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.