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.