“I'll do that,” quoth Mr. Perkins ponderously. “And in the meantime,

don't do any more digging or rail-cutting.” He hurried away to his

automobile, leaving a lieutenant in charge of the squad.

“Also in the meantime, young man,” Colonel Pennington announced, “you

will pardon me if I take possession of my locomotive and flat-cars. I

observe you have finished unloading those rails.”

“Help yourself, Colonel,” Bryce replied with an assumption of heartiness

he was far from feeling.

“Thank you so much, Cardigan.” With the greatest good nature in life,

Pennington climbed into the cab, reached for the bell-cord, and rang

the bell vigorously. Then he permitted himself a triumphant toot of

the whistle, after which he threw off the air and gently opened the

throttle. He was not a locomotive-engineer but he had ridden in the

cab of his own locomotive and felt quite confident of his ability in a

pinch.

With a creak and a bump the train started, and the Colonel ran it slowly

up until the locomotive stood on the tracks exactly where Buck Ogilvy

had been cutting in his crossing; whereupon the Colonel locked the

brakes, opened his exhaust, and blew the boiler down. And when the last

ounce of steam had escaped, he descended and smilingly accosted Bryce

Cardigan.

“That engine being my property,” he announced, “I'll take the short end

of any bet you care to make, young man, that it will sit on those tracks

until your temporary franchise expires. I'd give a good deal to see

anybody not in my employ attempt to get up steam in that boiler until I

give the word. Cut in your jump-crossing now, if you can, you whelp, and

be damned to you. I've got you blocked!”

“I rather imagine this nice gentleman has it on us, old dear,” chirped

Buck Ogilvy plaintively. “Well! We did our damndest, which angels

can't do no more. Let us gather up our tools and go home, my son, for

something tells me that if I hang around here I'll bust one of two

things--this sleek scoundrel's gray head or one of my bellicose veins!

Hello! Whom have we here?”

Bryce turned and found himself facing Shirley Sumner. Her tender lip was

quivering, and the tears shone in her eyes like stars. He stared at her

in silence.

“My friend,” she murmured tremulously, “didn't I tell you I would not

permit you to build the N.C.O.?”

He bowed his head in rage and shame at his defeat. Buck Ogilvy took him

by the arm. “''Tis midnight's holy hour,'” he quoted, “'and silence

now is brooding like a gentle spirit o'er a still and pulseless world.'

Bryce, old chap, this is one of those occasions where silence is golden.

Speak not. I'll do it for you. Miss Sumner,” he continued, bowing

graciously, “and Colonel Pennington,” favouring that triumphant rascal

with an equally gracious bow, “we leave you in possession of the

field--temporarily. However, if anybody should drive up in a hack and

lean out and ask you, just tell him Buck Ogilvy has another trump tucked

away in his kimono.”

Bryce turned to go, but with a sudden impulse Shirley laid her hand on

his arm--his left arm. “Bryce!” she murmured.

He lifted her hand gently from his forearm, led her to the front of

the locomotive, and held her hand up to the headlight. Her fingers were

crimson with blood.

“Your uncle's killer did that, Shirley,” he said ironically. “It's only

a slight flesh-wound, but that is no fault of your allies. Good-night.”

And he left her standing, pale of face and trembling, in the white glare

of the headlight.

CHAPTER XXXII

Shirley made no effort to detain Bryce Cardigan as he walked to his car

and climbed into it. Ogilvy remained merely long enough to give orders

to the foreman to gather up the tools, store them in the machine-shop

of Cardigan's mill, and dismiss his gang; then he, too, entered the

automobile, and at a word from Bryce, the car slid noiselessly away into

the darkness. The track-cutting crew departed a few minutes later, and

when Shirley found herself alone with her uncle, the tumult in her heart

gave way to the tears she could no longer repress. Pennington stood by,

watching her curiously, coldly.

Presently Shirley mastered her emotion and glanced toward him.

“Well, my dear?” he queried nervously.

“I--I think I had better go home,” she said without spirit.

“I think so, too,” he answered. “Get into the Mayor's flivver, my dear,

and I'll drive you. And perhaps the least said about this affair the

better, Shirley. There are many things that you do not understand and

which cannot be elucidated by discussion.”

“I can understand an attempt at assassination, Uncle Seth.”

“That blackguard Minorca! I should have known better than to put him on

such a job. I told him to bluff and threaten; Cardigan, I knew, would

realize the grudge the Black Minorca has against him, and for that

reason I figured the greaser was the only man who could bluff him. While

I gave him orders to shoot, I told him distinctly not to hit anybody.

Good Lord, Shirley, surely you do not think I would wink at a murder!”

“I do,” she answered passionately. “With Bryce Cardigan out of the way,

you would have a clear field before you--”

“Oh, my dear, my dear! Surely you do not realize what you are saying.

You are beside yourself, Shirley. Please--please do not wound me so--so

horribly. You do not--you cannot realize what a desperate fight I have

been putting up for both our sakes. I am surrounded by enemies--the most

implacable enemies. They force me to fight the devil with fire--and here

you are, giving them aid and comfort.”

“I want you to defeat Bryce Cardigan, if you can do it fairly.”

“At another time and in a calmer mood we will discuss that villain,”

he said authoritatively. “If we argue the matter now, we are liable to

misunderstandings; we may quarrel, and that is something neither of us

can afford. Get into the car, and we will go home. There is nothing more

to be done to-night.”

“Your sophistry does not alter my opinion,” she replied firmly.

“However, as you say, this is neither the time nor the place to discuss

it.”

They drove home in silence. Shirley went at once to her room. For the

Colonel, however, the night's work had scarcely begun. The instant he

heard the door to his niece's room shut, he went to the telephone and

called up the Laguna Grande roundhouse. Sexton, his manager, answered.

“Have you sent the switch-engine to the woods for Rondeau and his men?”

“Just left.”

“Good! Now, then, Sexton, listen to me: As you know, this raid of

Cardigan's has developed so suddenly I am more or less taken by surprise

and have had no time to prepare the kind of counter-attack that will be

most effective. However, with the crossing blocked, I gain time in which

to organize--only there must be no weak point in my organization. In

order to insure that, I am proceeding to San Francisco to-night by

motor, via the coast road. I will arrive late to-morrow night, and early

Saturday morning I will appear in the United States District Court with

our attorneys and file a complaint and petition for an order temporarily

restraining the N.C.O. from cutting our tracks.

“I will have to make an affidavit to support the complaint, so I had

better be Johnny-on-the-spot to do it, rather than risk the delay of

making the affidavit tomorrow morning here and forwarding it by mail to

our attorneys. The judge will sign a restraining order, returnable in

from ten to thirty days--I'll try for thirty, because that will knock

out the N.C.O.'s temporary franchise--and after I have obtained the

restraining order, I will have the United States marshal telegraph it to

Ogilvy and Cardigan!”

“Bully!” cried Sexton heartily. “That will fix their clock.”

“In the meantime,” Pennington continued, “logs will be glutting our

landings. We need that locomotive for its legitimate purposes. Take all

that discarded machinery and the old boiler we removed from the mill

last fall, dump it on the tracks at the crossing, and get the locomotive

back on its run. Understand? The other side, having no means of removing

these heavy obstructions, will be blocked until I return; by that time

the matter will be in the District Court, Cardigan will be hung up until

his temporary franchise expires--and the city council will not renew it.

Get me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'll be back Sunday forenoon. Good-bye.”

He hung up, went to his chauffeur's quarters over the garage, and routed

the man out of bed. Then he returned quietly to his room, dressed and

packed a bag for his journey, left a brief note for Shirley notifying

her of his departure, and started on his two-hundred-and-fifty mile

trip over the mountains to the south. As his car sped through sleeping

Sequoia and gained the open country, the Colonel's heart thrilled

pleasurably. He held cards and spades, big and little casino, four

aces and the joker; therefore he knew he could sweep the board at his

pleasure. And during his absence Shirley would have opportunity to

cool off, while he would find time to formulate an argument to lull her

suspicions upon his return.

CHAPTER XXXIII

Quite oblivious of her uncle's departure for San Francisco, Shirley lay

awake throughout the remainder of the night, turning over and over in

her mind the various aspects of the Cardigan-Fennington imbroglio. Of

one thing she was quite certain; peace must be declared at all hazards.

She had been obsessed of a desire, rather unusual in her sex, to see a

fight worth while; she had planned to permit it to go to a knockout, to

use Bryce Cardigan's language, because she believed Bryce Cardigan would

be vanquished--and she had desired to see him smashed--but not beyond

repair, for her joy in the conflict was to lie in the task of putting

the pieces together afterward! She realized now, however, that she

had permitted matters to go too far. A revulsion of feeling toward her

uncle, induced by the memory of Bryce Cardigan's blood on her white

finger-tips, convinced the girl that, at all hazards to her financial

future, henceforth she and her uncle must tread separate paths. She had

found him out at last, and because in her nature there was some of his

own fixity of purpose, the resolution cost her no particular pang.

It was rather a relief, therefore, when the imperturbable James handed

her at breakfast the following note:

Shirley, Dear

After leaving you last night, I decided that in your present frame

of mind my absence for a few days might tend to a calmer and clearer

perception, on your part, of the necessary tactics which in a moment of

desperation, I saw fit, with regret, to pursue last night. And in the

hope that you will have attained your old attitude toward me before

my return, I am leaving in the motor for San Francisco. Your terrible

accusation has grieved me to such an extent that I do not feel equal to

the task of confronting you until, in a more judicial frame of mind,

you can truly absolve me of the charge of wishing to do away with young

Cardigan. Your affectionate Uncle Seth.

Shirley's lip curled. With a rarer, keener intuition than she had

hitherto manifested, she sensed the hypocrisy between the lines; she was

not deceived.

“He has gone to San Francisco for more ammunition,” she soliloquized.

“Very well, Unkie-dunk! While you're away, I shall manufacture a few

bombs myself.”

After breakfast she left the house and walked to the intersection of B

with Water Street. Jules Rondeau and his crew of lumberjacks were there,

and with two policemen guarded the crossing.

Rondeau glanced at Shirley, surprised, then lifted his hat. Shirley

looked from the woods bully to the locomotive and back to Rondeau.

“Rondeau,” she said, “Mr. Cardigan is a bad man to fight. You fought him

once. Are you going to do it again?”

He nodded.

“By whose orders?”

“Mr. Sexton, he tell me to do it.”

“Well, Rondeau, some day I'll be boss of Laguna Grande and there'll

be no more fighting,” she replied, and passed on down B Street to the

office of the Cardigan Redwood Lumber Company. Moira McTavish looked up

as she entered.

“Where is he, dear?” Shirley asked. “I must see him.”

“In that office, Miss Shirley,” Moira replied, and pointed to the door.

Shirley stepped to the door, knocked, and then entered. Bryce Cardigan,

seated at his desk, looked up as she came in. His left arm was in a

sling, and he looked harassed and dejected.

“Don't get up, Bryce,” she said as he attempted to rise. “I know you're

quite exhausted. You look it.” She sat down. “I'm so sorry,” she said

softly.

His dull glance brightened. “It doesn't amount to that, Shirley.” And he

snapped his fingers. “It throbs a little and it's stiff and sore, so I

carry it in the sling. That helps a little. What did you want to see me

about?”

“I wanted to tell you,” said Shirley, “that--that last night's affair

was not of my making.” He smiled compassionately. “I--I couldn't bear to

have you think I'd break my word and tell him.”

“It never occurred to me that you had dealt me a hand from the bottom of

the deck, Shirley. Please don't worry about it. Your uncle has had two

private detectives watching Ogilvy and me.”

“Oh!” she breathed, much relieved. A ghost of the old bantering smile

lighted her winsome features. “Well, then,” she challenged, “I suppose

you don't hate me.”

“On the contrary, I love you,” he answered. “However, since you must

have known this for some time past, I suppose it is superfluous to

mention it. Moreover, I haven't the right--yet.”

She had cast her eyes down modestly. She raised them now and looked at

him searchingly. “I suppose you'll acknowledge yourself whipped at last,

Bryce?” she ventured.

“Would it please you to have me surrender?” He was very serious.

“Indeed it would, Bryce.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm tired of fighting. I want peace. I'm--I'm afraid to let

this matter go any further. I'm truly afraid.”

“I think I want peace, too,” he answered wearily. “I'd be glad to

quit--with honour. And I'll do it, too, if you can induce your uncle to

give me the kind of logging contract I want with his road.”

“I couldn't do that, Bryce. He has you whipped--and he is not merciful

to the fallen. You'll have to--surrender unconditionally.” Again she

laid her little hand timidly on his wounded forearm. “Please give up,

Bryce--for my sake. If you persist, somebody will get killed.”

“I suppose I'll have to,” he murmured sadly. “I dare say you're

right, though one should never admit defeat until he is counted out.

I suppose,” he continued bitterly, “your uncle is in high feather this

morning.”

“I don't know, Bryce. He left in his motor for San Francisco about one

o'clock this morning.”

For an instant Bryce Cardigan stared at her; then a slow, mocking little

smile crept around the corners of his mouth, and his eyes lighted with

mirth.

“Glorious news, my dear Shirley, perfectly glorious! So the old fox has

gone to San Francisco, eh? Left in a hurry and via the overland route!

Couldn't wait for the regular passenger-steamer to-morrow, eh? Great

jumping Jehoshaphat! He must have had important business to attend to.”

And Bryce commenced to chuckle. “Oh, the poor old Colonel,” he continued

presently, “the dear old pirate! What a horrible right swing he's

running into! And you want me to acknowledge defeat! My dear girl, in

the language of the classic, there is nothing doing. I shall put in my

crossing Sunday morning, and if you don't believe it, drop around and

see me in action.”

“You mustn't try,” protested Shirley. “Rondeau is there with his

crew--and he has orders to stop you. Besides, you can't expect help from

the police. Uncle Seth has made a deal with the Mayor,” Shirley pleaded

frantically.

“That for the police and that venal Mayor Poundstone!” Bryce retorted,

with another snap of his fingers. “I'll rid the city of them at the fall

election.”

“I came prepared to suggest a compromise, Bryce,” she declared, but he

interrupted her with a wave of his hand.

“You can't effect a compromise. You've been telling me I shall never

build the N.C.O. because you will not permit me to. You're powerless, I

tell you. I shall build it.”

“You shan't!” she fired back at him, and a spot of anger glowed in each

cheek. “You're the most stubborn and belligerent man I have ever known.

Sometimes I almost hate you.”

“Come around at ten to-morrow morning and watch me put in the

crossing--watch me give Rondeau and his gang the run.” He reached over

suddenly, lifted her hand, and kissed it. “How I love you, dear little

antagonist!” he murmured.

“If you loved me, you wouldn't oppose me,” she protested softly. “I tell

you again, Bryce, you make it very hard for me to be friendly with you.”

“I don't want to be friendly with you. You're driving me crazy,

Shirley. Please run along home, or wherever you're bound. I've tried to

understand your peculiar code, but you're too deep for me; so let me go

my way to the devil. George Sea Otter is outside asleep in the tonneau

of the car. Tell him to drive you wherever you're going. I suppose

you're afoot to-day, for I noticed the Mayor riding to his office in

your sedan this morning.”

She tried to look outraged, but for the life of her she could not

take offense at his bluntness; neither did she resent a look which she

detected in his eyes, even though it told her he was laughing at her.

“Oh, very well,” she replied with what dignity she could muster. “Have

it your own way. I've tried to warn you. Thank you for your offer of

the car. I shall be glad to use it. Uncle Seth sold my car to Mayor

Poundstone last night. Mrs. P. admired it so!”

“Ah! Then it was that rascally Poundstone who told your uncle about the

temporary franchise, thus arousing his suspicions to such an extent that

when he heard his locomotive rumbling into town, he smelled a rat and

hurried down to the crossing?”

“Possibly. The Poundstones dined at our house last night.”

“Pretty hard on you, I should say. But then I suppose you have to play

the game with Uncle Seth. Well, good morning, Shirley. Sorry to hurry

you away, but you must remember we're on a strictly business basis--yet;

and you mustn't waste my time.”

“You're horrid, Bryce Cardigan.”

“You're adorable. Good morning.”

“You'll be sorry for this,” she warned him. “Good morning.” She passed

out into the general office, visited with Moira about five minutes, and

drove away in the Napier. Bryce watched her through the window. She

knew he was watching her, but nevertheless she could not forbear turning

round to verify her suspicions. When she did, he waved his sound arm at

her, and she flushed with vexation.

“God bless her!” he murmured. “She's been my ally all along, and I never

suspected it! I wonder what her game can be.”

He sat musing for a long time. “Yes,” he concluded presently, “old

Poundstone has double-crossed us--and Pennington made it worth his

while. And the Colonel sold the Mayor his niece's automobile. It's

worth twenty-five hundred dollars, at least, and since old Poundstone's

finances will not permit such an extravagance, I'm wondering how

Pennington expects him to pay for it. I smell a rat as big as a

kangaroo. In this case two and two don't make four. They make six! Guess

I'll build a fire under old Poundstone.”

He took down the telephone-receiver and called up the Mayor. “Bryce

Cardigan speaking, Mr. Poundstone,” he greeted the chief executive of

Sequoia.

“Oh, hello, Bryce, my boy,” Poundstone boomed affably. “How's tricks?”

“So-so! I hear you've bought that sedan from Colonel Pennington's niece.

Wish I'd known it was for sale. I'd have outbid you. Want to make a

profit on your bargain?”

“No, not this morning, Bryce. I think we'll keep it. Mrs. P. has been

wanting a closed car for a long time, and when the Colonel offered me

this one at a bargain, I snapped it up. Couldn't afford a new one, you

know, but then this one's just as good as new.”

“And you don't care to get rid of it at a profit?” Bryce repeated.

“No, sirree!”

“Oh, you're mistaken, Mr. Mayor. I think you do. I would suggest that

you take that car back to Pennington's garage and leave it there. That

would be the most profitable thing you could do.”

“Wha--what--what in blue blazes are you driving at?” the Mayor

sputtered.

“I wouldn't care to discuss it over the telephone. I take it, however,

that a hint to the wise is sufficient; and I warn you, Mayor, that if

you keep that car it will bring you bad luck. To-day is Friday, and

Friday is an unlucky day. I'd get rid of that sedan before noon if I

were you.”

There was a long, fateful silence. Then in a singularly small, quavering

voice: “You think it best, Cardigan?”

“I do. Return it to No. 38 Redwood Boulevard, and no questions will be

asked. Good-bye!”

When Shirley reached home at noon, she found her car parked in front of

the porte cochere; and a brief note, left with the butler, informed her

that after thinking the matter over, Mrs. Poundstone had decided the

Poundstone family could not afford such an extravagance, and accordingly

the car was returned with many thanks for the opportunity to purchase it

at such a ridiculously low figure. Shirley smiled, and put the car up in

the garage. When she returned to the house her maid Thelma informed her

that Mr. Bryce Cardigan had been calling her on the telephone. So she

called Bryce up at once.

“Has Poundstone returned your car?” he queried.

“Why, yes. What makes you ask?”

“Oh, I had a suspicion he might. You see, I called him up and suggested

it; somehow His Honour is peculiarly susceptible to suggestions from me,

and--”

“Bryce Cardigan,” she declared, “you're a sly rascal--that's what you

are. I shan't tell you another thing.”

“I hope you had a stenographer at the dictograph when the Mayor and your

uncle cooked up their little deal,” he continued. “That was thoughtful

of you, Shirley. It was a bully club to have up your sleeve at the final

show-down, for with it you can make Unkie-dunk behave himself and force

that compromise you spoke of. Seriously, however, I don't want you to

use it, Shirley. We must avoid a scandal by all means; and praise be,

I don't need your club to beat your uncle's brains out. I'm taking HIS

club away from him to use for that purpose.”

“Really, I believe you're happy to-day.”

“Happy? I should tell a man! If the streets of Sequoia were paved with

eggs, I could walk them all day without making an omelette.”

“It must be nice to feel so happy, after so many months of the blues.”

“Indeed it is, Shirley. You see until very recently I was very much

worried as to your attitude toward me. I couldn't believe you'd so far

forget yourself as to love me in spite of everything--so I never took

the trouble to ask you. And now I don't have to ask you. I know! And

I'll be around to see you after I get that crossing in!”

“You're perfectly horrid,” she blazed, and hung up without the formality

of saying good-bye.

CHAPTER XXXIV

Shortly after Shirley's departure from his office, Bryce had a visit

from Buck Ogilvy. The latter wore a neatly pressed suit of Shepherd

plaid, with a white carnation in his lapel, and he was, apparently, the

most light-hearted young man in Humboldt County. He struck an attitude

and demanded:

“Boss, what do you think of my new suit?”

“You lunatic! Don't you know red blonds should never wear light shades?

You're dressed like a Negro minstrel.”

“Well, I feel as happy as an end-man. And by the way, you're all chirked

up yourself. Who's been helping you to the elixir of life. When

we parted last night, you were forty fathoms deep in the slough of

despond.”

“No less a divinity than Miss Shirley Sumner! She called this morning

to explain that last night's fiasco was none of her making, and quite

innocently she imparted the information that old Pennington lighted out

for San Francisco at one o'clock this morning. Wherefore I laugh. Te-he!

Ha-hah!”

“Three long, loud raucous cheers for Uncle. He's gone to rush a

restraining order through the United States District Court. Wonder why

he didn't wire his attorneys to attend to the matter for him.”

“He has the crossing blocked, and inasmuch as the Mayor feeds out of

Pennington's hand, the Colonel is quite confident that said crossing

will remain blocked, As for the restraining order--well, if one wants a

thing well done, one should do it oneself.”

“All that doesn't explain your cheerful attitude, though.”

“Oh, but it does. I've told you about old Duncan McTavish, Moira's

father, haven't I?” Ogilvy nodded, and Bryce continued: “When I fired

the old scoundrel for boozing, it almost broke his heart; he had to

leave Humboldt, where everybody knew him, so he wandered down into

Mendocino County and got a job sticking lumber in the drying-yard of

the Willits Lumber Company. He's been there two months now, and I am

informed by his employer that old Mac hasn't taken a drink in all that

time. And what's more, he isn't going to take one again.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I make it my business to find out. Mac was the finest

woods-boss this county ever knew; hence you do not assume that I would

lose the old scoundrel without making a fight for him, do you? Why,

Buck, he's been on the Cardigan pay-roll thirty years, and I only fired

him in order to reform him. Well, last week I sent one of Mac's old

friends down to Willits purposely to call on him and invite him out

'for a time'; but Mac wouldn't drink with him. No, sir, he couldn't be

tempted. On the contrary, he told the tempter that I had promised to

give him back his job if he remained on the water wagon for one year; he

was resolved to win back his job and his self-respect.”

“I know what your plan is,” Ogilvy interrupted. “You're going to ask

Duncan McTavish to waylay Pennington on the road at some point where it

runs through the timber, kidnap him, and hold him until we have had time

to clear the crossing and cut Pennington's tracks.

“We will do nothing of the sort,” Buck continued seriously. “Listen,

now, to Father's words of wisdom. This railroad-game is an old one

to me; I've fought at crossings before now, and whether successful or

defeated, I have always learned something in battle. Didn't you hear me

tell that girl and her villainous avuncular relative last night that I

had another ace up my kimono?”

Bryce nodded.

“That was not brag, old dear. I had the ace, and this morning I

played it--wherefore in my heart there is that peace that passeth

understanding--particularly since I have just had a telegram informing

me that my ace took the odd trick.”

He opened a drawer in Bryce's desk and reached for the cigars he knew

were there.

“Not at all a bad cigar for ten cents. However--you will recall that

from the very instant we decided to cut in that jump-crossing, we

commenced to plan against interference by Pennington; in consequence we

kept, or tried to keep, our decision a secret. However, there existed at

all times the possibility that Pennington might discover our benevolent

intentions and block us with his only weapon--a restraining order issued

by the judge of the United States District Court.

“Now, one of the most delightful things I know about a court is that it

is open to all men seeking justice--or injustice disguised as justice.

Also there is a wise old saw to the effect that battles are won by the

fellow who gets there first with the most men. The situation from the

start was absurdly simple. If Pennington got to the District Court

first, we were lost!”

“You mean you got there first?” exclaimed Bryce.

“I did--by the very simple method of preparing to get there first in

case anything slipped. Something did slip--last night! However, I was

ready; so all I had to do was press the button, for as Omar Khayyam

remarked: 'What shall it avail a man if he buyeth a padlock for his

stable after his favourite stallion hath been lifted?' Several days

ago, my boy, I wrote a long letter to our attorney in San Francisco

explaining every detail of our predicament; the instant I received that

temporary franchise from the city council, I mailed a certified copy

of it to our attorney also. Then, in anticipation of our discovery

by Pennington, I instructed the attorney to prepare the complaint and

petition for a restraining order against Seth Pennington et al. and

stand by to rush the judge with it the instant he heard from me!

“Well, about the time old Pennington started for San Francisco this

morning, I had our attorney out of bed and on the long-distance

telephone; at nine o'clock this morning he appeared in the United States

District Court; at nine-fifteen the judge signed a restraining order

forbidding our enemies to interfere with us in the exercise of a right

legally granted us by the city of Sequoia, and at nine-thirty a deputy

United States marshal started in an automobile for Sequoia, via the

overland route. He will arrive late to-morrow night, and on Sunday we

will get that locomotive out of our way and install our crossing.”

“And Pennington--”

“Ah, the poor Pennington! Mon pauvre Seth!” Buck sighed comically. “He

will be just twenty-four hours late.”

“You old he-fox!” Bryce murmured. “You wicked, wicked man!”

Buck Ogilvy lifted his lapel and sniffed luxuriously at his white

carnation, the while a thin little smile played around the corners of

his humorous mouth. “Ah,” he murmured presently, “life's pretty sweet,

isn't it!”

CHAPTER XXXV

Events followed each other with refreshing rapidity. While the crew of

the big locomotive on the crossing busied themselves getting up steam,

Sexton and Jules Rondeau toiled at the loading of the discarded boiler

and heavy castings aboard two flat-cars. By utilizing the steel derrick

on the company's wrecking-car, this task was completed by noon, and

after luncheon the mogul backed up the main line past the switch into

the Laguna Grande yards; whereupon the switch-engine kicked the two

flat-cars and the wrecking-car out of the yard and down to the crossing,

where the obstructions were promptly unloaded. The police watched

the operation with alert interest but forebore to interfere in this

high-handed closing of a public thoroughfare.

To Sexton's annoyance and secret apprehension, Bryce Cardigan and Buck

Ogilvy promptly appeared on the scene, both very cheerful and lavish

with expert advice as to the best method of expediting the job in hand.

To Bryce's surprise Jules Rondeau appeared to take secret enjoyment of

this good-natured chaffing of the Laguna Grande manager. Occasionally

he eyed Bryce curiously but without animus, and presently he flashed the

latter a lightning wink, as if to say: “What a fool Sexton is to oppose

you!”

“Well, Rondeau,” Bryce hailed the woods-boss cheerfully, “I see you have

quite recovered from that working over I gave you some time ago. No hard

feelings, I trust. I shouldn't care to have that job to do over again.

You're a tough one.”

“By gar, she don' pay for have hard feelings wiz you, M'sieur,” Rondeau

answered bluntly. “We have one fine fight, but”--he shrugged--“I don'

want some more.”

“Yes, by gar, an' she don' pay for cut other people's trees, M'sieur,”

Bryce mimicked him. “I shouldn't wonder if I took the value of that tree

out of your hide.”

“I t'enk so, M'sieur.” He approached Bryce and lowered his voice. “For

one month I am no good all ze tam. We don' fight some more, M'sieur. And

I have feel ashame' for dose Black Minorca feller. Always wiz him eet

is ze knife or ze club--and now eet is ze rifle. COCHON! W'en I fight, I

fight wiz what le bon Dieu give me.”

“You appear to have a certain code, after all,” Bryce laughed. “I am

inclined to like you for it. You're sporty in your way, you tremendous

scoundrel!”

“Mebbeso,” Rondeau suggested hopefully, “M'sieur likes me for

woods-boss?”

“Why, what's the matter with Pennington? Is he tired of you?”

The colour mounted slowly to the woods bully's swarthy cheek.

“Mademoiselle Sumnair, he's tell me pretty soon he's goin' be boss of

Laguna Grande an' stop all thees fight. An' w'en Mademoiselle, he is in

the saddle, good-bye Jules Rondeau. Thees country--I like him. I feel

sad, M'sieur, to leave dose beeg trees.” He paused, looking rather

wistfully at Bryce. “I am fine woods-boss for somebody,” he suggested

hopefully.

“You think Miss Sumner dislikes you then, Rondeau?”

“I don' theenk. I know.” He sighed; his huge body seemed to droop. “I

am out of zee good luck now,” he murmured bitterly. “Everybody, she hate

Jules Rondeau. Colonel--she hate because I don' keel M'sieur Cardigan;

Mademoiselle, he hate because I try to keel M'sieur Cardigan; M'sieur

Sexton, she hate because I tell her thees mornin' she is one fool for

fight M'sieur Cardigan.”

Again he sighed. “Dose beeg trees! In Quebec we have none. In zee woods,

M'sieur, I feel--here!” And he laid his great calloused, hairy hand over

his heart. “W'en I cut your beeg trees, M'sieur, I feel like hell.”

“That infernal gorilla of a man is a poet,” Buck Ogilvy declared. “I'd

think twice before I let him get out of the country, Bryce.”

“'Whose salt he eats, his song he sings,'” quoth Bryce. “I forgive you,

Rondeau, and when I need a woods-boss like you, I'll send for you.”

CHAPTER XXXVI

At eleven o'clock Saturday night the deputy United States marshal

arrived in Sequoia. Upon the advice of Buck Ogilvy, however, he made

no attempt at service that night, notwithstanding the fact that Jules

Rondeau and his bullies still guarded the crossing. At eight o'clock

Sunday morning, however, Bryce Cardigan drove him down to the crossing.

Buck Ogilvy was already there with his men, superintending the erection

of a huge derrick close to the heap of obstructions placed on the

crossing. Sexton was watching him uneasily, and flushed as Ogilvy

pointed him out to the marshal.

“There's your meat, Marshal,” he announced. The marshal approached

and extended toward Sexton a copy of the restraining order. The latter

struck it aside and refused to accept it--whereupon the deputy marshal

tapped him on the shoulder with it. “Tag! You're out of the game, my

friend,” he said pleasantly.

As the document fluttered to Sexton's feet, the latter turned to Jules

Rondeau. “I can no longer take charge here, Rondeau,” he explained. “I

am forbidden to interfere.”

“Jules Rondeau can do ze job,” the woods-boss replied easily. “Ze law,

she have not restrain' me. I guess mebbeso you don' take dose theengs

away, eh, M'sieur Cardigan. Myself, I lak see.”

The deputy marshal handed Rondeau a paper, at the same time showing his

badge. “You're out, too, my friend,” he laughed. “Don't be foolish and

try to buck the law. If you do, I shall have to place a nice little pair

of handcuffs on you and throw you in jail--and if you resist arrest, I

shall have to shoot you. I have one of these little restraining

orders for every able-bodied man in the Laguna Grande Lumber Company's

employ--thanks to Mr. Ogilvy's foresight; so it is useless to try to

beat this game on a technicality.”

Sexton, who still lingered, made a gesture of surrender. “Dismiss your

crew, Rondeau,” he ordered. “We're whipped to a frazzle.”

A gleam of pleasure, not unmixed with triumph, lighted the dark eyes

of the French-Canadian. “I tol' M'sieur Sexton she cannot fight M'sieur

Cardigan and win,” he said simply, “Now mebbe he believe that Jules

Rondeau know somet'ing.”

“Shut up,” Sexton roared petulantly. Rondeau shrugged contemptuously,

turned, and with a sweep of his great arm indicated to his men that they

were to go; then, without a backward glance to see that they followed,

the woods-boss strode away in the direction of the Laguna Grande mill.

Arrived at the mill-office, he entered, took down the telephone, and

called up Shirley Sumner.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, “Jules Rondeau speaks to you. I have for you

zee good news. Bryce Cardigan, she puts in the crossing to-day. One man

of the law she comes from San Francisco with papers, and M'sieur

Sexton say to me: 'Rondeau, we are whip'. Deesmess your men.' So I have

deesmess doze men, and now I deesmess myself. Mebbeso bimeby I go to

work for M'sieur Cardigan. For Mademoiselle I have no weesh to make

trouble to fire me. I queet. I will not fight dose dirty fight some

more. Au revoir, mademoiselle. I go.”

And without further ado he hung up.

“What's this, what's this?” Sexton demanded. “You re going to quit?

Nonsense, Rondeau, nonsense!”

“I will have my time, M'sieur,” said Jules Rondeau. “I go to work for a

man. Mebbeso I am not woods-boss for heem, but--I work.”

“You'll have to wait until the Colonel returns, Rondeau.”

“I will have my time,” said Jules Rondeau patiently.

“Then you'll wait till pay-day for it, Rondeau. You know our rules. Any

man who quits without notice waits until the regular pay-day for his

money.”

Jules advanced until he towered directly over the manager. “I tol'

M'sieur I would have my time,” he repeated once more. “Is M'sieur deaf

in zee ears?” He raised his right hand, much as a bear raises its paw;

his blunt fingers worked a little and there was a smoldering fire in his

dark eyes.

Without further protest Sexton opened the safe, counted out the wages

due, and took Rondeau's receipt.

“Thank you, M'sieur,” the woods-boss growled as he swept the coin into

his pocket. “Now I work for M'sieur Cardigan; so, M'sieur, I will have

zee switchengine weeth two flat-cars and zee wrecking-car. Doze dam

trash on zee crossing--M'sieur Cardigan does not like, and by gar, I

take heem away. You onderstand, M'sieur? I am Jules Rondeau, and I

work for M'sieur Cardigan. La la, M'sieur!” The great hand closed over

Sexton's collar. “Not zee pistol--no, not for Jules Rondeau.”

Quite as easily as a woman dresses a baby, he gagged Sexton with

Sexton's own handkerchief, laid him gently on the floor and departed,

locking the door behind him and taking the key. At the corner of the

building, where the telephone-line entered the office, he paused, jerked

once at the wire, and passed on, leaving the broken ends on the ground.

In the round-house he found the switch-engine crew on duty, waiting for

steam in the boiler. The withdrawal of both locomotives, brief as had

been their absence, had caused a glut of logs at the Laguna Grande

landings, and Sexton was catching up with the traffic by sending the

switch-engine crew out for one train-load, even though it was Sunday.

The crew had been used to receiving orders from Rondeau, and moreover

they were not aware of his recent action; hence at his command they ran

the switch-engine out of the roundhouse, coupled up the two flat-cars

and the wrecking-car, and backed down to the crossing. Upon arrival,

Jules Rondeau leaned out of the cab window and hailed Bryce.

“M'sieur,” he said, “do not bozzer to make zee derrick. I have here zee

wrecking-car--all you need; pretty soon we lift him off zee crossing, I

tell you, eh, M'sieur Cardigan?”

Bryce stepped over to the switch-engine and looked up at his late enemy.

“By whose orders is this train here?” he queried.

“Mine,” Rondeau answered. “M'sieur Sexton I have tie like one leetle pig

and lock her in her office. I work now for M'sieur.”

And he did. He waited not for a confirmation from his new master but

proceeded to direct operations like the born driver and leader of

men that he was. With his late employer's gear he fastened to the

old castings and the boiler, lifted them with the derrick on the

wrecking-car, and swung them up and around onto the flat-cars. By the

middle of the afternoon the crossing was once more clear. Then the

Cardigan crew fell upon it while Jules Rondeau ran the train back to the

Laguna Grande yards, dismissed his crew, returned to the mill-office,

and released the manager.

“You'll pay through the nose for this, you scoundrel,” Sexton whimpered.

“I'll fix you, you traitor.”

“You feex nothing, M'sieur Sexton,” Rondeau replied imperturbably. “Who

is witness Jules Rondeau tie you up? Somebody see you, no? I guess you

don' feex me. Sacre! I guess you don' try.”

CHAPTER XXXVII

Colonel Pennington's discovery at San Francisco that Bryce Cardigan had

stolen his thunder and turned the bolt upon him, was the hardest blow

Seth Pennington could remember having received throughout thirty-odd

years of give and take. He was too old and experienced a campaigner,

however, to permit a futile rage to cloud his reason; he prided himself

upon being a foeman worthy of any man's steel.

On Tuesday he returned to Sequoia. Sexton related to him in detail the

events which had transpired since his departure, but elicited nothing

more than a noncommittal grunt.

“There is one more matter, sir, which will doubtless be of interest to

you,” Sexton continued apologetically. “Miss Sumner called me on the

telephone yesterday and instructed me formally to notify the board

of directors of the Laguna Grande Company of a special meeting of the

board, to be held here at two o'clock this afternoon. In view of the

impossibility of communicating with you while you were en route, I

conformed to her wishes. Our by-laws, as you know, stipulate that no

meeting of the board shall be called without formal written notice to

each director mailed twenty-four hours previously.”

“What the devil do you mean, Sexton, by conforming to her wishes? Miss

Sumner is not a director of this company.” Pennington's voice was harsh

and trembled with apprehension.

“Miss Sumner controls forty per cent. of the Laguna Grande stock, sir. I

took that into consideration.”

“You lie!” Pennington all but screamed. “You took into consideration

your job as secretary and general manager. Damnation!”

He rose and commenced pacing up and down his office. Suddenly he paused.

Sexton still stood beside his desk, watching him respectfully. “You

fool!” he snarled. “Get out of here and leave me alone.”

Sexton departed promptly, glancing at his watch as he did so. It lacked

five minutes of two. He passed Shirley Sumner in the general office.

“Shirley,” Pennington began in a hoarse voice as she entered his office,

“what is the meaning of this directors' meeting you have requested?”

“Be seated, Uncle Seth,” the girl answered quietly. “If you will only

be quiet and reasonable, perhaps we can dispense with this directors'

meeting which appears to frighten you so.”

He sat down promptly, a look of relief on his face.

“I scarcely know how to begin, Uncle Seth,” Shirley commenced sadly. “It

hurts me terribly to be forced to hurt you, but there doesn't appear to

be any other way out of it. I cannot trust you to manage my financial

affairs in the future--this for a number of reasons, the principal one

being--”

“Young Cardigan,” he interrupted in a low voice.

“I suppose so,” she answered, “although I did think until very recently

that it was those sixteen townships of red cedar--that crown grant in

British Columbia in which you induced me to invest four hundred thousand

dollars. You will remember that you purchased that timber for me from

the Caribou Timber Company, Limited. You said it was an unparalleled

investment. Quite recently I learned--no matter how--that you were the

principal owner of the Caribou Timber Company, Limited! Smart as you

are, somebody swindled you with that red cedar. It was a wonderful stand

of timber--so read the cruiser's report--but fifty per cent. of it,

despite its green and flourishing appearance, is hollow-butted! And the

remaining fifty per cent. of sound timber cannot be logged unless the

rotten timber is logged also and gotten out of the way also. And I am

informed that logging it spells bankruptcy.”

She gazed upon him steadily, but without malice; his face crimsoned and

then paled; presently his glance sought the carpet. While he struggled

to formulate a verbal defense against her accusation Shirley continued:

“You had erected a huge sawmill and built and equipped a logging-road

before you discovered you had been swindled. So, in order to save

as much as possible from the wreck, you decided to unload your white

elephant on somebody else. I was the readiest victim. You were the

executor of my father's estate--you were my guardian and financial

adviser, and so you found it very, very easy to swindle me!”

“I had my back to the wall,” he quavered. “I was desperate--and it

wasn't at all the bad investment you have been told it is. You had the

money--more money than you knew what to do with--and with the proceeds

of the sale of those cedar lands, I knew I could make an investment in

California redwood and more than retrieve my fortunes--make big money

for both of us.”

“You might have borrowed the money from me. You know I have never

hesitated to join in your enterprises.”

“This was too big a deal for you, Shirley. I had vision. I could see

incalculable riches in this redwood empire, but it was a tremendous

gamble and required twenty millions to swing it at the very start. I

dreamed of the control of California redwood; and if you will stand by

me, Shirley, I shall yet make my dream come true--and half of it shall

be yours. It has always been my intention to buy back from you secretly

and at a nice profit to you that Caribou red cedar, and with the

acquisition of the Cardigan properties I would have been in position to

do so. Why, that Cardigan tract in the San Hedrin which we will buy in

within a year for half a million is worth five millions at least. And

by that time, I feel certain--in fact, I know--the Northern Pacific will

commence building in from the south, from Willits.”

She silenced him with a disdainful gesture. “You shall not smash the

Cardigans,” she declared firmly.

“I shall--” he began, but he paused abruptly, as if he had suddenly

remembered that tact and not pugnacity was the requirement for the

handling of this ticklish situation.

“You are devoid of mercy, of a sense of sportsmanship. Now, then, Uncle

Seth, listen to me: You have twenty-four hours in which to make up your

mind whether to accept my ultimatum or refuse it. If you refuse, I shall

prosecute you for fraud and a betrayal of trust as my father's executor

on that red-cedar timber deal.”

He brightened a trifle. “I'm afraid that would be a long, hard row to

hoe, my dear, and of course, I shall have to defend myself.”

“In addition,” the girl went on quietly, “the county grand jury shall

be furnished with a stenographic report of your conversation of Thursday

night with Mayor Poundstone. That will not be a long, hard row to hoe,

Uncle Seth, for in addition to the stenographer, I have another very

reliable witness, Judge Moore. Your casual disposal of my sedan as a

bribe to the Mayor will be hard to explain and rather amusing, in view

of the fact that Bryce Cardigan managed to frighten Mr. Poundstone into

returning the sedan while you were away. And if that is not sufficient

for my purposes, I have the sworn confession of the Black Minorca

that you gave him five hundred dollars to kill Bryce Cardigan. Your

woods-boss, Rondeau, will also swear that you approached him with a

proposition to do away with Bryce Cardigan. I think, therefore, that you

will readily see how impossible a situation you have managed to create

and will not disagree with me when I suggest that it would be better for

you to leave this county.”

His face had gone gray and haggard. “I can't,” he murmured, “I can't

leave this great business now. Your own interests in the company render

such a course unthinkable. Without my hand at the helms, things will go

to smash.”

“I'll risk that. I want to get rid of that worthless red-cedar timber;

so I think you had better buy it back from me at the same figure at

which, you sold it to me.”

“But I haven't the money and I can't borrow it. I--I---”

“I will have the equivalent in stock of the Laguna Grande Lumber

Company. You will call on Judge Moore to complete the transaction and

leave with him your resignation as president of the Laguna Grande Lumber

Company.”

The Colonel raised his glance and bent it upon her in cold appraisal.

She met it with firmness, and the thought came to him: “She is a

Pennington!” And hope died out in his heart. He began pleading in

maudlin fashion for mercy, for compromise. But the girl was obdurate.

“I am showing you more mercy than you deserve--you to whom mercy was

ever a sign of weakness, of vacillation. There is a gulf between us,

Uncle Seth--a gulf which for a long time I have dimly sensed and which,

because of my recent discoveries, has widened until it can no longer be

bridged.”

He wrung his hands in desperation and suddenly slid to his knees before

her; with hypocritical endearments he strove to take her hand, but

she drew away from him. “Don't touch me,” she cried sharply and with a

breaking note in her voice. “You planned to kill Bryce Cardigan! And for

that--and that alone--I shall never forgive you.”

She fled from the office, leaving him cringing and grovelling on the

floor. “There will be no directors' meeting, Mr. Sexton,” she informed

the manager as she passed through the general office. “It is postponed.”

CHAPTER XXXVIII

That trying interview with her uncle had wrenched Shirley's soul to

a degree that left her faint and weak. She at once set out on a long

drive, in the hope that before she turned homeward again she might

regain something of her customary composure.

Presently the asphaltum-paved street gave way to a dirt road and

terminated abruptly at the boundaries of a field that sloped gently

upward--a field studded with huge black redwood stumps showing dismally

through coronets of young redwoods that grew riotously around the

base of the departed parent trees. From the fringe of the thicket thus

formed, the terminus of an old skid-road showed and a signboard, freshly

painted, pointed the way to the Valley of the Giants.

Shirley had not intended to come here, but now that she had arrived, it

occurred to her that it was here she wanted to come. Parking her car by

the side of the road, she alighted and proceeded up the old skid, now

newly planked and with the encroaching forestration cut away so that the

daylight might enter from above. On over the gentle divide she went and

down toward the amphitheatre where the primeval giants grew. And as she

approached it, the sound that is silence in the redwoods--the

thunderous diapason of the centuries--wove its spell upon her; quickly,

imperceptibly there faded from her mind the memory of that grovelling

Thing she had left behind in the mill-office, and in its place there

came a subtle peace, a feeling of awe, of wonder--such a feeling,

indeed, as must come to one in the realization that man is distant but

God is near.

A cluster of wild orchids pendent from the great fungus-covered roots

of a giant challenged her attention. She gathered them. Farther on, in

a spot where a shaft of sunlight fell, she plucked an armful of golden

California poppies and flaming rhododendron, and with her delicate

burden she came at length to the giant-guarded clearing where the halo

of sunlight fell upon the grave of Bryce Cardigan's mother. There were

red roses on it--a couple of dozen, at least, and these she rearranged

in order to make room for her own offering.

“Poor dear!” she murmured audibly. “God didn't spare you for much

happiness, did He?”

A voice, deep, resonant, kindly, spoke a few feet away. “Who is it?”

Shirley, startled, turned swiftly. Seated across the little amphitheatre

in a lumberjack's easy-chair fashioned from an old barrel, John Cardigan

sat, his sightless gaze bent upon her. “Who is it?” he repeated.

“Shirley Sumner,” she answered. “You do not know me, Mr. Cardigan.”

“No,” replied he, “I do not. That is a name I have heard, however. You

are Seth Pennington's niece. Is someone with you?”

“I am quite alone, Mr. Cardigan.”

“And why did you come here alone?” he queried.

“I--I wanted to think.”

“You mean you wanted to think clearly, my dear. Ah, yes, this is the

place for thoughts.” He was silent a moment. Then: “You were thinking

aloud, Miss Shirley Sumner. I heard you. You said: 'Poor dear, God

didn't spare you for much happiness, did He?' And I think you rearranged

my roses. Didn't I have them on her grave?”

“Yes, Mr. Cardigan. I was merely making room for some wild flowers I had

gathered.”

“Indeed. Then you knew--about her being here.”

“Yes, sir. Some ten years ago, when I was a very little girl, I met your

son Bryce. He gave me a ride on his Indian pony, and we came here. So I

remember.”

“Well, I declare! Ten years ago, eh? You've met, eh? You've met Bryce

since his return to Sequoia, I believe. He's quite a fellow now.”

“He is indeed.”

John Cardigan nodded sagely. “So that's why you thought aloud,” he

remarked impersonally. “Bryce told you about her. You are right, Miss

Shirley Sumner. God didn't give her much time for happiness--just three

years; but oh, such wonderful years! Such wonderful years!

“It was mighty fine of you to bring flowers,” he announced presently.

“I appreciate that. I wish I could see you. You must be a dear, nice,

thoughtful girl. Won't you sit down and talk to me?”

“I should be glad to,” she answered, and seated herself on the brown

carpet of redwood twigs close to his chair.

“So you came up here to do a little clear thinking,” he continued in his

deliberate, amiable tones. “Do you come here often?”

“This is the third time in ten years,” she answered. “I feel that I have

no business to intrude here. This is your shrine, and strangers should

not profane it.”

“I think I should have resented the presence of any other person, Miss

Sumner. I resented you--until you spoke.”

“I'm glad you said that, Mr. Cardigan. It sets me at ease.”

“I hadn't been up here for nearly two years until recently. You see I--I

don't own the Valley of the Giants any more.”

“Indeed. To whom have you sold it?”

“I do not know, Miss Sumner. I had to sell; there was no other way out

of the jam Bryce and I were in; so I sacrificed my sentiment for my boy.

However, the new owner has been wonderfully kind and thoughtful. She

reorganized that old skid-road so even an old blind duffer like me

can find his way in and out without getting lost--and she had this

easy-chair made for me. I have told Judge Moore, who represents the

unknown owner, to extend my thanks to his client. But words are so

empty, Shirley Sumner. If that new owner could only understand how truly

grateful I am--how profoundly her courtesy touches me--”

“HER courtesy?” Shirley echoed. “Did a woman buy the Giants?”

He smiled down at her. “Why, certainly. Who but a woman--and a dear,

kind, thoughtful woman--would have thought to have this chair made and

brought up here for me?”

Fell a long silence between them; then John Cardigan's trembling hand

went groping out toward the girl's. “Why, how stupid of me not to have

guessed it immediately!” he said. “You are the new owner. My dear

child, if the silent prayers of a very unhappy old man will bring God's

blessing on you--there, there, girl! I didn't intend to make you weep.

What a tender heart it is, to be sure!”

She took his great toil-worn hand, and her hot tears fell on it, for his

gentleness, his benignancy, had touched her deeply. “Oh, you must not

tell anybody! You mustn't,” she cried.

He put his hand on her shoulder as she knelt before him. “Good land

of love, girl, what made you do it? Why should a girl like you give

a hundred thousand dollars for my Valley of the Giants? Were

you”--hesitatingly--“your uncle's agent?”

“No, I bought it myself--with my own money. My uncle doesn't know I am

the new owner. You see, he wanted it--for nothing.”

“Ah, yes. I suspected as much a long time ago. Your uncle is the modern

type of business man. Not very much of an idealist, I'm afraid. But tell

me why you decided to thwart the plans of your relative.”

“I knew it hurt you terribly to sell your Giants; they were dear to

you for sentimental reasons. I understood, also, why you were forced to

sell; so I--well, I decided the Giants would be safer in my possession

than in my uncle's. In all probability he would have logged this valley

for the sake of the clear seventy-two-inch boards he could get from

these trees.”

“That does not explain satisfactorily, to me, why you took sides with a

stranger against your own kin,” John Cardigan persisted. “There must be

a deeper and more potent reason, Miss Shirley Sumner.”

“Well,” Shirley made answer, glad that he could not see the flush of

confusion and embarrassment that crimsoned her cheek, “when I came to

Sequoia last May, your son and I met, quite accidentally. The stage to

Sequoia had already gone, and he was gracious enough to invite me to

make the journey in his car. Then we recalled having met as children,

and presently I gathered from his conversation that he and his

John-partner, as he called you, were very dear to each other. I was

witness to your meeting that night--I saw him take you in his big arms

and hold you tight because you'd--gone blind while he was away having a

good time. And you hadn't told him! I thought that was brave of you;

and later, when Bryce and Moira McTavish told me about you--how kind

you were, how you felt your responsibility toward your employees and the

community--well, I just couldn't help a leaning toward John-partner and

John-partner's boy, because the boy was so fine and true to his father's

ideals.”

“Ah, he's a man. He is indeed,” old John Cardigan murmured proudly. “I

dare say you'll never get to know him intimately, but if you should--”

“I know him intimately,” she corrected him. “He saved my life the day

the log-train ran away. And that was another reason. I owed him a debt,

and so did my uncle; but Uncle wouldn't pay his share, and I had to pay

for him.”

“Wonderful,” murmured John Cardigan, “wonderful! But still you haven't

told me why you paid a hundred thousand dollars for the Giants when you

could have bought them for fifty thousand. You had a woman's reason,

I dare say, and women always reason from the heart, never the head.

However, if you do not care to tell me, I shall not insist. Perhaps I

have appeared, unduly inquisitive.”

“I would rather not tell you,” she answered.

A gentle, prescient smile fringed his old mouth; he wagged his leonine

head as if to say: “Why should I ask, when I know?” Fell again a restful

silence. Then:

“Am I allowed one guess, Miss Shirley Sumner?”

“Yes, but you would never guess the reason.”

“I am a very wise old man. When one sits in the dark, one sees much that

was hidden from him in the full glare of the light. My son is proud,

manly, independent, and the soul of honour. He needed a hundred thousand

dollars; you knew it. Probably your uncle informed you. You wanted to

loan him some money, but--you couldn't. You feared to offend him by

proffering it; had you proffered it, he would have declined it. So you

bought my Valley of the Giants at a preposterous price and kept your

action a secret.” And he patted her hand gently, as if to silence

any denial, while far down the skid-road a voice--a half-trained

baritone--floated faintly to them through the forest. Somebody was

singing--or rather chanting--a singularly tuneless refrain, wild and

barbaric.

“What is that?” Shirley cried.

“That is my son, coming to fetch his old daddy home,” replied John

Cardigan. “That thing he's howling is an Indian war-song or paean of

triumph--something his nurse taught him when he wore pinafores. If

you'll excuse me, Miss Shirley Sumner, I'll leave you now. I generally

contrive to meet him on the trail.”

He bade her good-bye and started down the trail, his stick tapping

against the old logging-cable stretched from tree to tree beside the

trail and marking it.

Shirley was tremendously relieved. She did not wish to meet Bryce

Cardigan to-day, and she was distinctly grateful to John Cardigan for

his nice consideration in sparing her an interview. She seated herself

in the lumberjack's easy-chair so lately vacated, and chin in hand

gave herself up to meditation on this extraordinary old man and his

extraordinary son.

A couple of hundred yards down the trail Bryce met his father. “Hello,

John Cardigan!” he called. “What do you mean by skallyhooting through

these woods without a pilot? Eh? Explain your reckless conduct.”

“You great overgrown duffer,” his father retorted affectionately,

“I thought you'd never come.” He reached into his pocket for a

handkerchief, but failed to find it and searched through another pocket

and still another. “By gravy, son,” he remarked presently, “I do

believe I left my silk handkerchief--the one Moira gave me for my last

birthday--up yonder. I wouldn't lose that handkerchief for a farm. Skip

along and find it for me, son. I'll wait for you here. Don't hurry.”

“I'll be back in a pig's whisper,” his son replied, and started briskly

up the trail, while his father leaned against a madrone tree and smiled

his prescient little smile.

Bryce's brisk step on the thick carpet of withered brown twigs aroused

Shirley from her reverie. When she looked up, he was standing in the

centre of the little amphitheatre gazing at her.

“You--you!” she stammered, and rose as if to flee from him.

“The governor sent me back to look for his handkerchief, Shirley,” he

explained. “He didn't tell me you were here. Guess he didn't hear you.”

He advanced smilingly toward her. “I'm tremendously glad to see you

to-day, Shirley,” he said, and paused beside her. “Fate has been

singularly kind to me. Indeed, I've been pondering all day as to just

how I was to arrange a private and confidential little chat with you,

without calling upon you at your uncle's house.”

“I don't feel like chatting to-day,” she answered a little drearily--and

then he noted her wet lashes. Instantly he was on one knee beside her;

with the amazing confidence that had always distinguished him in her

eyes, his big left arm went around her, and when her hands went to her

face, he drew them gently away.

“I've waited too long, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Thank God, I can tell

you at last all the things that have been accumulating in my heart.

I love you, Shirley. I've loved you from that first day we met at the

station, and all these months of strife and repression have merely

served to make me love you the more. Perhaps you have been all the

dearer to me because you seemed so hopelessly unattainable.”

He drew her head down on his breast; his great hand patted her hot

cheek; his honest brown eyes gazed earnestly, wistfully into hers. “I

love you,” he whispered. “All that I have--all that I am--all that I

hope to be--I offer to you, Shirley Sumner; and in the shrine of

my heart I shall hold you sacred while life shall last. You are not

indifferent to me, dear. I know you're not; but tell me--answer me--”

Her violet eyes were uplifted to his, and in them he read the answer to

his cry. “Ah, may I?” he murmured, and kissed her.

“Oh, my dear, impulsive, gentle big sweetheart,” she whispered--and then

her arms went around his neck, and the fullness of her happiness found

vent in tears he did not seek to have her repress. In the safe haven of

his arms she rested; and there, quite without effort or distress, she

managed to convey to him something more than an inkling of the thoughts

that were wont to come to her whenever they met.

“Oh, my love!” he cried happily, “I hadn't dared dream of such happiness

until to-day. You were so unattainable--the obstacles between us were so

many and so great--”

“Why to-day, Bryce?” she interrupted him.

He took her adorable little nose in his great thumb and forefinger and

tweaked it gently. “The light began to dawn yesterday, my dear little

enemy, following an interesting half-hour which I put in with His Honour

the Mayor. Acting upon suspicion only, I told Poundstone I was prepared

to send him to the rock-pile if he didn't behave himself in the matter

of my permanent franchise for the N.C.O.--and the oily old invertebrate

wept and promised me anything if I wouldn't disgrace him. So I promised

I wouldn't do anything until the franchise matter should be definitely

settled--after which I returned to my office, to find awaiting me there

no less a person than the right-of-way man for the Northwestern Pacific.

He was a perfectly delightful young fellow, and he had a proposition to

unfold. It seems the Northwestern Pacific has decided to build up from

Willits, and all that powwow and publicity of Buck Ogilvy's about

the N.C.O. was in all probability the very thing that spurred them to

action. They figured the C.M. & St.P. was back of the N.C.O.--that

it was to be the first link of a chain of coast roads to be connected

ultimately with the terminus of the C.M. & St.P. on Gray's Harbour,

Washington, and if the N.C.O. should be built, it meant that a rival

road would get the edge on them in the matter of every stick of Humboldt

and Del Norte redwood--and they'd be left holding the sack.”

“Why did they think that, dear?”

“That amazing rascal Buck Ogilvy used to be a C. M. me that the money

had been deposited in escrow there awaiting formal deed. That money puts

the Cardigan Redwood Lumber Company in the clear--no receivership for

us now, my dear one. And I'm going right ahead with the building of the

N.C.O.--while our holdings down on the San Hedrin double in value, for

the reason that within three years they will be accessible and can be

logged over the rails of the Northwestern Pacific!”

“Bryce,” Shirley declared, “haven't I always told you I'd never permit

you to build the N.C.O.?”

“Of course,” he replied, “but surely you're going to withdraw your

objections now.”

“I am not. You must choose between the N.C.O. and me.” And she met his

surprised gaze unflinchingly.

“Shirley! You don't mean it?”

“I do mean it. I have always meant it. I love you, dear, but for all

that, you must not build that road.”

He stood up and towered above her sternly. “I must build it, Shirley.

I've contracted to do it, and I must keep faith with Gregory of the

Trinidad Timber Company. He's putting up the money, and I'm to do the

work and operate the line. I can't go back on him now.”

“Not for my sake?” she pleaded. He shook his head. “I must go on,” he

reiterated.

“Do you realize what that resolution means to us?” The girl's tones were

grave, her glance graver.

“I realize what it means to me!”

She came closer to him. Suddenly the blaze in her violet eyes gave

way to one of mirth. “Oh, you dear big booby!” she cried. “I was just

testing you.” And she clung to him, laughing. “You always beat me

down--you always win. Bryce, dear, I'm the Laguna Grande Lumber

Company--at least, I will be to-morrow, and I repeat for the last time

that you shall NOT build the N.C.O.--because I'm going to--oh, dear, I

shall die laughing at you--because I'm going to merge with the Cardigan

Redwood Lumber Company, and then my railroad shall be your railroad,

and we'll extend it and haul Gregory's logs to tidewater for him also.

And--silly, didn't I tell you you'd never build the N.C.O.?”

“God bless my mildewed soul!” he murmured, and drew her to him.

In the gathering dusk they walked down the trail. Beside the madrone

tree John Cardigan waited patiently.

“Well,” he queried when they joined him, “did you find my handkerchief

for me, son?”

“I didn't find your handkerchief, John Cardigan,” Bryce answered, “but

I did find what I suspect you sent me back for--and that is a perfectly

wonderful daughter-in-law for you.”

John Cardigan smiled and held out his arms for her. “This,” he said, “is

the happiest day that I have known since my boy was born.”

CHAPTER XXXIX

Colonel Seth Pennington was thoroughly crushed. Look which way he would,

the bedevilled old rascal could find no loophole for escape.

“You win, Cardigan,” he muttered desperately as he sat in his office

after Shirley had left him. “You've had more than a shade in every round

thus far, and at the finish you've landed a clean knockout. If I had to

fight any man but you--”

He sighed resignedly and pressed the push-button on his desk. Sexton

entered. “Sexton,” he said bluntly and with a slight quiver in his

voice, “my niece and I have had a disagreement. We have quarrelled over

young Cardigan. She's going to marry him. Now, our affairs are somewhat

involved, and in order to straighten them out, we spun a coin to see

whether she should sell her stock in Laguna Grande to me or whether I

should sell mine to her--and I lost. The book-valuation of the stock at

the close of last year's business, plus ten per cent. will determine

the selling price, and I shall resign as president. You will, in all

probability, be retained to manage the company until it is merged with

the Cardigan Redwood Lumber Company--when, I imagine, you will be given

ample notice to seek a new job elsewhere. Call Miss Sumner's attorney,

Judge Moore, on the telephone and ask him to come to the office at nine

o'clock to-morrow, when the papers can be drawn up and signed. That is

all.”

The Colonel did not return to his home in Redwood Boulevard that night.

He had no appetite for dinner and sat brooding in his office until very

late; then he went to the Hotel Sequoia and engaged a room. He did not

possess sufficient courage to face his niece again.

At four o'clock the next day the Colonel, his baggage, his automobile,

his chauffeur, and the solemn butler James, boarded the passenger

steamer for San Francisco, and at four-thirty sailed out of Humboldt Bay

over the thundering bar and on into the south. The Colonel was still a

rich man, but his dream of a redwood empire had faded, and once more he

was taking up the search for cheap timber. Whether he ever found it or

not is a matter that does not concern us.

At a moment when young Henry Poundstone's dream of legal opulence

was fading, when Mayor Poundstone's hopes for domestic peace had been

shattered beyond repair, the while his cheap political aspirations had

been equally devastated because of a certain damnable document in

the possession of Bryce Cardigan, many events of importance were

transpiring. On the veranda of his old-fashioned home, John Cardigan

sat tapping the floor with his stick and dreaming dreams which, for the

first time in many years, were rose-tinted. Beside him Shirley sat, her

glance bent musingly out across the roofs of Sequoia and on to the

bay shore, where the smoke and exhaust-steam floated up from two

sawmills--her own and Bryce Cardigan's. To her came at regularly spaced

intervals the faint whining of the saws and the rumble of log-trains

crawling out on the log-dumps; high over the piles of bright, freshly

sawed lumber she caught from time to time the flash of white spray

as the great logs tossed from the trucks, hurtled down the skids, and

crashed into the Bay. At the docks of both mills vessels were loading,

their tall spars cutting the skyline above and beyond the smokestacks;

far down the Bay a steam schooner, loaded until her main-deck was almost

flush with the water, was putting out to sea, and Shirley heard the

faint echo of her siren as she whistled her intention to pass to

starboard of a wind-jammer inward bound in tow of a Cardigan tug.

“It's wonderful,” she said presently, apropos of nothing.

“Aye,” he replied in his deep, melodious voice, “I've been sitting here,

my dear, listening to your thoughts. You know something, now, of the

tie that binds my boy to Sequoia. This”--he waved his arm abroad in the

darkness--“this is the true essence of life--to create, to develop

the gifts that God has given us--to work and know the blessing of

weariness--to have dreams and see them come true. That is life, and I

have lived. And now I am ready to rest.” He smiled wistfully. “'The king

is dead. Long live the king.' I wonder if you, raised as you have been,

can face life in Sequoia resolutely with my son. It is a dull, drab

sawmill town, where life unfolds gradually without thrill--where the

years stretch ahead of one with only trees, among simple folk. The life

may be hard on you, Shirley; one has to acquire a taste for it, you

know.”

“I have known the lilt of battle, John-partner,” she answered; “hence I

think I can enjoy the sweets of victory. I am content.”

“And what a run you did give that boy Bryce!”

She laughed softly. “I wanted him to fight; I had a great curiosity to

see the stuff that was in him,” she explained.

CHAPTER XL

Next day Bryce Cardigan, riding the top log on the end truck of a long

train just in from Cardigan's woods in Township Nine, dropped from the

end of the log as the train crawled through the mill-yard on its way to

the log-dump. He hailed Buck Ogilvy, where the latter stood in the door

of the office.

“Big doings up on Little Laurel Creek this morning, Buck.”

“Do tell!” Mr. Ogilvy murmured morosely.

“It was great,” Bryce continued. “Old Duncan McTavish returned. I knew

he would. His year on the mourner's-bench expired yesterday, and he came

back to claim his old job of woods-boss.”

“He's one year too late,” Ogilvy declared. “I wouldn't let that big

Canadian Jules Rondeau quit for a farm. Some woods-boss, that--and

his first job with this company was the dirtiest you could hand

him--smearing grease on the skid-road at a dollar and a half a day and

found. He's made too good to lose out now. I don't care what his private

morals may be. He CAN get out the logs, hang his rascally hide, and I'm

for him.”

“I'm afraid you haven't anything to say about it, Buck,” Bryce replied

dryly.

“I haven't, eh? Well, any time you deny me the privilege of hiring and

firing, you're going to be out the service of a rattling good general

manager, my son. Yes, sir! If you hold me responsible for results, I

must select the tools I want to work with.”

“Oh, very well,” Bryce laughed. “Have it your own way. Only if you can

drive Duncan McTavish out of Cardigan's woods, I'd like to see you do

it. Possession is nine points of the law, Buck--and Old Duncan is in

possession.”

“What do you mean--in possession?”

“I mean that at ten o'clock this morning Duncan McTavish appeared at our

log-landing. The whisky-fat was all gone from him, and he appeared forty

years old instead of the sixty he is. With a whoop he came jumping over

the logs, straight for Jules Rondeau. The big Canuck saw him coming and

knew what his visit portended--so he wasn't taken unawares. It was a

case of fight for his job--and Rondeau fought.”

“The devil you say!”

“I do--and there was the devil to pay. It was a rough and tumble and

no grips barred--just the kind of fight Rondeau likes. Nevertheless

old Duncan floored him. While he's been away somebody taught him the

hammer-lock and the crotch-hold and a few more fancy ones, and he got

to work on Rondeau in a hurry. In fact, he had to, for if the tussle had

gone over five minutes, Rondeau's youth would have decided the issue.”

“And Rondeau was whipped?”

“To a whisper. Mac floored him, climbed him, and choked him until he

beat the ground with his free hand in token of surrender; whereupon old

Duncan let him up, and Rondeau went to his shanty and packed his turkey.

The last I saw of him he was headed over the hill to Camp Two on Laguna

Grande. He'll probably chase that assistant woods-boss I hired after the

consolidation, out of Shirley's woods and help himself to the fellow's

job. I don't care if he does. What interests me is the fact that the

old Cardigan woods-boss is back on the job in Cardigan's woods, and I'm

mighty glad of it. The old horsethief has had his lesson and will remain

sober hereafter. I think he's cured.”

“The infamous old outlaw!”

“Mac knows the San Hedrin as I know my own pocket. He'll be a tower of

strength when we open up that tract after the railroad builds in. By the

way, has my dad been down this morning?”

“Yes. Moira read the mail to him and then took him up to the Valley of

the Giants. He said he wanted to do a little quiet figuring on that new

steam schooner you're thinking of building. He thinks she ought to be

bigger--big enough to carry two million feet.”

Bryce glanced at his watch. “It's half after eleven,” he said. “Guess

I'll run up to the Giants and bring him home to luncheon.”

He stepped into the Napier standing outside the office and drove away.

Buck Ogilvy waited until Bryce was out of sight; then with sudden

determination he entered the office.

“Moira,” he said abruptly, approaching the desk where she worked, “your

dad is back, and what's more, Bryce Cardigan has let him have his old

job as woods-boss. And I'm here to announce that you're not going back

to the woods to keep house for him. Understand? Now, look here, Moira.

I've shilly-shallied around you for months, protesting my love, and I

haven't gotten anywhere. To-day I'm going to ask you for the last time.

Will you marry me? I need you worse than that rascal of a father of

yours does, and I tell you I'll not have you go back to the woods to

take care of him. Come, now, Moira. Do give me a definite answer.”

“I'm afraid I don't love you well enough to marry you, Mr. Ogilvy,”

Moira pleaded. “I'm truly fond of you, but--”

“The last boat's gone,” cried Mr. Ogilvy desperately. “I'm answered.

Well, I'll not stick around here much longer, Moira. I realize I must

be a nuisance, but I can't help being a nuisance when you're near me. So

I'll quit my good job here and go back to my old game of railroading.”

“Oh, you wouldn't quit a ten-thousand-dollar job,” Moira cried, aghast.

“I'd quit a million-dollar job. I'm desperate enough to go over to the

mill and pick a fight with the big bandsaw. I'm going away where I can't

see you. Your eyes are driving me crazy.”

“But I don't want you to go, Mr. Ogilvy.”

“Call me Buck,” he commanded sharply.

“I don't want you to go, Buck,” she repeated meekly. “I shall feel

guilty, driving you out of a fine position.”

“Then marry me and I'll stay.”

“But suppose I don't love you the way you deserve--”

“Suppose! Suppose!” Buck Ogilvy cried. “You're no longer certain of

yourself. How dare you deny your love for me? Eh? Moira, I'll risk it.”

Her eyes turned to him timidly, and for the first time he saw in their

smoky depths a lambent flame. “I don't know,” she quavered, “and it's a

big responsibility in case--”

“Oh, the devil take the case!” he cried rapturously, and took her

hands in his. “Do I improve with age, dear Moira?” he asked with boyish

eagerness; then, before she could answer, he swept on, a tornado of love

and pleading. And presently Moira was in his arms, he was kissing her,

and she was crying softly because--well, she admired Mr. Buck Ogilvy;

more, she respected him and was genuinely fond of him. She wondered, and

as she wondered, a quiet joy thrilled her in the knowledge that it did

not seem at all impossible for her to grow, in time, absurdly fond of

this wholesome red rascal.

“Oh, Buck, dear,” she whispered, “I don't know, I'm sure, but perhaps

I've loved you a little bit for a long time.”

“I'm perfectly wild over you. You're the most wonderful woman I ever

heard of. Old rosy-cheeks!” And he pinched them just to see the colour

come and go.

John Cardigan was seated in his lumberjack's easy-chair as his son

approached. His hat lay on the litter of brown twigs beside him; his

chin was sunk on his breast, and his head was held a little to one side

in a listening attitude; a vagrant little breeze rustled gently a lock

of his fine, long white hair. Bryce stooped over the old man and shook

him gently by the shoulder.

“Wake up, partner,” he called cheerfully. But John Cardigan did not

wake, and again his son shook him. Still receiving no response, Bryce

lifted the leonine old head and gazed into his father's face. “John

Cardigan!” he cried sharply. “Wake up, old pal.”

The old eyes opened, and John Cardigan smiled up at his boy. “Good son,”

he whispered, “good son!” He closed his sightless eyes again as if

the mere effort of holding them open wearied him. “I've been sitting

here--waiting,” he went on in the same gentle whisper. “No, not waiting

for you, boy--waiting--”

His head fell over on his son's shoulder; his hand went groping for

Bryce's. “Listen,” he continued. “Can't you hear it--the Silence? I'll

wait for you here, my son. Mother and I will wait together now--in

this spot she fancied. I'm tired--I want rest. Look after old Mac and

Moira--and Bill Dandy, who lost his leg at Camp Seven last fall--and Tom

Ellington's children--and--all the others, son. You know, Bryce. They're

your responsibilities. Sorry I can't wait to see the San Hedrin opened

up, but--I've lived my life and loved my love. Ah, yes, I've been

happy--so happy just doing things--and--dreaming here among my

Giants--and--”

He sighed gently. “Good son,” he whispered again; his big body relaxed,

and the great heart of the Argonaut was still. Bryce held him until the

realization came to him that his father was no more--that like a watch,

the winding of which has been neglected, he had gradually slowed up and

stopped.

“Good-bye, old John-partner!” he murmured.

“You've escaped into the light at last. We'll go home together now, but

we'll come back again.”

And with his father's body in his strong arms he departed from the

little amphitheatre, walking lightly with his heavy burden down the old

skid-road to the waiting automobile. And two days later John Cardigan

returned to rest forever--with his lost mate among the Giants, himself

at last an infinitesimal portion of that tremendous silence that is the

diapason of the ages.

When the funeral was over, Shirley and Bryce lingered until they found

themselves alone beside the freshly turned earth. Through a rift in the

great branches two hundred feet above, a patch of cerulean sky

showed faintly; the sunlight fell like a broad golden shaft over the

blossom-laden grave, and from the brown trunk of an adjacent tree a gray

squirrel, a descendant, perhaps, of the gray squirrel that had been wont

to rob Bryce's pockets of pine-nuts twenty years before, chirped at them

inquiringly.

“He was a giant among men,” said Bryce presently. “What a fitting place

for him to lie!” He passed his arm around his wife's shoulders and drew

her to him. “You made it possible, sweetheart.”

She gazed up at him in adoration. And presently they left the Valley

of the Giants to face the world together, strong in their faith to live

their lives and love their loves, to dream their dreams and perchance

when life should be done with and the hour of rest at hand, to

surrender, sustained and comforted by the knowledge that those dreams

had come true.

THE END

End of Project Gutenberg's The Valley of the Giants, by Peter B. Kyne