DOROTHY mourned for Grant Jones—for days she wept and would not be
consoled. Roderick had not seen her since the disaster; when he had
called at the ranch Barbara had brought a message from her room that she
dared not trust herself yet to speak to anyone, least of all to the one
whom she knew to have been Grant’s closest and dearest friend.
Roderick had now taken apartments in the Bonhomme Hotel—it would
have been too heartrending an experience to return to the shack where
everything was associated with the memory of his lost comrade. It had
been his painful task to pack the books, the little ornaments, the
trophies of the chase, the other odds and ends of sacred relics, and
send them back East to the old folks at home. He had known it to have
been Grant’s own wish that, when death should come, his body should
rest among the hills of Wyoming. So when a simple headstone had been
placed on the grave in God’s acre at Encampment, the last sad duty
had been performed. Grief was now deadened. The sweet pleasures of fond
reminiscence remained, the richest legacy that man can leave behind him.
Buell Hampton and Roderick never met without speaking of Grant, without
recalling some pleasant episode in their association, some brilliant or
thoughtful contribution he had made to their past conversations. With
the aid of fragments of torn paper that had been clutched in the dead
man’s left hand, the hand that had been doubled under him when the
body was found, they had pieced together the story of that fateful
encounter with Grady. The latter, bent on discovering and jumping Buell
Hampton’s secret mine, had carried into the mountains the proper
declaration papers in printed forms, with only the blanks to be filled
in—name, date, exact location, etc. Grant must have become aware that
these papers were all ready signed in Grady’s pocket—perhaps
in defiance the claim-jumper had flaunted them in his face. For the
struggle had been for the possession of these documents, the torn
quarters of which were still in Grant’s hand when the fatal
dislodgement of snow had taken place. The full infamy of Grady’s long
contrived plot was revealed. Righteously indeed had he gone to his doom.
A week had passed when Roderick found a letter on the breakfast table at
his hotel. It was from Barbara Shields.
“My dear Mr. Warfield:—
“I write to tell you that we are going to California—to spend
the winter in Los Angeles. We are all sorrow-stricken over the great
calamity up in the hills, and Dorothy—the poor dear girl is simply
stunned. I have known for a long while that she was very fond of Grant,
but I had no idea of the depths of her feelings.
“Papa says Mama and I must start at once and endeavor to cheer up
Dorothy and help her forget as much as possible the sadness of this
terrible affair.
“Mr. Bragdon called last night, and is to be our escort to the coast.
We shall probably return about the first of May. Please accept this as
an affectionate good-by for the time being from us all.
“With cordial good wishes,
“Sincerely your friend,
“Barbara.”
Meanwhile snow had been descending off and on day after day, until now
the whole of the mountain country was effectively sealed. Evidently a
rigorous winter had set in, and it would be many months before Hidden
Valley would be again accessible. Roderick was not sorry—the very
mention of gold and mining had become distasteful to his ears. Even when
with the Major, they, never now spoke about the secret canyon and its
hoarded treasures—in subtle sympathy with each other’s feelings the
subject was tabooed for the present Bud Bledsoe had disappeared from the
district, no doubt temporarily enriched by the nuggets with which he had
filled his pockets. In the spring most likely he would return and rally
his gang of mountain outlaws. But until then there need be no worry
about the snow-enshrouded claims, the location papers for which had
been now duly registered at the county seat in the names of their proper
owners.
Buell Hampton had his books and his work for the poor wherewith to
occupy his mind. Roderick found his consolation at the smelter. Early
and late now he worked there, learning the practical operations
from Boney Earnest, mastering the business details with the aid of a
trustworthy old clerk whose services had been retained as secretary.
Boney, having been made the choice of his brother foremen in accordance
with the new plan of operations, was duly confirmed in his position of
general manager, while Roderick, formally elected vice-president by the
board, held the salaried and responsible post of managing-director.
Major Hampton withdrew himself more and more into the seclusion of his
library; he rarely came to the smelter plant; he left everything in
Roderick’s hands once he had become satisfied of the young man’s
aptitude for the work; he was content to read the managing director’s
weekly report showing steady progress all along the line—increased
output, decreased operating costs, large reductions in waste and
breakages, in a word the all-round benefits resulting from friendly
cooperation between capital and labor, no longer treating each other
as enemies, but pulling together in happy conjunction and for mutual
advantage.
Another circumstance contributing to the general harmony of the
community was the departure of W. Henry Carlisle, the deposed attorney
of the smelter company. One of Senator Greed’s hirelings, Carlisle had
been rewarded by that master of political jobbery with a judgeship in
Alaska. Thus was the whole country made to pay the price of shameful
underhand services that had tainted the very atmosphere and might well
have caused the man in the moon to hold his nose when crossing the state
of Wyoming.
However, Carlisle’s going put an end to much bitterness and squabbling
in Encampment, and now month succeeded month in peaceful routine. As
both smelter and mine were now working Sundays as well as week days,
Roderick could rarely take a day off—or at least he would not allow
himself a day off.
However, along with Major Buell Hampton he was the guest of Mr. Shields
for Christmas Day dinner, and learned the latest news of the exiles in
California; that mother and daughters were well, Dorothy something like
her old happy self if chastened with a sorrow that would always leave
its memory, and all thoroughly enjoying the unaccustomed luxury of a
winter of warmth and perpetual sunshine. There was another item in Mr.
Shields’ budget. Whitley Adams had spent a month in the capital of
the southwest, had brought along his big touring car, and had given the
girls no end of a good time.
“What took him to Los Angeles?’ asked Roderick.
“Oh, important banking business, Barbara says,” replied Mr. Shields
quite innocently.
Roderick smiled. “Would Dorothy be consoled,” he asked himself. The
enterprising youth certainly deserved the prize; Roderick recalled
the mirthful warning sent to dear old Grant in the latter’s dilatory
courting days about the tempting peach and the risk of a plundering
hand. Indeed Whitley and Grant had been wonderfully akin in their boyish
good-nature and irrepressible enthusiasm. With Grant gone, it seemed
quite natural that Whitley and Dorothy should be drawn together.
Roderick could wish no greater happiness for Dorothy, no better luck for
his old college chum. Such was the train of his musing the while
Buell Hampton and their host were discussing the wonderful growth and
unbounded future of Los Angeles, the beautiful city of garden homes and
cultured family life.
For New Year’s Day Roderick was invited to the Holdens’ place, and
spent a delightful afternoon and evening. Gail sang and played, and the
General seemed to be mightily interested in all the wonderful results
being achieved at the smelter under the new régime. Gail listened
somewhat distrait, but when the conversation about ores and fluxes
and cupola furnaces and all that sort of thing seemed likely to be
indefinitely prolonged she stole back to her piano and began singing to
herself, soft and low.
And presently, while the General meandered on in a disquisition about
refractory ores, Roderick was no longer paying attention. He was
listening to the warbling of a thrush in the forest, and his straining
ears caught the words of the song—“Just a-Wearyin’ for You.” A
thrill ran through his nerves. He excused himself to the General,
and crossed over to the piano. Gail instantly changed her song; by a
skillful transition she was humming now, “Ye Banks and Braes o’
Bonnie Dhon.” But their eyes met, and she blushed deeply.
During the following weeks Roderick thought much and often about the
beautiful Gail Holden, and occasionally now he would relax from business
duties to enjoy a gallop with her on a sunny afternoon over the foothill
ranges. They talked on many themes, and, although words of love were
as yet unspoken, there came to them the quiet sense of happiness in
companionship, of interest in each other’s thoughts and undertakings,
of mutual understanding that they were already closer and dearer to each
other than friendship alone could make them.
Spring was now rapidly approaching. The meadowlarks were singing, and
the grass beginning to grow green in the valleys and foothills, the wild
flowers to paint the slopes and dells in vivid colors. General Holden
had several days before gone to San Francisco, to visit his brother
there in regard to some family business. Gail had been unable to
accompany her father; she had declared that the little ranch at this
season required all her attention. To comfort her in her loneliness
Roderick had promised to go riding with her for an hour or two every
afternoon. This pleasant duty had been properly fulfilled for several
days, and one afternoon, with Badger ready saddled in front of his
office, the young vice-president of the smelter company was just
clearing up a few items of business at his desk before mounting and
taking the road for the Conchshell Ranch.
A telegram was laid at his hand. He opened it casually, talking the
while with Boney Earnest. But when he saw the name on the slip of paper,
he started erect. The message was from Gail, and had come from Rawlins:
“My father is in hospital, having met with a street accident in San
Francisco. Have just had time to catch the afternoon train at Rawlins.
My address will be the Palace Hotel. Will telegraph news about father on
arrival.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Roderick. “She has taken that journey alone.
And no one to help her in her trouble and sorrow.”
There was no alternative—he could but wait with all the patience
he could command for the next day’s overland. For he had instantly
resolved to follow Gail. Like a flash had come the revelation how deeply
he loved the girl; it had only needed the presence of tribulation to
cause the long-smouldering spark of the fire divine in his heart to leap
into flame—to make him realize that, come weal, come woe, his place
now was by her side.
That afternoon he made all his preparations for departure. The evening
he spent with Buell Hampton, and frankly told his friend of his great
love for Gail. The Major listened sympathetically.
“All the world loves a lover,” he said, a kindly glow upon his face.
“Humanity demands, conscience approves, and good people everywhere
applaud the genial and glowing warmth of honest love of man for maid.
And I commend the choice of your heart, Roderick, for surely nowhere
can be found a finer woman than Gail Holden. Go in and win, and may good
luck follow you. For friendship’s sake, too, I think it highly proper
you should proceed at once to San Francisco and look after General
Holden. I hope he is not dangerously hurt.”
“I have no other information except this telegram,” replied
Roderick. “But I’ll surely wire you from San Francisco.”
Jim Rankin drove the stage next morning. Roderick took his accustomed
place on the box seat, and listened to Jim’s accustomed flow of
language on all the local topics of interest. But during the long
drive of fifty miles there was only one little part of the one-sided
conversation that Roderick ever remembered.
“Yes, siree,” Jim said, “all the folks is readin’ books these
days. I myself have took the craze—I’ve got a book about the horse
out of our new libr’y an’ I’ll be dog-busted if I ever knew the
critter had so many bones. Tom Sun is readin’ about wool growin’ in
Australia, and is already figgerin’ on gettin’ over Tasmanian merino
blood for his flocks. And I’m danged if old Wren the saloon-keeper
ain’t got stuck with a volume on temperance. ‘Ten Bar-Rooms in
One Night’. no, by gunnies, that’s not it—’Ten Nights in a
Bar-Room’—now I’ve got it right Guess it will do him a power
o’ good too. Then all the young fellers have started goin’ to night
classes. I tell you the Reverend Grannon with his schools an’ his
libr’ies is just workin’ wonders. An’ who do you think is his
right hand man, or boy, or devil—call him which you like?”
“Who?” asked Roderick vaguely.
“Scotty Meisch, that little tad of a cow-puncher you and poor old
Grant Jones took up and made a printer’s devil of. Well, the parson
got his hooks in him and tells me he’s turned out to be a first-class
organizer—that’s his word. It’s Scotty who goes around, starts
each new lib’iy, and sets the machin’ry goin’ smooth an’ proper.
It’s a case of a round peg in a round hole, although who the hell
would have thought it?”
Roderick was pleased to hear this good news of Scotty Meisch, but,
returning to his thoughts about Gail, failed to follow Jim as the latter
switched off into another line of “unbosomings.”
He was glad to be alone at last and in the drawing room of the Pullman
car which he had reserved by telegraph.