony and started. But at the edge of town he met his friend riding toward the country. They drew rein, and Grant announced, as Roderick had already divined, that he was just starting for the Shields home. They finally agreed to call on Major Buell Hampton for half an hour and then ride out to the ranch together.

As they approached Major Hampton’s place they found him mounting his horse, having made ready for the hills.

“How is this, Major?” asked Grant Jones. “Is it not rather late in the afternoon for you to be starting away with your trusty rifle?”

“Well,” replied the Major, after saluting his callers most cordially, “yes, it is late. But I know where there is a deer lick, and as I am liable to lose my reputation as a hunter if I do not bring in a couple more venisons before long, why I propose to be on the ground with the first streak of daylight tomorrow morning.”

He glanced at the afternoon sun and said: “I think I can reach the deer lick soon after sun-down. I shall remain over night and be ready for the deer when they first begin stirring. They usually frequent the lick I intend visiting.”

The Major seemed impatient to be gone and soon his horse was cantering along carrying him into the hills, while Roderick and Grant were riding leisurely through the lowlands of the valley road toward the Shields ranch.

All through the afternoon Buell Hampton skirted numerous rocky banks and crags and climbed far up into the mountain country, then down abrupt hill-sides only to mount again to still higher elevations. He was following a dim trail with which he showed himself familiar and that led several miles away to Spirit River Falls.

Near these falls was the deer lick. For three consecutive trips the hunter had been unsuccessful. He had witnessed fully a dozen deer disappear along the trail that led down to the river’s bank, but none of them had returned. It was a mystery. He did not understand where the deer could have gone. There was no ford or riffle in the river and the waters were too deep to admit belief of the deer finding a crossing. He wondered what was the solution.

This was the real reason why he had left home late that afternoon, determined, when night came on, to tether his horse in the woods far away from the deer lick, make camp and be ready the following morning for the first appearance of some fine buck as he came to slake his thirst. If he did not get that buck he would at least find the trail—indeed on the present occasion it was less the venison he was after than the solving of the mystery.

Arriving at his destination, the improvised camp was leisurely made and his horse given a generous feed of oats. After this he lighted a fire, and soon a steaming cup of coffee helped him to relish the bread and cold meat with which he had come provided.

After smoking several pipes of tobacco and building a big log fire for the night—for the season was far advanced and there was plenty of snow around—Buell Hampton lay down in his blankets and was soon fast asleep, indifferent to the blinking stars or to the rhythmic stirring of clashing leafless limbs fanned into motion by the night winds.

With the first breaking of dawn the Major was stirring. After refreshing himself with hot coffee and glancing at the cartridges in his rifle, he stole silently along under the overhanging foliage toward the deer lick.

The watcher had hardly taken a position near an old fallen tree when five deer came timidly along the trail, sniffing the air in a half suspicious fashion.

Lifting his rifle to his shoulder the hunter took deliberate aim and fired. A young buck leaped high in the air, wheeled about from the trail and plunged madly toward his enemy. But it was the stimulated madness of death. The noble animal fell to its knees—then partially raised itself with one last mighty effort only to fall back again full length, vanquished in the uneven battle with man. The Major’s hunting knife quickly severed the jugular vein and the animal was thoroughly bled. A little later this first trophy of the chase had been dressed and gambreled with the dexterity of a stock yard butcher and hung high on the limb of a near by tree.

The four remaining deer, when the Major fired, had rushed frantically down the trail bordered with dense underbrush and young trees that led over the brow of the embankment and on down to the river. The hunter now started in pursuit, following the trail to the water’s edge. But there were no deer to be seen.

Looking closely he noted that the tracks turned directly to the left toward the waterfall.

The bank was very abrupt, but by hugging it closely and stepping sometimes on stones in the water, while pushing the overhanging and tangled brushwood aside, he succeeded in making some headway. To his surprise the narrow trail gave evidence of much use, as the tracks were indeed numerous. But where, he asked himself, could it possibly lead? However, he was determined to persevere and solve the mystery of where the deer had gone and thus escaped him on the previous occasions.

Presently he had traversed the short distance to the great cataract tumbling over the shelf of rock almost two hundred feet above. Here he found himself under the drooping limbs of a mammoth tree that grew so close to the waterfall that the splashing spray enveloped him like a cold shower. Following on, to his astonishment he reached a point behind the waterfall where he discovered a large cavern with lofty arched roof, like an immense hall in some ancient ruined castle.

While the light was imperfect yet the morning sun, which at that hour shone directly on the cascade, illuminated up the cavern sufficiently for the Major to see into it for quite a little distance. It seemed to recede directly into the mountain. The explorer cautiously advanced, and soon was interested at another discovery. A stream fully fifteen feet wide and perhaps two feet deep flowed directly out of the heart of the mountain along the center of the grotto, to mingle its waters with those of Spirit River at the falls.

Major Hampton paused to consider this remarkable discovery. He now remembered that the volume of Spirit River had always impressed him as being larger below the noted Spirit River Falls than above, and here was the solution. The falls marked the junction of two bodies of water. Where this hidden river came from he had no idea. Apparently its source was some great spring situated far back in the mountain’s interior.

The Major was tensioned to a high key, and determined to investigate further. Making his way slowly and carefully along the low stone shelf above the river, he found that the light did not penetrate more than about three hundred feet. Looking closely he found there was an abundance of deer sign, which greatly mystified him.

Retracing his steps to the waterfall, the Major once more crept along the path next to the abrupt river bank, and, climbing up the embankment, regained the deer trail where he had shot the young buck. He seated himself on an old fallen tree. Here on former occasions Major Hampton had waited many an hour for the coming of deer and indulged in day-dreaming how to relieve the ills of humanity, how to lighten the burdens of the poor and oppressed. Now, however, he was roused to action, and was no longer wrapped in the power of silence and the contemplation of abstract subjects. His brain and his heart were throbbing with the excitement of adventure and discovery.

After full an hour’s thought his decision was reached and a course of action planned. First of all he proceeded to gather a supply of dry brush and branches, tying them into three torch-like bundles with stout cord, a supply of which he invariably carried in his pockets. Then he inspected his match box to make sure the matches were in good condition. Finally picking up his gun, pulling his hunting belt a little tighter, examining his hatchet and knife to see if they were safe in his belt scabbard, he again set forth along the deer trail, down to the river. Overcoming the same obstacles as before, he soon found himself in the grotto behind the waterfall.

Lighting one of his torches the Major started on a tour of further discovery. His course again led him over the comparatively smooth ledge of rock that served as a low bank for the waters of the hidden stream. But now he was able to advance beyond the point previously gained. After a while his torch burned low and he lighted another. The subterranean passage he was traversing narrowed at times until there was scarcely more than room to walk along the brink of the noisy waters, and again it would widen out like some great colosseum. The walls and high ceilings were fantastically enchanting, while the light from his torch made strange shadows, played many tricks on his nerves, and startled him with optical illusions. Figures of stalactites and rows of basaltic columns reflected the flare of the brand held aloft, and sometimes the explorer fancied himself in a vault hung with tapestries of brilliant sparkling crystals.

Finally the third and last torch was almost burned down to the hand hold and the Major began to awaken to a keen sense of his difficult position, and its possible dangers. When attempting to change the stub of burning brushwood from one hand to the other and at the same time not drop his rifle, the remnants of the torch fell from his grasp into the rapid flowing waters and he was left in utter darkness. Apprehension came upon him—an eerie feeling of helplessness. True, there was a box of matches in the pocket of his hunting coat, but these would afford but feeble guidance in a place where at any step there might be a pitfall.

Major Hampton was a philosopher, but this was a new experience, startling and unique. Everything around was pitch dark. He seemed to be enveloped in a smothering black robe. Presently above the murmur and swish of running water he could hear his heart beating. He mentally figured that he must have reached a distance of not less than three miles from Spirit River Falls. The pathway had proved fairly smooth walking, but unknown dangers were ahead, while a return trip in Stygian darkness would be an ordeal fraught with much risk.

Stooping over the low bank he thrust his hand into the current to make sure of its course. The water was only a little below the flat ledge of rock on which he was standing, and was cold as the waters of a mountain spring. It occurred to him that he had been thirsty for a long time although in his excitement he had not been conscious of this. So he lay down flat and thrust his face into the cool grateful water.

Rising again to his feet he felt greatly refreshed, his nerve restored, and he had just about concluded to retrace his steps when his eyes, by this time somewhat accustomed to the darkness, discovered in an upstream direction, a tiny speck of light He blinked and then questioningly rubbed his eyes. But still the speck did not disappear. It seemed no larger than a silver half dollar. It might be a ray of light filtering through some crevice, indicating a tunnel perhaps that would afford means of escape.

Using his gun as a staff wherewith to feel his way and keeping as far as possible from the water’s edge, Major Hampton moved slowly upstream toward the guiding spot of radiance. In a little while he became convinced it was the light of day shining in through an opening. The speck grew larger and larger as he slowly moved forward.

Every once in a while he would stop and turn his face in the opposite direction, remaining in this position for a few moments and then quickly turning round again to satisfy himself that he was under no illusion. But the luminous disc was really growing larger—it appeared now to be as big as a saucer. His heart throbbed with hope and his judgment approved that the advance should be continued.

Yes, the light was increasing, and looking down he fancied he could almost see the butt of his gun which was being used as a walking stick. Presently his feet could indistinctly be seen, and then the rocky pavement over which he was so cautiously shuffling his way.

Ten minutes later the mouth of a tunnel was reached, and he was safe once more, bathed in God’s own sunshine, his eyes still dazzled after the Cimmerian blackness from which he had emerged. He had traversed the entire length of the subterranean cave or river channel, and had reached the opposite side of a high mountain. Perhaps the distance through was only about three and a half miles. Trees and underbrush grew in profusion about the mouth of the tunnel into which the hidden river flowed. There was less snow than on the other side of the barrier. Deer sign were everywhere, and he followed a zig-zag deer path out into an open narrow valley.

The Major’s heart now leaped with the exultation of accomplishment. Brushing the light covering of snow away, he seated himself on the bank of the stream which could not, now that he looked upon it in the open day, be dignified by calling it a river. Along the edges of the watercourse were fringes of ice but in the center the rapid flow was unobstructed.

It was only a big mountain brook, but one perhaps that had never been seen before by the eyes of man. The exploration and the excitement together had greatly fatigued Buell Hampton, and he was beginning to be conscious of physical exhaustion and the need of food notwithstanding the sustaining stimulus of being a discoverer in one of Nature’s jealously guarded wonderlands.

After resting a short time he started to walk farther into the valley and forage along the stream. The hunter was on the lookout for grouse but succeeded in shooting only a young sage hen. This was quickly dressed and broiled, the forked stick that served as a spit being skilfully turned in the blaze of a fire of twigs and brushwood. The repast was a modest one, but the wayfarer felt greatly refreshed, and now stepped briskly on, following the water channel toward its fountain head.

It was indeed a beautiful valley—an ideal one—very little snow and the deer so plentiful that at a distance they might be mistaken for flocks of grazing sheep. The valley appeared to be exceedingly fertile in season. It was a veritable park, and so far as the explorer could at present determine was completely surrounded by high snow-capped mountains which were steep enough to be called precipices. He soon came to a dyke that ran across the valley at right angles to the stream. It was of porphyry formation, rising to a height of from three to four feet, and reaching right across the narrow valley from foothill to foothill. When Major Hampton climbed upon this dyke he noticed that the swiftly flowing brook had cut an opening through it as evenly almost as if the work had been chiseled by man. He was anxious to know whether the valley would lead to an opening from among the mountains, and after a brief halt pushed hurriedly on.

But an hour later he had retraced his steps and was again seated on the bench-like dyke of porphyry. He had made a complete circuit of this strange “nest” or gash in the vastness of the Rocky Mountain Range and was convinced there was no opening. The brook had its rise in a number of mammoth springs high up on the mountain foothills at the upper end of the valley, where it was also fed by several waterfalls that dropped from the dizzy cliffs far above.

The valley was perhaps three miles long east and west and not over one-half mile wide north and south. The contour of the mountain sides to the south conformed to the contour on the north, justifying the reasonable conjecture that an earthquake or violent volcanic upheaval must have tom the mountains apart in prehistoric times. It was evidently in all truth a hidden valley—not on the map of the U. S. Survey—a veritable new land.

“To think,” mused the Major, aloud, “that I have discovered a new possession. What an asylum for the weary! Surely the day has been full of startling surprises.”

He was seated on the dyke almost at the very edge of the brock where the waters were singing their song of peaceful content. He let his glance again sweep the valley with the satisfied look of one conscious of some unanalyzed good fortune.

There was no snow on the porphyry dyke where he rested. It was moss-covered in many places with the coating of countless centuries. Most likely no human foot but his had ever pressed the sod of this sequestered nook among the mighty mountains. The very thought was uplifting—inspiring. Pulling his hunter’s hatchet from its sheath he said aloud: “I christen thee ‘Hidden Valley,’”and struck the porphyry rock a vigorous blow, so vigorous indeed that it chipped off a goodly piece.

Major Buell Hampton paused, astonished. He looked and then he looked again. He picked up the chipped off piece of rock and gazed long and earnestly at it, then rubbed his eyes in amazement. It was literally gleaming with pure gold.

Immediately the hatchet again came into play. Piece after piece was broken open and all proved to be alike—rich specimens fit for the cabinet of a collector. The drab moss-covered dyke really contained the wealth of a King Solomon’s mine. It was true—true, though almost unbelievable. Yet in this moment of overwhelming triumph Buell Hampton saw not with the eyes of avarice and greed for personal gain, but rather with the vision of the humanitarian. Unlimited wealth had always been for him a ravishing dream, but he had longed for it, passionately, yearningly, not as a means to supply pleasures for himself but to assuage the miseries of a suffering world.

He was not skilled in judging rock carrying values of precious metals, but in this instance the merest novice could hardly be mistaken. Hastily breaking as much of the golden ore as he could carry in his huge coat pockets and taking one last sweeping survey over the valley, the Major started on his return trip to Spirit River Falls. Arriving at the point where the waters of the brook disappeared in the natural tunnel of the “Hidden River,” the name he mentally gave to the romantic stream, he gathered some torch material and then started on the return trip. Two hours later he emerged from behind the turbulent waters at Spirit River Falls. In the waning afternoon he regained his camp. After watering his patient horse, giving it another feed of oats and apologizing with many a gentle caressing pat for his long absence and seeming neglect, the Major set out for home, the dressed deer strapped on behind his saddle, with the deer skin rolled around the venison as a protection.

Early the following morning Buell Hampton visited an assay office, carrying with him an ore sack containing nine pounds and a half of ore. The Major felt certain it was ore—gold ore, almost pure gold—but was almost afraid of his own convictions. The discovery was really too good to be true.

The assayer tossed the sack of gold onto a table where other samples were awaiting his skill and said: “All right, Major, come in sometime tomorrow.”

“It’s important,” replied the Major, “that you assay it at once. It is high grade; I wish to sell.”

“Oh, ho!” replied the assayer with elevated eyebrows. Possibly he was like many another who encouraged the “high-graders” in their nefarious thefts from their employers when they were trusted to work on a rich property.

“Why, Major Hampton, I didn’t know you were one of ‘em—one of us,” and he finished with a leer and a laugh. “Bet I can tell what mine it came from,” he went on as he leisurely untied the ore sacks.

“I will remain right here,” replied Major Hampton firmly, without yielding to the assayer’s offensive hilarity, “until you have my samples assayed and make me an offer.”

By this time the sack of rock had been emptied into an ore pan and the astonishment depicted on the assayer’s countenance would have beggared description. The sight of the ore staggered him into silence. Other work was pushed hurriedly aside and before very long the fire test was in process of being made. When finally finished the “button” weighed at the rate of $114.67 per pound, and the assayer, still half bewildered, handed over a check for almost eleven hundred dollars.

“I say,” he almost shouted, “I say, Major Hampton, where in hell did that ore come from? Surely not from any of the producing mines about here?”

“It seems to be a producer, all right,” replied the Major, as he folded the check and placed it in his pocketbook.

CHAPTER X.—THE FAIR RIDER OF THE RANGE

WHEN Buell Hampton left the assayer’s office he felt a chilliness in the air that caused him to cast his eyes upwards. There had been bright sunshine early that morning, but now the whole sky was overcast with a dull monotonous gray pall. Not a breath of wind was stirring; there was just a cold stillness in the air that told its own tale to those experienced in the weather signs of the mountains.

“Snow,” muttered the Major, emphatically. “It has been long in coming this winter, but we’ll have a big fall by night.”

The season indeed had been exceptionally mild. There had been one or two flurries of snow, but each had been followed by warm days and the light fall had speedily melted, at least in the open valley. High up, the mountains had their white garb of winter, but even at these elevations there had been no violent storms.

Buell Hampton, however, realized that the lingering autumn was now gone, and that soon the whole region would be in the rigorous grip of the Snow King. Henceforth for some months to come would be chill winds, protracted and frequently recurring downfalls of snow, great high-banked snowdrifts in the canyons, and later on the mighty snowslides that sheared timber-clad mountain slopes as if with a giant’s knife and occasionally brought death and destruction to some remote mining camp. For the present the Major’s hunting expeditions were at an end. But as he glanced at the heavy canopy of snow-laden cloud he also knew that days must elapse, weeks perhaps, before he could revisit the hidden valley high up in the mountains. For yet another winter tide Nature would hold her treasure safe from despoiling hands.

Buell Hampton faced the situation with characteristic philosophy. All through the afternoon he mused on his good fortune. He was glad to have brought down even only a thousand dollars from the golden storehouse, for this money would ensure comfort during the inclement season for a good few humble homes. Meanwhile, like a banker with reserves of bullion safely locked up in his vault, he could plan out the future and see how the treasure was to be placed to best advantage. In Buell Hampton’s case the field of investment was among the poor and struggling, and the only dividends he cared for were increased percentages of human happiness. The coming of winter only delayed the good work he had in mind, but even now the consciousness of power to perform brought great joy to his heart. Alone in his home he paced the big room, only pausing at times to throw another log on the fire or gaze awhile into the glowing embers, day-dreaming, unspeakably happy in his day-dreams.

Meanwhile, in anticipation of the coming snowstorm, young Warfield was riding the range and gathering cattle and yearlings that had strayed away from the herd. As he was surmounting a rather steep foothill across the valleys to the westward between the two Encampment rivers, he was startled at hearing the patter of a horse’s hoofs. Quickly looking up he saw a young woman on horseback dashing swiftly along and swinging a lariat. She wore a divided brown skirt, wide sombrero, fringed gauntlets, and sat her horse with graceful ease and confidence. She was coming down the mountainside at right angles to his course.

Bringing his pony quickly to a standstill Roderick watched the spirited horse-woman as she let go her lariat at an escaping yearling that evidently had broken out of some corral The lariat went straight to its mark, and almost at the same moment he heard her voice as she spoke to her steed, quickly but in soft melodious tones: “That will do, Fleetfoot. Whoa!” Instantly the well-trained horse threw himself well back on his haunches and veered to the left. The fleeing yearling was caught around one of its front feet and thrown as neatly as the most expert cowboy on the range could have done it.

“By George,” said Roderick to himself, “what a fine piece of work.” He watched with admiring eyes as the young lady sat her horse in an attitude of waiting. Presently a cowboy rode up, and relieving her of the catch started the yearling back, evidently toward the corral. Turning about, the horsewoman started her horse at a canter directly toward him, and Roderick fell to wondering what sort of a discovery he had made.

A moment later she brought her horse to a standstill and acknowledged his salutation as he lifted his sombrero. He saw the red blood glowing under the soft tan of her cheeks, and as their eyes met he was fairly dazzled by her beauty. He recognized at a glance the western type of girl, frank and fearless, accustomed to the full and health-giving freedom of life in the open, yet accomplished and domesticated, equally at home in the most tastefully adorned drawing room as here on horseback among the mountains.

“I beg pardon,” he said in a stammering way, “but can I be of any service?”

At his words she pulled her pony to a standstill and said: “In what way, pray?”—and there was a mischievous smile at Roderick’s obvious embarrassment.

“Why, I saw you lariating a yearling.”

“Oh,” she said, throwing back her head and laughing softly, “that was a long time ago. It is doubtless in the corral by now.”

As she spoke, Roderick dismounted. He was capable now of assimilating details, and noted the silken dark Egyptian locks that fell in fluffy waves over her temples in a most bewitching manner, and the eyes that shone with the deep dark blue of the sapphire. His gaze must have betrayed his admiration, for, courteously waving her hand, she touched with her spurs the flanks of her mount and bounded away across the hills. Roderick was left standing in wonderment.

“Who the dickens can she be?” he soliloquized. “I’ve been riding the range for a good many weeks, but this is the first time I’ve spotted this mountain beauty.”

Throwing himself onto his horse, he started down toward the south fork of the Encampment river and on to the westward the Shields ranch, wondering as he rode along who this strange girl of the hills could be. Once or twice he thought of Stella Rain and he manfully endeavored to keep his mind concentrated on the one to whom he was betrothed, running over in memory her last letter, reckoning the time that must elapse before the next one would arrive, recalling the tender incidents of their parting now two months ago. But his efforts were in vain. Always there kept recurring the vision of loveliness he had encountered on the range, and the mystery that surrounded the fair rider’s identity. Once again since Major Buell Hampton’s long diatribe on love and matrimony, he was vaguely conscious that his impetuous love-making on that memorable evening at Galesburg might have been a mistake, and that the little “college widow” in her unselfishness had spoken words of wisdom when she had counselled him to wait awhile—until he really did know his own mind—until he had really tried out his own heart, yes, until—Great heavens, he found himself recalling her very words, spoken with tears in her soft pretty eyes: “That’s just the trouble, Roderick. You do not know—you cannot make a comparison, nor you won’t know until the other girl comes along.”

Had the other girl at last come? But at the disloyal thought he spurred his horse to a gallop, and as he did so the first snowflakes of the coming storm fluttered cold and damp against his flushed cheeks. At last he thought of other things; he was wondering now, as he glanced around into the thickening atmosphere, whether all the stray mavericks were at last safe in the winter pastures and corrals.

CHAPTER XI.—WINTER PASSES

THAT night the big snow storm did indeed come, and when Roderick woke up next morning it was to find mountain and valley covered with a vast bedspread of immaculate white and the soft snowflakes still descending like a feathery down. The storm did not catch Mr. Shields unprepared; his vast herds were safe and snug in their winter quarters.

The break in the weather marked the end of Roderick’s range riding for the season. He was now a stock feeder and engaged in patching up the corrals and otherwise playing his part of a ranch hand. And with this stay-at-home life he found himself thinking more and more of the real mission that had brought him into this land of mountains. Nearly every night when his work was finished, he studied a certain map of the hills—the inheritance left him by his father. On this map were noted “Sheep Mountain,” “Bennet Peak,” “Hahn’s Peak” and several other prominent landmarks. From his own acquaintance with the country Roderick now knew that the lost valley was quite a distance to the south and west from the Shields ranch.

Thus the wintry days wore on, and with their passing Roderick became more and more firm in his determination to be ready, when the snow was gone in the spring, to take up his father’s unfinished task of finding again the sandbar abounding with nuggets of gold. Indeed in his life of isolation it gradually came about that he thought of little else by day and dreamed of nothing else at night. Sometimes in the solitude of his room he smiled at his loneliness. What a change from the old college days—from the stir and excitement of New York. During the winter he had been invited to a score of gatherings, dances, and parties, but somehow he had become taciturn and had declined all invitations.

Then, with stern self-control he had succeeded in putting out of mind the mysterious beauty of the range. Love at first sight!—he had laughed down such silliness, and rooted out of his heart the base treason that had even for a fleeting moment permitted such a thought. Yes, there was nothing but firmest loyalty in his mind for Stella Rain, who was waiting for him so faithfully and patiently, and whose letters cheered him and filled him with greater determination than ever to find the lost mine.

His labors on the ranch were arduous but his health was excellent. At college he had been an athlete—now he was a rugged, bronzed-faced son of the hills. His only recreations were laying plans for the future and writing letters to Stella.

Not infrequently his mind wandered back to Keokuk, the old river town, and his heart grew regretful that he had quarreled with his Unde Allen Miller, and his thoughts were tender of his Aunt Lois. Once he wrote a letter to Whitley Adams, then tore it up in a dissatisfied way, returning to the determination to make his fortune before communicating with his old friends.

And so the winter passed, and spring had come again.

It was one morning in early May, just after he had finished his chores, when to his surprise Grant Jones shouted to him through the corral fence: “Hello, old man, how is ranching agreeing with you, anyway?”

“Fine,” responded Roderick, “fine and dandy.” He let himself through the gate of the corral and shook hands with Grant. “Come up to the bunk house; seems mighty good to see you.”

“Thanks,” responded Grant, as they walked along. “Do you know, Warfield, I have been shut up over on the other side of the range ever since that first big snow-storm? I paddled out on snowshoes only once during the winter, and then walked over the tops of trees. Plenty of places up on the Sierra Madre,” continued Grant, nodding his head to the westward, “where the snow is still twenty to thirty feet deep. If a fellow had ever broken through, why, of course, he would have been lost until the spring.”

“Terrible to think about,” said Roderick.

“Oh, that’s not all,” said Grant with his old exuberant laugh. “It would have been so devilish long from a fellow’s passing until his obituary came to be written. That is what gets on my nerves when I’m out on snowshoes. Of course the columns of the Doublejack are always open to write-ups on dead unfortunates, but it likes to have ‘em as near as possible to the actual date of demise. Then it’s live news.”

“Sounds rather grewsome,” said Roderick, smiling at Grant’s oddity of expression.

Arriving at the bunk house, they were soon seated around a big stove where a brisk fire was burning, for the air without was still sharp and the wind cutting and cold.

“I can offer you a pipe and some mighty fine tobacco,” said Roderick, pushing a tray toward him carrying a jar of tobacco and half-a-dozen cob pipes.

“Smells good,” commented Grant, as he accepted and began to fill one of the pipes.

“Well, tell me something about yourself, Grant. I supposed the attraction over here at the ranch was quite enough to make you brave snowstorms and snow-slides and thirty-foot snowdrifts.”

“Warfield,” said Grant, half seriously, between puffs at his pipe, “that is what I want to talk with you about. The inducement is sufficient for all you suggest. She is a wonder. Without any question, Dorothy Shields is the sweetest girl that ever lived.”

“Hold on,” smiled Roderick. “There may be others in the different parts of the world.”

“Is that so?” ejaculated Grant with a rising inflection, while his countenance suggested an interrogation point.

“No, I have no confessions to make,” rejoined Roderick, as he struck a match to light his pipe.

“Well, that’s just what is troubling me,” said Grant, still serious. “I was just wondering if anyone else had been browsing on my range over here at the Shields ranch while I have been penned up like a groundhog, getting out my weekly edition of the Dillon Doublejock, sometimes only fifty papers at an issue. Think of it!” And they both laughed at the ludicrous meagerness of such a circulation.

“But never mind,” continued Grant, reflectively, “I will run my subscriptions up to three or four hundred in sixty days when the snow is off the ground.”

“Yes, that is all very well, old man. But when will the snow be off? I am considerably interested myself, for I want to do some prospecting.”

“Hang your prospecting,” said Grant, “or when the snow will go either. You haven’t answered my question.”

“Oh, as to whether anyone has been browsing on your range?” exclaimed Roderick. “I must confess I do not know. They have had dances and parties and all that sort of thing but—I really don’t know, I have not felt in the mood and declined to attend. How do you find the little queen of your heart? Has she forgotten you?”

“No-o,” responded Grant, slowly. “But dam it all, I can’t talk very well before the whole family. I am an out-door man. You give me the hills as a background and those millions of wild flowers that color our valleys along in July like Joseph’s coat, and it makes me bubble over with poetry and I can talk to beat a phonograph monologist.” This was said in a jovial, joking tone, but beneath it all Roderick knew there was much serious truth.

“How is it, Grant? Are you pretty badly hit?”

“Right square between the eyes, old man. Why, do you know, sitting over in that rocky gorge of Dillon canyon in the little town of Dillon, writing editorials for the Double jack month after month and no one to read my paper, I have had time to think it all over, and I have made up my mind to come here to the Shields ranch and tell Dorothy it is my firm conviction that she is the greatest woman on top of the earth, and that life to me without her is simply—well, I don’t have words to describe the pitiful loneliness of it all without her.”

Roderick leaned back in his chair and laughed hilariously at his friend.

“This is no joking matter,” said Grant. “I’m a goner.”

Just then there came a knock at the door and Roderick hastily arose to bid welcome to the caller. To the surprise of both the visitor proved to be Major Buell Hampton.

Major Hampton exchanged cordial greetings and expressed his great pleasure at finding his two young friends together. Accepting the invitation to be seated, he drew his meerschaum from his pocket and proceeded to fill from a tobacco pouch made of deer skin.

“My dear Mr. Jones and’ Mr. Warfield,” he began, “where have you been all through the winter?”

“For myself, right here doing chores about twelve hours per day,” answered Roderick.

“As for me,” said Grant, “I have been way over ‘yonder’ editing the Dillon Doublejack. I have fully a score of subscribers who would have been heartbroken if I had missed a single issue. I snow-shoed in to Encampment once, but your castle was locked and nobody seemed to know where you had gone, Major.”

Jones had again laughed good-naturedly over the limited circulation of his paper. Major Hampton smiled, while Roderick observed that there was nothing like living in a literary atmosphere.

“If your circulation is small your persistence is certainly commendable,” observed the Major, looking benignly at Jones but not offering to explain his absence from Encampment when Jones had called. “I have just paid my respects,” he went on, “to Mr. and Mrs. Shields and their lovely daughters, and learned that you were also visiting these hospitable people. My errand contemplated calling upon Mr. Warfield as well. I almost feel I have been neglected. The latchstring hangs on the outside of my door for Mr. War-field as well as for you, Mr. Jones.”

“Many thanks,” observed Roderick.

“Your compliment is not unappreciated,” said Grant. “When do you return to Encampment?”

“Immediately after luncheon,” replied the Major.

“Very well, I will go along with you,” said Grant. “I came over on my skis.”

“It will be a pleasure for me to extend the hospitality of the comfortable riding sled that brought me over,” responded the Major with Chesterfieldian politeness. “Jim Rankin is one of the safest drivers in the country and he has a fine spirited team, while the sledding is simply magnificent.”

“Although the jingle of sleigh-bells always makes me homesick,” remarked Roderick, “I’d feel mighty pleased to return with you.”

“It will be your own fault, Mr. Warfield, if you do not accompany us. I have just been talking to Mr. Shields, and he says you are the most remarkable individual he has ever had on his ranch—a regular hermit They never see you up at the house, and you have not been away from the ranch for months, while the young ladies, Miss Barbara and Miss Dorothy, think it perfectly horrid—to use their own expression—that you never leave your quarters here or spend an evening with the family.”

“Roderick,” observed Grant, “I never thought you were a stuck-up prig before, but now I know you for what you are. But there must be an end to such exclusiveness. Let someone else do the chores. Get ready and come on back to Encampment with us, and we’ll have a royal evening together at the Major’s home.”

“Excellent idea,” responded the Major. “I have some great secrets to impart—but I am not sure I will tell you one of them,” he added with a good-natured smile. The others laughed at his excess of caution.

“Very well,” said Roderick, “if Mr. Shields can spare me for a few days I’ll accept your invitation.”

At this moment the door was opened unceremoniously and in walked the two Miss Shields. The men hastily arose and laid aside their pipes.

“We are here as messengers,” said Miss Dorothy, smiling. “You, Mr. Warfield, are to come up to the house and have dinner with us as well as the Major and Grant.”

“Glorious,” said Grant, smiling broadly. “Roderick, did you hear that? She calls you Mr. Warfield and she calls me Grant. Splendid, splendid!”

“I know somebody that will have their ears cuffed in a moment,” observed Miss Dorothy.

“Again I ejaculate splendid!” said Grant in great hilarity, as if daring her.

“It is a mystery to me,” observed the Major, “how two such charming young ladies can remain so unappreciated.”

“Why, Major,” protested Barbara, “we are not unappreciated. Everybody thinks we are just fine.”

“Major,” observed Grant with great solemnity, “this is an opportunity I have long wanted.” He cleared his throat, winked at Roderick, made a sweeping glance at the young ladies and observed: “I wanted to express my admiration, yes, I might say my affection for—”

Dorothy’s face was growing pink. She divined Grant’s ardent feelings although he had spoken not one word of love to her. Lightly springing to his side, she playfully but firmly placed her hands over his mouth and turned whatever else he had to say into incoherency.

This ended Grant’s declaration. Even Major Buell Hampton smiled and Roderick inquired: “Grant, what are you mumbling about?”

Dorothy dropped her hand.

“Oh, just trying to tell her to keep me muzzled forever,” Grant smiled, and Dorothy’s cheeks were red with blushes.

With this final sally all started for the big ranch house where they found that a sumptuous meal had been prepared.

During the repast Barbara learned of the proposed reunion of the three friends at Encampment, and insisted that her father should give a few days’ vacation to Mr. Warfield. The favor was quickly granted, and an hour later Jim Rankin brought up his bob-sled and prancing team, and to the merry sound of the sleigh-bells Major Buell Hampton and the two young men sped away for Encampment.

It was arranged that Roderick and Grant should have an hour or two to themselves and then call later in the evening on the Major.

Roderick was half irritated to find no letter at the post office from Stella Rain. In point of fact, during the past two months, he had been noticing longer and longer gaps in her correspondence. Sometimes he felt his vanity touched and was inclined to be either angry or humiliated. But at other times he just vaguely wondered whether his loved one was drifting away from him.

CHAPTER XII—THE MAJOR’S FIND

WHEN Grant Jones and Roderick arrived at the Major’s home that evening they found other visitors already installed before the cheerful blaze of the open hearth. These were Tom Sun, owner of more sheep than any other man in the state; Boney Earnest, the blast furnace man in the big smelting plant; and Jim Rankin, who had joined his two old cronies after unharnessing the horses from the sleigh.

Cordial introductions and greetings were exchanged. Although Roderick had shaken hands before with Boney Earnest, this was their first meeting in a social way. And it was the very first time he had encountered Tom Sun. Therefore the fortuitous gathering of his father’s three old friends came to him as a pleasant surprise. He was glad of the chance to get better acquainted.

While the company were settling themselves in chairs around the fireplace, Jim Rankin seized the moment for a private confabulation with Roderick. He drew the young man into a corner and addressed him in a mysterious whisper: “By gunnies, Mr. War-field, it sure is powerful good to have yer back agin. It’s seemed a tarnation long winter. But you bet I’ve been keepin’ my mind on things—our big secret—you know.”

Roderick nodded and Rankin went on: “I’ve been prognosticatin’ out this here way and then that way on a dozen trips after our onderstandin’, searchin’ like fur that business; but dang my buttons it’s pesterin’ hard to locate and don’t you forgit it. Excuse us, gentlemen, we are talkin’ about certain private matters but we don’t mean ter be impolite. I’m ‘lowin’ it’s the biggest secret in these diggin’s—ain’t that right, Roderick?”

Rankin laughed good-humoredly at his own remarks as he took out his tobacco pouch of fine cut and stowed away a huge cud. “You bet yer life,” he continued between vigorous chews, “somebody is nachurlly going to be a heap flustrated ‘round here one of these days, leastways that’s what we’re assoomin’.”

“Say, Jim,” observed Tom Sun, “what are you talkin’ about anyway? Boney, I think Jim is just as crazy as ever.”

“I reckon that’s no lie,” responded Boney, good-naturedly. “Always was as crazy as a March hare with a bone in its throat.”

“Say, look here you fellows, yer gittin’ tumultuous,” exclaimed Rankin, “you’re interferin’. Say, Major Hampton, I’m not a dangnation bit peevish or nuthin’ like that, but do you know who are the four biggest and most ponderous liars in the state of Wyoming?” The Major looked up in surprise but did not reply. “Waal,” said Rankin, expectorating toward the burning logs in the open hearth and proceeding to answer his own question, “Boney Earnest is sure one uv ‘em, I am one uv ‘em, and Tom Sun is ‘tother two.” Rankin guffawed loudly. This brought forth quite an expression of merriment The only reply from Tom Sun was that his thirty odd years of association with Jim Rankin and Boney Earnest was quite enough to make a prince of liars of anyone.

Presently the Major said: “Gentlemen, after taking a strict inventory I find there are six men in the world for whom I entertain an especial interest. Of course, my mission in life in a general way is in behalf of humanity, but there are six who have come to be closer to me than all the rest Five of them are before me. Of the other I will not speak at this time. I invited you here this evening because you represent in a large measure the things that I stand for. The snow will soon be going, spring is approaching and great things will happen during the next year—far greater than you dream of. You are friends of mine and I have decided under certain restrictions to share with you an important secret.”

Thereupon he pointed to some little sacks, until now unnoticed, that lay on the center table. “Untie these sacks and empty the contents onto the table if you will, Mr. Warfield.” Roderick complied.

Each sack held about a hatful of broken rock, and to the amazement of the Major’s guests Roderick emptied out on the table the richest gold ores that any of them had ever beheld. They were porphyry and white quartz, shot full of pure gold and stringers of gold. Indeed the pieces of quartz were seemingly held together with purest wire gold.

The natural query that was in the heart of everyone was soon given voice by Jim Rankin. After scanning the remarkable exhibit he turned to Major Buell Hampton and exclaimed: “Gosh ‘lmighty, Major, where did this here come from?”

“A most natural question but one which I am not inclined to answer at this time,” said the Major, smiling benignly. “Gentlemen, it is my intention that everyone present shall share with me in a substantial way in the remarkable discovery, the evidence of which is lying before you. There are five of you and I enjoin upon each the most solemn pledge of secrecy, even as regards the little you have yet learned of the great secret which I possess.”

They all gave their pledges, and the Major went on: “There is enough of these remarkably rich ores for everyone. But should the slightest evidence come to me that anyone of you gentlemen has been so thoughtless, or held the pledge you have just made so lightly, that you have shared with any outsider the information so far given, his name will assuredly be eliminated from this pact. Therefore, it is not only a question of honor but a question of self-interest, and I feel sure the former carries with it more potency with each of you than the latter.”

In the meantime Roderick was closely examining the samples of gold. Instinctively he had put his hand to the inside pocket of his coat and felt for his father’s map. He was wondering whether Buell Hampton had come into possession of the identical piece of knowledge he himself was searching for. Presently Jim Rankin whispered in his ear: “By gunnies, Warfield, I guess the Major has beat us to it.”

But Roderick shook his head reassuringly. He remembered that his father’s find was placer gold—water-worn nuggets taken from a sandbar in some old channel, as the sample in Jim Rankin’s own possession showed. The ores he was now holding were of quite a different class—they had been broken from the living rock.

After the specimens had been returned to the sample sacks and the excitement had quieted a little, Major Hampton threw his head back in his own princely way, as he sat in his easy chair before the fire and observed: “Money may be a blessing or it may be a curse. Personally I shall regret the discovery if a single dollar of this wealth, which it is in my power to bring to the light of day, should ever bring sorrow to humanity. It is my opinion that the richest man in the world should not possess more than a quarter of a million dollars at most, and even that amount is liable to make a very poor citizen out of an otherwise good man. Unnecessary wealth merely stimulates to abnormal or wicked extravagance. It is also self-evident that a more equal distribution of wealth would obtain if millionaires were unknown, and greater happiness would naturally follow.”

“Yes, but the world requires ‘spenders’ as well as getters,’”laughed Tom Sun. “Otherwise we would all be dying of sheer weariness of each other.”

“Surely, there are arguments on both sides,” assented the Major. “It is a difficult problem. I was merely contending that a community of comparatively poor people who earn their bread by the sweat of their brow—tilling the soil and possessed of high ideals of good citizenship—such people beyond question afford the greatest example of contentment, morality and happiness. Great wealth is the cause of some of our worst types of degeneracy. However,” he concluded, knocking the ashes from his pipe, “it is not my purpose this evening to sermonize. Nor do I intend at present to say anything more about the rich gold discovery I have made except to reiterate my assurance that at the proper time all you gentlemen will be called on to share in the enterprise and in its profits. Now I believe some of you”—and he looked at Jim Rankin, Tom Sun and Boney Earnest as he spoke—“have another engagement tonight. It was only at my special request, Mr. Warfield, that they remained to meet you and Mr. Jones.”

“And we’re much obliged to you, Major,” said Boney Earnest, arising and glancing at his watch. “Hope old John Warfield’s boy and I will get still better acquainted. But I’ve got to be going now. You see my wife insisted that I bring the folks back early so that she might have a visit with Mr. Rankin and Mr. Sun.”

Tom Sun shook hands cordially.

“Glad to have met you, Mr. Warfield,” he said, “for your father’s sake as well as your own. I trust we’ll meet often. Good-night, Mr. Jones.”

Rankin whispered something to Roderick, but Roderick did not catch the words, and when he attempted to inquire the old fellow merely nodded his head and said aloud: “You bet your life; I’m assoomin’ this is jist ‘tween me and you.” Roderick smiled at this oddity, as the man of mystery followed his friends from the room.

When the door closed and Roderick and Grant were alone with the Major, pipes were again lighted, and a spell of silence fell upon the group—the enjoyable silence of quiet companionship. The Major showed no disposition to re-open the subject of the rich gold discovery, nor did Roderick feel inclined to press for further information. As he mused, however, he became more firmly convinced than before that his secret was still his own—that Buell Hampton, in this rugged mountain region with its many undiscovered storehouses of wealth, had tumbled on a different gold-bearing spot to that located by Uncle Allen Miller and his father. Some day, perhaps, he would show the Major the letter and the map. But to do this now might seem like begging the favor of further confidences, so until these were volunteered Roderick must pursue his own lonesome trail. The mere sight of the gold, however, had quickened his pulse beats. To resume the humdrum life at the ranch seemed intolerable. He longed to be out on the hills with his favorite pony Badger, searching every nook and corner for the hidden treasure.

Presently Buell Hampton arose and laid his pipe aside, and going to a curtained corner of the room returned with his violin. And long into the night, with only a fitful light from the burning logs in the open fireplace, the Major played for his young friends. It seemed his repertoire was without beginning and without end. As he played his moods underwent many changes. Now he was gay and happy, at another moment sad and wistful. He passed from sweet low measures into wild, thrilling abandonment. Now he was drawing divine harmony from the strings by dainty caresses, again he was almost brutally compelling them to render forth the fierce passion of music that was surging in his own soul. The performance held the listeners spellbound—left them for the moment speechless when at last the player dropped into a chair. The instrument was laid across his knees; he was still fondling it with gentle touches and taps from his long slender fingers.

“You love your violin, Major,” Roderick at last managed to articulate.

“Yes,” came the low-spoken fervent reply, “every crease, crevice and string of the dear old Cremona that was given me more than half a century ago.”

“I wish,” said Grant, “that I could express my appreciation of the wonderful entertainment you have given us tonight.”

“You are very complimentary,” replied the Major, bestirring himself. He rose, laid the violin on the table, and brightened up the fire with additional fuel.

“But I’m afraid we must be going,” added Grant. “It is getting late.”

“Well, I have a message for you young gentlemen,” said the Major. “You are invited to attend one of the most distinguished soirees ever given in the Platte River Valley. Mr. and Mrs. Shields mentioned this today, and made me the special messenger to extend the invitation to you both.”

“Splendid,” exclaimed Grant. “When does this come off?”

“Two weeks from this evening,” replied the Major. “And we will have a comparative newcomer to the valley to grace the occasion. She has been here through the late fall and winter, but has been too busy nursing her sick and bereaved old father to go out into society.”

“General Holden’s daughter?” queried Grant.

“The same. And Gail Holden is certainly a most beautiful young lady. Have you seen her, Mr. War-field?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” replied Roderick.

“A most noble young woman, too,” continued the Major. “They are Illinois people. The mother died last year under sad circumstances—all the family fortune swept away. But the girl chanced to own these Wyoming acres in her own right, so she brought her father here, and has started a little cattle ranch, going in for pedigreed dairy stock and likely to do well too, make no mistake. You should just see her swing a lariat,” the speaker added with a ring of admiration in his tone.

Roderick started. Great Scott! could this be the fair horsewoman he had encountered on the mountain side just before the coming of the big snow. But a vigorous slap on his shoulder administered by Grant broke him from reverie.

“Why don’t you say something, old fellow? Isn’t this glorious news? Are you not delighted at the opportunity of tripping the light fantastic toe with a beauty from Illinois as well as our own home-grown Wyoming belles?”

“Well,” replied Roderick slowly, “I have not been attending any of these affairs, although I may do so in this instance.”

“Miss Barbara Shields,” said the Major, “especially requested me to tell you, Mr. Warfield, that she positively insists on your being present.”

“Ho, ho!” laughed Grant. “So you’ve made a hit in that quarter, eh, Roderick? Well, better a prospective brother-in-law than a dangerous rival. Dorothy’s mine, and don’t you forget it.”

Grant’s boyish hilarity was contagious, his gay audacity amusing. Even the Major laughed heartily. But Roderick was blushing furiously. A moment before he had been thinking of one fair charmer. And now here was another being thrown at him, so to speak, although in jest and not in earnest. Barbara Shields—he had never dared to think of her as within his reach even had not loyalty bound his affections elsewhere. But the complications seemed certainly to be thickening.

“Come along, old chap,” said Grant, as they gained the roadway. “We’ll have a look through the town, just to see if there’s any news about.”

THE Bazaar was a popular resort. The proprietor was known as “Southpaw.” Doubtless he had another name but it was not known in the mining camp. Even his bank account was carried in the name of “Southpaw.”

When Roderick and Grant entered the saloon they found a motley crowd at the bar and in the gaming room, fully twenty cowboys with their broad-rimmed sombreros, wearing hairy chaps, decorated with fancy belts and red handkerchiefs carelessly tied about their necks. Evidently one of them had just won at the wheel and they were celebrating.

The brilliant lights and the commingling of half a hundred miners and many cowboys presented a spectacular appearance that was both novel and interesting. Just behind them came shuffling into the room a short, stout, heavily-built man with a scowling face covered with a short growth of black whiskers. His eyes were small and squinty, his forehead low and his chin protruding.

Roderick and Grant were standing at the end of the bar, waiting for lemonades they had ordered. Roderick’s attention was attracted by the uncouth newcomer.

“Grant, who is that gorilla-looking chap?” he asked.

Grant half turned with a sweeping glance and then looking back at Roderick, replied: “That is Bud Bledsoe. He is a sort of sleuth for Grady, the manager of the smelting plant, the man I introduced you to, remember, the first day you came to Encampment.”

“I remember Grady all right,” nodded Roderick.

“Well, many people believe he keeps Bledsoe around him to do his dirty work. A while ago there was a grave suspicion that this chap committed a terrible crime, doubtless inspired by Grady, but it is not known positively and of course Grady is all-powerful and nothing was said about it outright.”

In the meantime Bud Bledsoe walked into the back part of the room, and finding a vacant seat at a gaming table bought a stack of chips and was soon busy over his cards. Presently the two friends, having lighted fresh cigars, left the saloon.

Grant looked into two or three other places, but finding there was “nothing doing,” no news of any kind stirring, at last turned for home. Entering the familiar old bachelor shack, Roderick too felt at home, and it was not long before a cheerful fire was kindled and going. Grant was leaning an elbow on the mantel above and talking to Roderick of the pleasure he anticipated at the coming dance over at the Shields place.

“I wonder what Miss Barbara meant when she sent that special message to you, Roderick? Have you a ground wire of some kind with the young lady and are you on more intimate relations than I have been led to believe?”

Grant smiled broadly at Roderick as he asked the question.

“Search me,” replied Roderick. “I have never spoken to her excepting in the presence of other people.”

“I presume you know,” Grant went on, “that she is the object of Carlisle’s affections and he gets awfully jealous if anyone pays court to her?”

“And who’s Carlisle?” asked Roderick, looking up quickly.

“Oh, he is the great lawyer,” replied Grant “W. Henry Carlisle. Have you never heard of the feud between Carlisle and Attorney Bragdon?”

“No,” said Roderick. “Both names are new to me.”

“Oh, I supposed everybody knew about their forensic battles. You see, W. Henry Carlisle is the attorney for the Smelter and Ben Bragdon is without doubt the most eloquent young lawyer that ever stood before a jury in southern Wyoming. These two fellows are usually against each other in all big lawsuits in these parts of the country, and you should see the courthouse fill up when there is a jury trial.”

Roderick did not seem especially interested, and throwing his cigar stub into the open fire, he filled his pipe. “Now, I’ll have a real smoke,” he observed as he pressed a glowing firestick from the hearth down on the tobacco.

“Grady and Carlisle are together in all financial ventures,” Grant continued.

“Don’t look as if you are very fond of this man Grady,” commented Roderick.

“Fond of him?” ejaculated Grant in disgust; “he is the most obnoxious creature in the district. He treats everybody who is working for him as if they were dogs. He has this bruiser, Bud Bledsoe, as a sort of bodyguard and this W. Henry Carlisle as a legal protector, so he attempts to walk rough shod over everybody—indifferent and insolent. Oh, let’s not talk about Grady. I become indecently indignant whenever I think of his outrages against some of the poor fellows in this camp.”

“All right,” said Roderick, jovially looking up; “let us talk about the dance and especially Miss Dorothy.”

“That’s the text,” said Grant, “Dorothy—Dorothy Shields-Jones. Won’t that make a corker of a name though? If I tell you a secret will you promise it shall be sacred?”

“Certainly,” replied Roderick.

“Well,” said Grant, reddening, “while I was over there at the Dillon Doublejack office, isolated from the world, surrounded with mountains and snow—nothing but snow and snowbanks and high mountains in every direction, why, I played job printer and set up some cards with a name thereon—can’t you guess?”

“Impossible,” said Roderick, smiling broadly.

“Well, Mrs. Dorothy Shields-Jones,” he repeated slowly, then laughed uproariously at the confession.

“Let me see one of the cards,” asked Roderick.

“Oh, no, I only kept the proof I pulled before pieing the type, and that I have since torn up. But just wait That girl’s destiny is marked out for her,” continued Grant, enthusiastically, “and believe me, Warfield, I shall make her life a happy one.”

“Hope you’ve convinced her of that, old man?”

“Convinced her! Why I haven’t had the courage yet to say a word,” replied Grant, somewhat shamefacedly. “I’m going to rely on you to speak up for me when the critical moment arrives.”

“It was rather premature, certainly, to print the lady’s double-barreled-name visiting card,” laughed Roderick. “But there, you know I’m with you and for you all the time.” And he extended the hand of brotherly comradeship.

“And about you and Barbara?” ventured Grant, tentatively. “I’ve heard your name mentioned in connection with hers several times.”

“Oh, forget all that rot,” responded Roderick, flushing slightly. He had never mentioned the “college widow” to his friend, and felt that he was sailing under false colors. “It will be a long time before I can think of such matters,” he went on, turning toward his accustomed stretcher. “Let’s get to bed. It has been a long day, and I for one am tired.”

A few minutes later lights were out.

When they got up next morning, they found that a letter had been pushed under the door. Warfield picked it up and read the scrawled inscription. It was addressed to Grant.

“Gee,” said Grant as he took the letter from Roderick, “this town is forging ahead mighty fast. Free delivery. Who in the demnition bowwows do you suppose could have done this?”

Opening the envelope he spread the letter on the table, and both bent above it to read its contents. There was just a couple of lines, in printed characters.

Words had been cut out of a newspaper apparently, and stuck on the white sheet of paper. They read as follows: “Tell your friend to let Barbara alone or his hide will be shot full of holes.”

Grant and Roderick stood looking at each other, speechless with amazement. Barbara was the only written word.

“What can be the meaning of this?” inquired Roderick.

“Beyond me,” replied Grant. “Evidently others besides myself have come to think you are interested in Barbara Shields. Possibly the young lady has been saying nice things about you, and somebody is jealous.”

“Rank foolishness,” exclaimed Roderick hotly. Then he laughed, as he added: “However, if the young lady interested me before she becomes all the more interesting now. But let the incident drop. We shall see what we shall see.”

They walked up the street to a restaurant and breakfasted.

“It might be,” remarked Grant, referring back to the strange letter, “that Attorney Carlisle, who they say is daffy over Barbara Shields, has had that sleuth of Grady’s, Bud Bledsoe, fix up this letter to sort of scare you off.”

Grant laughed good-humoredly as he said this.

“Scare me off like hell,” said Roderick in disgust. “I am not easily scared with anonymous letters. Only cowards write that sort of stuff.”

They arose from the table and turned down the street towards the smelting plant It was necessary to keep well on the sidewalks and away from the mud in the roadway, for the weather was turning warm and snow was melting very fast.

“There will be no sleighs and sleigh-bells at the Shields’ entertainment,” observed Grant. “This snow in the lowlands will all be gone in a day or two.”

They paused on a street corner and noticed five logging outfits swinging slowly down the street, then turn into the back yard of Buell Hampton’s home and begin unloading.

“What do you suppose Major Hampton can want with all those logs?” asked Grant.

“Let us make a morning call on the Major,” suggested Roderick.

“Right you are,” assented Grant.

The Major extended his usual hearty welcome. He had evidently been busy at his writing table.

“We came down,” said Grant, “to get a job cutting wood.”

The Major looked out of the window at the great stack of logs and smiled. “No, young gentlemen,” he said, “those logs are not for firewood but to build an addition to my humble home. You see, I have a small kitchen curtained off in the rear, and back of that I intend putting in an extra room. I expect to have ample use for this additional accommodation, but just at this time perhaps will not explain its purposes. Won’t you be seated?”

They pulled up chairs before the fire, which was smouldering low, for in the moderated condition of the weather a larger fire was not needed.

“Only for a moment, Major. We do not wish to take you from your work, whatever it may be. I will confess,” Grant went on, smiling, “that we were curious to know about the logs, and decided we would look in on you and satisfy our curiosity; and then, too, we have the pleasure of saying hello.”

“Very kind of you, very kind, I am sure,” responded the Major; and turning to Roderick he inquired when he expected to return to the Shields ranch.

“I am going out this afternoon,” replied Roderick. “By the way, Major, do you expect to be at the Shields’ entertainment?”

“No, it is hardly probable. I am very busy and then, too, I am far past the years when such functions interest. Nevertheless, I can well understand how two young gentlemen like yourselves will thoroughly enjoy an entertainment given by such hospitable people as the Shields.”

Soon after they took their leave and walked up the street. Grant made arrangements to start directly after luncheon for Dillon, where copy had to be got ready for the next issue of his paper.

As Roderick rode slowly across the valley that afternoon, his mind dwelt on the rich gold discovery made by Buell Hampton, and he evolved plans for getting promptly to serious prospecting work on his own account. Sometimes too he caught himself thinking of the strange girl of the hills who could throw a lasso so cleanly and cleverly; he wondered if their paths would ever cross again.

CHAPTER XIV.—THE EVENING PARTY

THE night of the big fiesta at the Shields ranch had arrived, and the invited guests had gathered from far and near. And what a bevy of pretty girls and gay young fellows they were! Even the cowboys on this occasion were faultless Beau Brummels; chaps, belts, and other frontier regalia were laid aside in favor of the starched shirtfront and dress clothes of the fashionable East. The entertainment was to consist of dancing and song, with a sumptuous supper about the midnight hour.

Roderick of course was there—“by command” of the fair daughter of the house, Barbara Shields. At the entrance to the reception hall the twin sisters gave him cordial welcome, and gaily rallied him on having at last emerged from his anchorite cell. On passing into the crowded room, young Warfield had one of the greatest surprises of his life.

“Hello, Roderick, old scout, how are you anyway?”

Someone had slapped him on the shoulder, and on turning round he found himself face to face with Whitley Adams.

“Whitley, old man!” he gasped in sheer astonishment.

Then followed hand-shaking such as only two old college chums can engage in after a long separation.

“How did it all happen?” inquired Roderick, when the first flush of meeting was over.

“Tell you later,” said Whitley. “Gee, old man, I ought to beat you up for not letting me know all this time where you were.”

“Well, I have been so confoundedly busy,” was the half-apologetic reply.

“And so have I myself. I am taking a post-graduate course just now in being busy. You would never guess what a man of affairs I’ve come to be.”

“You certainly surprise me,” laughed Roderick drily.

“Oh, but I’m going to take your breath away. Since you’ve gone, I’ve become quite chummy with your Uncle Allen.”

“You don’t say?”

“Yes, siree. I think he took to me first of all in the hope that through me he would get news of the lost prodigal—the son of his adoption whose absence he is never tired of deploring.”

“Poor old uncle,” murmured Roderick, affectionately and regretfully.

“Oh, he takes all the blame to himself for having driven you away from home. But here—let’s get into this quiet corner, man. You haven’t yet heard half my news.”

The two chums were soon installed on a seat conveniently masked—for other purposes, no doubt—by pot plants and flowers.

“And how’s dear Aunt Lois?” asked Roderick, as they settled themselves.

“Oh, dear Aunt Lois can wait,” replied Whitley.

“She’s all right—don’t look a day older since I remember her. It is I who am the topic of importance—I”—and he tapped his chest in the fervency of his egoism.

“Well, fire away,” laughed Roderick.

Whitley rambled on: “Well, I was just going to tell you how your uncle and I have been pulling along together fine. After stopping me in the street two or three times to ask me whether I had yet got news of you, he ended in offering me a position in the bank.”

“Gee whizz!”

“Oh, don’t look so demed superior. Why, man alive. I’m a born banker—a born man of affairs! So at least your uncle tells me in the intervals of asking after you.”

“Yes, you’ve certainly taken my breath away. But how come you to be in Encampment, Whitley?”

“On business, of course—important business, you bet, or I wouldn’t have been spared from the office. Oh, I’ll tell you—you’re a member of the firm, or will be some day, which is all the same thing. There’s a fellow here, W. B. Grady, wanting a big loan on some smelter bonds.”

“I know the man. But I thought he was rolling in money.”

“Oh, it’s just the fellows who are rolling in money who need ready money worst,” smiled the embryonic banker with a shrewd twinkle in his eyes. “He’s a big speculator on the outside, make no mistake, even though he may be a staid and stolid business man here. Well, he needs hard cash just at present, and the proposed loan came the way of our bank. Your uncle jumped at it.”

“Security must be pretty good,” laughed Roderick.

“No doubt. But there’s another reason this time for your uncle’s financial alacrity. Seems an old friend of his was swindled out of the identical block of bonds offered by this same Grady, and your uncle sees a possible chance some day of getting them out of his clutches and restoring them to where they properly belong.”

“But all that’s contrary to one of Uncle Allen’s most cherished principles—that friendship and business don’t mix. I’ve heard him utter that formula a score of times.”

“Well, cherished principles or no cherished principles, he seems downright determined this time to let friendship play a hand. He tells me—oh, I’m quite in his confidence, you see—that it’s a matter of personal pride for him to try and win back his fortune for this old friend, General Holden—that’s the name.”

“Holden?—Holden?” murmured Roderick. He seemed to have heard the name before, but could not for the moment locate its owner.

“Yes, General Holden. He’s ranching up here for the present—or rather his daughter is. They say she’s a stunning girl, and my lawyer friend Ben Bragdon has promised to introduce me. Oh, though I’m a man of affairs, old chap, I’ve an eye for a pretty girl too, all the time. And I’m told she’s a top-notcher in the beauty line, this Gail Holden.”

“Gail Holden!” Roderick repeated the name out loud, as he started erect in his seat. He knew who the father was now—the daughter was no other than the mysterious rider of the range.

Whitley’s face wore a quizzical look.

“Hello! you know her then, old chap?”

“I never met her—at least I have never been introduced to her.”

“That’s good hearing. Then we’ll start level tonight. Of course I’ll cut you out in the long run if she proves to be just my style.”

“Go ahead,” smiled Roderick. He had already recovered his self-possession. “But you haven’t informed me yet how you come to know Ben Bragdon, our cleverest young lawyer here, I’ve been told, and likely enough to get the Republican nomination for state senator.”

“Oh, simple enough. I’ve come up to investigate one technical point in regard to those smelter bonds. Well, Ben Bragdon, your political big gun, happens to be your uncle’s legal adviser in Wyoming.”

“Which reminds me,” interposed Roderick earnestly, “that you are not to give away my whereabout, Whitley—just yet.”

“A bit rough on the old uncle not to tell him where you are—or at least let him know that you are safe and well. He loves you dearly, Rod, my boy.”

“And I love him—yes, I’ll admit it, I love him dearly, and Aunt Lois too. But this is a matter of personal pride, Whitley. You spoke a moment ago of Uncle Allen’s personal pride. Well, I’ve got mine too, and that day of my last visit to Keokuk, when he told me that not one dollar of his fortune would ever be mine unless I agreed to certain abominable conditions he chose to lay down, I on my side resolved that I would show him I could win a fortune from the world by my own unaided efforts. And that’s what I’m going to do, Whitley; make no mistake. I don’t want him to butt in and interfere in any way. I am going to play this game absolutely alone, and luckily my name gives no clue to the lawyer Ben Bragdon or anyone else here of my relationship with the rich banker of Keokuk, Allen Miller.”

“Of course, Rod, whatever you say goes. But all the same there can be no harm in my relieving your uncle’s mind by at least telling him that I’ve heard from you—that you are in good health, and all that sort of thing. But you bet I won’t let out where you are or what you are doing. Oh, I’ll go up in the old chap’s estimation by holding on tight to such a secret. To be absolutely immovable when it would be a breach of confidence to be otherwise is part of a successful young banker’s moral make-up, you understand.”

Roderick laughed, his obduracy broken down by the other’s gay insistence.

“All right, old fellow, we’ll let it go at that But as to my being in Wyoming, remember dead secrecy’s the word. Shake hands on that; my faith in such a talented and discreet young banker is implicit. But now we must join the others or they’ll be thinking us rather rude.”

“That—or the dear girls may be fretting out their hearts on my account. A rich young banker from Iowa doesn’t blow into Encampment every day, you know.” And Whitley Adams laughed with all the buoyant pride of youth, good looks, good health, and good spirits. “Come along, dear boy,” he went on, linking his hand in Roderick’s arm. “We’ll find Lawyer Bragdon, get our introductions, and start fair with the beauteous chatelaine of the cattle range.”

Roderick had heard about Ben Bragdon from Grant Jones, but had not as yet happened to meet the brilliant young attorney who was fast becoming a political factor in the state of Wyoming. So it fell to the chance visitor to the town, Whitley Adams, to make these two townsmen acquainted. Bragdon shook Roderick’s hand with all the cordiality and geniality of a born “mixer” and far-seeing politician. But Whitley cut out all talk and unblushingly demanded that he and his friend should be presented without further delay to General Holden’s daughter.

They found her in company with Barbara Shields who, her duties of receiving over, was now mingling with her guests.

“Miss Holden, let me present you to Mr. Roderick Warfield.” The introducer was Ben Bragdon.

“One of papa’s favorite boys,” added Barbara kindly, “and one of our best riders on the range.”

“As I happen to know,” said Gail Holden; and with a frank smile of recognition she extended her hand. “We have already met in the hills.”

Roderick was blushing. “Yes,” he laughed nervously. “I was stupid enough to offer to help you with a young steer. But I didn’t know then I was addressing such a famous horsewoman and expert with the lariat.”

Gail Holden smiled, pleasedly but composedly. She possessed that peculiar modesty of dignified reserve which challenges the respect of men.

“Oh, you would have no doubt done a great deal better than I did,” she replied graciously.

But Whitley Adams had administered a kick to Roderick’s heel, and was now pushing him aside with a muttered: “You never told me you had this flying start, you cunning dog. But it’s my turn now.” And he placed himself before Miss Holden, and was duly presented by Bragdon.

A moment later Whitley was engaging Gail in a sprightly conversation. Roderick turned to Barbara, only to find her appropriated by Ben Bragdon. And Barbara seemed mightily pleased with the young lawyer’s attentions—she was smiling, and her eyes were sparkling, as she listened to some anecdote he was telling. Roderick began to feel kind of lonesome. If there was going to be anyone “shot full of holes” because of attentions to the fair Miss Barbara, he was evidently not the man. He had said to Grant Jones that any association of his name with hers was “rank foolishness,” and humbly felt now the absolute truthfulness of the remark. He began to look around for Grant—he felt he was no ladies’ man, that he was out of his element in such a gathering. There were many strange faces; he knew only a few of those present.

But his roving glance again lighted and lingered on Gail Holden. Yes, she was beautiful, indeed, both in features and in figure. Tall, willowy, stately, obviously an athlete, with a North of Ireland suggestion in her dark fluffy hair and sapphire blue eyes and pink-rose cheeks. He had seen her riding the range, a study in brown serge with a big sombrero on her head, and he saw her now in the daintiest of evening costumes, a deep collar of old lace around her fair rounded neck, a few sprigs of lily of the valley in her corsage, a filigree silver buckle at the belt that embraced her lissom form. And as he gazed on this beauty of the hills, this splendid type of womanhood, there came back to him in memory the wistful little face—yes, by comparison the somewhat worn and faded face—of the “college widow” to whom his troth was plighted, for whom he had been fighting and was fighting now the battle of life, the prize of true love he was going to take back proudly to Uncle Allen Miller along with the fortune he was to win with his own brain and hands.

“By gad, it’s more than three weeks since Stella wrote to me,” he said to himself, angrily. Somehow he was glad to feel angry—relieved in mind to find even a meagre pitiful excuse for the disloyal comparison that had forced itself upon his mind.

But at this moment the music struck up, there was a general movement, and he found himself next to Dorothy Shields. Whitley had already sailed away with Miss Holden.

“Where is Grant?” asked Roderick.

“Not yet arrived,” replied Dorothy. “He warned me that he would be late.”

“Then perhaps I may have the privilege of the first waltz, as his best friend.”

“Or for your own sake,” she laughed, as she placed her hand on his shoulder.

Soon they were in the mazy whirl. When the dance was ended Dorothy, taking his arm, indicated that she wished him to meet some people in another part of the room. After one or two introductions to young ladies, she turned to a rather heavy set, affable-looking gentleman and said: “Mr. Warfield, permit me to introduce you to Mr. Carlisle—Mr. Carlisle, Mr. Warfield.”

The men shook hands and looked into each other’s eyes. Roderick remembered this was the attorney of the smelting plant, and Carlisle remembered this was the young gentleman of whom the Shields sisters had so often spoken in complimentary terms. W. Henry Carlisle was a man perhaps forty years old. He was not only learned in the law, but one could not talk with him long without knowing he was purposeful and determined and in any sort of a contest worthy of his foeman’s steel.

Later Roderick danced with Barbara, and when he had handed her over to the next claimant on her card was again accosted by Ben Bragdon. He had liked the young attorney from the first, and together they retired for a cigarette in the smoking room.

“I saw you were introduced to that fellow Carlisle,” began Bragdon.

“Yes,” replied Roderick, smiling, for he already knew of the professional feud between the two men.

“Well, let me say something to you,” Bragdon continued. “You look to me like a man that is worth while, and I take the opportunity of telling you to let him alone. Carlisle is no good. Outside of law business and the law courts I would not speak to him if he were the last man on earth.”

“Why,” said Roderick, “you are pronounced in your views to say the least.”

Bragdon turned to Roderick and for a moment was silent. Then he asked: “What are you, a Republican or a Democrat?”

“Why, I am a Republican.”

“Shake,” said Bragdon, and they clasped hands without Roderick hardly understanding why. “Let me tell you something else,” Bragdon went on. “Carlisle claims to be a Republican but I believe he is a Democrat. He don’t look like a Republican to me. He looks like a regular secessionist Democrat and there is going to be a contest this fall for the nomination for state senator. W B. Grady and the whole smelting outfit are going to back this man Carlisle and I am going to beat him. And say—old man—” he smiled at Roderick when he said this and slapped him on the shoulder familiarly—“I want you on my side.”

“Well,” said Roderick, half embarrassed and hesitatingly, “I guess I am getting into politics pretty lively among other things. I don’t see at this moment why I should not be on your side.”

“Well, come and see me at my office over at Encampment and we will talk this matter over.” And so it was agreed.

Just then they heard singing, so they threw their cigarettes away and went back to the ballroom. A quartet of voices accompanied on the piano by Gail Holden were giving a selection from the Bohemian Girl. Whitley Adams was hovering near Miss Holden, and insisted on turning the music At the close of the number Whitley requested that Mr. Warfield should sing. Everyone joined in the invitation; it was a surprise to his western friends that he was musical. Reluctantly Roderick complied, and proving himself possessed of a splendid baritone voice, delighted everyone by singing “Forgotten” and one or two other old-time melodies. Among many others, Dorothy, Barbara, and Grant Jones, who had now put in an appearance, overwhelmed him with congratulations. Gail Holden, too, who had been his accompanist, quietly but none the less warmly, complimented him.

Then Gail herself was prevailed upon to sing. As she resumed her seat at the piano, she glanced at Roderick.

“Do you know ‘The Rosary’.” she asked in a low voice unheard by the others.

“One of my favorites,” he answered.

“Then will you help me with a second?” she added, as she spread open the sheet of music.

“I’ll be honored,” he responded, taking his place by her side.

Her rich contralto voice swelled forth like the sweeping fullness of a distant church organ, and Roderick softly and sweetly blended his tones with hers. Under the player’s magic touch the piano with its deep resonant chords added to the perfect harmony of the two voices. The interpretation was wonderful; the listeners were spellbound, and there followed an interval of tense stillness after the last whispered notes had died away.

As Gail rose and stood before him, she looked into Roderick’s eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, she was enveloped in the mystery of song, carried away by music’s subtle power. Roderick too was exalted.

“Superb,” he murmured ecstatically.

“Thanks to you,” she replied in a low voice and with a little bow.

Then the buzz of congratulations was all around them. During that brief moment, even in the crowded ballroom they had been alone—soul had spoken to soul. But now the tension was relaxed. Gail was laughing merrily. Whitley Adams was punching Roderick in the ribs.

“Say, old man, that’s taking another mean advantage.”

“What do you mean?” asked Roderick, recovering his composure.

“Singing duets like that isn’t toeing the line. The start was to be a fair one, but you’re laps ahead already.” Whitley was looking with comical dolefulness in the direction of Gail Holden.

“Oh, I catch your drift,” laughed Roderick. “Well, you brought the trouble on yourself, my boy. It was you who gave me away by declaring I could sing.”

“Which shows the folly of paying a false compliment,” retorted Whitley. “However, I’m going to get another dance anyhow.”

He made a step toward Gail, but Roderick laid a detaining hand on his shoulder.

“Not just yet; the next is mine.” And with audacity that amazed himself Roderick advanced to Gail, bowed, and offered his arm. The soft strains of a dreamy waltz had just begun.

Without a word she accepted his invitation, and together they floated away among the maze of dancers.

“Well, that’s going some,” murmured Whitley, as he glanced around in quest of consolation. Dorothy Shields appeared to be monopolized by Grant Jones, but the two lawyers, Eragdon and Carlisle, were glowering at each other, as if in defiance as to which should carry off Barbara. So Whitley solved the problem by sailing in and appropriating her for himself. He was happy, she seemed pleased, and the rivals, turning away from each other, had the cold consolation that neither had profited by the other’s momentary hesitation.

After the first few rounds Roderick opened a conversation with his partner. He felicitated her upon her playing and singing. She thanked him and said: “Most heartily can I return the compliment.” He bowed his acknowledgment.

“You must come to Conchshell ranch and call on my father. He will be glad to meet you—has been an invalid all the winter, but I’m thankful he is better now.”

“I’ll be honored and delighted to make his acquaintance,” replied Roderick.

“Then perhaps we can have some more singing together,” she went on.

“Which will be a great pleasure to me,” he interjected fervently.

“And to me,” she said, smiling.

Whether listening or speaking there was something infinitely charming about Gail Holden. When conversing her beautiful teeth reminded one of a cupid’s mouth full of pearls.

“It has been some time,” explained Roderick, “since I was over your way.”

For a moment their eyes met and she mischievously replied;

“Oh, yes. Next time, I’ll not only sing for you, but if you wish I will teach you how to throw the lariat.”

“I don’t presume,” replied Roderick banteringly, “you will guarantee what I might catch even if I turned out to be an expert?”

“That,” Gail quickly rejoined, “rests entirely with your own cleverness.”

Just then it was announced from the dining room that the tables with the evening collation were spread, and as Roderick was about to offer his arm to Miss Holden, Barbara came hurriedly up, flushed and saying: “Oh, Gail, here is Mr. Carlisle who wants to take you to supper. And Mr. Warfield, you are to escort me.” She smiled triumphantly up into his face as she took his arm.

As they walked away together and Barbara was vivaciously talking to him, he wondered what it all meant Everybody seemed to be playing at cross purposes. Again he thought of the letter of warning pushed under Grant Jones’ door and mentally speculated how it would all end.

CHAPTER XV.—BRONCHO-BUSTING

IT WAS the morning following the big entertainment at the Shields ranch when Roderick and two other cowboy companions began the work of breaking some outlaw horses to the saddle. The corral where they were confined was a quarter of a mile away from the bunk house.

Grant Jones had remained overnight, ostensibly to pay Roderick a visit during the succeeding day. He was still sound asleep when Roderick arose at an early hour and started for the corral. Whitley Adams had also been detained at the ranch house as a guest. He had invited himself to the broncho-busting spectacle, and was waiting on the veranda for Roderick as the latter strolled by.

An unbroken horse may or may not be an outlaw. If he takes kindly to the bridle and saddle and, after the first flush of scared excitement is over with, settles down and becomes bridle-wise then he is not an outlaw. On the other hand when put to the test if he begins to rear up—thump down on his forefeet—buck and twist like a corkscrew and continues jumping sideways and up and down, bucking and rearing until possibly he falls over backward, endangering the life of his rider and continues in this ungovernable fashion until finally he is given up as unbreakable, why, then the horse is an outlaw. He feels that he has conquered man, and the next attempt to break him to the saddle will be fraught with still greater viciousness.

Bull-dogging a wild Texas steer is nothing compared with the skill necessary to conquer an outlaw pony.

Nearly all cowboy riders, take to broncho-busting naturally and good-naturedly, and they usually find an especial delight in assuring the Easterner that they have never found anything that wears hair they cannot ride. Of course, this is more or less of a cowboy expression and possibly borders on vanity. However, as a class, they are not usually inclined to boast.

Very excellent progress had been made in the work of breaking the bronchos to the saddle. It was along about eleven o’clock when Roderick had just made his last mount upon what seemed to be one of the most docile ponies in the corral. He was a three-year-old and had been given the name of Firefly. The wranglers or helpers had no sooner loosened the blindfold than Roderick realized he was on the hurricane deck of a pony that would probably give him trouble. When Firefly felt the weight of Roderick upon his back, apparently he was stunned to such an extent that he was filled with indecision as to what he should do and began trembling and settling as if he might go to his knees. Roderick touched his flank with a sharp spur and then, with all the suddenness of a flash of lightning from a clear sky, rider and horse became the agitated center of a whirling cloud of dust. The horse seemingly would stop just long enough in his corkscrew whirls to jump high in the air and light on his forefeet with his head nearly on the ground and then with instantaneous quickness rear almost upright Whitley Adams was terribly scared at the scene. The struggle lasted perhaps a couple of minutes, and then Roderick was whirled over the head of the pony and with a shrill neigh Firefly dashed across the corral and leaping broke through a six foot fence and galloped away over the open prairie. The two wranglers and Whitley hastened to Roderick’s side. He had been stunned but only temporarily and not seriously injured, as it proved.

“Oh, that’s all right,” he said presently as he rubbed his eyes.

“Are you hurt?” Whitley inquired. Roderick slowly rose to his feet with Whitley’s assistance and stretching himself looked about as if a bit dazed. “No, no,” he replied, “I am not hurt but that infernal horse has my riding saddle.”

“You had better learn to ride a rocking horse before trying to ride an outlaw, Warfield,” said Scotty Meisch, one of the new cowpunchers, sneeringly.

Roderick whirled on him. “I’ll take you on for a contest most any day, if you think you are so good and I am so poor as all that,” he said. “Come on, what do you say?”

“Well, I ride in the Frontier Day’s celebration that comes on in July at our local fair,” the cowboy said. “Guess if you want to ride in a real contest with me you’d better enter your name and we’ll see how long you last.”

“Very well, I’ll just do that for once and show you a little something about real roughriding,” said Roderick; “and Firefly will be one of the outlaws.”

Turning he limped off towards the bunk house with Whitley.

Whitley was greatly relieved that Roderick, although he had wrenched the tendons of his leg, had no broken bones. A couple of other cowboys mounted their ponies, and with lariats started off across the prairie to capture the outlaw and bring back the saddle. Whitley was assured that they were breaking horses all the time and now and then the boys got hold of an outlaw but no one was ever very seriously injured.

Reaching the lounging room of the bunk house, they learned that Grant was up and dressed. He had evidently gone up to the ranch house and at that very moment was doubtless basking in the smiles of Miss Dorothy.

The college chums, pipes alight, soon got to talking of old times.

“By the way,” remarked Whitley between puffs, “last month I was back at the class reunion at Galesburg and called on Stella Rain.”

Roderick reddened and Whitley went blandly on: “Mighty fine girl—I mean Stella. Finest college widow ever. I did not know you were the lucky dog, though?”

“What do you mean by my being the lucky dog?”

“Oh, you were always smitten in that quarter—everyone knew that. And now those tell-tale flushes on your face, together with what Stella said, makes it all clear. Congratulations, old man,” said Whitley, laughing good-naturedly at Roderick’s discomfiture.

As their hands met, Roderick said: “I don’t know, old chap, whether congratulations are in order or not. She don’t write as often as she used to. It don’t argue very well for me.”

“Man alive,” said Whitley, “what do you want with a college widow or a battalion of college widows when you are among such girls as you have out here? Great Scott, don’t you realize that these girls are the greatest ever? Grant Jones shows his good sense; he seems to have roped Miss Dorothy for sure. At first I thought I had your measure last night, when you were talking to Miss Barbara Shields—for the moment I had forgotten about Stella. Then you switched off and cut me out with the fair singer. Say, if somebody don’t capture Miss Gail Holden—”

He paused, puffed awhile, then resumed meditatively: “Why, old man, down in Keokuk Gail Holden wouldn’t last a month. Someone would pick her up in a jiffy.”

“Provided,” said Roderick, and looked steadily at Whitley.

“Oh, yes, of course, provided he could win her.”

“These western girls, I judge,” said Roderick slowly—“understand I am not speaking from experience—are pretty hard to win. There is a freedom in the very atmosphere of the West that thrills a fellow’s nerves and suggests the widest sort of independence. And our range girls are pronouncedly independent, unless I have them sized up wrong. Tell me,” he continued, “how you feel about Miss Holden?”

“Oh,” replied Whitley, “I knew ahead that she was a stunning girl, and after that first waltz I felt withered all in a heap. But when I saw and heard you singing together at the piano, I realized what was bound to come. Oh, you needn’t blush so furiously. You’ve got to forget a certain party down at Galesburg. As for me, I’ve got to fly at humbler game. Guess I’ll have another look around.”

He laughed somewhat wistfully, as he rose and knocked the ashes from the bowl of his pipe.

Roderick had not interrupted; he was becoming accustomed to others deciding for him his matrimonial affairs. He was musing over the complications that seemed to be crowding into his life.

“You see I retire from the contest,” Whitley went on, his smile broadening, “and I hope you’ll recognize the devoted loyalty of a friend. But now those Shields girls—one or other of them—both are equally charming.”

“You can’t cut Grant Jones out,” interrupted Roderick firmly. “Remember, next to yourself, he’s my dearest friend.”

“Oh, well, there’s Miss Barbara left. Now don’t you think I would be quite irresistible as compared with either of those lawyer fellows?” He drew himself up admiringly.

“You might be liable to get your hide shot full of holes,” replied Roderick.

“What do you mean?”

But Roderick did not explain his enigmatic utterance.

“I think I’ll have a lay-down,” he said, “and rest my stiff bones.” He got up; he said nothing to Whitley, but the bruised leg pained him considerably.

“All right,” replied Whitley gaily. “Then I’ll do a little further reconnoitering up at the ranch house. So long.”

Warfield was glad to be alone. Apart from the pain he was suffering, he wanted to think things over. He was not blind to the truth that Gail Holden had brought a new interest into his life. Yet he was half saddened by the thought that almost a month had gone by without a letter from Stella Rain. Then Whitley’s coming had brought back memories of Uncle Allen, Aunt Lois, and the old days at Keokuk. He was feeling very homesick—utterly tired of the rough cow-punching existence he had been leading for over six months.

CHAPTER XVI.—THE MYSTERIOUS TOILERS OF THE NIGHT

IN A day or two the excitement over the great evening party at the Shields ranch had passed and the humdrum duties of everyday life had been resumed. Whitley Adams had completed his business at Encampment and taken his departure with the solemnly renewed promise to Roderick that for the present the latter’s whereabouts would not be disclosed to the good folks at Keokuk although their anxiety as to his safety and good health would be relieved. Grant Jones had torn himself away from his beloved to resume his eternal—and as he felt at the moment infernal—task of getting out the next issue of his weekly newspaper. Gail Holden had ridden off over the foothills, the Shields sisters had returned to their domestic duties, and all the other beauties of the ballroom had scattered far and wide like thistledown in a breeze. The cowboys had reverted to chaps and sombreros, dress clothes had been stowed away with moth balls to keep them company, and the language of superlative politeness had lapsed back into the terser vernacular of the stock corral. Roderick was pretty well alone all day in the bunk house, nursing the stiff leg that had resulted from the broncho-busting episode.

Between embrocations he was doing a little figuring and stock-taking of ways and means. During his six months on the ranch most of his salary had been saved. The accumulated amount would enable him to clear off one-half of his remaining indebtedness in New York and leave him a matter of a hundred dollars for some prospecting on his own account during the summer months among the hills. But he would stay by his job for yet another month or two, because, although the words had been spoken in the heat of the moment, he had pledged himself to meet the cowboy Scotty Meisch in the riding contest at the Frontier Day’s celebration. Yes, he would stick to that promise, he mused as he rubbed in the liniment Gail Holden, when she had come to bid him good-by and express her condolence over his accident, had announced her own intention of entering for the lariat throwing competition, but he would never have admitted to himself that the chance of meeting her again in such circumstances, the chance of restoring his prestige as a broncho-buster before her very eyes, had the slightest thing to do with his resolve to delay his start in systematic quest of the lost mine.

Meanwhile Buell Hampton seemed to have withdrawn himself from the world. During the two weeks that had intervened between the invitation and the dance, he had not called at the ranch. Nor did he come now during the weeks that followed, and one evening when Grant Jones paid a visit to the Major’s home he found the door locked. Grant surveyed with both surprise and curiosity the addition that had been made to the building. It was a solid structure of logs, showing neither door nor window to the outside, and evidently was only reached through the big living room.

He reported the matter to Roderick, but the latter, his stiff leg now all right again, was too busy among the cattle on the ranges to bother about other things.

But Buell Hampton all this time had been very active indeed. During the winter months he had thought out his plans. Somehow he had come to look upon the hidden valley with its storehouse of golden wealth as a sacred place not to be trespassed on by the common human drove. Just so soon as the melting snows rendered the journey practicable, he had returned all alone to the sequestered nook nested in the mountains. He had discovered that quite a little herd of deer had found shelter and subsistence there during the months of winter. As he came among them, they had shown, themselves quite tame and fearless; three or four does had nibbled the fresh spring grass almost at his very feet as he had sat on the porphyry dyke, enjoying the beautiful scene, alone in his little kingdom, with only these gentle creatures and the twittering birds for companions.

And there and then Buell Hampton had resolved that he would not desecrate this sanctuary of nature—that he would not bring in the brutal eager throng of gold seekers, changing the lovely little valley into a scene of sordid greed and ugliness, its wild flowers crushed underfoot, its pellucid stream turned to sludge, its rightful inhabitants, the gentle-eyed deer, butchered for riotous gluttony. No, never! He would take the rich God-given gift of gold that was his, gratefully and for the ulterior purpose of spreading human happiness. But all else he would leave undisturbed.

The gold-bearing porphyry dyke stretching across the narrow valley was decomposed; it required no drilling nor blasting; its bulk could easily be broken by aid of sledge hammer and crowbar. Two or three men working steadily for two or three months could remove the entire dyke as it lay visible between mountain rock wall and mountain rock wall, and taking the assay value of the ore as already ascertained, from this operation alone there was wealth for all interested beyond the dreams of avarice. Buell Hampton debated the issues all through that afternoon of solitude spent in the little canyon. And when he regained his home he had arrived at a fixed resolution. He would win the treasure but he would save the valley—he would keep it a hidden valley still.

Next evening he had Tom Sun, Boney Earnest and Jim Rankin all assembled in secret conclave. While the aid of Grant Jones and Roderick Warfield would be called in later on, for the present their services would not be required. So for the present likewise there would be nothing more said to them—the fewer in the “know” the safer for all concerned.

It was agreed that Tom Sun, Jim Rankin and the Major would bring out the ore. Jim was to hire a substitute to drive his stage, while Tom Sun would temporarily hand over the care of his flocks to his manager and herders. Boney Earnest could not leave his work at the smelter—his duties there were so responsible that any sudden withdrawal might have stopped operations entirely and so caused the publicity all were anxious to avoid. But as he did not go to the plant on Sundays, his active help would be available each Saturday night. Thus the plans were laid.

But although Buell Hampton had allied himself with these helpers in his work and participants in the spoil, he yet guarded from them the exact locality of his find. All this was strictly in accordance with goldmining usage among the mountains of Wyoming, so the Major offered no apology for his precautions, his associates asked for or expected none. Each man agreed that he would go blindfolded to the spot where the rich ore was to be broken and packed for removal.

Thus had it come about that, while Buell Hampton seemed to have disappeared from the world, all the while he was very busy indeed, and great things were in progress. Actual work had commenced some days before the dance at the Shields’ home, and it continued steadily in the following routine.

The Major, Tom Sun and Jim Rankin passed most of the day sleeping. At night after dark, they would sally forth into the hills, mounted on three horses with three pack burros. A few miles away from Encampment the Major would blindfold his two assistants, and then they would proceed in silence. When they arrived near Spirit Falls the horses and burros would be tethered and Major Hampton would lead the way down the embankment to the river’s bank, then turn to the left, while Tom Sun, blindfolded, extended one hand on Buell Hampton’s shoulder and still behind was Jim Rankin with his hand extended on Tom Sun’s shoulder. Thus they would make their way to a point back of the waterfall, and then some considerable distance into the mountain cavern where the blindfolds were removed. With an electric torch the Major lighted the way through the grotto into the open valley.

A little farther on was the dyke of porphyry, quartz and gold. Here the sacks would be filled with the rich ore—their loads all that each man could carry. Footsteps were then retraced with the same precautions as before.

Placing the ore sacks on the backs of their burros, the night riders would climb into their saddles and slowly start out on the return journey, the Major driving the burros ahead along a mountain path, while Tom Sun and Jim Rankin’s horses followed. After they had gone on for a few miles Major Hampton would shout back to his assistants to remove the blindfolds, and thus they would return to the town of Encampment in the gray dawn of morning, unloading their burros at the door of Major Hampton’s house. Jim Rankin would take charge of the stock and put them in a stable and corral he had prepared down near the banks of the Platte River just over the hill. Tom Sun would show his early training by preparing a breakfast of ham and eggs and steaming coffee while the Major was placing the ore in one hundred pound sacks and carrying them back into the blockade addition he had built to his home. He would then lock the heavy door connecting the storehouse with the living room.

Usually the breakfast was ready by the time the Major had finished his part of the work and Jim Rankin had returned. After the morning meal and a smoke, these three mysterious workers of the night would lie down to sleep, only to repeat the trip the following evening. Each Saturday night, as has been explained, Boney Earnest was added to the party, as well as an extra horse and burro.

Buell Hampton estimated that each burro was bringing out one hundred pounds nightly, or about three hundred pounds every trip for the three burros, with an extra hundred pounds on Saturday night. If this ore yielded $114.00 per pound, the assay value already paid him, or call it $100.00, it meant that he was adding to his storehouse of treasure about $220,000.00 as the result of each week’s labors. Thus in three months’ time there would be not far short of $3,000,-000.00 worth of high grade gold ores accumulated. If reduced to tons this would make nearly a full carload when the time came for moving the vast wealth to the railroad.

One night in the midst of these operations, when Jim Rankin and Tom Sun supposed they were on the point of starting on the usual trip into the hidden valley, Buell Hampton filled his pipe for an extra smoke and invited his two faithful friends to do likewise. “We are not going tonight,” said he. “We will have a rest and hold a conference.”

“Good,” said Jim Rankin. “Speakin’ wide open like, by gunnies, my old bones are gettin’ to be pretty dangnation sore.”

“Too bad about you,” said Tom Sun. “Too bad that you aren’t as young as I am, Jim.”

“Young, the devil,” returned Jim. “I’m prognosticatin’ I have pints about me that’d loco you any time good and plenty. ‘Sides you know you are seven years older than me. Gosh ‘lmighty, Tom, you an’ me have been together ever since we struck this here country mor’n forty years ago.”

Tom laughed and the Major laughed.

It was arranged that when the carload was ready Jim Rankin was to rig up three four-horse teams and Grant Jones and Roderick Warfield would be called on to accompany the whole outfit to Walcott, the nearest town on the Union Pacific, where a car would be engaged in advance for the shipment of the ore to one of the big smelters at Denver. The strictest secrecy would be kept even then, for reasons of safety as well as to preserve the privacy desired by Buell Hampton. So they would load up the wagons at night and start for the railroad about three o’clock in the morning.

Thus as they smoked and yawned during their night of rest the three men discussed and decided every detail of these future plans.

CHAPTER XVII—A TROUT FISHING EPISODE

FOR a time Roderick had hung back from accepting the invitation to call at the Conchshell ranch, as the Holden place was called. In pursuing the acquaintanceship with Gail he knew that he was playing with fire—a delightful game but one that might work sad havoc with his future peace of mind. However, one day when he had an afternoon off and had ridden into Encampment again to be disappointed in finding no letter from Stella, he had felt just the necessary touch of irritation toward his fiancée that spurred him on to seek some diversion from his thoughts of being badly treated and neglected. Certainly, he would call on General Holden—he did not say to himself that he was bent on seeing Gail again, looking into her beautiful eyes, hearing her sing, perhaps joining in a song.

He was mounted on his favorite riding horse Badger, a fine bay pony, and had followed the road up the North Fork of the Encampment River a number of miles. Taking a turn to the left through the timbered country with rocky crags towering on either side in loftiest grandeur, he soon reached the beautiful plateau where Gail Holden’s home was located. The little ranch contained some three hundred acres, and cupped inward like a saucer, with a mountain stream traversing from the southerly to the northerly edge, where the Conchshell canyon gashed through the rim of the plateau and permitted the waters to escape and flow onward and away into the North Fork.

As Roderick approached the house, which was on a knoll planted with splendid firs and pines, he heard Gail singing “Robert Adair.” He dismounted and hitched his horse under the shelter of a wide spreading oak. Just as he came up the steps to the broad porch Gail happened to see him through one of the windows. She ceased her singing and hastened to meet him with friendly greeting.

“Welcome, Mr. Warfield, thrice welcome, as Papa sometimes says,” said Gail, smiling.

“Thank you,” said Roderick, gallantly. “I was riding in this direction and concluded to stop in and accept your kind invitation to meet the General.”

“He will be delighted to see you, Mr. Warfield, I have told him about your singing.”

“Oh, that was making too much of my poor efforts.”

“Not at all. You see my father is very fond of music—never played nor sang in his life, but has always taken keen delight in hearing good music. And I tell you he is quite a judge.”

“Which makes me quite determined then not to sing in his presence,” laughed Roderick.

“Well, you can’t get out of it now you’re here. He won’t allow it. Nor will I. You won’t refuse to sing for me, will you? Or with me?” she added with a winning smile.

“That would be hard indeed to refuse,” he replied, happy yet half-reproaching himself for his very happiness.

“Daddie is walking around the grounds somewhere at present,” continued Gail. “Won’t you step inside and rest, Mr. Warfield? He’ll turn up presently.”

“Oh, this old rustic seat here on the porch looks exceedingly comfortable. And I fancy that is your accustomed rocker,” he added, pointing to a piece of embroidery, with silk and needles, slung over the arm of a chair.

“You are a regular Sherlock Holmes,” she laughed. “Well, I have been stitching all the afternoon, and just broke off my work for a song.”

“I heard you. Can’t you be persuaded to continue?”

“Not at present. We’ll wait till Papa comes. And the weather is so delightfully warm that I will take my accustomed rocker—and the hint implied as well.”

Again she laughed gaily as she dropped into the commodious chair and picked up the little square of linen with its half-completed embroidery.

Roderick took the rustic seat and gazed admiringly over the cup-shaped lands that spread out before him like a scroll, with their background of lofty mountains.

“You have a delightful view from here,” he said.

“Yes,” replied Gail, as she threaded one of her needles with a strand of crimson. “I know of no other half so beautiful. And it has come to be a very haven of peace and happiness. Perhaps you know that my father last year lost everything he possessed in the world through an unfortunate speculation. But that was nothing—we lost my dear mother then as well. This little ranch of Conchshell was the one thing left that we could call our own, and here we found our refuge and our consolation.”

She was speaking very softly, her hands had dropped on her lap, there was the glisten of tears in her eyes. Roderick was seeing the daring rider of the hills, the acknowledged belle of the ballroom in yet another light, and was lost in admiration.

“Very sad,” he murmured, in conventional commiseration.

“Oh, no, not sad,” she replied brightly, looking up, sunshine showing through her tears. “Dear mother is at rest after her long illness, father has recovered his health in this glorious mountain air, and I have gained a serious occupation in life. Oh, I just love this miniature cattle range,” she went on enthusiastically. “Look at it”—she swept the landscape with an upraised hand. “Don’t all my sweet Jerseys and Hainaults dotted over those meadows look like the little animals in a Noah’s ark we used to play with when children?”

“They do indeed,” concurred Roderick, with heartily responsive enthusiasm.

“And I’m going to make this dairy stock business pay to beat the band,” she added, her face fairly aglow. “Just give me another year or two.”

“You certainly deserve success,” affirmed Roderick, emphatically.

“Oh, I don’t know. But I do try so hard.”

Her beautiful face had sweet wistfulness in it now. Roderick was admiring its swift expressive changes—he was saying to himself that he could read the soul of this splendidly frank young woman like a book. He felt thrilled and exalted.

“But here comes Papa,” exclaimed Gail, springing delightedly to her feet

Roderick’s spirits dropped like a plummet. At such an interesting psychological moment he could have wished the old General far enough.

But there was a pleasant smile on his face as Gail presented him, genuine admiration in the responsive pressure of his hand as he gazed into the veteran’s handsome countenance and thanked him for his cordial welcome.

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Warfield,” General Holden was saying. “My friend Shields has spoken mighty well of you, and Gail here says you have the finest baritone voice in all Wyoming.”

“Oh, Daddie!” cried Gail, in blushing confusion.

“Well, I’m going to decide for myself. Come right in. We’ll have a song while Gail makes us a cup of tea. An old soldier’s song for a start—she won’t be listening, so I can suit myself this time.”

And Roderick to his bewilderment found himself clutched by the arm, and being led indoors to the piano like a lamb to the slaughter. Gail had disappeared, and he was actually warbling “Marching through Georgia,” aided by a thunderous chorus from the General.

“As we go marching through Georgia,” echoed Gail, when at the close of the song she advanced from the domestic quarters with sprightly military step, carrying high aloft a tea tray laden with dainty china and gleaming silverware.

All laughed heartily, and a delightful afternoon was initiated—tea and cake, solos and duets, intervals of pleasant conversation, a Schubert sonata by Gail, and a rendition by Roderick of the Soldiers’ Chorus from Faust that fairly won the old General’s heart.

The hours had sped like a dream, and it was in the sunset glow that Roderick, having declined a pressing invitation to stay for dinner, was bidding Gail good-by. She had stepped down from the veranda and was standing by his horse admiring it and patting its silky coat.

“By the way, you mentioned at the Shields’ party that you expected to go trout fishing, Mr. Warfield. Did you have good luck?”

Roderick confessed that as yet he had not treated himself to a day’s sport with the finny tribe. “I was thinking about it this very morning,” he went on, “and was wondering if I had not better secure a companion—someone skilled with rod and reel and fly to go with me, as I am a novice.”

“Oh, I’ll go with you,” she exclaimed quickly. “Would be glad to do so.”

“That’s mighty kind of you, Miss Holden,” replied Roderick, half hesitatingly, while a smile played about his handsome face. “But since you put it that way I would be less than courteous if I did not eagerly and enthusiastically accept. When shall we go?”

“You name the day,” said Gail.

Roderick leaned hastily forward and placing one hand on his heart said with finely assumed gallantry: “I name the day?”

“Oh, you know quite well I do not mean that.”

She laughed gaily, but all the same a little blush had stolen into her cheeks.

“I thought it was the fair lady’s privilege to name the day,” said Roderick, mischievously.

“Very well,” said Gail, soberly, “we will go trout fishing tomorrow.”

“It is settled,” said Roderick. “What hour is your pleasure?”

“Well, it is better,” replied Gail, “to go early in the morning or late in the evening. Personally I prefer the morning.”

“Very well, I will be here and saddle Fleetfoot for you, say, at seven tomorrow morning.”

And so it was agreed.

It was only when he was cantering along the roadway toward home that Roderick remembered how Barbara Shields had on several occasions invited him to go trout fishing with her, but in some way circumstances had always intervened to postpone the expedition. In Gail’s case, however, every obstacle seemed to have been swept aside—he had never even thought of asking Mr. Shields for the morning off. However, that would be easily arranged, so he rode on in blissful contentment and happy anticipation for the morrow.

The next morning at the appointed time found him at Conchshell ranch. Before he reached the house he discovered Fleetfoot saddled and bridled standing at the gate.

Gail came down the walk as he approached and a cheery good-morning was followed by their at once mounting their horses and following a roadway that led eastward to the South Fork of the Encampment River.

“You brought your flies, Mr. Warfield?”

“Oh, yes,” replied Roderick. “I have plenty of flies—both hackle and coachman. These have been specially recommended to me, but as I warned you last night I am a novice and don’t know much about them.”

“I sometimes use the coachman,” said Gail, “although, like yourself, I am not very well up on the entomology of fly fishing.”

Soon the road led them away from the open valley into a heavy timber that crowned the westerly slope of the river. They soon arrived at their destination. Dismounting they quickly tethered their horses. Gail unfastened her hip boots from back of her saddle, and soon her bifurcated bloomer skirts were tucked away in the great rubber boots and duly strapped about her slender waist. Roderick was similarly equipped with wading boots, and after rods, lines and flies had been carefully adjusted they turned to the river. The mountains with their lofty rocky ledges—the swift running waters rippling and gurgling over the rocky bed of the river—the beautiful forests that rose up on either side, of pine and spruce and cottonwood, the occasional whistle and whirr of wild birds—the balmy morning air filled life to overflowing for these two disciples of Izaak Walton bent upon filling their baskets with brook and rainbow trout.

“The stream is sufficiently wide,” observed Gail, “so we can go downstream together. You go well toward the west bank and I will hug the east bank.” Roderick laughed.

“What are you laughing at?” asked Gail.

“Oh, I was just sorry I am not the east bank.” The exhilarating mountain air had given him unwonted audacity.

“You are a foolish fellow,” said Gail—“at least sometimes. Usually I think you are awfully nice.”

“Do you think we had better fish,” asked Roderick, whimsically, “or talk this matter over?”

Gail looked very demure and very determined.

“You go right on with your fishing and do as I do, Mr. Roderick Warfield. Remember, I’m the teacher.” She stamped her little booted foot, and then waded into the water and cast her fly far down stream. “See how I cast my line.”

“You know a whole lot about fishing, don’t you?” asked Roderick.

“Oh, yes, I ought to. During occasional summer visits to the ranch I have fished in these waters ever so many times. You must not talk too much,” she added in a lower voice. “Trout are very alert, you know.”

“If fish could hear as well as see

Never a fish would there be—

in our baskets.” And she laughed softly at this admonition for Roderick to fish and cease badinage.

“Which way is the wind?” asked Roderick.

“There is none,” replied Gail.

“When the wind is from the North

The skilful fisherman goes not forth,”

quoted Roderick. “Don’t that prove I know something about fishing—I mean fly fishing?”

“You have a much better way to prove your sport-manship,” insisted Gail. “The fish are all around you and your basket is hanging empty from your shoulder.”

“Rebuked and chided,” exclaimed Roderick, softly.

They continued to cast and finally Gail said: “I have a Marlow Buzz on my hook.”

“What is that?” inquired Roderick.

“Oh, it is a species of the Brown Palmer fly. I like them better than the hackle although the coachman may be equally as good. Look out!” she suddenly exclaimed.

Roderick turned round quickly and saw her line was taut, cutting the water sharply to the right and to the left while her rod was bent like a bow. She quickly loosened her reel which hummed like a song of happiness while her line sliced the waters like a knife.

“Guess you have a rainbow,” cried Roderick excitedly, but Gail paid no attention to his remark.

Presently the trout leaped from the water and fell back again, then attempted to dart away; but the slack of line was not sufficient for the captive to break from the hook.

The trout finally ceased its fight, and a moment later was lifted safely from the water and landed in Gail’s net. But even now it continued to prove itself a veritable circus performer, giving an exhibition of flopping, somersaulting, reversed handsprings—if a fish could do such things—with astonishing rapidity.

“Bravo,” shouted Roderick, as Gail finally released the hook and deposited the fish in her basket.

Less than a minute later Roderick with all the enthusiasm and zeal imaginable was letting out his reel and holding his line taut, for he, too, had been rewarded. And soon he had proudly deposited his first catch of the day in his fish basket.

On they went down the river, over riffles and into deep pools where the water came well up above their knees; but, nothing daunted, these fishermen kept going until the sun was well up in the eastern sky. At last Gail halloed and said: “Say, Mr. Warfield, my basket is almost full and I am getting hungry.”

“All right,” said Roderick, “we will retrace our steps. There is a pretty good path along the east bank.”

“How many have you?” asked Gail.

“Twenty-six,” replied Roderick as he scrambled up the bank.

“I have thirty-one,” said Gail, enthusiastically.

Roderick approached the bank, and reaching down helped her to a footing on the well-beaten path. Then they started up-stream for their horses.

It was almost eleven o’clock when they arrived at their point of departure and had removed their wading boots. Gail went to her saddle and unlashed a little luncheon basket.

She utilized a large tree stump for a table, and after it had been covered with a napkin and the dainty luncheon of boned chicken, sardines and crackers had been set forth, she called to Roderick and asked him to fill a pair of silver collapsible drinking cups which she handed to him. He went to the brook and returned with the ice-cold mountain vintage.

“I am just hungry enough,” said Gail, “to enjoy this luncheon although it is not a very sumptuous repast.”

Roderick smiled as he took a seat upon the felled tree.

“Expect you think you will inveigle me into agreeing with you. But not on your life. I would enjoy such a luncheon as this any time, even if I were not hungry. But in the present circumstances—well, I will let you pass judgment upon my appetite after we have eaten.”

“As they say on the long army marches in the books,” said Gail, gaily, “I guess we had better fall to.” And forthwith with much merriment and satisfaction over their morning’s catch they proceeded to dispose of the comestibles.

It was only a little after noon when they reached the Conchshell ranch, and soon thereafter Roderick’s pony was galloping along the road on his homeward way. He had never enjoyed such a morning in all his life.

CHAPTER XVIII.—A COUNTRY FAIR ON THE FRONTIER

THERE was great excitement among the bunch of cowboys on the Shields’ ranch when the local newspapers came out with startling headlines and full announcements in regard to the annual frontier celebration. That night every line of the full page advertisements, also the columns of editorial elaborations on the contests and other events, were read aloud to an eager assemblage of all hands in front of the bunk house.

The Dillon Doublejack predicted that this year’s celebration would undoubtedly afford the greatest Wild West show ever witnessed outside of a regular circus display organized as a money-making undertaking. Everything was going to be just the real thing—the miners’ drilling contest, the roping competition, the bucking-broncho features, and so on. More than a score of outlaw horses that had thrown every cow-puncher who ever attempted to ride them had already been engaged. The Doublejack further declared that the tournament would be both for glory and for bags of yellow gold, with World’s Championships to the best rider, to the best bucking broncho buster, to the best trick roper, to the fastest cowpony, and to the most daring and lucky participant in the bull-dogging of wild steers.

In the columns of the Encampment Herald special attention was drawn to the fact that in the rough riding and outlaw bucking contest for the world’s championship there was a purse of $1,000 to be divided—$450 for first prize, $300 second prize, $150 third prize and $100 fourth prize, while in addition Buck Henry, the banker, offered a $200 championship saddle to the rider who took first place. It was also announced that the fair association would pay $50 in cash for every horse brought to the grounds that was sufficiently unmanageable to throw every rider; each participant to ride any horse and as often as the judges might deem necessary to determine the winner; chaps and spurs to be worn by the riders, and leather pulling would disqualify.

Both papers referred to the band concerts as a feature of great interest throughout the three days of the fair. Everything was to be decorated in colors—red and green, black and yellow, blue and white, pink and scarlet—from the grandstand down to the peanut boy. The race track was fast and in excellent condition, and everything would be in readiness at the appointed time.

After each item of news was read out there was a buzz of comment among the assembled cowboys, challenges were made, bets freely offered and accepted. As the gathering dispersed Roderick Warfield and Scotty Meisch exchanged significant glances but spoke no word—they had been as strangers to each other ever since their fierce quarrel on the morning of the broncho-busting exercises. Roderick was glad that the day was near at hand when the fellow would be made to eat his words. And with the thought also came thoughts of Gail Holden. Gee, but it would be fine to see her ride in such a contest of nerve and skill!

At last the eventful morning dawned and the people swarmed into Encampment from all the surrounding country. They came from far below Saratoga to the north. The entire Platte Valley from as far south as the Colorado state line and beyond were on hand. In fact, from all over the state and even beyond its confines the whole population moved in to participate in this great frontier day celebration. A crowd came over from Steamboat Springs and brought with them the famous outlaw horse Steamboat, who had never been ridden although he had thrown at least a dozen cowpunchers of highest renown.

When the programmes were distributed, Firefly was found upon the list of outlaw horses, and also to the surprise of many of his friends the name of Roderick Warfield appeared as one of the contestants in both the bull-dogging and bucking broncho events.

It was a veritable Mecca of delight for the miners in their drilling contests and for the cowboys in their dare-devil riding of outlaw horses—testing their prowess and skill in conquering the seemingly unconquerable. The lassoing of fleet-footed and angry cattle, the bull-dogging of wild steers gathered up from different parts of the country because of their reputation for long horns and viciousness, were spectacles to challenge the admiration of the immense throng seated in the grandstand and on the bleachers.

It was just ten o’clock on the morning of the first day when the judges sounded the gong and started the series of contests. The first event was a cow-pony race, with no restriction as to the sex of the riders. Ponies were to be fourteen hands two inches or under. There were seven starters. Up in one corner of the grandstand sat Grant Jones surrounded by a bevy of beautiful girls. Among them of course was Dorothy Shields. All were in a flutter of excitement over the race that was about to be run; for Gail Holden was among the contestants.

Gail Holden, quiet, unassuming, yet full of determination, looked a veritable queen as she sat her pony Fleetfoot clad in soft silk shirtwaist, gray divided skirt, and gray soft felt hat. With a tremor of delight Roderick noticed that she wore on her sleeve as her colors one of his college arm-bands, which he had given her when calling at the Conchshell ranch one evening after the trout fishing expedition.

At last the bell sounded and the word “Go” was given. A shout went up from the grandstand—“They’re off—they’re off.” And away the seven horses dashed—-four men and three lady riders. At the moment of starting Gail had flung her hat to the winds. She used no quirt but held her pony free to the right and in the open. It was a half-mile track and the race was for one mile. When they swept down past the grandstand on the first lap Fleetfoot had gained third place. A pandemonium of shouts went up as the friends of each madly yelled to the riders to urge their mounts to greater speed. At the far turn it was noticed that Fleetfoot was running almost neck and neck with the two leaders, and then as they came up the stretch, running low, it seemed as if the race would finish in a dead heat between all three ponies.

Just then Gail reached down and was seen to pat her pony upon the neck and evidently was talking to him. Fleetfoot leaned forward as if fired with fierce determination to comply with her request for still greater effort His muscles seemed to be retensioned. He began creeping away inch by inch from his adversaries, and amid the plaudits and shouts of the people in the grandstand and bleachers, who rose to their feet waving handkerchiefs and hats in a frenzy of tumultuous approval, Gail’s horse passed first under the wire—winner by a short head, was the judges’ verdict.

The second feature was a great drilling contest of the miners from the surrounding hills. There were twelve pairs of contestants, and Grant Jones became wild with excitement when friends of his from Dillon were awarded the championship.

And thus event followed event until the day’s program was completed.

Gail and Roderick were bidding each other goodnight at the gateway of the enclosure.

“I owe you my very special thanks,” he said as he held her hand.

“What for?” she enquired.

“For wearing my old college arm-band in the pony race.”

“Oh,” said Gail, blushing slightly, “I had to have something to keep my sleeve from coming down too far on my wrist Besides they are pretty colors, aren’t they?”

But Roderick was not going to be sidetracked by any such naive questioning.

“I refuse pointblank,” he answered, smiling, “to accept any excuse for your wearing the badge. I insist it was a compliment to me and shall interpret it in no other way.”

Her blush deepened, but she made no further protest. General Holden had approached. She turned and took his arm.

“Until tomorrow then,” exclaimed Roderick, raising his hat to both father and daughter.

“Until tomorrow,” she quietly responded.

The morrow brought resumption of the tournament. Gail Holden was to display her prowess in throwing the lariat, while Roderick had entered his name in the bull-dogging event.

In the roping contest Gail was the only lady contestant. The steers were given a hundred feet of start, and then the ropers, swinging their lariats, started after them in a mad gallop.

Gail was again mounted on Fleet foot, and if anything ever looked like attempting an impossibility it was for this slender girl with her neatly gloved little hands, holding a lariat in the right and the reins of the pony in her left, to endeavor to conquer and hogtie a three-year-old steer on the run. And yet, undismayed she undertook to accomplish this very thing. When the word was given she dashed after the fleeing three-year-old, and then as if by magic the lariat sprang away from her in a graceful curve and fell cleverly over the horns of the steer. Immediately Fleetfoot set himself for the shock he well knew was coming.

The steer’s momentum was so suddenly arrested that it was thrown to the ground. Gail sprang from the saddle, and the trained pony as he backed away kept the lariat taut. Thus was the steer hogtied by Gail’s slender hands in 55 3/5 seconds from the time the word was given.

All of the lassoers had been more or less successful, but the crowd stood up and yelled in wildest enthusiasm, and waved their hats and handkerchiefs, as the time for this marvelous feat by Gail was announced from the judges’ stand.

In the afternoon the bull-dogging contest was reached, and Grant Jones said to those about him: “Now get ready for some thrills and breathless moments.”

When the word was given a wild long-horned steer came rushing down past the grandstand closely followed by a cowboy on his fleet and nimble pony. In the corral were perhaps a score of steers and there was a cowboy rider ready for each of them. Four or five steers were bull-dogged one after the other. Some had been quickly thrown to the ground by the athletic cowboys amid the plaudits of the onlookers. But one had proven too strong for the skill and quickness of his adversary, and after rather severely injuring the intrepid youthful gladiator rushed madly on down the race track.

Presently Roderick Warfield came into view astride his favorite pony, Badger, riding at full tilt down the race course, chasing a huge cream-colored steer with wide-spread horns, cruelly sharp and dangerous-looking. As horse and steer came abreast Roderick’s athletic form swayed in his saddle for a moment, and then like a flash he was seen to leap on to the steer’s back and reaching forward grab the animal’s horns. An instant later he had swung his muscular body to the ground in front of his sharp homed adversary and brought him to an abrupt halt.

Gail Holden’s face grew pale as she watched the scene from among a group of her girl friends on the grandstand.

The object of the bull-dogging contest is to twist the neck of the steer and throw him to the ground. But Roderick accomplished more. The steer lifted him once from the ground, and the great throng of people on the grandstand and bleachers, also the hundreds who had been unable to obtain seating accommodation and were standing along the rails, held their breath in bated silence. The powerful cream-colored steer threw his head up, and lifting Roderick’s feet from their anchorage started on a mad run. But when he lowered his head a moment later Roderick’s feet caught the earth again, and the steer was brought to a standstill. Then the milling back and forth began. Roderick’s toes sank deep into the sand that covered the race track; the muscles of his neck stood out in knots. Finally, with one heroic twist on the long horns as a pry over a fulcrum, he accomplished the feat of combined strength and endurance, and the intense silence of the great throng was broken by a report like the shot of a pistol as the bull-dogged steer fell heavily to the earth—dead. The animal’s neck was broken.

There are very few cases on record where a steer’s neck has been broken in bull-dogging contests. Roderick therefore had gained a rare distinction. But technically he had done too much, for the judges were compelled to withhold from him the honors of the championship because in killing the animal he had violated the humane laws of the state, which they were pledged to observe throughout the series of contests. But this did not affect the tumult of applause that acclaimed his victory over the huge and vicious-looking steer. Afterwards when his friends gathered around him in wonderment at his having entered for such an event he confessed that for several weeks he had been practicing bull-dogging out on the range, preparing for this contest.

In the afternoon of the last day, the finals of the bucking-broncho competition were announced from the grandstand. There were only three contestants remaining out of the score or more of original entries, and Roderick Warfield was among the number. Scotty Meisch was there—the cowboy whom Roderick had challenged—also Bud Bledsoe, the bodyguard and sleuth of W. B. Grady. Three of the unconquered outlaws were brought out—each attended by two wranglers; the names of the horses were put in a hat and each cowboy drew for his mount. Roderick Warfield drew Gin Fizz, Bud Bledsoe drew Steamboat and Scotty Meisch drew Firefly. And in a few moments the wranglers were busy.

Three horses and six wranglers working on them at the same time! It was a sight that stirred the blood with expectation. These horses had been successful in throwing the riders who had previously attempted to subdue them. The outlaws were recognized by the throng even before their names were called from the grandstand.

The method of the game is this: One wrangler approaches the horse while the other holds taut the lariat that has been thrown over his neck; and if the freehanded wrangler is quick enough or lucky enough he seizes the horse by the ears and throws his whole weight on the animal’s head, which is then promptly decorated with a hackamore knotted bridle. A hackamore is a sort of a halter, but it is made of the toughest kind of rawhide and so tied that a knot presses disastrously against the lower jaw of the horse. After being haltered the outlaw is blindfolded with a gunnysack. To accomplish all this is a dangerous struggle between horse and the wranglers. Then the word “Saddle” is shouted, and the saddles are quickly adjusted to the backs of these untamed denizens of the wild. It takes considerable time to accomplish all this and have the girths tightened to the satisfaction of the wranglers first and of the rider last. Invariably the rider is the court of final resort in determining that the outlaw is in readiness to be mounted.

At last the moments of tense expectancy were ended. It was seen that one of the outlaws was ready, and at a call from the judges’ stand, Scotty Meisch the first rough-rider leaped on to the back of his untamed horse.

The “Ki-yi” yell was given—the blindfold slipped from Firefly’s eyes, and the rowels of the rider sunk into the flanks of his horse. Bucking and plunging, wheeling and whirling, all the time the rider not daring to “pull leather” and so disqualify himself under the rules, the outlaw once again proved himself a veritable demon. In just two minutes after the struggle began Scotty Meisch measured his length on the ground and Firefly was dashing for the open. The scene had been a thrilling one. Roderick noticed that Scotty had to be helped off the track, but he felt no concern—the rough-rider parted from his mount in a hurry may be temporarily dazed but is seldom seriously hurt.

Steamboat was the next horse. Bud Bledsoe was wont to brag there was nothing wore hair that he could not ride. But Steamboat, when he felt the weight of a rider on his back, was as usual possessed of a devil. But Bledsoe was not the man to conquer the noted outlaw, and down he went in prompt and inglorious defeat.

Gin Fizz was a magnificent specimen of horseflesh—black as midnight with a coat of hair that shone like velvet. His proud head was held high in air. He stood like a statue while blindfolded and Roderick Warfield was making ready to mount.

The vast assemblage in the grandstand held their breath in amazement and wondered what would become of the rider of the giant black.

Then Roderick quickly mounted, and men and women rose to their feet to see the terribleness of it all. Roderick sent his spurs deep into the flanks of the black and plied the quirt in a desperate effort quickly to master and subdue the outlaw.

The horse reared and plunged with lightning quickness, and at times was the center of a whirlwind of dust in his determined zig-zag efforts to dislodge his rider. He rose straight up on his hind legs and for a moment it looked as if he were going to fall over backwards. Then seemingly rising still higher in air from his back feet he leaped forward and downward, striking his front feet into the earth as if he would break the saddle girth and certainly pitch the rider over his head. He squatted, jumped, corkscrewed and sun-fished, leaped forward; then he stopped suddenly and in demoniacal anger, as if determined not to be conquered, he threw his head far around endeavoring to bite his assailant’s legs. But at last the horse’s exertions wore him down and he seemed to be reluctantly realizing that he had found his master. In the end, after a terrible fight lasting fully seven minutes, he quieted down in submission, and Gin Fizz thus acknowledged Roderick’s supremacy. He was subdued. Roderick drew rein, patted him kindly, dismounted and turned him over to the wranglers. Gin Fizz was no longer an outlaw; he suffered himself to be led away, trembling in every limb but submissive as a well-trained cow-pony.

Approaching the judges’ stand, Roderick received a tremendous ovation both from the onlookers and from his brother cowboys. The championship ribbon was pinned to his breast, and now he was shaking hands promiscuously with friends, acquaintances and strangers. But all the while his eyes were roaming around in search of Gail Holden.

At last he was out of the crowd, in a quiet corner, with Grant Jones, the Shields sisters, and a few intimates.

“Where is Miss Holden?” he enquired of Barbara.

“Oh, she took poor Scotty Meisch to the hospital in an automobile. She insisted on going.”

“He’s not badly hurt, is he?” he asked drily.

“Oh, no. Just shaken up a lot. He’ll be all right in a week’s time, Dr. Burke says.”

“Then Gail—I mean Miss Holden—didn’t see Gin Fizz broken?”

“No. But she’ll hear about it all right,” exclaimed Barbara enthusiastically. “My word, it was great!” And she shook his hand again.

But the day of triumph had ended in disappointment for Roderick Warfield. He slipped away, saddened and crestfallen.

“It was all for her I did it”—the thought kept hammering at his brain. “And she never even stopped to see. I suppose she’s busy now bathing the forehead of that contemptible little runt in the hospital. Stella wouldn’t have turned me down like that.”

And he found himself thinking affectionately and longingly of the little “college widow.” He hadn’t been to the post office for three days. The belated letter might have arrived at last. He would go and see at all events; and to drown thought he whistled “The Merry Widow” waltz as he grimly stalked along.

CHAPTER XIX.—A LETTER FROM THE COLLEGE WIDOW

YES, there was a letter from Stella Rain. Roderick took it eagerly from the hands of the clerk at the general delivery window. A good number of people were already crowding into the post office from the fair grounds. But he was too hungry for news to wait for quieter surroundings. So he turned to a vacant corner in the waiting room and ripped open the envelope. The letter was as follows:

“Roderick:—

“I am sure that what I am about to tell you will be for your good as well as my own. It seems so long ago since we were betrothed. At that time you were only a boy and I freely confess I liked you very, very much. I had known you during your four years in college and you were always just splendid. But Roderick, a real love affair has come into my life—something different from all other experiences, and when you receive this letter I shall be Mrs. Vance Albertrum Carter.

“Mr. Carter, financially, is able to give me a splendid home. He is a fine fellow and I know you would like him. Let me be to you the same as to the other boys of old Knox—your friend, the ‘college widow.’

“Very sincerely,

“Stella Rain.”

Not a muscle of his face quivered as he read the letter, but at its close he dropped both hands to his side in an attitude of utter dejection. The blow had fallen so unexpectedly; he felt crushed and grieved, and at the same time humiliated. But in an instant he had recovered his outward composure. He thrust the letter into his pocket, and shouldered his way through the throng at the doorway. He had left Badger in a stall at the fair grounds. Thither he bent his steps, taking a side street to avoid the crowd streaming into the town. The grandstand and surrounding buildings were already deserted. He quickly adjusted saddle and bridle, and threw himself on the pony’s back.

“‘She knows I would like him,’”he muttered, as he gained the race track, the scene of his recent triumphs, its turf torn and dented with the hoofs of struggling steers and horses, thronged but an hour before with a wildly excited multitude but now silent and void. “‘Like him’.” he reiterated bitterly. “Yes—like hell.”

And with the words he set his steed at the farther rail. Badger skimmed over it like a deer and Roderick galloped on across country, making for the hills.

That night he did not return to the bunk house.

It was high noon next day when he showed up at the ranch. He went straight to Mr. Shields’ office, gave in his resignation, and took his pay check. No explanations were required—Mr. Shields had known for a considerable time that Roderick was leaving. He thanked him cordially for his past services, congratulated him on his championship honors at the frontier celebration, and bade him come to the ranch home at any time as a welcome guest. Roderick excused himself from saying good-by for the present to the ladies; he was going to stay for a while in Encampment with his friend Grant Jones, and would ride out for an evening visit before very long. Then he packed his belongings at the bunk house, left word with one of the helpers for trunk and valise to be carted into town, and rode away. Badger was Roderick’s own personal property; he had purchased the pony some months before from Mr. Shields, and as he leaped on its back after closing the last boundary gate he patted the animal’s neck fondly and proudly. Badger alone was well worth many months of hard and oftentimes distasteful work, a horse at all events could be faithful, he and his good little pony would never part—such was the burden of his thoughts as he left the Shields ranch and the cowboy life behind him.

Grant Jones was in Encampment, and jumped up from his writing table when Roderick threw open the door of the shack and walked in.

“Hello, old man, this is indeed a welcome visit. Where in the wide world have you been?”

He turned Roderick around so the light would fall upon his face as he extended his hand in warmest welcome, and noticed he was haggard and pale.

“Oh,” said Roderick, “I have been up in the hills fighting it out alone, sleeping under the stars and thinking matters over.”

“What does this all mean, anyway, old man? I don’t understand you,” said Grant with much solicitude.

“Well, guess you better forget it then,” said Roderick half abruptly. “But I owe you an apology for going away so unceremoniously from the frontier gathering. I know we had arranged to dine together last night But I just cleared out—that’s all. Please do not ask me any questions, Grant, as to why and wherefore. If in the future I should take you into my confidence that will be time enough.”

“All right, old man,” said Grant, “here is my hand. And know now and for all time it don’t make a derned bit of difference what has happened, I am on your side to the finish, whether it is a desperate case of petty larceny or only plain murder.”

Grant laughed and tried to rouse his friend into hilarity.

“It is neither,” replied Roderick laconically. “All the same I’ve got some news for you. I have quit my job.”

“At the Shields ranch?” cried Grant in astonishment. “Surely there’s been no trouble there?”

“Oh, no, we are all the best of friends. I am just tired of cow-punching, and have other plans in view. Besides, remember the letter we got pushed under the door here on the occasion of my last visit. Perhaps I may be a bit skeered about having my hide shot full of holes, eh, old man?” Roderick was now laughing.

But Grant looked grave. He eyed his comrade tentatively.

“Stuff and nonsense. The lunatic who wrote that letter was barking up the wrong tree. He mistook you for the other fellow. You were never seriously smitten in that quarter, now were you, Rod, old man?”

“Certainly not. Barbara Shields is a fine girl, but I never even dreamed of making love to her. I didn’t come to Wyoming to chase after a millionaire’s daughter,” he added bitterly.

“Oh, that’s Barbara’s misfortune not her fault,” laughed Grant. “But I was afraid you had fallen in love with her, just as I fell head over heels in love with Dorothy—for her own sake, dear boy, and not for anything that may ever come to her from her father.”

“You were afraid, do you say?” quizzed Roderick. “Have you Mormonistic tendencies then? Do you grudge a twin to the man you always call your best friend?”

“Oh, you know there’s no thought like that in my mind,” protested Grant. “But you came on to the field too late. You see Ben Bragdon was already almost half engaged.”

“So that’s the other fellow, is it?” laughed Roderick. “Oh, now I begin to understand. Then things have come to a crisis between Barbara and Bragdon.”

“Well, this is in strict confidence, Rod. But it is true. That’s why I was a bit nervous just now on your account—I kind of felt I had to break bad news.”

“Oh, don’t you worry on my account. Understand once and for all that I’m not a marrying man.”

“Well, we’ll see about that later on,” replied Grant, smiling. “But I should have been real glad had you been the man to win Barbara Shields. How jolly happy we would have been, all four together.”

“Things are best just as they are,” said Roderick sternly. “I wouldn’t exchange Badger, my horse out there, for any woman in the world. Which reminds me, Grant, that I’ve come here to stay with you for a while. Guess I can put Badger in the barn.”

“Sure—you are always welcome; I don’t have to say that. But remember that Barbara-Bragdon matter is a dead secret. Dorothy just whispered it to me in strictest confidence. Hard lines that, for the editor of such an enterprising newspaper as the Dillon Doublejack. But the engagement is not to be announced until the Republican nomination for state senator is put through. You know, of course, that Ben Bragdon has consented to run against Carlisle and the smelter interests.”

“I’m glad to hear it And now we have an additional reason to put our shoulders to the wheel. We’ve got to send Ben Bragdon to Cheyenne for Barbara’s sake. Count me in politics from this day on, old man. You see I am out of a job. This will be something worth while—to help down that blood-sucker Grady, and at the same time secure Bragdon’s election.”

“Ben Bragdon is the best man for Wyoming.”

“I know it. Put me on his committee right away.”

“You’ll be a tower of strength,” exclaimed Grant enthusiastically. “The champion broncho-buster of the world—just think of that.”

Roderick laughed loud and long. This special qualification for political work mightily amused him.

“Oh, don’t laugh,” Grant remonstrated, in all seriousness. “You are a man of note now in the community, make no mistake. You can swing the vote of every cow-puncher in the land. You are their hero—their local Teddy Roosevelt.”

Again Roderick was convulsed.

“And by the way,” continued Grant, “I never had the chance to congratulate you on that magnificent piece of work on Gin Fizz. It was the greatest ever.”

“Oh, we’ll let all that slide.”

“No, siree. Wait till you read my column description of the immortal combat in the Doublejack.” He turned to his writing desk, and picked up a kodak print. “Here’s your photograph—snapped by Gail Holden on the morning of the event, riding your favorite pony Badger. Oh, I’ve got all the details; the half-tone has already been made. The Encampment Herald boys have been chasing around all day for a picture, but I’m glad you were in hiding. The Doublejack will scoop them proper this time.”

But Roderick was no longer listening. The name of Gail Holden had sent his thoughts far away.

“How’s Scotty Meisch?” he asked—rather inconsequentially as the enthusiastic editor thought.

“Oh, Scotty Meisch? He’s all right. Slight concussion of the brain—will be out of the hospital in about two weeks. But Miss Holden, as it turned out, did the lad a mighty good turn in rushing him to the hospital He was unconscious when they got there. She knew more than Doc Burke—or saw more; or else the Doc could not deny himself the excitement of seeing you tackle Gin Fizz. But there’s no selfishness in Grail Holden’s make-up—not one little streak.”

In a flash Roderick Warfield saw everything under a new light, and a great glow of happiness stole into his heart. It was not indifference for him that had made Gail Holden miss the outlaw contest. What a fool he had been to get such a notion into his head.

“Guess I’ll go and feed Badger,” he said, as he turned away abruptly and left the room.

“When you come back I’ve a lot more to talk about,” shouted Grant, resuming his seat and making a grab for his lead-pencil.

But it was several hours before Roderick returned. He had baited the pony, watched him feed, and just drowsed away the afternoon among the fragrant bales of hay—drowsing without sleeping, chewing a straw and thinking all the time.

At last he strolled in upon the still busy scribe. Grant threw down his pencil.

“Thought you had slipped away again to the hills and the starlight and all that sort of thing. I’m as hungry as a hunter. Let’s go down town and eat.”

“I’m with you,” assented Roderick. “But after dinner I want to see Major Buell Hampton. Is he likely to be at home?”

“It was about Buell Hampton I was going to speak to you. Oh, you don’t know the news.” Grant was hopping around in great excitement, changing his jacket, whisking the new coat vigorously. “But there, I am pledged again to secrecy—Good God, what a life for a newspaper man to lead, bottled up all the time!”

“Then when am I to be enlightened?”

“He sent for me this morning and I spent an hour with him. He also wanted you, but you were not to be found. He wants to see you immediately. Tonight will be the very time, for he said he would be at home.”

“That’s all right, Grant. But, say, old fellow, I want half an hour first with the Major—all alone.”

“Mystery after mystery,” fairly shouted the distracted editor. “Can’t you give me at least this last news item for publication? I’m losing scoops all the time.”

“I’m afraid you must go scoopless once again,” grinned Roderick. “But after dinner you can do a little news-hunting on your own account around the saloons, then join me later on at the Major’s. That suit you?”

“Oh, I suppose I’ve got to submit,” replied Grant, as he drew on his now well-brushed coat. “But all through dinner, I’ll have you guessing, old man. You cannot imagine the story Buell Hampton’s going to tell you. Oh, you needn’t question me. I’m ironclad—bomb-proof—as silent as a clam.”

Roderick laughed at the mixed metaphors, and arm in arm the friends started for their favorite restaurant.

CHAPTER XX.—THE STORE OF GOLD

A COUPLE of hours later Roderick arrived at Buell Hampton’s home. The Major was alone; there were no signs of Jim Rankin or Tom Sun; no traces of the recent midnight toil. The room looked just the same as on the occasion of Roderick’s last visit, now more than two months ago, except for a curtain hanging across one wall.

Buell Hampton was seated before the great fireplace and notwithstanding the season of the year had a small bed of coals burning.

“It takes the chill away, for one thing,” he explained after greeting his visitor, “and then it gives me the inspiration of real live embers into which to look and dream. There are so many poor people in the world, so much suffering and so many heartaches, that one hardly knows where to begin.”

“Well, Major,” said Roderick, “I am glad to find you in this mood. I’m one of the sufferers—or at least have been. I have come to you for some heartache balm. Oh, I’m not jesting. Really I came here tonight determined to give you my confidence—to ask your advice as to my future plans.”

“I am extremely glad you feel toward me like that, my lad,” exclaimed Buell Hampton, grasping Roderick’s arm and looking kindly into his eyes. “I have always felt some subtle bond of sympathy between us. I have wanted to help you at the outset of a promising career in every way I can. I count it a privilege to be called in to comfort or to counsel, and you will know later that I have something more for you than mere words of advice.”

“Well, it is your advice I want most badly now, Major. In the first place I have thrown up my job with Mr. Shields.”

“Tired of cow-punching?” nodded Buell Hampton with a smile. “I knew that was coming.”

“In the second place I want to be perfectly candid with you. I have a prospecting venture in view.”

“That I have guessed from several hints you have dropped from time to time.”

“Well, you spoke a while ago about your reserving some little interest for me in your great gold discovery. That was mighty kind, and rest assured I appreciate your goodness to one who only a few months ago was a stranger to you.”

“You forget that I am a reader of character—that no kindred souls are strangers even at a first meeting, my son.”

Buell Hampton spoke very softly but very clearly; his gaze rested fixedly on Roderick; the latter felt a thrill run through him—yes, assuredly, this great and good man had been his friend from the first moment they had clasped hands.

“You were very good then, Major,” he replied, “in judging me so kindly. But I am afraid that I evoked your special sympathy and interest because of the confidences I gave you at one of our early meetings. You will not have forgotten how I spoke in a most sacred way about certain matters in Galesburg and what I intended to do when I had sufficient money to carry out my plans.”

“I remember distinctly,” said the Major. “Your frank confidence greatly pleased me. Well, has anything happened?”

“There is just one man on earth I will show this letter to, and you, Major, are the man.”

Saying this Roderick handed over Stella Rain’s letter.

After the Major had carefully perused it and put it back in the envelope, he reached across to Roderick.

“No,” said Roderick, “don’t give that letter back to me. Kindly lay it on the red coals and let me see it burn to gray ashes. I have fought this thing out all alone up in the hills, and I am now almost glad that letter came, since it had to be. But let it vanish now in the flames, just as I am going to put Stella Rain forever out of my thoughts. Yesterday the receipt of this letter was an event; but from now on I shall endeavor to regard it as only an incident.”

Silently and musingly the Major complied with Roderick’s request and consigned the letter to the glowing embers. When the last trace had disappeared, he looked up at Roderick.

“I will take one exception to your remarks,” he said. “Do not think unkindly of Stella Rain, nor even attempt to put her out of your thoughts. Her influence over you has been all for good during the past months, and she has shown herself a very fine and noble woman in the gentle manner in which she has broken the bonds that had tied you—bonds impulsively and all too lightly assumed on your part, as she knew quite well from the beginning. I have a profound admiration for your little ‘college widow,’ Roderick, and hold her in high esteem.”

There was just the suspicion of tears in Roderick’s eyes—a lump in his throat which rendered it impossible for him to reply. Yes; all bitterness, all sense of humiliation, were now gone. He too was thinking mighty kindly of sweet and gentle Stella Rain.

“Remember,” continued the Major quietly, “you told me how she warned you that some other day another girl, the real girl, would come along. I guess that has happened now.”

Roderick started; there was a protesting flush upon his cheek.

“Even though you may not yet fully realize it,” quietly added the Major.

“What do you mean?” faltered Roderick; the flush of offended dignity had now turned into the blush of confusion.

The Major smiled benignantly.

“Oh, my young friend, remember again that I read men’s minds and hearts just a little. There must be some new influence in your life.”

“How do you know that—how can you say that?”

Buell Hampton laid a hand on the young man’s shoulder and smiled.

“Because otherwise you would be still up among the hills alone, young man. Your fight in the wilderness would have lasted for forty days—not for a single night. The fever of love does not die down so suddenly without an antidote. The resignation you have shown while we burned that letter is not merely a negative condition of mind. There is something positive as well.”

“Oh, I can’t admit that,” protested Roderick. “Or at least I dare not allow myself to think like that,” he corrected himself hurriedly.

“Well, we shall see what we shall see. Meanwhile all is well. The rich harvest of experience has been reaped; the fertile soil awaits the next tillage. The important moment of every life is ‘The Now.’ And this is what we have to think about tonight, Roderick.”

“Precisely, Major. And that is just why I opened the conversation. As I said at the outset, you assigned me an interest in your gold mine for a specific object that no longer exists.”

“On the contrary,” replied Buell Hampton, “I assigned it on general principles—on the general principle of helping a worthy young man at the critical period of starting into useful life-work. But I may tell you also,” he laughed lightly, “that I had in my mind’s eye valuable and important future services whereby the interest would be paid for most adequately.”

“And these services are what?” asked Roderick, with a delighted gleam in his eyes.

“We’ll come to that presently. Where is Grant Jones?”

“He was to follow me here in half an hour. Time’s almost up, unless he’s on the trail of a newspaper scoop.” Roderick was smiling happily now.

“Well, we shall await his coming. What do you say to a little music to beguile the time?”

The Major glanced at his violin resting on a side table.

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” responded Roderick, jumping up with alacrity and handing to the master his old Cremona.

“I am glad you like music,” said Buell Hampton, as he began to tighten his bow. “Its rhythmic cadences of tone are a language universal. Its power is unseen but felt, captivating and enthralling alike the cultured and the untutored. The harmony of tone enwraps the soul like a mantle. It influences heart and intellect It may depress in saddest tears or elevate to highest ecstasy. Music is the melody of the Gods. It is like an ethereal mist—a soft and dainty distillation of a thousand aromatic perfumes, inspiring and wholesome to the soul as the morning dew is to buds and blossoms.”

As he spoke he had been gently thrumming the strings, and now he placed the violin to his chin. Soft and plaintive melodies alternating with wild and warring airs followed one after the other until the entire room seemed to be quivering with melody. For fully an hour, unconscious of the passing time, the Major entertained his guest, and concluded with a rapid surging theme as if it were a call to battle and for greater achievements.

Grant Jones had not yet arrived. Roderick recovered from the trance into which the music had thrown him. He thanked the Major for the pleasure he had given, then threw a glance at the doorway.

“Where the deuce can he be?” he murmured.

But at the very moment the door opened, and in walked the belated editor.

“Where have you been all this time?” asked Roderick, half petulantly.

“On the porch of course,” replied Grant. “Do you think I was going to interrupt such divine melody?”

Buell Hampton smiled pleasedly while he laid down the violin on the table.

“Well,” he said, “be seated, Grant, my boy. I am going to lose no further time. I have some figures to work on tonight. This is my first night at home, Roderick, for many weeks. Grant already knows the story. Now I shall tell it to you.”

And straightway the Major related how Jim Rankin, Tom Sun, and Boney Earnest had garnered the midnight harvests of gold. Then he drew aside the curtain hanging on the wall, unlocked the stout door which it concealed, and, to Roderick’s amazement, displayed the piled up sacks of golden ore.

“All quite equal to the rich samples you handled here several months ago,” said Buell Hampton, as he waved his hand toward the accumulated treasure.

“Great Cæsar!” gasped Roderick. “There must be hundreds of thousands of dollars there.”

“The total will run into millions, young man,” smiled the Major. Then he closed the door, relocked it, and dropped the curtain. But he did not resume his seat.

“Now this is where your services, and those of Grant Jones will come in. This great wealth must be safely transported to Denver. And as I have already explained to you tonight, I still want to guard jealously my secret of the Hidden Valley on whose resources I may or may not draw again—this the future must decide. All of us who are interested have abundance for the present; we are equipped for many good works. The removal of this large quantity of ore, without attracting public attention here, requires good judgment on the part of men who can be absolutely trusted. You are the men selected for the responsible duty. And remember it will be dangerous duty should our secret leak out. The days of hold-ups are passing in the West, but have not yet passed; for as you both know there are still a good few desperadoes among the wilds of our Wyoming mountains.”

“My God—what loot!” murmured Roderick, glancing toward the curtain.

“Yes—a rich loot,” acquiesced the Major. “Now you young men will understand that your interests are my own—that while I am delighted to share this treasure with my chosen friends, these friends have been and continue to be quite indispensable to me. Roderick, your question earlier in the evening is answered—you will have a rightful share in this gold. Get ready in about a week’s time to earn it Now go tonight. I will see you later on to unfold my plans for the journey in closer detail.”

“Great guns,” groaned Grant Jones, as the two young men gained the roadway. “What a newspaper story—what a scoop! And not one damned word can be put in type.”

CHAPTER XXI.—A WARNING

BY SUBTLE alchemy of thought Roderick’s feelings toward Scotty Meisch had become entirely changed. On the ranch he had treated the rough, uncultivated and at times insolent youth with contempt that was scarcely concealed. He was not of his class; and Roderick by his manner had shown that he counted Scotty as outside the pale of good breeding—a fellow not to be associated with except in the necessary work of roping a steer or handling a mob of cattle. It had been almost an act of condescension on his part to accept Scotty’s challenge to try out their respective riding abilities at the frontier fair. Any hurt the lad might have received in the contest was part of the day’s game, and at the moment Roderick had treated the incident with indifference. But now he found himself feeling quite solicitous as to the poor fellow’s condition. Of course Gail Holden, who had interested herself in the injured cowboy, had nothing to do with this change of sentiment—at least Roderick’s consciousness took no cognizance of her influence in the matter. All the same, as he walked over to the hospital on the following afternoon to inquire about the invalid, he was conning in his mind the chances of perhaps meeting Gail there.

However Scotty Meisch was alone when Roderick was admitted to the ward. There was only another occupant of the long room, occupying a cot at the farther end. The nurse as she brought Roderick to Scotty’s bedside declared that her patient was getting along fine, and that a visit from a friend would cheer him up and do him good. Roderick smiled as he sat down at the foot of the bed and the nurse moved away to attend to other duties. Except for a bandaged head the cowboy looked fairly fit.

“How are you, old man?” Roderick asked in a kindly tone.

Scotty seemed quite disconcerted by this friendly greeting. He looked sheepish and shame-faced.

“Oh, I’ll be all right in no time,” he mumbled. “Expect you think I’m a mean cuss,” he added, after a moment’s pause, glancing at Roderick then hastily looking away again.

“I haven’t said so,” replied Roderick in a pleasant and assuring way.

“No, I know you hain’t said it. But I’ve never, liked you from the first time we met over at the Shield’s ranch. I don’t know why—damned if I do. But I didn’t like you and don’t like you now, and I’m gosh’lmighty ashamed of myself fer bein’ so ornery.”

“You shouldn’t speak of yourself so harshly,” said Roderick, somewhat interested in the turn the conversation was taking.

“I don’t deserve any kindness at your hands,” Meisch went on. “I sure planned to kill you onct ‘til I found out you weren’t sweet on Barbara Shields. Oh, I’m a low-down cuss, but I’m ambitious. You hain’t the feller I’m after any more. It’s that lawyer Carlisle and I’ll git him, you jist see. He’s got to keep out of my way,” and as Scotty, with a black scowl on his face, said this he looked the part of an avenging demon right enough.

“I know,” he continued, “Barbara is older than I am, but I’m dead gone on her, even if she don’t know it, an’ I’ll do things yet to that feller Carlisle.” Roderick was fairly perplexed by these references to Barbara Shields and the disclosure of the rough cowboy’s feelings toward his employer’s daughter. For a moment he could not find the proper word to say. He just ventured a platitude, kindly spoken as it was kindly intended: “Oh, you must get over these broodings, Scotty.”

“It’s not broodings—it’s business, and I mean it,” he muttered. “Oh, you needn’t look so darned solemn. I’ve no more bad feelin’s agin you. But when you first came to the ranch, you know you couldn’t ride any better than a kid. But you began givin’ yourself airs, an’ then when I thought you were goin’ to cut me out with Barbara I jist got plum crazy. That’s why I sent you fair warnin’.”

A light broke in on Roderick.

“So it was you who slipped that note under Grant Jones’ door, was it?” he asked in great surprise.

“Yas. You can know it now; who cares? But it was only later I saw I was on a blind trail—that it was the other one you’re after—goin’ fishin’ an’ all that sort o’ thing.”

Roderick reddened.

“Oh, that’s all fudge too,” he exclaimed uneasily.

“I’m not so sure ‘bout that,” replied Scotty, with a cunning look in his eyes. “‘Sides, she’s dead gone on you, that’s a cert. She was here all yesterday afternoon, and could speak about nothin’ else—praised yer ridin’ and allowed she was tarnation sorry to have missed seein’ you on Gin Fizz. Which reminds me that I’ve got to comgratulate you on the championship.” He slipped a hand timidly and tentatively from under the bed-spread. “Oh, I can admit myself beat when I’m beat. You’ve grown to be a better’n rider than me. I’m only a little skinny chap at the best, but you showed yourself strong enough to kill that great big steer in the bull-doggin’. You’ve got me skinned, and you hold the championship right enough. Shake.”

And Scotty at last mustered up the moral courage to extend his hand. Roderick took it and shook it warmly. So Gail had been talking about him!—his heart had leaped with joy.

“I’m glad to hear you speak like that, Scotty,” he said with great cordiality. “You and I can come to be mighty good friends.”

“Gee, but I wish I looked like you,” remarked Scotty, lapsing into a half smile. “Shake hands again with me, won’t you?”

Roderick reached over and once more bestowed a good honest squeeze; and he improved the occasion by begging Scotty not to indulge in evil thoughts about killing people or anything of that sort.

“What makes you kind t’ me?” asked the lad as he looked inquiringly at Roderick.

“I don’t know that I have been particularly kind to you,” replied Roderick. “I begin to realize that I should have been here before now to help cheer you up a bit while convalescing.”

Scotty turned from Roderick and looking at the ceiling was silent for a few moments. At last he said: “Expect if I’d stay here a long, long time you’d keep on bein’ kind t’ me. Possibly you would bring Barbara with you on some of your visits. But I know I’m goin’ t’ get well, that’s the pity of it all. I wouldn’t be in bed now if the doctor hadn’t said I got ter stay here for a few days. When I’m well, why, then it’s all off with you an’ Scotty. You won’t pay any more attention to me when I’m once more sound as a nut an’ ridin’ range than you would a low down coyote.”

“Why should I become indifferent to you?” inquired Roderick.

“Oh, no reason why you should, only you will,” replied Scotty. “You are of the high-falutin’ an’ educated kind an’—well, I never went to school more’n two weeks in my life. I got tired of the educatin’ business—stole a horse and never did go back. An’ they never caught me, nuther.”

He brightened up when he said this and laughed at his cleverness as if it were a most pleasant remembrance.

“Where was your childhood home?” inquired Roderick.

“Now, right there,” replied Scotty, “is where yer presumin’. You’re not talkin’ to me. D’ye suppose I’m goin’ ter tell yer and have this whole business piped off and those fellers come out here an’ pinch me for hoss-stealin’. Not on yer life, so long as Scotty Meisch knows himself.”

Roderick smiled as he said: “Surely, Scotty, you are a very suspicious person. I had no thought of doing what you suggest.”

“Waal,” drawled Scotty, “if you’d have been as near goin’ to the penitentiary as often as I have, you’d learn to keep yer mouth shut when people begin to inquire into your past hist’ry an’ not unbosom yerself. Fact is, my hist’ry won’t stand investigatin’. It’s fuller of thin places an’ holes than an old-fashioned tin corn grater. You know what a grater is, don’t you? It’s a tin bent over into a half moon an’ nailed to a board with holes punched from inside out to make it rough. Where I come from we used to husk new corn just as soon as it was out of the milk an’ grate it into meal. About the only thing we had to live on was cornmeal mush an’ milk. Wish I had some now. I’m hungrier than hell for it.”

The primitiveness of it all rather appealed to Roderick, and he called the nurse and asked if she wouldn’t serve the patient with some cornmeal mush with milk for dinner that evening.

“Certainly,” she replied, “if Dr. Burke does not object,” and went away to make inquiries. In a little while she returned and said: “The doctor says a nice bowl of cornmeal mush and milk would be just the thing for Mr. Meisch.” And it was so arranged.

When the nurse had gone Roderick noticed a tear trickling down the cheek of Scotty and in order not to embarrass the boy he turned away and stood looking out of the window. Presently Scotty said: “I wish ter hell I was decent, that’s what I wish.”

Without turning from the window Roderick inquired: “How old are you, Scotty?”

“Guess I’m about nineteen. I don’t know fer sure. They never did tell me when my birthday was.”

“How would you like to go to school, Scotty? Brace up and be an educated chap like other fellows.”

“Me learn to read an’ write?” exclaimed Scotty. “Look here, Mr. Warfield, are you chaffin’ me? That’s what some Englishmen called it when they meant teasin’ and so I say chaffin’. Might as well use all the big words a feller picks up on the way.” Roderick laughed aloud at Scotty’s odd expressions and turned to him and said: “Scotty, you aren’t a bad fellow. You have a good heart in you.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Scotty, shaking his head. “One time there was a feller told me that tough cusses like me don’t have hearts—just gizzards.”

“Well,” said Roderick, laughing, “my time has come to go now but I want to tell you I like you, Scotty. You seem to me to be the making of a very decent sort of chap, and if you will be a real good fellow and are sincere about wanting to go to school and make something of yourself, I believe I can arrange for you to do so.”

“Honest, Mr. Warfield, honest? Are you tellin’ me the truth or is this a sick bed jolly?”

“Certainly I am telling you the truth,” replied Roderick. “You think it all over until I come and see you again.”

“When’ll you come? Tomorrow?”

“Yes,” replied Roderick, “I’ll come tomorrow.”

“All right,” said Scotty, “I’ll sure look for yer.” The next day when Roderick called, Major Buell Hampton and Grant Jones accompanied him. They had a long talk with Scotty whose rapid recovery showed improvement even from the previous day. After the subject had been introduced by Roderick, who told Scotty that he had informed his friends of the lad’s desire to go to school, Major Buell Hampton observed: “A printing office, Mr. Meisch, is a liberal education within itself. I have been talking this matter over with Mr. Jones, the Editor of the Dillon Doublejack, and with Mr. Warfield, and we have mutually agreed that if you are in earnest about leaving the range for a while and will learn to read books and generally improve your mind, we shall give you the opportunity. As soon as you are able to leave the hospital, how would you like to go over to the little town of Dillon with Mr. Grant Jones, this gentleman at my right, and go into his printing office?”

“You would be my devil to start in with,” said Grant, good-naturedly.

“Guess that’d about fit me,” responded Scotty with a grin. “I’m a sort of a devil anyway, ain’t I?” and he looked toward Roderick.

“Mr. Jones means a different kind of a devil, Scotty,” laughed Roderick. “What Major Buell Hampton suggests to you is most excellent advice, and I think you had better accept the offer. This job will give you a home, and you will work in the printing office. You will soon learn to read books, and also you will become a typesetter which, as Major Hampton told you, is a practical education within itself and will lead to better things and greater things along educational lines. Of course, it may be some time before that knock on your head gets all right.”

“Oh, don’t worry about my old bean,” said Scotty with a smile, as he touched the bandage that encircled his cranium.

Finally Scotty said he believed he would like to try the new job. “You know, I’ve been knocked ‘round over the world an’ kicked an’ thumped an’ had my ears cuffed an’ my shins barked so much that I don’t hardly know what to make uv you fellers. If I was sure you wasn’t stringin’ me an’ really meant it all as a kindness, why, I’ll be goshdamed if I wouldn’t git up out o’ bed this minute an’ start for Dillon. That’s what I’d do. I ain’t no piker.”

This speech was very amusing to Grant Jones; and he assured the injured boy that he himself was not going over to Dillon for perhaps a week, by which time if he were attentive to the instructions of the doctor he probably would be able to accompany him.

“I’ll take you over,” said Grant, “and we’ll batch it together so far as a place to sleep is concerned in the printing office. There is a good boarding house just across the street where you can get your meals.”

“Who’s goin’ ter pay for them?” asked Scotty. “I ain’t got any money.”

“That,” said Roderick, “is what Major Buell Hampton is going to do for you. Not only will he pay your board for one year until your work is worth wages in the printing office, but he will also get you some new clothes and a new pair of shoes and rig you out in good shape, old man.”

“Gee, but you’re good to me, Major Hampton, and Warfield too. Yer ought ter cuff my ears instead uv bein’ so all-fired kind.”

With this the loveless boy turned towards the wall and covered his face. Both Major Hampton and Grant, as well as Roderick, were noticeably affected, and the three walked over toward the window while Scotty was collecting himself.

“I say,” said Grant, sotto voce, “in the language of Jim Rankin, the worst that poor little devil will get—if he goes with me—will be the best of it.”

Then the visitors turned round to say good-by. The invalid had had about enough excitement for one day.

Just as they were departing, Scotty beckoned Roderick to his side.

“Stop a minute or two with me—alone,” he whispered. “I wants ter tell you somethin’.”

Roderick excused himself to the others; he would join them on the porch presently.

Scotty’s face wore a keen eager look.

“Say, if I helps you,” he began, “I’ll be doin’ a good turn, won’t I, to the girl that saved my life by hurryin’ me along to this ‘orspital here?”

“I believe she will count it as a favor,” replied Roderick. “How can you help me, Scotty?”

“An’ I’ll be doin’ you a favor,” continued the lad, without answering the direct question, “if I do a good turn to your friend with the name that reminds me of Bull Durham terbaccer?”

“Buell Hampton,” laughed Roderick.

“The Major you also call him. Wal, I can drop him a word o’ warnin’ too.”

“Oh, he has never a thought about love affairs,” replied Roderick, smiling.

“But this is a warnin’ of another kind. Listen.” And Scotty drew himself up to a sitting posture on the bed. “Come nearer.”

Roderick complied; his ear was close to Scotty’s lips. The cowboy spoke in a whisper.

“The Major’s got a pile o’ rich ore stored in his house. There’s a bunch o’ fellers agoin’ to get it, an’ they’ll shoot to kill as sure as God made hell.”

Roderick mastered his emotion of surprise.

“When is this to take place, Scotty?” he asked quietly.

“Any night after tonight. Tonight they’ve fixed to square accounts with some sheep herders over Jack Creek way. Then they’re goin’ for the Major.”

Roderick gripped the other’s hand.

“Scotty, you have done me the biggest service in the world,” he said earnestly. “But one thing more—who are these men?”

“I dassn’t tell. They’d plug me full o’ holes the moment I got out o’ here.”

Roderick felt perplexed. He did not like to press for information that might seem to threaten danger for Scotty himself.

The latter was watching his face furtively.

“I know you’re straight—you’ll never give a feller like me away if I tell you one name.”

“Never. You may stake your life on that.”

“Wal, I don’t care what happens to him anyway. He’s a bad egg—a rotten bad egg clean through. And I’m done with him from now right on. I’m goin’ to take that printin’ devil’s job and act on the square.”

“That’s right, Scotty. And we’ll all help you to get clear of bad companions and bad influences. So it’s all right for you to give me that name.”

“An’ she’ll be pleased too, won’t she, that Holden young lady?”

“She’ll be always grateful to you for saving Buell Hampton.”

“That’s ‘nuff for me. The leader o’ that gang is—”

Scotty paused a moment; Roderick waited, silent and still.

“Bud Bledsoe,” whispered the lad. “Now I’ve stopped hatin’ you, I’ve sort o’ turned to hatin’ him and all his kind. But you’ll not give me away, Warfield? I wants ter hold down that printin’ job—that editor feller will make a man of me, that’s just how I feel.”

“And just as we all feel,” said Roderick. “Now, Scotty, you must lie down. Let me fix your pillow for you. You’ve got some fever yet, I can see. You must rest, old fellow. You look tired.”

“Yes; I’m doggoned tired,” murmured the lad wearily, as he sank back on the pillow and closed his eyes.

“He is sleeping now, I think,” said Roderick to the nurse as he passed quietly out of the ward.

CHAPTER XXII.—THE TRAGEDY AT JACK CREEK

AFTER a brief consultation on the hospital veranda, Buell Hampton, Roderick and Grant decided on an immediate consultation with Jim Rankin. They found the ex-sheriff busy among the horses down at the brush stable over the hill from the Major’s home.

Jim received the startling news with great complacency.

“I’ve been expectin’ tumultuous news o’ this kind for quite a while,” he said. “Oh, I’m up to all the didoes o’ both the cowpunchers and the sheep herders. Never mind how I got to know them things. I just know ‘em, and that’s ‘nuff said, good and plenty, for all present. If the cowpunchers are going to Jack Creek tonight, there will be hell a-poppin’.”

“Not murder, surely?” exclaimed Roderick.

“Wal, there’s no sayin’ how them things end,” replied Jim. “You see it’s this way. The cowpunchers claim they’re afeard the sheep’ll cross over Jack Creek, an’ they’ll go armed with great big clubs as well as shootin’ irons. They’ll undertake, I’m ‘lowin’, ter kill with their dubs a whole lot o’ sheep, maybe the hull kit an’ bilin’ uv ‘em, shoot up the mess wagons where the sheep herders are sleepin’, an’ the chances are nine outer ten that they’ll kill the herders an’ then jist nachur’ly burn the wagons an’ the corpses, kill the shepherd dogs too an’ throw them on ter the fire and generally do a hellish piece uv intimidatin’ work. They’ll burn the wagons ter hide evidence uv their guilt. You bet they’ll git keerless with their artillery.”

“Good God!” murmured Roderick in horror and surprise.

“We must stop this murderous business,” remarked Buell Hampton.

“And get hold of Bud Bledsoe before he can do further harm,” suggested Grant Jones. “Let’s hunt up the sheriff.”

“Now, just go slow, g’nlemen, please,” replied Jim, expectorating an inconvenient mouthful of tobacco juice and wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “Jist you leave this business to me. I’ve been prognosticatin’ trouble for months back, an’ know jist how to act. No sheriff is wanted—at least not the bum sheriff we’ve got at the present time. He needs no warnin’ from us—mark my words. And even if he didn’t chance to know what we might be tellin’ him, when he did know, it would be his pertic’lar business to arrive after the killin’—that’s politics. Do you git me, Major?”

“I’m afraid I get you all right, Jim,” replied Buell Hampton gravely.

“Well, let us go and see Ben Bragdon,” proposed Roderick.

“Not on your life,” replied Jim excitedly. “Hell, man, he’s the attorney fur the cattle fellers.”

“He is a gentleman,” exclaimed Roderick, “and if he is the attorney for the cow men, so much the better. He would advise the bosses of this contemplated lawbreaking raid and murder, and of course they would immediately take steps to keep the cowboys from committing such wickedness.”

Jim Rankin’s black eyes fairly snapped as he looked Roderick straight in the face and exclaimed: “Roderick, are yer as big a tenderfoot as that? Don’t yer know the cowboys don’t go out murderin’ uv their own accord on these here cut-throat raids? They go, by gunnies, ‘cause they’re paid by the higher ups ter do these dastardly killin’ acts. Why, gosh ‘lmighty, Ben Bragdon draws a monthly retainer fee uv several figures ter protect the higher ups an’ there yer are, plain as a handle on a gourd. No, by gunnies, while the Major and Mr. Jones keep guard here, you an’ me, Roderick, will have ter go alone an’ jist nachurally take the law into our own hands. We’ll have plenty uv shootin’ irons an’ loco the cowboys by shootin’ an’ wingin’ two or three uv ‘em, Bud Bledsoe in pertic’lar. Oh, you bet I know how to do this job,” and he chuckled reassuringly.

“Well, I don’t,” replied Roderick. “I don’t pretend to know these cold-blooded murdering ways of the West or anything of this lawless feud that is going on between the cattlemen and the sheep men. However, I will go with you, Jim. When shall we start?”

“Immediately after supper. There’s no moon and it looks a little squally. It will be darker than a stack of black cats, but by gunnies, I know the way. All you’ve got to do is to have yer shootin’ irons ready, follow me and shoot when I shoot Now I guess there’s no need my onbosomin’ myself any more,” he added with a comprehensive glance around.

Roderick was unable to repress a smile.

“All right, Jim, I’m game, and ready for the lark.”

“By gunnies, it ain’t no lark howsumever; I know yer game,” replied Rankin. “You bet I kin tell a scrapper when I see him. Now not a word to anyone else besides us four—exceptin’ of course, Boney Earnest I’m goin’ over to the smelter right now, and will arrange for him to be here tonight to help the Major.”

“And Tom Sun?” asked Roderick, anxiously.

“Oh, he’s in no danger. Them fellers are after his herders but not after the big man. They know better—the law would be poppin’ like hell if they ever made the mistake o’ hurtin’ one o’ the higher-ups.”

“Besides, Mr. Sun is at Rawlins today on business,” observed Buell Hampton. “He is riding, and is to come straight here. But he told me not to expect him until midnight.”

“Which the cowpunching gang know quite well,” said Jim emphatically. “You bet they are playin’ up tonight jist because they cal’clate on his absence. Now we’ll be a-movin’. Major, get your rifles well oiled—you may need ‘em. My ridin’ hoss is over at the livery barn, and you an’ me, Roderick, will start from there at eight o’clock sharp. Oh, you bet we’ll have tumultuous doin’s. Jist you an’ me ‘ll show these killin’ cusses they’re holdin’ bob-tailed flushes fur oncet. They won’t show up here for the gold ore after we’re through with ‘em. Reminds me uv the old sheriff days, boys. An’ its ‘lmighty good to be back to them,” he added, pushing his hat back on his head determinedly.

“I think we must put you up for sheriff again next election,” laughed Grant Jones.

“That’s just what I’m prognosticatin’,” replied the rugged old frontiersman, with a grim smile. “Folks will see who’s the real sheriff tonight—me or that white-livered double-dealin’ cur. Mills.” And he strode away in the direction of the smelting plant, chewing his tobacco cud vigorously.

At the appointed hour that night Roderick was at the livery barn, and got ready his faithful horse, Badger. He had only waited a few minutes when Jim Rankin made his appearance. They were soon in their saddles and headed for Jack Creek.

The night was very dark, and despite the would-be sheriff’s vaunted knowledge of the country they lost themselves several times, and on one occasion had to retrace their steps four or five miles. Wherever it was possible they urged their horses on as rapidly as was prudent, but often for long distances it was a case of picking their way at a walking pace through the inky blackness. It was within an hour of midnight when at last they turned from the main road to the westward along the north bank of Jack Creek, which was the dividing line between the flockmasters’ and the cattle men’s range. Rankin explained that the bands of sheep were being held about two miles on to the westward.

They had not gone very far up the creek when they were startled by the sight of two great fires burning like haystacks. They spurred their horses and hurried as fast as possible over the uncertain and little used road, and soon came upon a weird and terrible scene. Some three or four hundred sheep had been clubbed to death and lay like scattered boulders over the ground, while the two covered wagons where the herders cooked their meals and likewise slept were fast burning to ashes.

“By gunnies,” said Jim Rankin, “we didn’t get here quick enough. They’ve sure done their hellish work. I’ll bet there’s two sheep herders an’ two shepherd dogs bumin’ to cinders in them there fires. It’s hell, ain’t it? They beat us to it for sure. But usually them doin’s don’t come off ‘til one or two o’clock in the mornin’.”

“Where are the balance of the sheep?” inquired Roderick. “I thought you said there were several thousand.”

“Why, boy,” said Jim, “they’re chasin’ down toward Saratoga as if the wolves were after them. There’s ‘bout three thousand sheep in each band an’ there were two bands uv ‘em.”

Just then four masked men rode up out of the darkness toward the burning outfits, but quickly checked their horses when they saw the two mounted strangers.

“Don’t shoot, Roderick, don’t shoot,” whispered Jim. “By gunnies, they’ve got us covered. Don’t lift your artillery. They’ll kill us sure if yer do.” Then he raised his trembling voice in a shout: “Hey, you fellers, we seed somethin’ burnin’ here. Wonder what ‘tis?”

A deep guttural voice came back: “You two ‘ll find it a dam sight more healthy to git back on the main road an’ tend to your own business. You have got jist one minute to start.”

“Come on,” said Jim, agitatedly, whirling his horse, putting spurs to him and leaving Roderick trailing far behind.

Roderick rode along toward the main road which they had just left after crossing over Jack Creek. He was disgusted with it all and with Jim Rankin’s poltroonery in particular. The sight he had seen by the gleaming light of the burning wagons was ghastly. The innocent, helpless sheep that had been clubbed to death through the selfishness of men. He was in no mood for hilarity. It was a sight that would remain with him and haunt him. Then too, he had received a new measure of Jim Rankin.

But Roderick Warfield had all the blind audacity of youth and did not give the old westerner Jim Rankin the credit he deserved. Jim Rankin was versed in the ways of these western transgressors, and knew the price he and Roderick would have to pay for “butting in” on a quarrel between the cattle and the sheep men that was no direct concern of outsiders. This price was death, swift and merciless.

When Roderick reached the highway he pulled his horse to the right toward the bridge that spanned Jack Creek. As he approached the bridge he heard someone say: “Here he comes now.” The voice was not Jim Rankin’s.

“Hello,” came a call in yet another voice, just as his horse reached the bridge.

“Come on, Roderick,” cried Jim Rankin, “I’m here.”

“Who’s with you?” inquired Roderick.

“They’ll tell you,” replied Jim.

Roderick rode up and found three men with drawn revolvers, and one of them proved to be the sheriff of the county and the others his deputies.

“Gentlemen,” said the sheriff, “you are accused of killing a lot of sheep up here on Jack Creek and burning a couple of wagons, and I arrest you in the name of the law.”

“What does this mean?” inquired Roderick, hotly.

“It means,” said the sheriff, “you fellers will fork over your shootin’ irons quietly and submit to being handcuffed.”

“Look here, Mills,” said Rankin, resentfully, “you’re goin’ too dangnation far, by gunnies. I’ll be responsible for young Warfield, here. I’ll go his bail. Dangnation, don’t press me any furder or I’ll git peevish.”

“Well,” replied Sheriff Mills, hesitatingly, “who will be responsible for you?”

“Why, Gosh’lmighty, Mills, we’ve know’d each other fur twenty-five years. You go my security yourself or by the great horn spoon you’ll not kerry Rawlins precinct next election.”

“Watch that young feller,” instructed the sheriff to his deputies. “Ride over this way, Jim, where we can speak privately.”

A few moments later Rankin called out: “Come on, Roderick, let’s be goin’. It’s gettin’ late. Everything’s all right.” And together they headed their horses for Encampment and rode on in the darkness.

Jim Rankin presently said: “Well, by gunnies, Tom Sun has leastways got to hand it to us fur tryin’.”

Roderick made no immediate reply and they continued their way in silence.

At last Roderick spoke.

“You were mighty friendly with that white-livered, double-dealing cur, the sheriff—that’s what you called him a few hours ago.”

“Yes, but he wasn’t present with a gun in his hand,” replied Jim. “He sure ‘nuff had the drop on us.”

“How did you square him then?”

“Politics,” came the sententious answer. “And I guess I put one over him at that. Somebody’s goin’ to git a dangnation throw-down, an’ don’t you forgit it.”

An hour later they descended at the livery barn. The sky had cleared, and they had ridden fast under the starlight. Roderick looked the ex-sheriff squarely in the face.

“Now, Jim Rankin, the next move in the game is going to be mine. Get your three fours hitched up at once, and bring them down one by one as fast as they are ready, to the Major’s. We load that ore tonight, and start for the railroad before daylight. Do you get me, my friend?”

Jim Rankin for a moment looked into Roderick’s eyes.

“I guess I git you, Mr. Warfield,” he replied, as he meekly turned away toward the stables where the twelve powerful draught horses had been held in preparedness for a week past.

CHAPTER XXIII.—THE FIGHT ON THE ROAD

DAYLIGHT had not yet broken when the three four-horse wagons were loaded and ready for the road. Not a moment had been lost after Roderick’s arrival at the Major’s. That night he had had a grim glimpse of what western lawlessness among the mountains might mean, and had speedily convinced the Major that his policy of instant departure was the wise one. Bud Bledsoe and his gang would rest at least one day, perhaps two or three days, after their devilish exploit with the sheep-herders, and when they came reconnoitering around the blockhouse in which the ore was stored it would be to find the rich treasure gone. The teams by that time would be at Walcott, or at least well on the way to their destination.

The little bunch of friends had set to work with a will. Jim Rankin got the first team down within half an hour, and by that time the Major, Tom Sun, who had duly turned up from Rawlins, Boney Earnest, Grant Jones and Roderick had a goodly pile of the one-hundred-pound ore sacks stacked in front of the house, ready to be lifted into the wagon. Without a hitch or delay the work proceeded, and now that the loading was completed, and the rifles and ammunition had been stowed under the drivers’ seats, the tension of suppressed excitement was relaxed. Pipes were alight during a final consultation.

The three tough old westerners, it was settled, were to drive. Boney had announced his absolute determination to come along—the smelter could go to blazes, he had applied some days before for a week’s leave anyways and if W. B. Grady chose to buck because he took it now, well he could “buck good and plenty, and be damned to him.” Tom Sun was keeping in stern repression his wrath against the miscreants who had massacred his sheep and probably killed his herders as well; it would be stern satisfaction for him to have a fight on the road, to settle accounts with Bud Bledsoe by the agency of a rifle bullet. Jim Rankin, after his quiet taking-down by Roderick at the livery stable, had recovered his accustomed self-assurance and bellicosity, and was “prognosticating” all manner of valorous deeds once it came to guns out on both sides and fair shooting.

While these three would manage the teams, Buell Hampton, Grant and Roderick would scout ahead on their riding horses, and provide a rear guard as well so that the alarm of any attempted pursuit could be given. Badger had been fed and rested, and looked fit for anything despite the night’s ride to Jack Creek.

Jumping into the saddle Roderick, accompanied by Grant Jones, who knew the road well, led the way. The wagons followed, while the Major delayed just long enough to lock up the house, including the now empty inner chamber, and clear away the traces of the night’s work. The whole cavalcade was three or four miles out of Encampment before the sun had risen and the townsfolk were astir.

The distance to be traversed was just fifty miles, and that night the first camp was made beyond Saratoga. No public attention had been drawn to the wagons; none of the people encountered on the road or at stopping places had any reason to think that these ordinary looking ore-sacks held gold that was worth a king’s ransom. There had been no signs of ambushed robbers ahead nor of pursuit in the rear. But that night, while a few hours of sleep were snatched, watch was kept in turn, while each sleeper had his rifle close at hand. With the first glimmer of dawn the journey was resumed.

It was well on in the afternoon when the Major spied, some distance out on the open country to the left, the dust raised by a small party of horsemen. He rode up to the wagons to consult his friends. He had just pointed out the sign to Jim Rankin, when the riders disappeared behind a rocky ridge.

Jim had been shading his eyes while gazing fixedly. He now dropped his hand.

“By gunnies, they are after us right enough,” he exclaimed. “That was Bud Bledsoe in the lead—I know his ginger-colored pony. They’re going to cross Pass Creek lower down, then they will swing around into White Horse Canyon, coming back to meet us after we’ve crossed the bridge and are on the long steep hill just beyond. Dang me if that ain’t their game.”

The Major rode ahead to warn Grant and Roderick. The bridge over Pass Creek was only three miles from Walcott. If the three scouts could gain the crest of the steep slope, before the robbers, the advantage of position would be theirs.

Roderick grasped the plan of campaign in an instant, and, digging his spurs into Badger’s flank, galloped off full pelt. Grant and the Major followed at the best pace of their less mettled ponies.

It was less than a mile to the bridge, and Badger was soon breasting the hill at a swinging canter. Just before reaching the summit Roderick descended, and throwing the bridle over the pony’s head tethered it in cowboy fashion. “I’ll be back in a minute, old fellow,” he said, as he gave Badger an affectionate pat on the neck. Then, rifle in hand, he walked up the remaining few yards of the slope, and cautiously peered over the crest into White Horse Canyon.

Great Scott! seven or eight horsemen away down at the foot of the descending incline were just scrambling out of the waste of cacti and joshuas on to the roadway! The first comers were waiting for the stragglers, and a pow-wow was evidently being held. Roderick gripped the butt of his rifle. But he heard the clatter of hoofs behind him, and drew back for the time being. Waving a cautioning hand to Buell Hampton and Grant as they approached, he gave the news in a few words. It took only a minute to tie all three horses securely to the low-growing grease-wood that here skirted the road—the animals, although well-trained, might be stampeded by the shooting. Then, rifles in hand, Roderick, Grant and the Major crept up to the crest of the ridge. Before reaching it the sharp tattoo of horse hoofs smote their ears.

“That’s Bud Bledsoe in the lead on the ginger pony,” exclaimed Buell Hampton.

Nothing more was needed by Roderick; if Bud Bledsoe was there, the gang were lawbreakers and bent on further villainy.

“Bang!” went Roderick’s rifle; and the ginger-colored horse plunged forward on his knees, and then rolled over, kicking wildly in the air. Two horses behind stumbled over the obstruction, and instantly there was a confused heap of struggling beasts and men. Four other riders had reined in their steeds just in time, and were standing stock-still on the highway.

“Keep it up, but don’t kill,” muttered the Major, just before he fired his own rifle. Almost at the same instant came “bang” from Grant’s shoulder, and a second shot by Roderick.

At this fusillade the four cowboys still mounted jumped their horses into the sage brush and cacti and were gone like a streak across country. One of the fallen horses had struggled to its feet, and a figure leaped into the saddle. It was Bud Bledsoe—Roderick knew him by his gorilla-like figure. Leaving his two fallen comrades to their fate, the leader raced after the fleeing quartette. Three rifle bullets whizzed past him to quicken his pace. Then the marksmen on the ridge stood erect.

Two motionless human figures lay on the road at the bottom of the hill; the ginger horse had rolled in among the bushes in his death throes, the other was limping along with a broken leg. Roderick ran down the slope on foot, leaving the others to follow with the horses.

The first man he reached was dead, his neck broken by the fall. Roderick recognized him at a glance—for when once riding the range with a bunch of cowboys they had passed a lone rider on a mountain trail and the name had been passed around—Butch Cassidy, a horse rustler, and an outlaw of the hills. The other fellow was bleeding from a wound in his breast; there was a gulping gurgle in his throat. He had evidently been hit by Grant’s first bullet, which had been fired too quick for any heed to be paid to Buell Hampton’s merciful injunction. Just as Roderick raised the limp hand the wounded man opened his eyes; then he uttered one great sob and died.

A few minutes later bullets from Grant’s revolver put the injured horses out of pain.

In the dusk of the falling night the dead men were borne on the ore wagons into Walcott. The station agent recognized the second corpse as that of a notorious gambler and hold-up artist, an old associate of Big-Nosed George in early days. The railroad man treated the bodies as trash, but condescended to wire down the line for the coroner and the sheriff. The car, which had been ordered several days before, was on the side track awaiting the ore shippers, and he counselled that there should be no delay in loading, as a through freight for Denver was due shortly after midnight. So the fight was forgotten, and the work of transferring the ore sacks from the wagons was soon in progress, all present, even the Major, lending a hand.

After the task had been completed, the bill of lading prepared and all charges prepaid, Jim Rankin, Boney Earnest, Tom Sun and Grant Jones boarded the car. They were well provided with blankets for bedding and still carried their rifles. Buell Hampton and Roderick remained to arrange for the sending back of the teams and saddle horses; they would follow on the morning passenger train, and the whole party would reach Denver practically at the same hour next night.

No further incident occurred. But not until the carload of ore had been duly delivered, sampled, and weighed did the four faithful and well-armed guards relax their vigilance. The purchasers were the Globe Smelter Company, with whose manager Boney Earnest had personal acquaintance.

While secrecy was exercised concerning this remarkable ore shipment, yet the news gradually crept out and it became known that something phenomenal had occurred. The newspaper reporters hovered around the Globe Smelter endeavoring to pick up a few crumbs of information.

Buell Hampton and his friends were registered at the Brown Palace Hotel where they had arranged for connecting rooms. Two days afterwards Buell Hampton announced to his friends, in the privacy of his room, that the returns were all he had anticipated. The money had been duly deposited to his credit, and now he wrote checks running into five figures for each of his friends, and admonished them separately and collectively to deposit the money in some Denver bank to their individual credit, then return to their Encampment homes and each continue his avocation as if nothing had happened to improve their financial affairs.

“As for myself,” said the Major, “I have a mission to perform, and I probably will not return to Encampment for a matter of fifteen or twenty days.”

That night Major Hampton left for New York carrying with him certified checks for a large sum of money, and on the following morning the others took train for Wyoming. Within a few days all had resumed their accustomed routine. Jim Rankin was back on his stage coach making his usual trips; Boney Earnest, after an acrimonious scrap with Grady over the question of absence without leave, was in his old place before the blast furnace; Tom Sun regained his home at Split Rock, north of Rawlins, Grant Jones returned to his editorial duties, Roderick to his preparations for a prospecting expedition.

Both Grant and Roderick had brought with them checks for a few thousand dollars, which they deposited in the local bank to the great surprise of the cashier. And even before leaving the bank they began to realize that their importance in the community had already gone up a hundred per cent. Such is the prompt efficacy of a substantial bank balance!

CHAPTER XXIV—SUMMER DAYS

WITHIN less than a year of his leaving Keokuk to play football with the world, as Uncle Allen Miller had phrased it, Roderick Warfield had established himself in a sound financial position. So far he had not been made the “pig-skin” in life’s game. While he was filled with grateful feeling toward Buell Hampton, and recognized the noble generosity of his friend, he had at the same time the satisfaction of feeling that he had done at least a little toward earning a share in the proceeds derived from the carload of rich ore. And once he found his own mine, his father’s mine, it would be his turn to follow the golden rule and share liberally with those around him.

When he had handed in the Denver check at the local bank, he had already found a new deposit to his credit there—a sum of money to which he had never given a thought from the moment it was won. This was the $450 coming to him as the World’s Championship prize in the rough-riding and outlaw-busting competition at the frontier celebration. It was with intense delight that Roderick decided to apply this windfall to finally clearing off his New York liabilities. He felt like walking even a bit more erect than ever now that he would owe not a dollar in the world. After luncheon he returned to the bank and secured eastern drafts.

But there was a balance remaining, and Roderick at once thought of the lad who had not only suffered defeat in the contest but injury as well. Major Hampton had already undertaken the provision of clothes and other outfit for Scotty Meisch. Roderick thought for a moment; then he walked across to the Savings Bank and started an account in the cowboy’s name with a credit of $100. He carried the little pass-book with him to the hospital.

He found Scotty reclining in a long chair on the veranda. The invalid was convalescent, although looking pale from the unwonted confinement. His face brightened with joy when Roderick, looking down with a pleasant smile, patted him on the shoulder and gripped his hand.

“Gee, but it’s good to see you again,” murmured the boy. “It seems like a hell of a time since you were here. But I got the postcard you sent me from Denver.”

“Yes, Scotty, as I wrote you, Grant Jones and I, also the Major, have all been to Denver. We were called away unexpectedly or would have paid you a parting visit. But I’ve come around at once, you see. Grant Jones and I got back only this afternoon. Mr. Jones is going to take you over to Dillon next week. Meanwhile I have brought you this little book, old fellow.”

Scotty glanced at the pass-book, wonderingly and uncomprehendingly. He turned it over and over.

“An’ what’s this piece o’ leather goods for?” he asked.

“That means you’ve got $100 to your credit in the Savings Bank, Scotty—the consolation prize, you remember, in the broncho-busting contest.”

“Consolation prize be damned. There was no consolation prize.”

“Oh, yes, there was.”

“Not by a danged sight You’ve gone an’ done this, Warfield.”

“Well, I got the big money, and hasn’t the winner the right to give off a bit of it as a consolation prize? Just stuff that book in your pocket, Scotty, and may the hundred dollars soon roll up to a thousand, old fellow.”

“Great guns, but you’re powerful kind to me—all of you,” murmured the cowboy. There were tears in his eyes.

“And by the way, Scotty,” continued Roderick, talking gaily, “that reminds me, I’ve got to go across to Englehart’s store and take over that grand championship saddle he was showing in his window—Banker Buck Henry’s special prize, you remember. I had almost forgotten about it. Why, it’s mine—stamped leather, solid silver mounts, and all the gewgaw trimmings. How will I look riding the ranges with that sort of outfit?”

“You’ll look just grand,” exclaimed Scotty admiringly. “But you won’t use that on the range. It will be your courtin’ outfit.”

Scotty smiled wanly, while Roderick laughed in spite of himself. The invalid felt emboldened.

“Oh, she’s been over here every day during your absence,” he continued. “Gee, but she’s pretty, and she’s kind! And let me tell you somethin’ else. Barbara’s been a-visitin’ me too. Just think o’ that.”

“Ah, all the girls are good, Scotty—and Wyoming girls the best of all,” he added enthusiastically. There was safety in the general proposition.

“Barbara an’ I has made it all up,” continued the lad, still smiling, wistfully yet happily. “She’s dead stuck on that lawyer chap, Bragdon, and we shook hands over it. I wished her luck, and promised to vote for Bragdon at the election for state senator. An’ what do you think she did when I told her that?” he asked, raising himself in his chair.

“She said ‘Bully for you,’ I bet,” replied Roderick. “She did more. She kissed me—fair and square, she kissed me,” Scotty put his finger-tips to his forehead. “Oh, only there,” he added, half regretfully. “But I’ll never forget the touch of her lips, her sweet breath in my face.” And he patted the spot on his brow in appreciative reminiscence.

“That’s politics, as Jim Rankin would say,” laughed Roderick, more to himself than to the cowboy.

“Wal, it’s the sort o’ politics I like,” replied Scotty. “If she’d even only cuff my ears every time I voted, I’d be a repeater for Bragdon at the polls.”

“Well, we’ll both vote the Bragdon ticket, Scotty. A girl like Barbara Shields is worth making happy, all the time. And later on, old fellow, the proper girl will be coming along for you.”

“Looks as if she was comin’ along for you right now,” grinned Scotty, glancing toward the steps of the veranda.

And a moment later Roderick was shaking hands with another hospital visitor, gazing into Gail Holden’s blue eyes, and receiving her warm words of greeting over his safe return.

“We heard something about a fight near Walcott, you know, Mr. Warfield—about a mysterious carload of ore. Two hold-up men were killed, and your name was mentioned in connection with the affair. I felt quite anxious until Mr. Meisch received his postcard from Denver. But you never thought of writing to me,” she added, reproachfully.

“I did not dare,” murmured Roderick in a low tone intended only for her ears.

But Scotty heard and Scotty saw.

“This is the very hour the nurse says I’ve got to sleep,” he said. “You’d better be clearin’ out, War-field.”

“And me too?” asked Gail, laughingly.

“The pair o’ you,” replied the invalid, as he lay back languorously and closed his eyes.

“I guess we’d better be going,” laughed Roderick.

“Perhaps Mr. Meisch is awake enough yet,” said Gail, “to hear that I brought over a chicken for his supper.”

“Tell the nurse I’ll have it fried, please,” yawned Scotty, as, without opening his eyes, he turned over his head in slumberous fashion.

“Come away then, Miss Holden,” said Roderick. “I suppose you rode over on Fleetfoot. I’ll saddle Badger, and we’ll have a gallop across country.”

“No doggoned politics there,” exclaimed the cowboy, awaking suddenly, as he watched the handsome couple disappear. “That’s the real thing, sure.”

The summer days glided past. The Major had returned from New York and had quietly resumed his old life of benevolence among the poor. But soon there seemed to be no more poverty in or around Encampment. Roderick, keeping the mining town as his headquarters, made a series of expeditions into the mountains, systematically searching every range and every known canyon. He would be absent for several days at a time, sometimes with Jim Rankin for a companion, Grant Jones once or twice accompanying him, but latterly with Boney Earnest as his fidus Achates. For Boney had severed his connection finally with the Smelter Company, after a quarrel with Grady that had ended in the blast furnace foreman knocking his employer down. Such is the wonderful independence that comes from a bank balance—even a secret bank balance that may not command the deference accorded to known financial prosperity.

Between his prospecting expeditions Roderick spent an occasional evening either at the Conchshell Ranch or at the Major’s, with a flying call now and then at the Shields home, especially when Grant was on one of his periodical visits to Encampment.

The month was now September. The rugged mountains still guarded their secret, and Roderick was beginning to fear that the quest for his father’s mine was indeed going to be a vain one. But there came an interlude to his range-riding and gold-dreaming. The state conventions were approaching. Even love became a minor matter to politics. The air was surcharged with electricity.

CHAPTER XXV.—RUNNING FOR STATE SENATOR

AT BREAKFAST table one morning Roderick noticed in the Encampment Herald a featured article about the forthcoming Republican convention.

“Oh, yes,” replied Grant, when Roderick called his attention to it, “this convention trouble has been brewing for some time. Personally, as you know, I am a Republican, even though my paper, the Dillon Doublejack, is a dyed-in-the-wool Democratic organ.”

“What trouble,” asked Roderick, “can there possibly be about a county convention?”

“It’s a senatorial convention,” explained Grant. “There is an old saying,” he went on, “that every dog has his day. But unfortunately politically speaking there are more dogs than days, and when two or three contestants try to get in on the same day, why, somebody is going to get bitten. There is only one state senatorial job from this district but there may be half-a-dozen fellows who feel called upon to offer themselves upon the political altar of their country.”

“Have noticed a good many fellows down from the hills recently,” replied Roderick.

“Well, that’s politics,” said Grant. “They take a lay off from their work in the hills—come down here to fill up on free political whiskey furnished by the various candidates. Oh, take it from me,” said Grant, looking wise and shaking his head, “these delegates are a booze-fighting bunch for fair.”

For a moment or two the journalistic oracle busied himself with his toast and butter.

“You watch the columns of my paper,” he resumed. “I’m going to show up these whiskey drinking, habits of the delegates good and plenty in this week’s issue of the Doublejack. In the language of Jim Rankin I get a heap peevish with all this political foolishness. Still,” Grant went on, “I presume it is a part of the political machinery of the frontier. One thing,” he concluded, “we all become unduly excited in these ante-convention days.”

Political excitement had indeed waxed warm, and the little mining town had seemingly ceased to think about its mines, its great smelting plant, rich strikes in the hills and everything else—even the cattle men and the sheep men appeared to have forgotten their feuds together with their flocks and herds in the general excitement over the nomination for state senator from southern Carbon County.

Grant Jones in his Doublejack editorials made emphatic and urgent appeal to the people to remember the doctrines of the old Simon-pure Jacksonian democracy and agree upon a good Democratic nominee. With a split in the Republican ranks the chances were never better for the election of a Democratic senator. He pointed out that if Bragdon won the nomination the Carlisle clique would secretly knife the Bragdon forces at the polls by voting the Democratic ticket, and on the other hand if Carlisle should best Bragdon in the nominating contest then the Bragdon following would retaliate by supporting the Democratic nominee so as to defeat Carlisle in the end.

On the Republican side W. Henry Carlisle, the astute lawyer, was backed by the smelter interests, while Ben Bragdon, the eloquent, was supported by the antismelter forces generally and also by Earle Clemens, editor of the Encampment Herald, one of the best known and most highly respected party leaders in the state.

The so-called smelter interests were certainly discredited because of the domineering insolence of W. B. Grady and his unfair treatment of the men. Not only did Grady practice every sort of injustice upon the employees of the great smelting plant in all its various departments, but he also quarreled with the ranchmen in the valley whenever he had dealings with them even to the extent of buying a load of hay.

As convention day approached there was a noticeable feeling of unrest and nervousness. Factional strife was running at high tension.

The wise men of the party said they could plainly see that unless harmony in the Republican ranks obtained at the convention the nominee would be defeated at the polls, and that if Ben Bragdon’s nomination were insisted upon by his friends without in some way conciliating the Carlisle faction the Democrats would be almost certain to win at the following November’s elections.

It was pretty generally conceded that Ben Bragdon, controlled the numerical strength of the delegates, but the wiseacres would ask in their solicitude: “Is it wisdom to take such a chance? Does it not invite a split in the ranks of our party? In other words, does it not mean defeat for the Republican candidate on election day?”

Carlisle was a power to be reckoned with, and had a clannish, determined following in political affairs, and although he and his friends might be outnumbered and beaten in the nominating convention, yet what would follow if Bragdon’s nomination were forced upon them? What would be the result? Would not Carlisle’s following secretly slash the rival they had been unable to defeat at the nominating convention?

A “dark horse” seemingly was the only way out of the dilemma, and the more conservative delegates insisted that Bragdon and his friends must be brought to understand and recognize the possibilities of almost certain defeat unless harmony could be insured; otherwise Bragdon must be compelled to withdraw.

Early in the morning before the day named for the senatorial convention to assemble at Rawlins the delegates at Encampment and several hundred friends of the respective candidates started overland for the convention city.

There were two roads from Encampment to Rawlins—one that branched off from the so-called main road and went along the Platte River bottom. The distance by either route was about sixty miles. Carlisle and his following went one road, while Bragdon and his following traveled by the other road, both arriving at the hotel in Rawlins at the same time with panting horses. It was a mad race, each faction trying to show supremacy over the other even at the cost of horseflesh.

The delegates gathered in knots of three and four in the lobby of the hotel, in the barroom and in the private rooms during the afternoon and evening before convention day.

The trains had arrived from the East and the West, and the delegates from all over the senatorial district were present and ready for the fray that was certain to come off the following day—indeed, Rawlins, the county seat, was alive with politicians and the Ferris House, the leading hotel of the place, was a beehive of activity. The Democratic spectators were jubilant and made their headquarters at Wren’s saloon.

It was at the Ferris House that W. Henry Carlisle had opened his headquarters in opposition to Ben Bragdon. The Carlisle people said they had no alternative candidate. Any one of a score of men might be named in the district, each of whom would be satisfactory; in fact, anyone excepting Ben Bragdon, provided, of course, it was found that Carlisle could not be nominated, which they were far from conceding.

Bragdon and Carlisle had often before locked horns in hotly contested lawsuits up in the-hills, but in addition to their legal fights for supremacy there had been one special controversy that had resulted in a big financial loss for which each held the other responsible. It involved a bitter fight over a mining claim wherein both Bragdon and Carlisle had financial interests, and both had finally lost. It was a rich property and had by decree of the courts been awarded to a third party. But the decision did not lessen the feud. The impelling motive in their political contest was not half so much, perhaps, for the honor of being state senator as it was a consuming desire in the heart of each to best and lick the other.

Some of the delegates, even those who were inclined to be friendly to Bragdon’s candidacy, acknowledged that seemingly he had made no effort to pacify either Carlisle or his friends, and thus, in a way, had proven himself deficient as a political leader and standard-bearer for the party.

Others claimed that a reconciliation was impossible, that the breach was entirely too wide to be patched up at the eleventh hour. Still others were of the opinion that if the Bragdon forces would concede the chairmanship of the convention to Carlisle and his friends and thus give substantial evidence of a desire to harmonize and be friendly, past differences could be adjusted, with the result not only of Bragdon’s nomination but his election as well.

Those high in the leadership of the Bragdon forces laughed incredulously and scorned to consider such a compromising surrender, and further expressed their disbelief in the sincerity of Carlisle and his crowd even if the Bragdon following were willing to make such a concession.

“No,” said Big Phil Lee, Bragdon’s chief lieutenant, “I’m a Kentucky Democrat, boys, as you all know, but in this fight I’m for Bragdon—a Bragdon Republican—and we’ve got the whip-hand and by the Eternal we will hold it. We Bragdon fellows have already agreed upon a chairman and a secretary for both the temporary and permanent organizations of tomorrow’s convention, and we have selected Charlie Winter to name Bragdon in a nominating speech that will be so dangnation eloquent—well, it will simply carry everybody off their feet. He is the boy that can talk, you bet he is. Oh, you bet we’ve got ‘em licked, Carlisle and all his cohorts. And let me tell you something else,” continued Big Phil Lee, gesticulating, “we’ll hold them responsible for the final result. If Bragdon’s not elected, it will be because Carlisle and his gang knife him at the polls. Just let them do such a dirty contemptible piece of political chicanery and they’ll be marked men ever afterwards in this senatorial district, and not one of them could be elected even to the office of dog pelter.”

CHAPTER XXVI.—UNEXPECTED POLITICAL HARMONY

IT WAS just such talk as Big Phil Lee’s that kept the Bragdon forces lined up and defiant to the point of an open rupture and a total disregard for the minority, while the Democrats cheered Big Phil Lee’s remarks with enthusiastic hoorays.

The individual who really held the destiny of the party that year in the hollow of his hand and within the next few hours proved himself the Moses to lead all factions from the paths of bickering into the highway of absolute harmony, was the newspaper man, Earle Clemens. All through the evening hours the editor of the Herald had been a most eloquent listener. He was on good terms with everybody, jovial and mixed with all factions, and yet was scrupulously careful to avoid giving any expression of advice or stating an opinion. He had, however, been very outspoken in his editorial advocacy for harmony.

Earle Clemens was not only known and respected all over the state as an able newspaper man, but he was the possessor of a rich tenor voice that had delighted many an audience up in the hills, and then, too, he had composed the melody of the state song, entitled “Wyoming”—all of which tended to his great popularity and powerful influence.

While it was quite generally known that Clemens was perhaps closer in his friendship for Bragdon than any other man in the district, dating from way back when the generous-hearted young lawyer had helped Clemens at a time and in a way that money could not buy or repay, yet the editor of the Herald had all along insisted that unless the Bragdon sympathizers effected a reconciliation with the Carlisle crowd, it virtually meant, if Bragdon’s nomination were forced upon the convention, a Democratic victory at the coming November election.

In his last editorial, before the convention was to assemble, he had, in reply to Democratic newspaper gibes about a high old row which was likely to obtain at the oncoming Republican convention, branded the writers one and all as political falsifiers. He boldly announced that not a single discordant note would be heard when the Republican host came to nominate its standard bearer, and furthermore that the choice would be emphasized by a unanimous vote of the delegates. And in the final event the Republican candidate, he declared, would be elected by such an overwhelming popular vote that it would make the false Democratic prophets and bolting Republican malcontents, if there were any, “hunt the tall timber.”

The Democratic press in reply had said that the editor of the Herald was whistling to keep up his courage, and of course much amusement had been caused by the spirited controversy. So when the eventful day arrived fully as many Democrats journeyed to Rawlins to see the fun as there were Republican delegates. Of course, as good Democrats, they lost no opportunity to help embitter the two factions and widen the breach between the Bragdon and the Carlisle forces.

Editor Earle Clemens, however, had ideas of his own that he told to no one. The electric light was shining in his room long after midnight and his small hand typewriter, which he always carried in his grip, was busy clicking away—presumably writing copy for the columns of his paper. What really occurred however, was this: He wrote two letters on the hotel stationery—one addressed to Hon. Ben Bragdon, and the other addressed to Hon. W. Henry Carlisle, and the envelopes were marked private.

After the letters were duly typewritten, he placed an electric light under a pane of glass with which he had provided himself, elevating the glass by supporting the ends with a couple of books, and then from letters that he had at some former time received from both aspirants cleverly traced and signed the signature of W. Henry Carlisle to one letter and in like manner signed the signature of Ben Bragdon to the other letter—yes, brazen forgeries.

After inclosing them in their respective envelopes, he stole softly out into the hallway and slipped one under the door of Carlisle’s room and the other under the door of Bragdon’s room. Then he went downstairs and bribed the night clerk to call both Bragdon and Carlisle at sharp fifteen minutes before six o’clock. This done, Clemens hastened back to his own apartment for a few hours’ sleep, wondering as he disrobed if the “end would justify the means.”

“There is no question,” he said to himself as he climbed into the bed, “but that the Republican ox is in the ditch and heroic measures are necessary.”

The following morning, when W. Henry Carlisle was awakened by the night clerk calling out softly the hour of seven o’clock, he hastily arose and began dressing, but before he had half finished he spied the letter that had been pushed under his door. Picking it up, he broke the seal and this is what he read:

“My dear Carlisle:—

“It probably requires more bravery to make an apology and to ask to be forgiven than it does to settle differences between gentlemen by the now antiquated ‘code.’

“I here and now tender my apologies for any unkind words I may in the past have spoken derogatory to you, and as an evidence of my candor will pledge you the support of myself and friends for both temporary and permanent chairman at tomorrow’s convention, if you reciprocate this offer of a reconciliation.

“If you are big enough and broad enough and generous enough to accept this overture and desire to bury all past differences and from now on work in harmony together, each helping the other, as did Jonathan and David of old, why, the opportunity is offered, and we will let bygones be bygones.

“If you accept this apology, meet me at the hotel bar early tomorrow morning and merely extend your hand of friendship in greeting. I will understand; but please do not humiliate me by mentioning the fact, even to your best friends, that I have written this letter, and above all do not refer to it at our meeting tomorrow morning or at any future time. It is quite enough if these old differences are wiped off the slate between you and myself without commenting, or permitting comments to be made. I am not unmindful, Carlisle, that you are a great big able man and I want you to be my friend, and I wish to be yours. You have the power to make my nomination for state senator unanimous.

“I have the honor of subscribing myself

“Very sincerely yours,

“Ben Bragdon.”

Across the hall Ben Bragdon was also reading a letter, which was almost a duplicate of the one that Carlisle was perusing, except that the conditions were reversed. Carlisle, in his letter of apology, offered to support Bragdon for the nomination, provided the hatchet was buried and the Bragdon forces would support him for temporary and permanent chairman.

At the conclusion of the reading of these respective letters, each wore an exultant look of mastery on his face. For the time being at least all other differences were forgotten. In the hearts of both was the thought: “It’s mighty decent of him; he really is a bigger man than I thought.”

Carlisle was the first man to leave his room and going quickly downstairs passed hurriedly into the hotel bar, which at that early hour was deserted except for the immaculate, white-aproned bartender.

“What will it be this morning, Mr. Carlisle?” was the respectful inquiry of the attendant.

“Nothing just yet,” replied Carlisle, “I am waiting for a friend.”

A moment later Ben Bragdon came in, whereupon both of these skillful politicians vied in meeting each other more than half-way and extending the right hand of good fellowship in kindliest greetings.

“Guess we’re a little early,” stammered Bragdon in a futile attempt to appear at ease and free from embarrassment. They both laughed a little, and Carlisle remarked that fortunately the bartender was at his post even if the delegates were slow about getting started on the day’s work.

Just then the night clerk appeared and apologized for calling them so early. “Don’t know how it happened,” he stammered, “but I made a mistake of an hour. I called you gentlemen at six instead of seven. I hope you’ll not—”

“Oh, that’s all right,” exclaimed Bragdon and Carlisle in unison, as they good-naturedly waved him aside with their assurance that they were glad to be up and about.

“A couple of Martini cocktails,” said Bragdon to the attendant. The cocktails were soon before them and tossed off in a jiffy, with the mutual salutation of “Here’s how.”

“Come again, my man; make it half a dozen this time—three apiece,” said Carlisle, laughing and throwing down a twenty dollar gold piece. “Might as well have a good appetizer while we’re about it, and then we’ll relish our breakfast, good or bad.”

They chatted about the weather while the cocktails were being prepared. Finally the cocktails were pushed along the bar counter, three in front of each.

“All right,” said Bragdon, as they each lifted a glass. “Here’s to your good health!”

“Thanks,” said Carlisle, “but since we have three cocktails apiece before us, suppose we drink to the past, the present, and the future!”

“Good!” replied Bragdon, beaming with approval. “Splendid idea and happily put” He then ordered some of the highest priced cigars the house afforded and insisted on Carlisle filling his pockets, while he stowed away a goodly number himself.

Soon after the fourth cocktail disappeared, they started for the dining-room arm in arm, chatting away to one another like two old cronies who had just met after a long separation. They found seats at a table in a far corner and in their eagerness to say the right thing to one another took no notice that a few of the delegates were already at tables in different parts of the room. The delegates laid down their knives and forks and looked toward Bragdon and Carlisle in astonishment. Then they whispered among themselves, whereupon four or five left the room quietly and hastened with all speed to carry word to the other delegates, most of whom were still in their apartments.

The news spread like wildfire, and a general scramble followed in hurriedly dressing and rushing downstairs to witness with their own eyes such an unexpected turn in political affairs between two men who had been at daggers drawn.

Within a very short time the dining-room was well filled with delegates, but neither Bragdon nor Carlisle paid any attention; nor were they seemingly conscious that all eyes were turned upon them. Each was felicitating himself on the turn of events. Then, too, their amiability, as well as their appetites, had no doubt been whetted into keenest activity by the cocktails.

Ben Bragdon, after breakfast, gave orders that the Hon. W. Henry Carlisle was to be made both temporary and permanent chairman, and Carlisle likewise announced that the Hon. Ben Bragdon was to be nominated as senatorial candidate by acclamation; and each issued his instructions in such a matter-of-fact, yet stubbornly blunt fashion, that no one offered any objection or asked any questions.

The delegates looked at each other, nudged one another in the ribs and indulged in many a sly wink of suppressed amusement. But they all quickly recognized the political advantage insured by a coalition of the Bragdon and Carlisle forces, and the utter dismay this would cause in the camp of the Democrats. Therefore they all became “programme” men and took their orders meekly. So when the convention finally met and got down to business with Carlisle presiding, it at once proceeded to nominate Ben Bragdon by a unanimous vote.

Seemingly everybody cheered on the slightest provocation and everybody was in excellent good nature, and after the convention had completed its labors and adjourned, it was conceded to have been one of the most harmonious political gatherings ever held in the state. Thus was the prediction of Earle Clemens, the newspaper scribe, fulfilled to the very letter.

The convention over, the delegates drifted back to the Ferris House and not long after Big Phil Lee called at Clemens’ room. The editor was picking away at his typewriter, preparing a report for the columns of his paper. Grant Jones, Roderick Warfield, and two or three others were in the room, smoking and talking. But Clemens paid no attention, so intent was he on his work. Big Phil Lee, who without doubt had been Bragdon’s loudest shouter, said: “Say, Clemens, I compliment you on your prophetic editorials. I reckon you are writing another one. You said the convention would be harmonious, and how in the demnition bow-wows your prophecy happened to come true nobody knows. But it did.”

“Thanks,” replied Clemens, in his light-hearted jovial way, and then looking out of the window for a moment, added: “I say, Lee, don’t it beat hell what a little clever horse sense will accomplish at times in a political convention?”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Big Phil, quickly. “You seem to be posted. By gad! I think it’s high time I was taken into the inner councils myself and had the seemingly inexplainable made clear to me.”

“Search me,” replied Clemens in a subdued voice, as he bit the tip of another cigar and struck a match. “Neither Bragdon nor Carlisle has invited me into any of their secret conferences.”

Big Phil Lee looked a bit incredulous, shook his head in a nonplussed sort of way and said: “Well, so long, boys. I’m goin’ down to the hotel parlor where Bragdon is holding his reception. They are falling over one another congratulating Carlisle about as much as they are Bragdon.”

As the door closed behind him, Clemens looked up from his typewriter and said to Grant Jones, laughingly: “Say, Grant, remember what the Good Book says?”

“Says lots of things—what do you refer to?” asked Grant

Clemens replied: “Blessed are the peacemakers.”

Grant Jones came over close to him and said: “Look here, Clemens.” And he fixed him with his eyes as if searching for an answer to that which was veiled in mystery. But Clemens stood the ordeal and presently Jones burst out laughing: “It’s all right, Clemens, the Herald has sure put one over on the Doublejack this time. I don’t know how it was done, and maybe I never will know. But take it from me, it was clever—damned clever!”

Clemens made no reply, but removing his cigar winked at Roderick Warfield who was sitting near, puffed rings of smoke toward the ceiling and afterwards whistled softly the air of “Wyoming,” the state song, even while he smiled the smile of a knowledge that surpasses understanding.

Delegates and sightseers, Republicans and Democrats, who had journeyed to see a hotly contested nomination, ostensibly for the state senate but really for political supremacy, were good-natured and jovial when they started on the return trip. Big Phil Lee shouted to Earle Gemens who was on the other stage and said: “We are such a happy family, I presume we will return on the same road instead of dividing and horse racing.”

Clemens and the other returning passengers on the hurricane deck laughed good-naturedly and said: “Sure, we will stick together from now on and fight the Democrats.” Presently the crowd commenced singing vigorously—if a bunch of discordant voices could be so described—various popular airs of the day.

That evening a reception was given Ben Bragdon at the hotel Bonhomme in Encampment, and the affair was presided over by W. Henry Carlisle. It was interpreted that the breach between these two attorneys had been effectually healed to the discomfiture of the Democrats. But no one save and except Earle Clemens knew how it had been brought about.

Roderick Warfield slipped away early from the scene of jubilation, and carried the glorious news to the Shields’ ranch that Ben Bragdon had been unanimously nominated. Barbara, with the flush of radiant joy on her face, could no longer deny the soft impeachment, and he boldly congratulated her on her coming wedding to the senator-elect for southern Wyoming.

CHAPTER XXVII.—THE UPLIFTING OF HUMANITY

THE following evening Roderick called at the Major’s home, and found a visitor there, a stranger yet very well known to him by reputation. This was no other than the Reverend Stephen Grannon, the travelling parson, of whose fame as a doer of good deeds at the cost of complete self-sacrifice and self-denial, Roderick had often heard.

“Delighted to see you, Roderick,” said the Major. “Come right in. You know, of course, the most noted man in the camp—the man with the saddle bags. What? Never met yet? Well, it is a great pleasure to me to make you two acquainted.”

After cordial greetings had been exchanged Major Hampton continued: “We have just been discussing some of the great problems of humanity. Pardon me, my dear friend, but I wish to say to Mr. Warfield that if I were called upon today to name the greatest humanitarian with whom I am acquainted I certainly should say—the Reverend Stephen Grannon.”

“You do me too much honor,” interposed the parson hastily. “You compliment me far too highly.” Major Hampton went on as if the Reverend Stephen Grannon had made no interruption: “The school of humanitarianism is small in number, but the combined results of their labors directed through the channels of service in the behalf of humanity bear the stamp of greatness. The sincere lover of his fellows recognizes that the poor of this world have borne and are still bearing the burdens of the race. The poor have built all the monuments along the world’s highway of civilization. They have produced all the wealth from the hills and from the soil The poor of the world have endured the hardships of conquering the wilds and erecting outposts on the border of civilization. Indeed they conquer everything except the fetters that bind them and hold them as an asset of great corporate power that is heartless and soulless and indifferent to the privations and sufferings of the individual.”

The Reverend Stephen Grannon gave it as his view that the mission of a humanitarian was not to hinder the world’s progress, nor even to prejudice anyone against the fortune gathering of the rich, but rather to dispell the darkness of injustice and assist the great army of the impoverished to a better understanding of their rights as well as their powers to conquer the evils that have throughout the ages crept into and clung to our civilization.

“Poverty,” he remarked, “is the cause of much misery and often the impelling motive to immorality and crime in many forms. Men often sell and barter their votes and birthrights in this free country to bribe givers—wily politicians—while our girls are not infrequently lured into selling their very souls for ribbons and the gaudiness and shams of the world.”

“What is the cure?” asked Roderick, greatly interested.

“The cure,” responded the preacher, “is the regeneration of mankind through the leavening and uplifting power of the principles taught by the humble humanitarian of Galilee, the great prince of righteousness.”

“Yes,” chimed in Major Hampton, “the Reverend Stephen Grannon has given you the solution for the problem. Add to this a higher education. The more highly educated the individual,” continued the Major, “the greater the crime if they break the law.”

“But,” said Roderick, “this is a free country and we have free schools. Why do not the poor have a better education?”

Reverend Grannon turned quickly to Roderick and replied: “You come with me to the twenty-odd mining camps, Mr. Warfield, surrounding this town of Encampment—come with me up in the hills where there are no schools—see the little children growing up in carelessness because of the impossibility on the part of their fathers and mothers to provide them with school privileges. In the school room the teacher becomes the overseer not alone of their studies but of their morals as well. Let me take you down in the mines,” he continued, speaking with great earnestness, “and see the boys from twelve years to twenty-one years working day after day, many of them never having had school privileges and therefore unable to read or write.”

He paused for just a moment, then resumed: “It brings to my mind what a very wise man once wrote. It was King Solomon, and among many other splendid truths he said: ‘The rich man’s wealth is his strong city; the destruction of the poor is their poverty.’.rdquo;

“Roderick,” said the Major as he lit his meerschaum and blew the smoke towards the ceiling, “my heart is very light tonight, for I have arranged with the assistance of the Reverend Stephen Grannon to help relieve this lamentable situation in those mining camps up in the mountains away from school privileges. I have recently taken the matter up with the county commissioners and have agreed to build twenty schoolhouses. Each schoolhouse will consist of two rooms. One will be for the smaller children during the day and also to serve as a night school for the young men and young women who are employed in manual labor during working hours. The other room is a library sufficiently large and spacious to accommodate the young men of each mining community and thus keep them away from saloons, brothels, and prize ring attractions. One hour each evening will be taken up by a reader and a regular course of entertaining books will be read aloud in a serial way. The books in the library will be loaned out on tickets and the usual library rules observed.”

“Splendid,” said Roderick, “that sounds practical to me.”

“It is practical,” said the Reverend Stephen Grannon, “and thanks to Major Buell Hampton this plan which I have cherished for so many years will soon be put into effect.”

Looking at his watch he turned to the Major and said: “By the way, Major, I have a couple of poor families to visit tonight. I have promised them, and they will be disappointed if I do not come.” He arose as he said this.

“My good friend,” replied Buell Hampton, “I am sorry you cannot remain longer with us, but I would not keep you from your duties.”

The Reverend Stephen Grannon put on his top coat, as the evenings were growing chilly, and after shaking hands took his departure.

When he was gone and the door closed, Major Hampton turned to Roderick and holding up one hand said reverently: “Of such is the kingdom of heaven. In all my lifetime, Roderick, I have never known another such splendid character. I have closely observed his work ever since I came to this camp. Perhaps in his entire lifetime he has not collected fifty dollars in money. He says he does not want money.”

“But he must have money to live on.”

“Above all money considerations,” said the Major, looking into the darkened corner of his living room, “he wants to save souls here on this earth so that he will have more jewels in his crown over yonder—these are his own words. There is not a family in the surrounding country that he is not acquainted with. If there is sickness he is the first one there. Where the greatest poverty abounds you will find him. He goes out and solicits alms for those in distress, but keeps nothing for himself excepting the frailest living. Go through the valley or up in the mountain gorges or still farther up in the mining camps where the snow never melts from the shady side of the log cabins, and you will find this noble character, Reverend Stephen Grannon, doing his good work for the poor—ministering to their wants and endeavoring to lift humanity into higher walks, physically, morally, and spiritually.”

“I am glad you have told me all this,” replied Roderick. “It increases my already high opinion of the parson.”

“He is a veritable shepherd among the people,” continued Major Hampton. “Reverend Grannon is the true flockmaster of Wyoming. The people are frequently unruly, boisterous, intemperate and immoral, yet he treats them with greatest consideration and seeks to persuade and lead them away from their sins and transgressions. Yes, he is a great flockmaster—he is well named The Flockmaster.”

Both were silent for a few moments. Then the Major, as if suddenly remembering something, looked up and said: “He tells me Scotty Meisch is getting along fine over in the Dillon Doublejack printing office.”

“I am glad to hear that,” exclaimed Roderick. “It is good to have saved at least one lad from going the way of those outlaws of Jack Creek. I have never forgotten that ghastly midnight scene—the massacred sheep and the burning herders’ wagons.”

“Well, what can you expect?” asked the Major. “When the social waters are poisoned at the fountain head, the whole course of the stream becomes pernicious. In this state of Wyoming the standard of political decency is not high. The people have no real leaders to look up to. The United States Senator, F. E. Greed, sets a pernicious example to the rising generation. He violates laws in scores of instances because of his greed and grafting proclivities, and his bribed supporters go on year after year supporting him. What the state needs is a leader. High-minded leaders are priceless. Their thoughts and their deeds are the richest legacy to a state or a community. Great leaders are beacon lights kindled upon the mountain peaks of the centuries, illuminating the mental and moral atmosphere of civilization. The history of the world—of a nation, of a state and of a community—is the story of their epochal deeds, while man’s advancement is only the lengthened shadow of their moral, spiritual and temporal examples. Leaders come up from the crowd, from among the poor and the lowly. They are immediately recognized by the great mass of the people and invariably crowned, although sometimes it is a crown of thorns that they are compelled to wear and endure for upholding priceless principles in their endeavor to lead humanity to a higher plane. However,” concluded the Major, “the world is growing better. The nimble-fingered, tilltapping, porch-climbing derelicts in politics and commercialism are becoming unpopular. The reprehensible methods in all avenues of life are being condemned instead of condoned—the goats are being cast out from among the sheep.”

“You interest me very much, Major,” said Roderick. “Your ideals are so high, your aims so decent and right, that it is a pleasure to hear you talk. I am a firm believer,” Roderick went on, “in the justice of the doctrine that all men are created free and equal.”

“It is a sad commentary,” replied Major Hampton, “in this land where liberty is cherished and our Government corner-stoned upon the theory that all men are free and equal, that even the soberest of us are compelled, my dear Roderick, to regard such affirmations as blasphemous. To illustrate: An employee in one of the big manufacturing combinations committed a burglary—almost petty larceny in its smallness—another case of Jean Valjean stealing bread for his children—and yet he was tried before an alleged court of justice and sent to the penitentiary for ten years. The head of the same institution pillaged multiplied millions from the poor in unjust and lawless extortions. When he was caught red-handed in his lawbreaking, instead of sharing a prison cell with the poor man our courts indulgently permitted this great highwayman six months’ time in which to reorganize and have legalized his methods of stealing.”

“Such rank injustice,” exclaimed Roderick, “makes my blood tingle with indignation. It is surely high time a determined crusade was led against the privileged classes.”

The Major made no reply but after a little, looking up from the open grate and turning to Roderick, he asked him if he was aware that the next day was the annual meeting of the stockholders of the Encampment Mine and Smelting Company.

“Oh, is it?” said Roderick. “Some time ago I noticed something in the newspapers about the meeting, but as it was of no particular moment to me I had forgotten it.”

“Yes,” said Major Hampton, “and I guess I will now tell you that I have been holding a secret from you.”

“That so?” exclaimed Roderick questioningly.

“You will remember,” the Major went on, “that I left you in Denver after we made the big ore shipment and that I was away for three or four weeks. Well, I went to New York, employed two or three big brokers down on Wall Street, and commenced buying Encampment Mine and Smelter Company stock on the exchange. Working jointly with a new friend I have discovered, a professional man of finance yet a true friend of humanity, I have absolute control of the stock today.”

“You have?” exclaimed Roderick. “You own a control of the stock in this great smelter and the Ferris-Haggerty mine?”

“Yes, the whole enterprise is virtually in our ownership. Well, something is going to happen tomorrow at the stockholders’ meeting which I fear will not be pleasant to certain individuals. But duty compels me to pursue a course I have mapped out. My chosen work in life is to serve the poor, yet in trying to fulfill this mission I harbor no resentful thoughts against the rich as a class nor do I intend for them any unfair treatment.”

“If the people only knew,” remarked Roderick, softly, “you are without doubt one of the richest men in this part of the country and yet you so honestly prefer the simple life.”

“There are two kinds of rich people,” continued the Major. “One class is arrogant and unfeeling; they hoard money by fair means or foul for money’s sake and for the power it brings. The other class use their wealth not to oppress but to relieve the worthy poor. Personally, Warfield, I do not regard the money which accident has made mine as being in any sense a personal possession. Rather do I hold it as a trust fund. Of course I am grateful. The money enlarges my opportunity to do things for my fellows that I wish to do.”

The Major paused a moment, then resumed: “Do you remember, Roderick, when I first told you, Jim Rankin and the others about my hidden mine that I said there were six men in the world whom I held in highest esteem?”

“I remember well,” assented Roderick.

“Well, five of you were present then—Tom Sun, Boney Earnest, and Grant Jones, with yourself and Jim. For the absent sixth one I specifically reserved a share in my prosperity, although at the time I withheld his name. Now you know it He is the one entitled to most consideration among us all—the Reverend Stephen Grannon.”

“Of course he is,” concurred Roderick, with hearty conviction. “He can do more good in the world than all the rest of us together, yourself excepted, Major.”

“At present, perhaps,” said Buell Hampton. “But let his shining example be an incentive to you all—to us all. Well, in a confidential way, I will tell you, Roderick, that when in New York I also purchased a large block of bonds that yields an income of something like $20,000 per year. This income I have legally turned over with proper writings to the Reverend Stephen Grannon, and already I think you will discover a vast improvement in the mining camps and throughout the valleys among the poor. For Stephen Grannon is a godly man and a true humanitarian.”

“My word, but that’s great—that’s grand!” murmured Roderick with deep enthusiasm. And he gazed at Buell Hampton’s noble soul-lit face admiringly.

The Major rose to his feet—his usual method of intimating that he wished to be alone. Roderick grasped his hand, and would have spoken further, but Buell Hampton interrupted him.

“Say no more, my dear boy. I am glad that you have been interested in what I had to say tonight. The veil was lifted and you saw me as I am—anxious to be of benefit to my fellows. I shall indeed be proud if you find these doctrines not merely acceptable to yourself, but in some degree at least stimulative in your acts toward the worthy poor and lowly as the years come and go.”

As Roderick walked slowly along the street deep in thought over Buell Hampton’s words, he came suddenly upon W. B. Grady and several well dressed strangers at a street corner. The visitors, he surmised, were eastern directors of the big smelting company who had come to Encampment for the stockholders’ meeting on the morrow.

CHAPTER XXVIII.—JUSTICE FOR THE WORKERS

THE next morning at ten o’clock, Major Buell

Hampton walked down to the smelter office. He was met at the door of the directors’ room by the general manager, Mr. W. B. Grady. Despite a bold front Grady looked careworn and anxious.

“Hold on there,” he said as the Major started to enter. “What do you want?” He spoke roughly. “This is a meeting of some gentlemen who are interested in the Smelter.”

“Very well,” said the Major. “I came down to attend the stockholders’ meeting.”

“Well, you can’t go in,” said Grady. “Stockholders’ meetings of this company are private. We do not furnish entertainment and gossip for onlookers like a justice of the peace court.”

“That may all be true—I hope it is true, Mr. Grady,” said the Major, and he looked him in the eyes with more of pity than of anger depicted on his face. The crafty manager cringed before the critical inspection.

“I am here strictly on business,” continued Buell Hampton. “I am a stockholder.”

“You a stockholder in our Smelter Company?”

“I have that honor,” replied the Major, tersely. “Or at least I hold powers of attorney from the largest group of stockholders in your company.”

An ashen grey crept into Grady’s face.

“What do you mean?” he faltered. “You are not a shareholder of record on our books.”

“No, but you will find as shareholders of record the names of Charles T. Brown, George Edward Reed, Herbert Levy, Daniel W. Higbee, and a few others about whom I need not bother.”

A new light broke over Grady. He looked more sickly than ever.

“These are recent purchasers of stock,” he said, “in New York and also, if I remember rightly, in Iowa.”

“Precisely, and together these buyers now hold the controlling interest in your company. Here are the legal documents constituting me the attorney for all these men.” He drew a neat little packet of papers from the breast pocket of his coat. “In other words I am these men—I hold the controlling power, although I did not choose to disclose the fact until this morning. Now, will you please let me pass? Thank you.”

If a pistol had been thrust against the ribs of W. B. Grady, he could not have looked more utterly scared. He had stepped aside to let the Major pass and now bluff and bluster changed swiftly to sycophancy.

“All right, Major Hampton,” he said, in his most ingratiating manner. “Walk right in and let me introduce you to some of the other stockholders. Of course, only a few of them are here.”

The Major followed him into the directors’ room and was duly presented.

“This,” said Grady with patronizing suavity, “is an old fellow townsman of ours here in Encampment and a friend of mine. Here, Major, take this chair,” insisted Grady. “You see we are all a happy family together.”

Major Hampton could not but contrast the fawning manner of the general manager before his superiors, the directors of the Company, with his notoriously overbearing and insolent treatment of the workingmen.

“Well,” said the chairman, “fortunately we have a very good manager.”

“Thank you,” said Grady with increased affability.

“For myself, I am pleased and delighted at the general manager’s report which I presume it will be in order now to have read. I think we have all seen it in advance.”

The Major shook his head in dissent but made no comment.

Thereupon the meeting was called to order, and after the preliminaries were concluded Mr. W. B. Grady proceeded to read a rather brief but very interesting annual report.

His report was not only a business summary of a most successful fiscal year, but also abounded with more or less veiled laudations of himself in his capacity of manager.

Attorney Wm. Henry Carlisle, who combined with his legal position a seat on the board of directors, advised that the election of a directorate for the ensuing year was in order. By this time it was known to the other shareholders present that Major Buell Hampton owned or represented a control of the stock. This rather upset the cut-and-dried program.

W. B. Grady, addressing the chairman, said that he presumed Major Buell Hampton would appreciate being elected a member of the board of directors, and if the Company’s attorney, Mr. Carlisle, did not object perhaps it would be well for him to vacate his seat so as to make room for the new incumbent.

Carlisle’s face grew very red at this attempted slight but he said nothing.

Major Buell Hampton arose, and addressing the chairman said: “Since I have acquired control of the stock of this Company, I have decided that Mr. Grady shall not be re-elected as a director. But in the first place I wish to ask of all stockholders present what their intentions are regarding the declaring of a dividend?”

With this he resumed his seat.

By every lineament on Grady’s face one could see that he was furious.

“I presume,” said the chairman, “that it would be proper to follow the suggestion of Mr. Grady, our general manager, and declare a dividend of seventy-two per cent on the capital stock.”

Major Buell Hampton, again addressing the chair, remarked that seventy-two per cent, was certainly a fat dividend. But for himself he had purchased a control of the Company’s stock for the purpose of introducing some innovations in its management, and in order that there might be no misunderstanding he felt it was now proper to present his views. If any of the directors were not in harmony, why, of course, it would be inadvisable for them to stand for re-election to a directorate over which he intended henceforth to exercise a close supervision.

“I now wish to ask the directors of the Company this question,” added the Major. “What about Boney Earnest’s dividend?”

He paused for a reply.

For a moment the stockholders and representatives of stockholders present seemed almost dumfounded. They turned to the manager, Mr. Grady, who answered the Major by saying he did not know that Boney Earnest, the dismissed blast furnace foreman, was a stockholder or had any investment in the concern—“it was all news to him,” he added with a weak attempt at levity.

Major Hampton had remained standing, and by silent consent all waited for him to reply to this statement.

“Yes, gentlemen,” he said quietly, “Boney Earnest may not be a stockholder of record. But all the same he had his all invested in this smelting plant. Day after day, during year after year, he stood before the blast furnace, doing work of a class which few men could endure. It is true he received a daily wage until the date of his dismissal, but he had invested in addition to his daily duties almost a life-time of ripe experience in the particular work he was doing for this concern. In short, he had his all—his strength, his brain and his experience—invested. In these circumstances I object,” continued Major Hampton, “to a dividend of seventy-two per cent. I notice from the manager’s report that he has made ample allowances for betterments, replacements, and surplus, and even with all these very proper provisions, the enormous possible dividend of seventy-two per cent, still remains. An original capital stock of $500,000 and an annual dividend of $360,000, certainly is a magnificent showing.”

Buell Hampton paused and all present clapped their hands gleefully, as if the Major was coming around to their way of thinking.

After silence was restored he proceeded: “Money is worth probably from five per cent, to six per cent, per annum on solid, non-hazardous investments and at least double these figures or more on mining investments which must be regarded as extremely hazardous. It is not, however, worth seventy-two per cent. per annum. Therefore, gentlemen, we will declare a dividend of six per cent, on the capital stock, which will require $30,000. We will then add the capital stock to the pay roll. The pay roll for the last year in round numbers is $1,100,000. The capital stock is $500,000 or a total of both of $1,600,000. We will then declare the remaining $330,000 of earnings into a dividend on the entire $1,600,000 of capital stock and annual pay roll combined, which amounts to a little over twenty per cent. This will give to the shareholders of our company’s stock a little more than a twenty-six per cent, dividend.”

The Major sat down. Consternation was apparent on every countenance.

“Major,” said one of the eastern directors, “may I ask you what would happen and what you would do in carrying out your altruistic dream if the earnings did not amount to even six per cent, on the money actually invested?”

The Major arose again and with great politeness replied: “Probably we would not declare a dividend. If we had but $30,000 that could be legitimately applied to dividend purposes, the amount would belong to the stockholders. But anything above this preferred dividend to the shareholders should be declared on the annual pay roll combined with and added to the capital stock of the company, both classes of investors participating in the surplus over and above six per cent, preferred dividend. The question with me,” added the Major, “is this? How many of you directors are in sympathy with the suggestion I have made?”

There came no answer, and he continued: “A while ago I expressed myself against your manager for a position on the directorate. I always have a reason for my decisions. It has come to me,” continued the Major, “that while the original cost of this plant may have been $500,000 yet by the wicked manipulation of the ‘system’ the original shareholders were completely frozen out—legally robbed if you please, of their investment and it is quite probable the Pennsylvania crowd, the present owners or at least those who were the owners before I purchased a control, paid very little in real money but much in duplicity and ripened experience in the ways of the fox and the jackal. I have learned on excellent authority that Mr. W. B. Grady, by stealth and cunning, secured the underlying bonds from one of the former builders of this great plant, and robbed him and left him penniless in his old age. Unless other means of restitution be devised, the reimbursing of those stolen sums out of my private purse will be one of my first duties and one of my greatest pleasures.”

Grady rose, his face flushed with passion. But Buell Hampton waved him down with his hand and calmly proceeded: “I will state another innovation. There are seven directors who control the destinies of this company. I now insist that the company’s attorney shall be instructed to have the by-laws so amended that the head of each department, beginning at the mine where we extract the ore, then the tramway which carries the ore to the smelter and all the various departments in the smelter including the converter—shall be elected annually by the workers themselves in each of the seven departments. In this way there will be seven foremen; and these seven foremen shall be officially recognized by the amended by-laws of this company as an advisory board of directors, entitled to sit and vote with the regular directors at each monthly meeting and likewise with the stockholders in their annual meeting.”

Had a bomb-shell been thrown into the stockholders’ meeting greater consternation could not have been evinced’. Finally Attorney Carlisle moved that an adjournment be taken until ten o’clock the next day, at which time the stockholders would re-assemble and further consider the unexpected and doubtless vital questions now under consideration. The motion prevailed.

Of course the entire matter hinged first of all upon the election of a directorate. During the adjournment Attorney Carlisle, peeved at Grady’s readiness to drop him from the directorate, called on Major Hampton and assured him he was in accord with the views he had expressed and that his every suggestion could be legally complied with by amending the by-laws.

Buell Hampton, however, did not take the hint implied. He was courteous but firm. The old régime had to go—the management must be changed, lock, stock and barrel. Therefore there could be no further utilization of Mr. Carlisle’s services as attorney for the company. Baffled and discomfited the lawyer withdrew. He was full of indignation, not against Major Hampton, but against Grady, for he had warned the latter against selling a certain block of stock to part with which had jeopardized control of the corporation. But Grady, in need of money, had replied that there was no risk, the buying being sporadic and the existing directorate in high favor with the stockholders because of its ability and readiness to vote big dividends.

Grady had little dreamed that already considerable blocks of the stock had passed, under various names, into the control of the Keokuk banker, Allen Miller, to whom he had some time before mortgaged his Mine and Smelter Company bonds, and who had reasons of his own for displacing Grady and crippling him still more badly in his finances. Nor had he sensed the danger that the scattered sales of stock in the East had been in reality for a single buyer, Major Buell Hampton. Therefore he had been caught quite unprepared for the combination of forces that was able now to throw him down and out at the first meeting of stockholders. For once the fox had slept and had been caught napping in the short grass, away from the tall timber.

Carlisle had of late been too busy “doing politics,” and had allowed matters to drift even though he had seen possible rocks ahead. Now the two old-time confederates were blaming each other—Carlisle denouncing Grady for parting with the stock control, Grady upbraiding Carlisle for neglect in not having taken steps to discover who were the real buyers of the shares being gradually transferred on the company’s stock books. The blow, however, had fallen, and there was no means of blocking the transfer of power into new hands.

When the stockholders’ meeting reconvened the following morning, Major Buell Hampton submitted the names of five men whom he desired on the directorate. They were—Roderick Warfield, Grant Jones, Boney Earnest and himself, together with Ben Bragdon, who would also take up the duties of attorney for the company. This left only a couple of places to be filled by the eastern stockholders. Two names from among the old directors were offered and accepted. Indeed the selection of directors became a unanimous affair, for seeing themselves utterly defeated both Grady and Carlisle, glaring at each other, had left the room.

Major Hampton’s views on corporations and dividends, and his new plan of management for the Smelter Company spread all over the camp with astonishing rapidity, and there was general rejoicing among the miners and laborers.

One employee in the smelter who had been with the company for some three years made the discovery that, while he was receiving three dollars per day, which meant an annual income to himself and family of $1095, his dividend would bring him an extra lump sum of $219 annually.

When figuring this out to his wife he said: “Think of the pairs of shoes it will buy for our kiddies, Bess.”

And the woman, an Irishwoman, had replied: “Bless the little darlin’s. And hats and coats as well, not to speak of ribbons for the girls. God bless the Major. Sure but he’s a wonderful man.”

Several workers sitting in a corner of the Red Dog saloon were calculating with pencil and paper their annual dividends on the already famous Buell Hampton plan.

“Boys,” said one of them after they had their several accounts figured to the penny, “maybe we won’t make the dividend bigger next year—what?”

“I should say,” responded another. “I’ll do at least twice the work every day of the coming year, because there’s now an object for us poor devils to keep busy all the time. We’re sharing in the profits, that’s just what it means.”

“There’ll be a great reduction in breakage and waste,” remarked another employee.

“The directors can leave it to us to make the next year’s dividend a dandy one.”

These were just a few of the grateful encomiums flying around.

On the day following the stockholders’ meeting the newly elected directors convened, all except Grant Jones, who was over at Dillon and had not yet been advised of his election. After Major Buell Hampton had been voted into the chair a communication from W. B. Grady was read, stating that he wished to know at once if the directors desired his services for the ensuing year; if so he required a written contract, and should the directors not be ready to comply with this ultimatum they could interpret this letter as a formal resignation. There was a general smile around the directors’ table at this bluffing acceptance of the inevitable. It was promptly moved, seconded, and carried unanimously that Mr. W. B. Grady be at once relieved from all further connection with the Smelter Company’s plant and business.

Major Hampton then explained that in accordance with his scheme the men in the various departments would be invited at an early date to elect their foremen, and these foremen in turn would have the power, not to elect a general manager, but to recommend one for the final consideration of the directors. Until a permanent appointment was made he suggested that Boney Earnest, the blast furnace foreman dismissed by the late manager because of a personal quarrel, should take charge of the plant, he being a man of tried experience and worthy of absolute trust. This suggestion was promptly turned into a substantive motion and adopted by formal resolution. The meeting adjourned after Director Bragdon in his capacity as company attorney had been instructed to proceed immediately to the work of preparing the proper amendments to the by-laws and taking all legal steps necessary to put into operation the new plan.

Thus neither mine nor smelting plant was shut down, but everything went on without interruption and with greater vigor than before the momentous meetings of stockholders and directors. The only immediate visible effect of the company’s radical change in policy was Grady’s deposition from the post which had enabled him to exercise a cruel tyranny over the workingmen.

And in the solitude of his home the dismissed manager, broken financially although those around him did not yet know it, was nursing schemes of revenge against Buell Hampton, the man of mystery who had humiliated him and ousted him from power.

Where was his henchman, Bud Bledsoe?—that was the question throbbing in Grady’s brain. But Bud Bledsoe was now an outlaw among the hills, with a price on his head and a sheriff’s posse ready at a moment’s notice to get on his heels.

“By God, I’ve got to find him,” muttered Grady. And that night, in the falling dusk, he rode out alone into the mountain fastnesses.

CHAPTER XXIX.—SLEIGH BELLS

THE morning after the directors’ meeting, when Roderick awakened and looked out of the window, he found the air filled with flakes of falling snow. He wasted no time over his toilet. Immediately after breakfast he bundled up snugly and warmly, went over to the livery stable and engaged a team and a sleigh. Soon after, the horses decorated with the best string of sleigh bells the livery could provide, he was holding the reins taut and sailing down through the main street of the little mining town headed for the country. He was going to the Shields ranch. Half a dozen invitations had been extended him during the past weeks, and he told himself he had been neglectful of his old employer.

When he reached the ranch and his team was duly stabled, the sleigh run in out of the storm, he was cordially welcomed by the family before a roaring fire of cheerfulness, and a multitude of questions were poured upon him.

“Why did you not come sooner and what about Major Hampton and the smelter? We have heard all sorts of wonderful things?”

“Why, what have you heard about the Major?” inquired Roderick, endeavoring to get a lead to the things that had evoked such surprise.

“I will tell you,” said Barbara. “Papa heard of it the day before yesterday when he was in town. The stockholders were having a meeting, and people said it had turned out to the surprise of everyone that Major Hampton was the owner of a control of the company’s stock.”

“Yes,” replied Roderick, “the rumor is correct. Great things have indeed happened. But haven’t you heard from Ben Bragdon?”

“Not a word.”

“Well, I suppose he has been too busy reconstructing the by-laws and the company’s affairs generally. Major Hampton has put him in as attorney. There’s a financial plum for you, Miss Barbara.”

“And Mr. Carlisle?” she asked in great astonishment.

“Like W. B. Grady, he is down and out,” replied Roderick. “There’s been a clean sweep. And behold in me a full-blossomed member of the board of directors. Our chairman, the Major, has handed me over a small library of books about smelting of ores, company management, and so on. He tells me I’ve got to get busy and learn the business—that I’m slated as vice-president and assistant manager, or something of that kind. What do you think of all that, Mr. Shields? There’s a rise in the world for your cowboy and broncho-buster of a few months ago.”

The cattle king and all the others warmly congratulated Roderick on his rising fortunes. Dorothy now took the lead in the conversation.

“You folks, keep still a moment until I ask Mr. Warfield just one question,” she said eagerly.

“Oh,” exclaimed Roderick, quickly, “I can answer the question. No, Grant Jones has not been over to Encampment for quite a while.”

A general laugh followed.

“He has a devil over at his office,” added Roderick gravely.

“A what?” they exclaimed.

“A devil. You surely know what a devil in a printing office is? It is a young fellow who washes the ink from the rolls and cleans the type or something of that sort—sweeps out, makes fires and does a wholesale janitor business. If he is faithful for fifteen or twenty years, then he learns to set type and becomes a printer. Grant is breaking his new devil in. Scotty Meisch, formerly one of your father’s cowboys, is his name.”

“Oh, little Scotty,” exclaimed Barbara. “I remember him.”

“Well, does that necessarily keep Grant away?” asked Dorothy.

“Oh, no, he is not necessarily kept away. He is probably a believer, Miss Dorothy, that absence makes the heart grow fonder.’ I was very disappointed,” Roderick went hurriedly on, smiling, “that Grant was not in town to share the sleigh with me in coming over this morning. Of course he doesn’t know it yet, but he also has been elected as one of the directors of the Encampment Mine and Smelter Company.”

“He has?” exclaimed Dorothy, her face lighting: “My word, but he’ll be all puffed up, won’t he?”

“Oh, no,” replied Roderick, “Grant is a very sensible fellow and he selects his friends and associates with marked discrimination.”

“Well, that’s what I think,” concurred Dorothy emphatically.

She was not a little embarrassed by a second ebullition of general laughter. There was a flush of rising color on her pretty cheeks.

“Well, I don’t care,” she added bravely. “If I like anybody I let them know about it, and that’s all there is to be said.”

While luncheon was in progress, Roderick suggested that as the sleighing was very good and his sleigh a very large one—the seat exceedingly wide—the young ladies should come sleigh-riding with him in the afternoon.

“Splendid,” shouted the sisters in unison. “Certainly, we will be delighted provided mother has no objections.”

“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Shields, good-naturedly. “This first snow of the season makes me feel like having a sleigh-ride myself. But, there, your seat certainly won’t take four of us, and I know that Mr. Shields is too busy to think of getting out his sleigh this afternoon.”

“Well, I’LL tell you what I’ll do, Mrs. Shields,” said Roderick, stirring his coffee. “I’ll take you for a ride first. We will go as far as the river and back again, and then if the young ladies are real good why of course I’ll give them the next spin.”

“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Shields, “you young people go on and have your sleigh ride and a good time.”

“No,” objected Barbara. “You shall have the first sleigh ride, Mama, and if you don’t go then Dorothy and I stay at home.”

“Come now, Mrs. Shields,” urged Roderick, “accept my invitation, for I see if you don’t I shall not be able to persuade the young ladies to come.”

“Yes, Mother,” said Dorothy, “it is just lovely of him to invite you, and certainly the sleigh ride will be invigorating. The truth is, we girls will enjoy the ride afterwards doubly if we know you have had the first ride of the season before we have ours.”

“Very well,” said Mrs. Shields, “since you all insist, so let it be.”

Soon after Roderick’s team was hitched to the sleigh and came jingling down to the front gate. Mrs. Shields was tucked snugly in under the robes and away they dashed with sleigh bells jingling, down the road towards the Platte River several miles away.

When they got back Barbara and Dorothy were in readiness, and Roderick started away with them amid much merry laughter and promises from the girls to be home when they got home but not before. The snow was still falling in great big flakes and the cushion beneath the runners was soft and thick. Mile followed mile, and it was late in the afternoon when the sleighing party found themselves in Encampment. Roderick insisted that the young ladies should have supper at the Hotel Bonhomme; they would start on the return trip home immediately afterwards.

When the sleigh drove up to the hotel, who should be looking out of the front door but Grant Jones? He rushed outside and assisted the sisters to alight.

“I will be back in a few minutes,” shouted Roderick, as he dashed away to the livery stable.

“Say, Joe,” said Roderick while the horses were being unhitched, “I will want the rig again after dinner, and Grant Jones will also want a sleigh.”

“All right,” replied the stableman. “I can fix him out all right and everything will be in readiness. Just telephone and I’ll send the rip over to the hotel.”

At the dinner table Grant Jones was at his best. He had already heard about the Smelter Company affairs and his own election as a director, and waved the topic aside. It was the surprise of seeing Dorothy that filled him with good-humor and joviality. As the meal progressed he turned to Roderick and said: “Oh, yes, Roderick, I’ve just been hearing from Scotty Meisch that during the summer months you learned to be a great trout fisherman.”

“Yes,” replied Roderick with a smile, “I certainly had a great trout-fishing experience.”

“Where?” asked Barbara quickly.

“On the South Fork of the Encampment River.”

“Now, Mr. Roderick Warfield,” said Barbara quite emphatically, “I invited you to go trout fishing with me a good many times, and you told me I should be the one to teach you the gentle art. Instead of this you go away and learn to catch trout all alone. How many did you catch?”

Roderick reddened with embarrassment.

“Twenty-six,” he said.

“Well, that was a pretty good catch for a novice. How big were they?”

“About two pounds,” Roderick answered, absent-mindedly.

Grant Jones was fairly choking with laughter. “I say, Barbara,” he began.

“I didn’t go trout fishing alone,” interrupted Roderick quickly.

“Look here, Barbara,” persisted Grant, calling to her across the table. But Barbara was all attention to Roderick.

“Who went with you?” she inquired.

“Miss Gail Holden,” he replied and his face was actually crimson.

Barbara laid down her knife and fork and leaned back in her chair, placed her arms akimbo with her pretty hands on her slender waist line, and looked at Roderick as if she were an injured child. Finally she said: “Trifler!” Then everybody laughed at Roderick’s confusion.

But he quickly recovered himself.

“Trifler yourself!” he laughed back in rejoinder. “What about Ben Bragdon? What would he have said had we gone trout-fishing together?”

“You were not out of the running then,” said Barbara archly.

“Oh, yes, I was, although the secret was to be kept until after the nomination for senator.”

It was Barbara’s turn now to blush. She looked around in some bewilderment. Grant had bestowed a vigorous kick on Roderick’s shins beneath the table. Only then did Roderick realize that he had broken a confidence. Dorothy was eyeing Grant reproachfully. It was a case of broken faith all round.

“Well, you sisters have no secrets from each other,” exclaimed Roderick, meeting the situation with a bright smile. “In just the same way Grant and I are chums and brothers. Besides it was a friendly warning. I was saved in time from the danger of shattered hopes and a broken heart, Miss Barbara.”

“So went fishing for consolation,” she replied with a smile.

“And found it,” laughed Grant.

“Who says that?” demanded Roderick, sternly. “Miss Holden would have every reason seriously to object.”

“The devil says it,” replied Grant, assuming a grave countenance.

“That’s a poor joke,” said Roderick, offended.

“Oh, Scotty Meisch is an observant lad,” remarked the editor drily.

“The printer’s devil!” cried Dorothy, clapping her hands. And all four laughed heartily—Roderick most heartily of all despite his momentary dudgeon.

“Then since all these whispers are going about,” remarked Barbara when quiet was restored, “I think it will be advisable for me to have a heart-to-heart talk with Gail.”

“Oh, please don’t,” faltered Roderick. “Really, you know, there’s no foundation for all this talk—all this nonsense.”

“Indeed? Then all the more need for me to drop her a friendly warning—guard her against shattered hopes and a broken heart and all that sort of thing.”

The tables were fairly turned, but Barbara, with quick woman’s wit, saw that Roderick was really pained at the thought lest Gail Holden might learn of this jesting with her name.

“Oh, don’t be afraid,” she said, reassuringly. “We three will keep your secret, young man. We are all chums and brothers, aren’t we now?” And with one accord, laughing yet serious too, they all shook hands to seal the bond, and any breaches of confidence in the past were forgiven and forgotten.

It had been a merry supper party, but it was now time to be starting for the ranch. As they rose from the table Roderick turned to Grant and said: “You will have to excuse me, old boy, as I am taking the ladies home.”

“Taking the ladies home? Well, ain’t I goin’ along?” asked Grant, with a doleful look at Dorothy.

“No room in our sleigh,” said Roderick coldly.

“Roderick,” said Grant, half sotto voce, “you are cruel.” But Roderick was unsympathetic and did not even smile. He turned away indifferently. Drawing Barbara aside, he told her in an undertone of the arrangements he had made with the livery stable for an extra sleigh.

“Then you’ll be alone with me,” she said, with an amused smile. “Won’t you be afraid? Broken heart, etc?”

“Not now,” he replied sturdily.

“Or of Mr. Bragdon? He mightn’t like it, you know.”

“Oh, I’m not afraid of him,” laughed Roderick. “And I guess he will trust me—and you,” he added gently and with a chivalrous little bow.

Shortly the sleighs were brought round to the hotel. Grant was beside himself with delight when he discovered the extra rig for himself and Dorothy, and he laughingly shouted to Roderick: “I say, old man, you’re the best ever.” Soon the merrymakers were tucked snugly beneath the lap robes, and were speeding over the glistening expanse of snow to the joyous tinkle of the silver bells.