NOTWITHSTANDING their change in fortunes,
Roderick and Grant still made the editor’s shack their home—the old place endeared to them by many fond associations. A few days after Whitley Adams’ visit they were seated at the breakfast table, and Grant had proposed that they should go deer hunting.
“Excellent weather,” he explained, “as the snow is just deep enough up in the mountains to drive the deer down. Finest sport in the world. Nothing like going after big game.”
“You almost persuade me,” said Roderick, setting down his coffee and looking at Grant with increased interest. “All the same I hate to leave the smelter plant even for a day or two. You see I’m just beginning to get a hang of the business, and I’ve quite made up my mind to master it.”
“Oh, let it rip. You’re not tied down to the works, are you?”
“Certainly not—you don’t imagine I think myself qualified as yet to be tied down. ‘But what about guns?”
“Oh, well,” said Grant, “I have a.32 Winchester, one that has got a record too, by gunnies, as Jim Rankin would say. Its record is great.”
“How big a record?” inquired Roderick.
“Seven deer,” answered Grant.
“All your own killing?”
“Well, no. To be downright truthful since you force me to particularize, I’ll admit I never killed but one deer with it. But that does not interfere with the gun’s record.” And then he continued: “I have no doubt Major Hampton will be delighted to loan you his gun. He has a .30 calibre Government Springfield and in his hands it has accounted for many a buck.”
After breakfast they called on Major Hampton.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” said the Major as he opened the door and bade them welcome.
“We are going deer hunting,” said Grant, quite enthusiastically. “I have a gun, but this-would-be-slayer-of-big-game, Roderick, is gunless and when we return he may be deerless. Was just wondering, Major, if you would care to loan your famous deer killer to him. Guess its long record,” he added, “would fill a book.”
“Why, certainly,” replied the Major in an absent-minded way; and then presently he went on: “Do not interpret my hesitation as unwillingness to accommodate you. It is well you came just when you did, for within half an hour I myself will be starting for the mountains and my mind was pre-occupied with my own little preparations.”
“Can’t you come with us, Major?” asked Grant.
“But I won’t be depriving you of your gun?” enquired Roderick simultaneously.
“I answer ‘no’ to both questions,” was the smiling response. “I am going out on one of my lonesome excursions—to commune with Nature face to face for a brief spell. And when I go I need no rifle—even the very deer there are my trustful friends.”
Then turning he took down his rifle from its accustomed place and brought it over to Roderick.
“This old Springfield has served me well,” he said, smiling in his own magnificent way. “It was my friend in dark days of need. In my lifetime, gentlemen, I have never spilled the blood of any living thing wantonly, and I do not believe man is justified in taking the life of even a worm on the pathway, a rabbit in the hills, cattle or sheep in the fields, or a deer in the wilds unless it is for food and to sustain life.”
Then suddenly looking at Grant the Major said: “I understand W. R. Grady is up in the hills?”
“Yes, so I have heard.”
“What is he doing? Looking for a mine?”
“Possibly. They say he is at the Thomas Boarding House most of the time up at Battle.”
“Guess,” interrupted Roderick, “that he is not very happy since the new order of things—your new plan, Major—put him out of business.”
“Perhaps he is getting in touch again with his old heeler, Bud Bledsoe,” suggested Grant. “That outlaw gang has been lying low for quite a while, but I’m expecting to hear about some new bit of deviltry any day. Am in need of a corking good newspaper story.”
“Well, since you are bent on hunting big game,” laughed the Major, “these miscreants might provide you with all the exciting sport you are wanting.”
“Oh, a brace of good fat bucks will be good enough for us. Where’s the likeliest place to start from, Major? You’re the local authority on these matters.”
“You know where Spirit River Falls are?” asked Buell Hampton.
“I’ve heard of them but have never been there,” replied Grant.
“I think that I’ve seen them from above,” observed Roderick, “but I don’t know the way to them.”
“Well, you know where Gid Sutton’s half-way house is located?”
“Certainly,” replied Roderick. “I was there less than a month ago.”
“Well, Spirit River Falls are located about six or seven miles south and east of the half-way house. I advise that one of you go up the South Fork of the Encampment River and the other keep to the right and go over the hills past Conchshell ranch into a park plateau to the south; then have your meeting place this evening in an old log structure that you will find about three-fourths of a mile directly through the timber southeast from the falls. If you are wise, you will load up two or three burros, send them with a trusty, and have him make camp for you in this old deserted hut. You will find a cup of coffee, a rasher of bacon and a few sandwiches very appetizing by the time you have tramped all day in your deer-hunting quest And the country all around is full of deer.”
The young men thanked him warmly for his advice.
“In point of fact,” continued Buell Hampton, “I’ll be up in the same region myself. But I’m travelling light and will have the start of you. Moreover, we can very easily lose each other in that rugged country of rocks and timber. But don’t mistake me for a buck, Roderick, if you catch sight of my old sombrero among the brushwood;” saying which he reached for the broad-brimmed slouch hat hanging against the wall.
“I’ll take mighty good care,” replied Roderick. “But I hope we’ll run up against you, Major, all the same.”
“No, you won’t find me,” answered Buell Hampton, with a quiet smile. “I’ll be hidden from all the world. Follow the deer, young men, and the best of luck to you.”
The two comrades started away in high feather, anticipating great results from the tip given them by the veteran hunter. Going straight to the livery bam, they rigged out three burros, and sent with them one of the stablemen who, besides being a fairly good cook, happened to be familiar with the trail to Spirit River Falls, and also knew the location of the “hunter’s hut” as they found the old log structure indicated by Buell Hampton was locally named.
These arrangements concluded, Roderick and Grant started for the hills. Some half a mile from Encampment they separated—Jones going along the east bank of the South Fork of the Encampment River and Roderick following the North Fork until he came to Conchshell canyon. The day was an ideal one for a deer hunt. There was not a breath of wind. The sky was overcast in a threatening manner as if it were full of snow that was liable to flutter down at the slightest provocation.
As Roderick reached the plateau that constituted the Conchshell ranch he concluded to bear to the left and as he said to himself “Keep away from temptation.” He was out hunting wild deer that day and he must not permit himself to make calls on a sweet-throated songster like Gail. On through the open fields and over the fences and into a thick growth of pines and firs, where he plodded his way through snow that crunched and cried loudly under his feet Indeed the stillness of everything excepting his own walking began to grate on his nerves and he said to himself that surely a whitetailed deer with ordinary alertness could hear him walking even if it were half a mile away.
As he trudged along mile after mile he was very watchful for game or tracks, but nothing stirred, no trace of deer was discernible in any direction. He was following the rim of a hill surmounting some boxlike canyons that led away abruptly to the left, while a smooth field or park reached far to the right where the hills were well covered with timber. Here and there an opening of several acres in extent occurred without bush or shrub.
It was perhaps one o’clock in the afternoon and he was becoming a bit leg-weary. Brushing the snow away from a huge boulder he seated himself for a short rest. Scarcely had he done so than he noticed that occasional flakes of snow were falling. “More snow,” he muttered to himself, “and I am a good ways from a cup of coffee if I am any judge.”
After he was rested he got up and again moved on. Just then, as he looked down into a box canyon, he saw three deer—a doe and two half-grown fawns. Quickly bringing his gun to his shoulder his first impulse was to fire. But he realized that it would be foolish for the animals were at least five hundred yards away and far below the elevation where he was standing.
“No,” he said to himself, “I will leave the rim of this mountain and get down into the canyon.”
He hastily retreated, and took a circuitous route intending to head off the deer. In due time he approached the brow of the precipitous bluff and after walking back and forth finally found a place where he believed he could work his way down into the canyon. It was a dangerous undertaking—far more so than Roderick knew—and might have proved his undoing.
He was perhaps half way down the side of the cliff, working his way back and forth, when suddenly some loose stones slipped from under his feet and away he went, sliding in a sitting position down the side of the mountain. He had sufficient presence of mind to hold his gun well away from him to prevent any possible accident from an accidental discharge. The cushioning of the snow under him somewhat slowed his descent, yet he could not stop. Down and down he went, meeting with no obstruction that might have given him a momentary foothold. Presently he saw, to his great relief of mind, that he was headed for a small fir tree that had rooted itself on a ledge near the bottom of the canyon. A moment later his feet came thump against its branches, and while the jar and shock of suddenly arrested motion were very considerable yet they were not enough to be attended with any serious consequences.
Somewhat dazed, he remained seated for a few moments. But soon he found his footing, and pulling himself together, brushed away the snow from his apparel and made sure that his gun was all right. After a glance around he picked his way down some distance farther into the canyon, and then turning to the right along a little ledge started in the direction where he expected to sight the deer higher up the hill.
Suddenly he stopped. There were the deer tracks right before him going down the gorge.
“By George,” he muttered aloud, “I did not get far enough down. However, I will follow the tracks.” And forthwith he started on the trail, cautiously but highly expectant.
The direction was westerly, but he had not gone far until the canyon made an elbow turn to the south and then a little farther on to the east. “I wonder,” said Roderick to himself, “what sort of a maze I am getting into. This canyon is more crooked than an old-fashioned worm fence or a Wyoming political boss.”
The box canyon continued to grow deeper and the rocky cliffs higher, zig-zagging first one way and then another until Roderick gave up all pretense of even guessing at the direction he was travelling.
“Strange I have never heard of this narrow box-canyon before,” he thought.
After walking briskly along for about an hour, keeping the tracks of the retreating deer in view, he suddenly came to an opening. A little valley was spread out before him, and to his amazement there were at least a hundred deer herded together in the park-like enclosure.
Roderick rubbed his eyes and looked up at the high and abrupt precipices that surrounded this open valley on every side. It seemed to him that the walls rose sheer and almost perpendicular several hundred feet to the rocky rim above. He followed on down, filled with wonderment, and presently was further astonished by finding several great bubbling springs. Each basin was fully a hundred feet across, and the agitated waters evidently defied freezing, for they fairly boiled in their activity, overflowing and coming together to form quite a big tumbling mountain stream.
Stealthily following on and keeping the great herd in view he mentally speculated on the surprise he would give Grant Jones when he came to display the proofs of his prowess as a hunter of the hills. Surely with his belt full of cartridges and the large number of deer in sight, although as yet too far away to risk a shot, he could add several antlered heads to Grant’s collection. The stream grew larger. There were a number of other springs feeding their surplus waters into brooks which eventually all joined the main stream, and he mentally resolved that the next time Gail and he went trout-fishing they would visit this identical spot. He laughed aloud and asked the question: “Will she be mine so that we may come together for a whole week into this beautiful dell?”
The farther he advanced the less snow he found in the strange, rock-fenced valley. The grasses had grown luxuriantly in the summer season, and the deer were browsing in seeming indifference to his presence yet moving on away from him all the time. He began wondering if all this were a mirage or a reality. He looked a second time at the slowly receding herd and again he laughed aloud. “Such foolishness,” he exclaimed. “It is an absolute reality, and right here I will make my name and fame as a hunter.”
He stopped suddenly, for just across the stream, standing among the boulders and pebbles of an old channel, were four deer, not two hundred feet away. They were looking at him in mild-eyed wonder, one of them a noble, splendidly antlered buck. Lifting the Major’s Springfield to his shoulder Roderick sighted along the barrel and fired. Three of the deer ran away. But the buck jumped high into the air, attempted to climb the opposite bank, failed and fell backward.
Hurriedly crossing over the stream and slipping in his excitement off the stones into knee-deep water, he came quickly up to the wounded deer. Instantly the animal bounded to his feet, but fell again. Roderick fired a second shot which reached a vital spot. The magnificent denizen of the hills had been vanquished in the uneven contest with man’s superior knowledge and deadly skill.
The novice in huntsman’s craft had received all sorts of book instructions and verbal explanations from Grant Jones. So he at once drew his hunting knife, thrust it into the jugular vein of the dying deer, and bled him copiously. Only the hunter knows the exultant feelings of mingled joy and excitement that possessed Roderick at that moment. His first deer! Resting the gun against a small cottonwood tree that grew on a raised bank between the old channel and the flowing waters, he walked to the stream, washed the crimson from his knife, and returned the weapon to its sheath.
Then he looked around to get his bearings. He knew he had come with the waters from what seemed to be a westerly direction. The stream was evidently flowing toward the east. As he walked along in the old channel over the sandbar he kicked the rocks and pebbles indifferently, and then stopped suddenly, gasped and looked about him.
On every side the mountains rose precipitately fully six or seven hundred feet. There was no visible outlet for the stream.
“Is it possible,” he exclaimed with bated breath, “that I am in the lost canyon? And this,” he said, stooping down and picking up a nugget of almost pure gold—“is this the sandbar on which my father and Uncle Allen Miller found their treasure yeans and years ago? Marvelous! Marvelous! Marvelous!”
For the moment the slain deer was forgotten. His achievement as a hunter of big game no longer thrilled him. He was overwhelmed by a mightier surge of emotion.
“Yes,” he said finally in a low voice of conviction, “this at last is the lost find!”
And he sank down on the gold-strewn pebbly sandbar, limp and helpless, completely overcome.
A minute later he had recovered his composure. He stood erect He gazed down the valley. The startled herd of deer had vanished into the brushwood and low timber.
But there, slowly ascending along the river bed, was the figure of Buell Hampton. Roderick stood stockstill, lost in amazement, waiting.
SO IT is you who have found my Hidden Valley,” said Buell Hampton as he drew near. His voice had a regretful ring, but as he grasped Roderick’s hand he added cordially: “I thank God it is you, Roderick. When I heard the rifle shots I was afraid it might be Bud Bledsoe or some of his gang.”
“Your hidden valley, Major?” murmured Roderick, interrogatively and with emphasis on the first word.
“Yes, my son—the valley from which I took the carload of rich ore we sold in Denver.”
“Great guns, Major. I too have discovered gold—placer gold.”
“Where?”
“At your feet. Look.” And Roderick stooped and picked up a fine smooth-worn nugget as big as a pigeon’s egg. “Look, look, look,” continued Roderick. “It is all around us on this sandbar.”
“I did not happen on this spot,” said Buell Hampton. “The fact is I hardly explored the valley at all. I had all the gold I wanted or could ever want in my own find.”
“Then where is that find?”
“Lower down the stream—a dyke of porphyry and white quartz. But you already know the kind of ore Jim Rankin, Tom Sun, and Boney Earnest helped me to get out of the valley. It is quite different from your gold.”
The Major stooped, and collected a handful of good-sized nuggets.
“How did you come to find this place, Roderick?” he asked, gazing up at the sheer cliffs around them.
“I have been searching for it,” he replied, “since ever I came to Wyoming. Oh, Major, it is a strange story. I hardly know where to begin. But wait. Sit down on that boulder. I have my father’s letter with me. You can read it and will then understand.”
From an inner pocket Roderick produced the map and letter which had never left his possession, night or day, since his Uncle Allen had handed him the sealed packet in the bank manager’s room at Keokuk. Without a word Buell Hampton took the seat indicated, and after a preliminary glance at the map proceeded to read the long epistle left by the old miner, John Warfield, as a dying legacy to his son. Roderick sitting on his heels watched in silence while the other read.
“Your father was a sensible man,” remarked Buell Hampton, as at last he refolded the paper. “I like the spirit in which he wrote—the fervent expression of his hope that this wealth will prove a blessing to you instead of a disquieting evil. Yes, you have undoubtedly found your father’s lost mine. But, Roderick, why did you not tell me of this before? I would have gladly helped you to a quicker discovery. This map here I would have recognized at a glance as the map of my happy retreat, my Hidden Valley.”
“Well, Major, I may seem to have been a bit reticent—or independent, may I call it? But you will remember that it was early in our intimacy when you showed me and the others those rich ore specimens in your home. And you yourself were reticent—bound us to secrecy, yet gave us no-single clue as to the whereabouts of your wonderful discovery.”
“Because I wanted to protect this place from intrusion—I indulged in the dream that the treasure of the valley might be made to fall only into worthy hands, which dream could never be realized unless I guarded my secret from one and all.”
“Your sentiment I quite understand. But don’t you see, Major, it was this very reticence on your part that made me reticent—that virtually sealed my lips? I have often thought of showing you my father’s letter, of telling the full reasons that brought me to Wyoming. But to have done so after you had shown us that ore would have been simply to press you for further information—to have asked you to divulge the location of your mine which you had resolved to keep secret so that I might possibly be assisted in the quest for my father’s lost claim. I couldn’t do that I am sure you will now understand my feelings.”
“Fine feelings, Roderick,” exclaimed the Major, extending his hand. “Feelings after my own heart I understand them, and can only compliment you on your sturdy independence. But how did you get here?” And again he glanced up the precipitous mountains.
“Well, I think I might almost say I tumbled down into the canyon,” laughed Roderick. “I slipped and tobogganed down a steep slope. Then I followed the tracks of four deer I was after, and found myself here. By the way, have you looked at my splendid buck?”
Buell Hampton rose, and as if by force of habit drew his hunting knife and proceeded to dress and gambrel the deer. Roderick watched the skilled hands at work. Before many minutes the carcass was hanging on the peg of a broken limb.
“Certainly, a fine buck,” remarked the Major, stepping back admiringly. “Your first, I believe?”
“My very first.”
“Not often that a man kills his first deer and discovers a gold mine on the same day, eh?” laughed Buell Hampton. “But where is Grant Jones?”
“I haven’t seen him since morning. We followed your directions, and took opposite sides of the river.”
“Then he will meet you tonight at the old log hut?”
“That’s our arrangement. But how are we to get out of this box-canyon?”
“I can show you an easier way out than the toboggan slide by which you came in,” replied the Major, smiling. “At the same time I think I should prefer to follow your tracks, so that in the future I may know this second means of access. I am afraid the secret of this little sequestered valley can be no longer kept from the world. I presume you are going to stake out a claim and record it.”
“You bet,” laughed Roderick. “There’s no sentiment about sequestered valleys or happy retreats in my make-up. Great Scott, there’s a cool million dollars of gold lying around right here. I’m going to take no chances of the next man finding the spot. Isn’t that common sense, Major?”
“No doubt,” replied Buell Hampton, “it is common sense in your case. And you are obviously following your father’s bidding in making the fullest and the best use of the wealth he tried so long in vain to rediscover. Are you familiar with the regulations as to staking out a claim?”
“Oh, yes, I’ve posted myself on all that.”
“Well, choose your ground, and I’ll whittle your stakes.” He rose and again unsheathed his hunting knife.
“Major,” cried Roderick, “along this old channel there’s at least three men’s ground. We’ll stake for you and for me and for Grant Jones.”
“But Grant Jones must have been on his claim before he can file on it. That’s the law.”
“We’ll bring him down tomorrow morning.”
“Then, go ahead,” said the Major. “I think it is right and proper to secure all the ground we can. I believe it will be all for the best that it should be in our hands.”
Within an hour stakes had been placed at the corners of the three placer claims, and the proper location notices, written on leaves torn from Buell Hampton’s note book, affixed to a stake in the centre of each claim.
“I think that this complies with all legal requirements,” remarked the Major, as they surveyed their workmanship. “Now, Roderick, tit for tat. You will come down the valley with me, and we shall secure, as lode claims, the porphyry dyke from which I have cut out merely the rich outcrop.”
Another hour’s labor saw the second task completed.
They were back at Roderick’s sandbar, and had filled their pockets with nuggets.
“Now for the ascent,” said Buell Hampton. “Tomorrow morning we shall return, and breakfast here on your venison. Hurry up now; the evening shadows are already falling.”
The trail left by Roderick and the four deer through the canyon and along the zigzag gash in the mountains above the bubbling springs was clearly traceable in the snow. When the narrow ledge by which Roderick had descended into the gorge was reached the Major took the precaution of blazing an occasional tree trunk for future direction. Progress was easy until they reached the abrupt declivity down which the hunter had slipped. A little farther along the deer appeared to have descended the steep incline by a series of leaps. In the gathering dusk it was impossible to proceed farther; steps would have to be cut or a careful search made for some way around.
“We must go back,” said Buell Hampton. “Now I will show you my means of access to the canyon—one of the most wonderful rock galleries in the world.”
Retracing their footsteps they hastened along at the best speed possible, and soon reached the tunnel into which the river disappeared. Producing his electric torch, the Major prepared to lead the way. He lingered for just a moment to gaze back into the canyon which was now enveloped in the violet haze of eventide.
“Is it not lovely?” he murmured. “Alas, that such a place of perfect peace and beauty should come to be deserted and despoiled!”
Roderick was fingering the slugs of gold in his pocket. He followed the direction of the Major’s eyes.
“Yes, it is all very beautiful,” he replied. “But scenery is scenery, Major, and gold is gold.”
The little torch flashed like an evening star as they disappeared into the grotto.
Buell Hampton and Roderick had gazed up the canyon.
But they had failed to observe two human forms crouched among the brushwood not fifty yards away—the forms of Bud Bledsoe and Grady, who had that morning tracked the Major from his home to the falls, under the cataract, through the rock gallery, right into the hidden canyon, intent on discovering the secret whence the carload of rich ore had come, bent on revenge for Grady’s undoing with the smelting company when the proper moment should arrive.
That night Buell Hampton, Roderick Warfield, and Grant Jones supped frugally at the hunter’s hut on ham sandwiches and coffee. Down in Hidden Valley on the gold-strewn sandbar W. B. Grady and his henchman feasted royally on venison steaks cut from the fat buck Roderick’s gun had provided. They had already torn down the location notices and substituted their own. And far into the night by the light of their camp fire the claim-jumpers searched for the nuggets among the pebbles and gathered them into a little heap, stopping only from their frenzied quest to take an occasional gulp of whiskey from the big flask without which Bud Bledsoe never stirred. When daylight broke, exhausted, half-drunk, both were fast asleep beside the pile of stolen gold.
DURING the night a few flakes of snow had fallen—just the flurry of a storm that had come and tired and paused to rest awhile. The morning broke grey and sombre and intensely still; the mantle of white that covered the ground and clung to bushes and tree branches seemed to muffle every sound; the atmosphere was clear, but filled with brooding expectancy.
The three friends at the hunter’s hut were early astir. Roderick, despite the fact that fortune had at last smiled and crowned with success the prolonged quest for his father’s lost mine, was strangely oppressed. Buell Hampton, too, was grave and inclined to silence. But Grant Jones was gay and happy, singing blithely during the preparations for breakfast.
On the previous night he had received the story of the find with exultant delight. With such a rich mining claim all the ambitions of his life were about to be realized. He would buy out his financial partners in the Dillon Doublejack and publish it as a daily newspaper—hang the expense, the country would grow and with it the circulation, and he would be in possession of the field against all-comers. Then again he would acquire the Encampment Herald although keeping on the brilliant Earle Clemens as editor; also start another paper at Rawlins, and in a little time run a whole string of journals, like some of the big newspaper men whose names were known throughout the nation. Listening to these glowing plans as they drank their morning coffee around the campfire, Roderick and the Major could not but admire the boyish gaiety of this sanguine spirit.
“I’m going to propose to Dorothy tomorrow,” exclaimed Grant by way of grand finale to his program of great expectations, “and the Reverend Stephen Grannon will marry us before the week is out We’ll spend our honeymoon in Chicago so that I can buy some new printing presses and things. Then we’ll be back in time to bring out a grand mid-winter number that will make all Wyoming sit up and take notice. By gad, boys, it’s great to be a newspaper editor.”
“Better to be a newspaper proprietor,” laughed Roderick.
“Or both combined,” suggested the Major.
“There you’ve hit it,” cried Grant. “And that’s just the luck that has come my way at last—thanks to you, Roderick, old scout, and to you, Major, as well.”
“No, no,” protested Buell Hampton. “With your happy disposition and great capacity for work, success was bound to be yours, my dear fellow. The manner of its coming is a mere detail.”
“That’s the way a good friend cloaks good deeds,” replied Grant. “However, we’ll let it go at that. Pass the frying pan please; this bacon’s just fine.” Plans for the day were carefully discussed. The man in charge of the burros had not been taken into their confidence; as a member of the expedition he would be properly looked after later on, but meanwhile strict secrecy was the only wise policy until the location papers had been properly filed at the county seat, Rawlins. This filing would undoubtedly be the signal for a rush of all the miners and prospectors within a hundred miles of the little treasure valley among the hills.
“Yes, there will be a regular stampede,” remarked the Major—“provided the snow holds off,” he added with a glance at the grey canopy of cloud overhead.
“I think we are in for another storm,” said Grant, gazing around. “If so, the whole country will be sealed up until the spring.”
“Which is not the worst thing that might happen,” commented Buell Hampton.
“Would certainly give us ample time to make all our arrangements for the future,” concurred Roderick.
It was agreed that they would take with them that morning the sacks in which the provisions had been brought up, and bring back as much gold as they could carry. For a moment Grant and Roderick discussed the advisability of leaving their guns behind. But there were outlaws among the mountains, and it was deemed prudent to carry the weapons.
All preparations were now completed, and a start was made, the stableman being left in charge of the camp with instructions to have a good fire of embers ready for the brisket of venison they would return with about the noontide hour.
Buell Hampton led the way at a swinging gait,
Roderick followed, then came Grant Jones singing lustily:
“As I was coming down the road,
Tired team and a heavy load,
I cracked my whip and the leader sprang
And the off horse stepped on the wagon tongue.”
A little way down the hill Grant called a halt He had discovered on the light dusting of overnight snow the tracks of a big bear, and for the moment everything else was forgotten. Bear-hunting to him was of more immediate interest than gold-hunting, and but for the restraining hand of Buell Hampton the ardent young sportsman would have started on the trail.
“Let’s stop a while,” he pleaded. “Just look at those pads. A great big cinnamon bear—a regular whale.”
“No, no,” said the Major decisively, again glancing at the sky. “We must press on.”
“I’d like a hug all right,” laughed Roderick, “but not from a cinnamon bear in a snowdrift.”
“Gee, but I’m sorry I left my dogs at Dillon,” remarked Grant regretfully. “The last thing I said to Scotty Meisch was to look after the dogs even if the printing press burned. There’s no friend like a good dog, Major.”
“Rather a doubtful compliment,” replied Buell Hampton with a smile.
“Present company always excepted,” laughed the editor adroitly. “Well, well; we must let Mr. Bruin go this time. Lead on, Macduff, lead on.”
And again as he fell into Indian file he sang his song.
The lilt and the words of that song, the picture of the stalwart figure in the pride of young manhood carolling gaily while marching along through the brushwood and down the timbered hillside, were des-tined never to fade from the memory of Roderick Warfield. With a sob in his heart he would recall the scene many and many a time in the days to come.
Meanwhile at the camp fire in Hidden Valley, Grady and Bud Bledsoe were also afoot. They had awaked from their half drunken slumber, chilled to the very marrow of their bones. Even the sight of the heap of nuggets could not at first restore warmth to their hearts. There was no whiskey left in the flask—not a drain. Their teeth chattering, they piled fresh brush on the camp fire, and then a half-rotted tree stump that soon burst into flame. Then when warmth at last crept through their frames, they too made their plans for the day.
Buell Hampton and Roderick Warfield might come back. Perhaps they had camped all night in the mountain cave. In any case it would be safer to leave the canyon by the other way—by the trail along which Roderick must have entered and which was quite clearly defined in the snow as it led up the gorge. Yes; they would clear out in that direction, and Bud Bledsoe, who knew every track among the mountains, further proposed that they would then cross the range and take the west road to Rawlins. With a price on his head he himself could not enter the town—although a little later some of the new-found gold would square all that, for the present he must lie low. But he would guide Grady on the way, and the latter would get into Rawlins first and file the location papers without anyone at Encampment knowing that he had made the trip.
“That’s the dope,” cried Bud Bledsoe, as he jumped to his feet and began stuffing his pockets to their fullest capacity with the big and little slugs of gold. Grady followed his example. Then both men took up their guns, Bledsoe also the light but strong hair lariat which was his constant companion whether he was on horse or foot, and began making their way up the canyon, following the well-trodden path through the snow along which Buell Hampton and Roderick had retraced their footsteps the evening before.
It was a couple of hours later when the Major, Grant Jones, and Roderick emerged from the grotto.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed the Major. “Look there!” And with extended arm he pointed to the ascending smoke of the camp fire higher up the valley.
With the caution of deerstalkers they ascended by the stream. They found that the camp fire was abandoned. The half-gnawed bones, the empty whiskey flask, the remnant heap of nuggets, the hollows on the sand where the two men had slept—all helped to tell the tale. The names on the substituted location papers completed the story—W. B. Grady’s name and those of some dummies to hold the ground, illegally but to hold it all the same. Bud Bledsoe, the outlaw, had not ventured to affix his own name, but the big whiskey bottle left little doubt as to who had been Grady’s companion in the canyon overnight.
The miscreants had departed—the tracks of two men were clearly shown at a little distance from those left by Roderick and the Major. They had ascended the gorge.
“We have them trapped like coyotes,” declared the Major, emphatically.
“I’m not so sure about that,” remarked Grant Jones. “If there is one man in this region who knows the mountain trails and mountain craft it is Bud Bledsoe. He’ll get out of a box canyon where you or I would either break our necks to a certainty or remain like helpless frogs at the bottom of a well. Then I’ve got another idea—a fancy, perhaps, but I—don’t—just—know.”
He spoke slowly, an interval between each word, conning the chances while he prolonged his sentence.
“What’s your idea?” asked Roderick. But the Major waited in silence.
At last Grant’s face lighted up.
“Yes, by jingo,” he cried, “that may be their plan. If they can get over the range on to the Ferris-Haggerty road they may make Rawlins by the western route. That’s why they may have gone up the canyon instead of returning by the cave. For they came in by the cave; it is you they followed yesterday, Major, into the valley. The tracks show that.”
“I have already satisfied myself on that point,” replied Buell Hampton. “I have no doubt, since we balked Bledsoe in his previous attempt, that he has been on my tracks ever since, determined to find out where I got the rich ore. But it surprises me that a man in Grady’s position should have descended to be the associate of such a notorious highwayman.”
“Oh, moral turpitude makes strange bedfellows,” said Grant, pointing to the depressions where the two claim-jumpers had slept “But there is no use in indulging in conjectures at the present time. I’ve a proposal to make.”
“Let us hear it,” said the Major.
“Luckily I brought my skis with me, strapped to one of the burros. Didn’t know when they might come handy amid all this snow. Well, I’ll go back to the hut, and I’ll cut across the range, and will intercept these damned robbers, if that’s their game, to a certainty.”
“Rather risky,” remarked Buell Hampton. “Feels like more snow.” And he sniffed the ambient air.
“Oh, I’ll be all right. And you’ve got to take risks too. I’ll give Roderick my rifle, Major, and you take your own. You can follow the trail of these men, and if they have got out of the canyon, then you can get out the same way too. If so, we’ll all meet on the range above. Roderick, you know where the Dillon Trail crosses the Ferris-Haggerty Road?”
Roderick nodded assent.
“Well, we can’t miss each other if we all make for that point. And if you don’t arrive by noon, I’ll go right on to Rawlins by the western road, and lodge our location papers. I’ll know you have Bledsoe and Grady trapped and are holding the ground.”
“Sounds feasible,” said Roderick. “But first of all we’ve got to tear down these fraudulent location notices and put our own up again.” He pointed to one of the corner stakes. “Just look—these claim-jumpers came provided with regular printed forms.”
“Well, go ahead with that right now,” said Grant. “No doubt the papers have been changed too down on the Major’s ground. When you’re through with that job, follow the trail up the canyon. Now I’m off for my skis, and then for the road over the hills. Good-by. Take care of yourselves. Good-by.”
And down the valley they heard his voice singing the song of the mountain trail:
“As I was coming down the road,
Tired team and a heavy load,
I cracked my whip and the leader sprung
And the off horse stepped on the wagon tongue.”
Then his figure disappeared round a bend, and all again was still.
But Bledsoe and Grady had taken their time in ascending the canyon. But at last they reached the impasse that had brought Buell Hampton and Roderick to a halt the previous evening and caused them to retrace their steps as the tracks revealed. Just as they were discussing whether it might not be necessary for them also to turn back, a deer dashed wildly past them on the narrow bench where they stood—so close that they might have almost touched it with an outstretched hand.
Grady jumped back, frightened by the sudden bound of the swiftly speeding animal.
“Do you know what that means?” asked Bledsoe quietly.
“We started the deer, I suppose,” stammered Grady.
“No. But someone else did—lower down the gorge. We are being trailed, boss. We’ve got to get out of this hole in double-quick time or chance being shot down from behind a rock.”
“This wall is impossible,” exclaimed Grady, his frightened face gazing up the cliff.
Bledsoe was surveying the situation.
“Wait a minute,” he said at last. Then he swung his lariat, the noose of which, going straight to its mark, caught a projecting tree stump full fifty feet above.
“If you can make that,” he added, as he pulled the rope tight, “there’s a ledge running right around and up—see?” He pointed with his finger, tracing a line along the rocky wall. “Now up you go. I’ll hold the rope. It’s dead easy.”
Grady dropped his rifle, and with both hands began to climb. Weighted with the gold in his pockets, he made the ascent slowly and laboriously. But at last he gained the ledge, and scrambling now on hands and knees as he moved further upward and onward he speedily disappeared over the rim of the cliff.
On Bledsoe’s lips was a smile of cold contempt.
“Hell!” he muttered. “I wanted him to pull up the junk first. However, I’ll manage, I guess.”
He proceeded to tie to the riata his own and Grady’s rifle. Then he swung himself aloft.
But he was not half way up when a rifle bullet flattened itself on the rock not a foot from his head.
“Hands up!” came a voice from below.
“By God, ain’t they up now?” muttered the outlaw grimly, as he jerked himself to a higher foothold. A few more springs and he was standing on the ledge. Then, when a second bullet knocked off his hat, he ducked and scurried along the narrow footway almost as quickly as Grady had done, and was gone from the view of the two riflemen lower down the canyon.
“Come on,” exclaimed Roderick. “They don’t seem to have any guns. We’ll get them yet.”
Buell Hampton followed to the foot of the cliff. The rifles tied to the lariat showed that the fugitives were in truth disarmed, so far at least as long-distance weapons were concerned. The Major carefully hid the rifles in a clump of brushwood.
They were now prepared to follow, but caution had to be used, for Bud Bledsoe no doubt had a brace of revolvers at his belt. Roderick climbed up the rope first, while Buell Hampton, with his Springfield raised, kept watch for the slightest sign of an enemy above. But the fugitives had not lingered. Roderick, from the edge of the cliff, called on the Major to make the ascent, and a few minutes later they stood side by side.
High up on the snow-clad face of the mountain were the fleeing figures of Grady and Bledsoe. Yes, they were making in the direction of the Ferris-Haggerty Road. Grant would certainly intercept them, while Roderick and the Major stalked the quarry from the rear.
“I intend to get that thousand-dollar reward for Bud Bledsoe’s hide,” laughed Roderick, slipping a cartridge into the chamber of his rifle.
“We must not shoot to kill,” replied the Major. “It will be sufficient that they surrender. We have them at our mercy. Come along.”
He advanced a few paces, then paused.
“But there,” he murmured, “I do not like this snow.” He held out his hand, and a first soft feathery flake settled on his palm.
“Oh, well be all right,” cried Roderick. “Besides we’ve got to help Grant.”
They trudged along, walking zig-zag up the hill to lessen the incline, but always keeping close to the trail of the men they were pursuing. On the plateau above the snow lay deeper, and at places they were knee-deep in the drift, their feet breaking through the thin encrusting surface which frost had hardened.
“It is a pity we have not web snowshoes or skis,” remarked Buell Hampton when they had paused to draw breath. “We could make so much better time.”
“Well, the other fellows are no better equipped than ourselves,” replied Roderick, philosophically. “But, by jingo, it’s snowing some now.”
Yes, the feathery flakes were all around them, not blindingly thick as yet, but certain precursors of the coming storm. The trail was still quite clear although the fugitives were no longer in sight.
An hour passed, two hours, three hours—and hunters and hunted still plodded on. Roderick felt no misgivings, for he could tell from the lie of the hills that they were making steadily for the junction of the Ferris-Haggerty Road with the track over the range to Dillon, where Grant Jones would now be waiting. But at last the snow began to fall more thickly, and the encircling mountains came to be no longer visible. Even the guiding footprints were becoming filled up and difficult to follow.
All at once Buell Hampton stopped.
“These men have lost their way,” he exclaimed.
“They are going round in a circle. Look here—they have crossed their own track.”
The evidence was unmistakable.
“Then what are we to do?” asked Roderick. “I suppose we hardly know where we are ourselves now,” he added, looking uneasily around.
“I have my pocket compass—luckily I never travel without it in the mountains. But I think it is prudent that we should lose no further time in making for Encampment.”
“And Grant Jones?”
“He can look after himself. He is on skis, and knows every foot of the Dillon trail.”
“Then Grady and Bledsoe?”
“Their fate is in other hands. If we follow them any longer we will undoubtedly be caught in the storm ourselves.” He held a hand aloft. “See, the wind is rising. There will be heavy drifting before long.” Roderick now felt the swirl of driven snow on his cheeks. Yes, the wind had risen.
“But we’ll endeavor to save them,” continued Buell Hampton. “Perhaps, as they are circling round, they are not far away from this spot even now. We will try at all events.”
And raising both hands to form a voice trumpet, he uttered a loud: “Hallo I hallo!”
But no answer came. Again he shouted, again and yet again, turning round in all directions. Everything remained silent and still.
The Major now glanced at his compass, and took his bearings.
“Come,” was all he said, as he led the way through the loose crisp snow that crunched and cheeped beneath their feet.
Half an hour later the storm by some strange vagary abated. The wind was blowing stronger, but it seemed to be driving the snow-laden clouds up into the higher mountain elevations. All of a sudden a penetrating shaft of sunshine flashed through the dancing snow-flakes, then the flakes themselves ceased to fall, and the sun was shining on the virgin mantle of white that enveloped range and peaks as far as the eye could see.
Roderick glanced down the mountain side. Almost beneath his feet was Conchshell Ranch—he could see the home on the little knoll amid the clustering pine trees. For the moment he was thinking of Gail. But the hand of Buell Hampton had clutched his shoulder.
“Look!”
And Roderick looked—away in the direction of Cow Creek Canyon, a mighty gash in the flank of the mountains nearly a thousand feet deep and more than half a mile across. Standing out, clear and distinct in the bright sunshine, were the tall twin towers on either side of the gorge, supporting the great steel cable which bridged the chasm and carried the long string of iron buckets bringing ore from the Ferris-Haggerty mine, fourteen miles distant, down into the smelter at Encampment. Roderick at his first glance saw that the aerial cars, despite the recent snow-storm, were still crawling across the deep canyon, for all the world like huge spiders on a strand of gossamer.
But as his eyes swept the landscape he beheld outlined on the white expanse of snow the figures of three men. One, standing fully a hundred yards away from the other two and lower down the hill, was the gorilla-like form of Bud Bledsoe. The others were Grady and Grant Jones on his skis.
And as Roderick looked, before he could even utter a cry, these two figures clutched at each other. For a moment they swayed to and fro, then Grant seemed to fling his man away from him.
Almost at the same instant, just as a picture might be blotted from a screen by cutting off the light, both figures had vanished! Then, like steam shot from a geyser, there ascended high into mid-air a great cloud of powdered snow, and to the watchers’ ears came a deep boom resembling the prolonged and muffled roar of thunder or big artillery.
“Good God! A snow slide!” gasped Buell Hampton.
Roderick was stricken dumb. He stood rigid, frozen with horror. He needed no one to tell him that Grant Jones had gone over the rim of the canyon, down a thousand feet, smothered under a million tons of snow.