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 ratâ 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.”