SO IT is you who have found my Hidden Valley,” said Buell Hampton
as he drew near. His voice had a regretful ring, but as he grasped
Roderick’s hand he added cordially: “I thank God it is you,
Roderick. When I heard the rifle shots I was afraid it might be Bud
Bledsoe or some of his gang.”
“Your hidden valley, Major?” murmured Roderick, interrogatively and
with emphasis on the first word.
“Yes, my son—the valley from which I took the carload of rich ore we
sold in Denver.”
“Great guns, Major. I too have discovered gold—placer gold.”
“Where?”
“At your feet. Look.” And Roderick stooped and picked up a fine
smooth-worn nugget as big as a pigeon’s egg. “Look, look, look,”
continued Roderick. “It is all around us on this sandbar.”
“I did not happen on this spot,” said Buell Hampton. “The fact
is I hardly explored the valley at all. I had all the gold I wanted or
could ever want in my own find.”
“Then where is that find?”
“Lower down the stream—a dyke of porphyry and white quartz. But
you already know the kind of ore Jim Rankin, Tom Sun, and Boney Earnest
helped me to get out of the valley. It is quite different from your
gold.”
The Major stooped, and collected a handful of good-sized nuggets.
“How did you come to find this place, Roderick?” he asked, gazing up
at the sheer cliffs around them.
“I have been searching for it,” he replied, “since ever I came to
Wyoming. Oh, Major, it is a strange story. I hardly know where to begin.
But wait. Sit down on that boulder. I have my father’s letter with me.
You can read it and will then understand.”
From an inner pocket Roderick produced the map and letter which had
never left his possession, night or day, since his Uncle Allen had
handed him the sealed packet in the bank manager’s room at Keokuk.
Without a word Buell Hampton took the seat indicated, and after a
preliminary glance at the map proceeded to read the long epistle left
by the old miner, John Warfield, as a dying legacy to his son. Roderick
sitting on his heels watched in silence while the other read.
“Your father was a sensible man,” remarked Buell Hampton, as at
last he refolded the paper. “I like the spirit in which he wrote—the
fervent expression of his hope that this wealth will prove a blessing to
you instead of a disquieting evil. Yes, you have undoubtedly found your
father’s lost mine. But, Roderick, why did you not tell me of this
before? I would have gladly helped you to a quicker discovery. This map
here I would have recognized at a glance as the map of my happy retreat,
my Hidden Valley.”
“Well, Major, I may seem to have been a bit reticent—or independent,
may I call it? But you will remember that it was early in our intimacy
when you showed me and the others those rich ore specimens in your
home. And you yourself were reticent—bound us to secrecy, yet gave us
no-single clue as to the whereabouts of your wonderful discovery.”
“Because I wanted to protect this place from intrusion—I indulged
in the dream that the treasure of the valley might be made to fall only
into worthy hands, which dream could never be realized unless I guarded
my secret from one and all.”
“Your sentiment I quite understand. But don’t you see, Major, it was
this very reticence on your part that made me reticent—that virtually
sealed my lips? I have often thought of showing you my father’s
letter, of telling the full reasons that brought me to Wyoming. But to
have done so after you had shown us that ore would have been simply to
press you for further information—to have asked you to divulge the
location of your mine which you had resolved to keep secret so that I
might possibly be assisted in the quest for my father’s lost claim. I
couldn’t do that I am sure you will now understand my feelings.”
“Fine feelings, Roderick,” exclaimed the Major, extending his
hand. “Feelings after my own heart I understand them, and can only
compliment you on your sturdy independence. But how did you get here?”
And again he glanced up the precipitous mountains.
“Well, I think I might almost say I tumbled down into the canyon,”
laughed Roderick. “I slipped and tobogganed down a steep slope. Then I
followed the tracks of four deer I was after, and found myself here. By
the way, have you looked at my splendid buck?”
Buell Hampton rose, and as if by force of habit drew his hunting knife
and proceeded to dress and gambrel the deer. Roderick watched the
skilled hands at work. Before many minutes the carcass was hanging on
the peg of a broken limb.
“Certainly, a fine buck,” remarked the Major, stepping back
admiringly. “Your first, I believe?”
“My very first.”
“Not often that a man kills his first deer and discovers a gold mine
on the same day, eh?” laughed Buell Hampton. “But where is Grant
Jones?”
“I haven’t seen him since morning. We followed your directions, and
took opposite sides of the river.”
“Then he will meet you tonight at the old log hut?”
“That’s our arrangement. But how are we to get out of this
box-canyon?”
“I can show you an easier way out than the toboggan slide by which you
came in,” replied the Major, smiling. “At the same time I think I
should prefer to follow your tracks, so that in the future I may know
this second means of access. I am afraid the secret of this little
sequestered valley can be no longer kept from the world. I presume you
are going to stake out a claim and record it.”
“You bet,” laughed Roderick. “There’s no sentiment about
sequestered valleys or happy retreats in my make-up. Great Scott,
there’s a cool million dollars of gold lying around right here. I’m
going to take no chances of the next man finding the spot. Isn’t that
common sense, Major?”
“No doubt,” replied Buell Hampton, “it is common sense in your
case. And you are obviously following your father’s bidding in making
the fullest and the best use of the wealth he tried so long in vain to
rediscover. Are you familiar with the regulations as to staking out a
claim?”
“Oh, yes, I’ve posted myself on all that.”
“Well, choose your ground, and I’ll whittle your stakes.” He rose
and again unsheathed his hunting knife.
“Major,” cried Roderick, “along this old channel there’s at
least three men’s ground. We’ll stake for you and for me and for
Grant Jones.”
“But Grant Jones must have been on his claim before he can file on it.
That’s the law.”
“We’ll bring him down tomorrow morning.”
“Then, go ahead,” said the Major. “I think it is right and proper
to secure all the ground we can. I believe it will be all for the best
that it should be in our hands.”
Within an hour stakes had been placed at the corners of the three placer
claims, and the proper location notices, written on leaves torn from
Buell Hampton’s note book, affixed to a stake in the centre of each
claim.
“I think that this complies with all legal requirements,” remarked
the Major, as they surveyed their workmanship. “Now, Roderick, tit for
tat. You will come down the valley with me, and we shall secure, as
lode claims, the porphyry dyke from which I have cut out merely the rich
outcrop.”
Another hour’s labor saw the second task completed.
They were back at Roderick’s sandbar, and had filled their pockets
with nuggets.
“Now for the ascent,” said Buell Hampton. “Tomorrow morning we
shall return, and breakfast here on your venison. Hurry up now; the
evening shadows are already falling.”
The trail left by Roderick and the four deer through the canyon and
along the zigzag gash in the mountains above the bubbling springs was
clearly traceable in the snow. When the narrow ledge by which Roderick
had descended into the gorge was reached the Major took the precaution
of blazing an occasional tree trunk for future direction. Progress was
easy until they reached the abrupt declivity down which the hunter had
slipped. A little farther along the deer appeared to have descended
the steep incline by a series of leaps. In the gathering dusk it was
impossible to proceed farther; steps would have to be cut or a careful
search made for some way around.
“We must go back,” said Buell Hampton. “Now I will show you my
means of access to the canyon—one of the most wonderful rock galleries
in the world.”
Retracing their footsteps they hastened along at the best speed
possible, and soon reached the tunnel into which the river disappeared.
Producing his electric torch, the Major prepared to lead the way. He
lingered for just a moment to gaze back into the canyon which was now
enveloped in the violet haze of eventide.
“Is it not lovely?” he murmured. “Alas, that such a place of
perfect peace and beauty should come to be deserted and despoiled!”
Roderick was fingering the slugs of gold in his pocket. He followed the
direction of the Major’s eyes.
“Yes, it is all very beautiful,” he replied. “But scenery is
scenery, Major, and gold is gold.”
The little torch flashed like an evening star as they disappeared into
the grotto.
Buell Hampton and Roderick had gazed up the canyon.
But they had failed to observe two human forms crouched among the
brushwood not fifty yards away—the forms of Bud Bledsoe and Grady, who
had that morning tracked the Major from his home to the falls, under the
cataract, through the rock gallery, right into the hidden canyon, intent
on discovering the secret whence the carload of rich ore had come, bent
on revenge for Grady’s undoing with the smelting company when the
proper moment should arrive.
That night Buell Hampton, Roderick Warfield, and Grant Jones supped
frugally at the hunter’s hut on ham sandwiches and coffee. Down in
Hidden Valley on the gold-strewn sandbar W. B. Grady and his henchman
feasted royally on venison steaks cut from the fat buck Roderick’s
gun had provided. They had already torn down the location notices and
substituted their own. And far into the night by the light of their camp
fire the claim-jumpers searched for the nuggets among the pebbles and
gathered them into a little heap, stopping only from their frenzied
quest to take an occasional gulp of whiskey from the big flask without
which Bud Bledsoe never stirred. When daylight broke, exhausted,
half-drunk, both were fast asleep beside the pile of stolen gold.