EARLY the following morning several hundred searchers were at the scene of the snow slide in Cow Creek Canyon. Every precaution was taken not to have anyone walk along near the rim of the gorge a thousand feet above. There were still hundreds of thousands of tons of snow on the narrow plateau at the top, which any disturbance, even no greater than a stone thrown by the hands of a child, might start moving. If another slide should occur it would overwhelm and crush the intrepid searchers below.
A systematic probing of the snow with long iron rods had been begun at once and kept up perseveringly until three o’clock in the afternoon. Then one of the searchers touched clothing or something with his rod. The snow was quickly shoveled aside, and at a depth of about seven feet the body of Grant Jones was found lying flat upon his back with his right arm stretched out above his head, the left doubled under him. The face was quite natural—it wore a peaceful smile. None of his clothing had been disturbed or tom—even his cap and his skis were in place. The poor fellow had simply been crushed to death or smothered by the many tons of snow.
Immediately a makeshift sled was constructed by strapping two skis together sideways. On this the body was taken up the steep hills by a cautiously selected route to Battle, three and a half miles away, and thence on to Encampment, twelve miles farther, the improvised sled being drawn all the way by strong and willing men of the hills. Accompanying the remains were Roderick Warfield, Jim Rankin, Boney Earnest, and other faithful friends, while following came a great cortege of miners, mill hands, and mountaineers.
It was midnight before the mournful procession reached town. And awaiting it even at that late hour was a dense crowd, standing with bared heads and tear-stained faces. For in all the hill country the name of Grant Jones was a household word. His buoyant good-nature was recognized by everyone, and probably he did not have an enemy in all southern Wyoming where his brief manhood life had been spent. Fully a thousand people, of both sexes, of all classes and all ages, formed the escort of the little funeral sled on its last stage to the undertaker’s establishment. Here the body was received by Major Buell Hampton and the Reverend Stephen Grannon. It had been the Major’s duty that day to seek out the clergyman and bring him down in a sledge from the hills to administer the last sad rites for their dear dead friend.
Next day the search was resumed for Grady’s remains. Bud Bledsoe it was known had escaped—the Major had seen him running downhill after the disaster and others had tracked his footprints, to lose them in a clump of timber. So there was only one more body to be recovered. The task of probing with the long iron rods went on for several hours. The searchers knew the necessity of working both carefully and with speed, for another snow slide was imminent. And at last it came, toward the noon hour. But warning had been passed along, so that no lives were sacrificed, the only result being to pile a veritable mountain of snow over the spot where Grady’s body presumably lay. The search was abandoned, without regret on anyone’s part; in the spring the avalanche would give up its dead; until then the mortal remains of the unpopular and disgraced capitalist could well remain in their temporary sepulchre of snow, “unwept, unhonored, and unsung.”
But for Grant Jones there was public mourning, deep, sincere, and solemn. Toward evening the whole town of Encampment seemed to be wending their way to the little church where the Reverend Stephen Gran-non was to preach the funeral sermon. And these are the words which the venerable Flockmaster spoke to the hushed and sorrowing congregation.
“My friends, our hearts today commune with the battalions who have ‘crossed over.’ Love broods above the sleeping dust in a service of tears. The past is a dream—the future a mystery. Sometimes the tides of dissolution creep upon us silently. Again they are as stormy seas and rough breakers that sweep all with reckless cruelty into oblivion. But whether the parting be one way or the other, in peacefulness or in the savagery of a storm, to loving hearts it is ever a tragedy.
“The grief which is ours today is as old as the ages. It brings us into fellowship with the centuries. We know now why Eve wept for Abel and David lamented Absalom. Death is the most ancient sculptor in the world. Ever since men lived and died, death has made each grave a gallery and filled it with a silent statue. Death hides faults and magnifies virtues. Death conceals the failings of those who have passed while lovingly and enduringly chiselling their noble traits of character.
“Centuries of philosophy have not succeeded in reconciling men to the sorrows of dissolution. Death makes us all equal with a mutual sorrow. We cannot forget our friend who rests here in his final sleep. In happy symbolism his shroud was whitest snow, and love thrills our hearts with sympathetic memory. Such love is the kindest service of the soul.
“Affection for those who have departed has built the mausoleums of the world and makes every monument an altar of grief. Whether the hope of immortality is a revelation or an intuition is not under consideration today. Each man believeth for himself. We know that primitive man away back in Egypt buried his dead on the banks of the Nile and thought of immortality. We know that love throughout the ages has touched the heart with its wings, and hope from the beginning to the end whispers to us that ‘if a man die he shall live again.’ I believe that the doctrine of evolution gives a potent hope of immortality. Evolution takes the mud of the lake and makes a water lily—the hollow reed in the hand of the savage grows into a modern flute—the rude marks of primitive man in the stone age become poems and anthems in our own age. If mist can become stars—if dust can become worlds—if the immortality of biology is a truism—if love can come from sensations, if the angel of the brain can spring into being from simple cells, why then cannot the soul endure forever although undergoing transitions in the course of its divine development?
“I believe in the immortality of the soul. I believe in the religion of humanity. Yes, on the far away rim of eternity, Faith seeks a beckoning hand and the human heart pulses anew with inspiration and unfaltering belief in the immortality of the soul. Let us believe there are songs sung and harps touched and kisses given and greetings exchanged in that other world. It is better that all other words should turn to ashes upon the lips of man rather than the word immortality. Our hearts once filled with this belief—this great truth—then every tear becomes a jewel, the darkest night flees before the breaking dawn and every hope turns into reality.
“Before us, my friends, lies the dust of the dead—Grant Jones. Away from home—away from father and mother, brother and sister—far up in these hills where the shoulders of the mountains are clothed with treacherous banks of sliding snow—he was here seeking to carve out a destiny for himself, in the morning of early manhood. The Kismet of his life, clothed in mystery, caused him to lay down his tools and leave to others his but partially accomplished mission. He was journeying upward toward life’s mountain-crest—already the clouds were below him and the stars about him. For do we not know from his gifted writings that this man held communion with the gods? His heart beat full of loftiest hope. And then—even before high twelve—he fell asleep. He is gone; but a myriad of memories of his achievements gather thick about us. We see him as he was, and this virion will abide with us throughout the years.
“He was a student and a scholar. He read books that had souls in them—he read books that converse with the hearts of men and speak to them of an exalted life—a life that unfolds an ethical and a higher duty incumbent upon the children of men. He knew much about the literature of his day—was acquainted with the great authors through their writings. Keats was his favorite poet, Victor Hugo his favorite prose author and ‘Les Misérables’ his favorite book. Music had a thrilling charm for him. To his heart it was the language of the eternal. He heard songs in the rocks of towering cliffs, in primeval forests, in deep gorges, in night winds, in browned grasses and in tempestuous storms and in the pebbled mountain brooks.
“We need have no fear for his future, my friends—with him all is well. A heroic soul, a matchless man, cannot be lost. His heart was a fountain of love. Virtue was his motto—hope his star—love his guide. Farewell, Grant, farewell. When with the silent boatman we too shall cross the river of death and steal away into the infinite, we believe that you will be standing there in the rosy dawn of eternity to welcome us, to renew the sweet ties of love and friendship that here on earth have bound our hearts to yours.”
Thus spoke the Reverend Stephen Grannon, the Flockmaster of the Hills.
DOROTHY mourned for Grant Jones—for days she wept and would not be consoled. Roderick had not seen her since the disaster; when he had called at the ranch Barbara had brought a message from her room that she dared not trust herself yet to speak to anyone, least of all to the one whom she knew to have been Grant’s closest and dearest friend.
Roderick had now taken apartments in the Bonhomme Hotel—it would have been too heartrending an experience to return to the shack where everything was associated with the memory of his lost comrade. It had been his painful task to pack the books, the little ornaments, the trophies of the chase, the other odds and ends of sacred relics, and send them back East to the old folks at home. He had known it to have been Grant’s own wish that, when death should come, his body should rest among the hills of Wyoming. So when a simple headstone had been placed on the grave in God’s acre at Encampment, the last sad duty had been performed. Grief was now deadened. The sweet pleasures of fond reminiscence remained, the richest legacy that man can leave behind him.
Buell Hampton and Roderick never met without speaking of Grant, without recalling some pleasant episode in their association, some brilliant or thoughtful contribution he had made to their past conversations. With the aid of fragments of torn paper that had been clutched in the dead man’s left hand, the hand that had been doubled under him when the body was found, they had pieced together the story of that fateful encounter with Grady. The latter, bent on discovering and jumping Buell Hampton’s secret mine, had carried into the mountains the proper declaration papers in printed forms, with only the blanks to be filled in—name, date, exact location, etc. Grant must have become aware that these papers were all ready signed in Grady’s pocket—perhaps in defiance the claim-jumper had flaunted them in his face. For the struggle had been for the possession of these documents, the torn quarters of which were still in Grant’s hand when the fatal dislodgement of snow had taken place. The full infamy of Grady’s long contrived plot was revealed. Righteously indeed had he gone to his doom.
A week had passed when Roderick found a letter on the breakfast table at his hotel. It was from Barbara Shields.
“My dear Mr. Warfield:—
“I write to tell you that we are going to California—to spend the winter in Los Angeles. We are all sorrow-stricken over the great calamity up in the hills, and Dorothy—the poor dear girl is simply stunned. I have known for a long while that she was very fond of Grant, but I had no idea of the depths of her feelings.
“Papa says Mama and I must start at once and endeavor to cheer up Dorothy and help her forget as much as possible the sadness of this terrible affair.
“Mr. Bragdon called last night, and is to be our escort to the coast. We shall probably return about the first of May. Please accept this as an affectionate good-by for the time being from us all.
“With cordial good wishes,
“Sincerely your friend,
“Barbara.”
Meanwhile snow had been descending off and on day after day, until now the whole of the mountain country was effectively sealed. Evidently a rigorous winter had set in, and it would be many months before Hidden Valley would be again accessible. Roderick was not sorry—the very mention of gold and mining had become distasteful to his ears. Even when with the Major, they, never now spoke about the secret canyon and its hoarded treasures—in subtle sympathy with each other’s feelings the subject was tabooed for the present Bud Bledsoe had disappeared from the district, no doubt temporarily enriched by the nuggets with which he had filled his pockets. In the spring most likely he would return and rally his gang of mountain outlaws. But until then there need be no worry about the snow-enshrouded claims, the location papers for which had been now duly registered at the county seat in the names of their proper owners.
Buell Hampton had his books and his work for the poor wherewith to occupy his mind. Roderick found his consolation at the smelter. Early and late now he worked there, learning the practical operations from Boney Earnest, mastering the business details with the aid of a trustworthy old clerk whose services had been retained as secretary. Boney, having been made the choice of his brother foremen in accordance with the new plan of operations, was duly confirmed in his position of general manager, while Roderick, formally elected vice-president by the board, held the salaried and responsible post of managing-director.
Major Hampton withdrew himself more and more into the seclusion of his library; he rarely came to the smelter plant; he left everything in Roderick’s hands once he had become satisfied of the young man’s aptitude for the work; he was content to read the managing director’s weekly report showing steady progress all along the line—increased output, decreased operating costs, large reductions in waste and breakages, in a word the all-round benefits resulting from friendly cooperation between capital and labor, no longer treating each other as enemies, but pulling together in happy conjunction and for mutual advantage.
Another circumstance contributing to the general harmony of the community was the departure of W. Henry Carlisle, the deposed attorney of the smelter company. One of Senator Greed’s hirelings, Carlisle had been rewarded by that master of political jobbery with a judgeship in Alaska. Thus was the whole country made to pay the price of shameful underhand services that had tainted the very atmosphere and might well have caused the man in the moon to hold his nose when crossing the state of Wyoming.
However, Carlisle’s going put an end to much bitterness and squabbling in Encampment, and now month succeeded month in peaceful routine. As both smelter and mine were now working Sundays as well as week days, Roderick could rarely take a day off—or at least he would not allow himself a day off.
However, along with Major Buell Hampton he was the guest of Mr. Shields for Christmas Day dinner, and learned the latest news of the exiles in California; that mother and daughters were well, Dorothy something like her old happy self if chastened with a sorrow that would always leave its memory, and all thoroughly enjoying the unaccustomed luxury of a winter of warmth and perpetual sunshine. There was another item in Mr. Shields’ budget. Whitley Adams had spent a month in the capital of the southwest, had brought along his big touring car, and had given the girls no end of a good time.
“What took him to Los Angeles?’ asked Roderick.
“Oh, important banking business, Barbara says,” replied Mr. Shields quite innocently.
Roderick smiled. “Would Dorothy be consoled,” he asked himself. The enterprising youth certainly deserved the prize; Roderick recalled the mirthful warning sent to dear old Grant in the latter’s dilatory courting days about the tempting peach and the risk of a plundering hand. Indeed Whitley and Grant had been wonderfully akin in their boyish good-nature and irrepressible enthusiasm. With Grant gone, it seemed quite natural that Whitley and Dorothy should be drawn together. Roderick could wish no greater happiness for Dorothy, no better luck for his old college chum. Such was the train of his musing the while Buell Hampton and their host were discussing the wonderful growth and unbounded future of Los Angeles, the beautiful city of garden homes and cultured family life.
For New Year’s Day Roderick was invited to the Holdens’ place, and spent a delightful afternoon and evening. Gail sang and played, and the General seemed to be mightily interested in all the wonderful results being achieved at the smelter under the new régime. Gail listened somewhat distrait, but when the conversation about ores and fluxes and cupola furnaces and all that sort of thing seemed likely to be indefinitely prolonged she stole back to her piano and began singing to herself, soft and low.
And presently, while the General meandered on in a disquisition about refractory ores, Roderick was no longer paying attention. He was listening to the warbling of a thrush in the forest, and his straining ears caught the words of the song—“Just a-Wearyin’ for You.” A thrill ran through his nerves. He excused himself to the General, and crossed over to the piano. Gail instantly changed her song; by a skillful transition she was humming now, “Ye Banks and Braes o’ Bonnie Dhon.” But their eyes met, and she blushed deeply.
During the following weeks Roderick thought much and often about the beautiful Gail Holden, and occasionally now he would relax from business duties to enjoy a gallop with her on a sunny afternoon over the foothill ranges. They talked on many themes, and, although words of love were as yet unspoken, there came to them the quiet sense of happiness in companionship, of interest in each other’s thoughts and undertakings, of mutual understanding that they were already closer and dearer to each other than friendship alone could make them.
Spring was now rapidly approaching. The meadowlarks were singing, and the grass beginning to grow green in the valleys and foothills, the wild flowers to paint the slopes and dells in vivid colors. General Holden had several days before gone to San Francisco, to visit his brother there in regard to some family business. Gail had been unable to accompany her father; she had declared that the little ranch at this season required all her attention. To comfort her in her loneliness Roderick had promised to go riding with her for an hour or two every afternoon. This pleasant duty had been properly fulfilled for several days, and one afternoon, with Badger ready saddled in front of his office, the young vice-president of the smelter company was just clearing up a few items of business at his desk before mounting and taking the road for the Conchshell Ranch.
A telegram was laid at his hand. He opened it casually, talking the while with Boney Earnest. But when he saw the name on the slip of paper, he started erect. The message was from Gail, and had come from Rawlins: “My father is in hospital, having met with a street accident in San Francisco. Have just had time to catch the afternoon train at Rawlins. My address will be the Palace Hotel. Will telegraph news about father on arrival.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Roderick. “She has taken that journey alone. And no one to help her in her trouble and sorrow.”
There was no alternative—he could but wait with all the patience he could command for the next day’s overland. For he had instantly resolved to follow Gail. Like a flash had come the revelation how deeply he loved the girl; it had only needed the presence of tribulation to cause the long-smouldering spark of the fire divine in his heart to leap into flame—to make him realize that, come weal, come woe, his place now was by her side.
That afternoon he made all his preparations for departure. The evening he spent with Buell Hampton, and frankly told his friend of his great love for Gail. The Major listened sympathetically.
“All the world loves a lover,” he said, a kindly glow upon his face. “Humanity demands, conscience approves, and good people everywhere applaud the genial and glowing warmth of honest love of man for maid. And I commend the choice of your heart, Roderick, for surely nowhere can be found a finer woman than Gail Holden. Go in and win, and may good luck follow you. For friendship’s sake, too, I think it highly proper you should proceed at once to San Francisco and look after General Holden. I hope he is not dangerously hurt.”
“I have no other information except this telegram,” replied Roderick. “But I’ll surely wire you from San Francisco.”
Jim Rankin drove the stage next morning. Roderick took his accustomed place on the box seat, and listened to Jim’s accustomed flow of language on all the local topics of interest. But during the long drive of fifty miles there was only one little part of the one-sided conversation that Roderick ever remembered.
“Yes, siree,” Jim said, “all the folks is readin’ books these days. I myself have took the craze—I’ve got a book about the horse out of our new libr’y an’ I’ll be dog-busted if I ever knew the critter had so many bones. Tom Sun is readin’ about wool growin’ in Australia, and is already figgerin’ on gettin’ over Tasmanian merino blood for his flocks. And I’m danged if old Wren the saloon-keeper ain’t got stuck with a volume on temperance. ‘Ten Bar-Rooms in One Night’. no, by gunnies, that’s not it—’Ten Nights in a Bar-Room’—now I’ve got it right Guess it will do him a power o’ good too. Then all the young fellers have started goin’ to night classes. I tell you the Reverend Grannon with his schools an’ his libr’ies is just workin’ wonders. An’ who do you think is his right hand man, or boy, or devil—call him which you like?”
“Who?” asked Roderick vaguely.
“Scotty Meisch, that little tad of a cow-puncher you and poor old Grant Jones took up and made a printer’s devil of. Well, the parson got his hooks in him and tells me he’s turned out to be a first-class organizer—that’s his word. It’s Scotty who goes around, starts each new lib’iy, and sets the machin’ry goin’ smooth an’ proper. It’s a case of a round peg in a round hole, although who the hell would have thought it?”
Roderick was pleased to hear this good news of Scotty Meisch, but, returning to his thoughts about Gail, failed to follow Jim as the latter switched off into another line of “unbosomings.”
He was glad to be alone at last and in the drawing room of the Pullman car which he had reserved by telegraph.
AFTER a tedious and delayed trip of three days and nights Roderick’s train steamed onto the mole at Oakland. During the last night he had refused to have the berth in his drawing room made down, and had lounged and dozed in his seat, occasionally peering out of the car window. The hour was late—almost three o’clock in the morning. The train should have arrived at seven o’clock the evening before.
There was the usual scramble of disembarking, red-capped porters pressing forward to carry hand baggage from the train to the ferryboat.
“Last boat to San Francisco will leave in five minutes,” was shouted from somewhere, and Roderick found himself with his valise in hand being pushed along with the throng of passengers who had just alighted from the train. Once on the ferryboat, he climbed to the upper deck and went well forward for the view. The waters of the bay were illumed with a half-crescent moon. Far across, six miles away, was San Francisco with its innumerable lights along the waterfront and on the slopes of her hills. To the right were Alcatras Island and the lighthouse.
Then the sharp ping-ping of bells sounded and the great wheels of the boat began to turn. Roderick was filled with the excitement of an impatient lover. “Gail, Gail, Gail,” his throbbing heart kept thrumming. Would he be able to find her? San Francisco was a strange city to Gail as well as to himself. She had been on the train ahead of him, and might by this time have left the Palace Hotel, the address her telegram had given. But he had learned from one of the porters that Gail’s train had been greatly delayed and would not have arrived before eleven o’clock the previous night. He reasoned that she would perforce have gone to the hotel at such a late hour, and would wait until morning to hunt up the hospital where her father was being cared for.
The boat had hardly touched the slip and the apron been lowered than he bounded forward, hastened through the ferryhouse and came out into the open where he was greeted by the tumultuous calls of a hundred solicitous cab-drivers. Roderick did not stand on the order of things, but climbing into the first vehicle that offered directed to be taken to the Palace Hotel.
Arriving at the hotel Roderick paid his fare while the door porter took possession of his grips. Glancing at a huge clock just over the cashier’s desk, he noticed the hour was three-thirty a. m. Taking the pen handed to him by the rooming clerk, he signed his name on the register, and then let his eyes glance backward over the names of recent arrivals. Ah, there was the signature of Gail Holden. Fortune was favoring him and he breathed a silent prayer of thankfulness that he had overtaken her.
Yes, he would serve her. He would help her. She should see and she should know without his telling her, that nothing else mattered if he could only be with her, near her and permitted to relieve her of all troubles and difficulties.
“Show the gentleman to his room,” said the night clerk and bowed to Roderick with a cordial good night.
As Roderick turned and followed the boy to the elevator, he realized that he was not sleepy—indeed that he was nervously alert and wide awake. After the boy had brought a pitcher of ice-water to the room, received his tip and departed, Roderick sat down to think it all over. But what was the use? “I cannot see her until perhaps eight o’clock in the morning. However, I will be on the outlook and in waiting when she is ready for breakfast. And then—” his heart was beating fast “I certainly am terribly upset,” he acknowledged to himself.
Taking up his hat, he went out, locked the door, rang for the elevator and a minute later was out on the street. He was still wearing his costume of the mountains—coat, shirt, trousers, and puttees, all of khaki, with a broad-brimmed sombrero to match. A little way up Market Street he noticed a florist’s establishment. Great bouquets of California roses were in the windows, chrysanthemums and jars of violets.
He walked on, deciding to provide himself later on with a floral offering wherewith to decorate the breakfast table. He had often heard San Francisco described as a city that turned night into day, and the truth of the remark impressed him. Jolly crowds were going along the streets singing in roistering fashion—everyone seemed to be good-natured—the cafés were open, the saloon doors swung both ways and were evidently ready for all-comers. When he came to Tate’s restaurant, he went down the broad marble steps and found—notwithstanding the lateness or rather earliness of the hour—several hundred people still around the supper tables. The scene had the appearance of a merry banquet where everyone was talking at the same time. An air of joviality pervaded the place. The great fountain was throwing up glittering columns of water through colored lights as varied as the tints of a rainbow. The splash of the waters, the cool spray, the wealth of ferns and flowers surrounding this sunken garden in the center of a great dining room—the soft strains of the orchestra, all combined to fill Roderick with wonder that was almost awe. He sank into a chair at a vacant little table near the fountain and endeavored to comprehend it all He was fresh from the brown hills, from the gray and purple sage and the desert cacti, from the very heart of nature, so utterly different to this spectacle of a bacchanalian civilization.
The wilderness waif soon discovered that he would be de trop unless he responded to the urgent inquiries of the waiter as to what he would have to drink.
“A bottle of White Rock to begin with,” ordered Roderick.
As he was sipping the cold and refreshing water it occurred to him that he had not tasted food since breakfast the day before in the dining car of the train. Yes, he would have something to eat and he motioned to the waiter.
After giving his order he had to wait a long time, and the longer he waited the hungrier he became. Presently a generous steak was placed before him. Potatoes au gratin, olives, asparagus, and French peas made up the side dishes, and a steaming pot of coffee completed a sumptuous meal.
When he had paid his check he discovered it was almost five o’clock in the morning, and as he mounted the marble stairway he laughingly told himself he wouldn’t have much of an appetite at seven or eight o’clock when he came to sit down at the breakfast table with Gail Holden. Gaining the sidewalk he found that darkness was shading into dawn.
Instead of returning by way of Market Street, Roderick lit a cigar and turning to the right walked up a cross street toward the St. Francis Hotel. In front was a beautiful little park; shrubbery and flowers lined the winding walks, while here and there large shade trees gave an added touch of rural charm.
He seated himself on one of the iron benches, took out his watch and counted up the number of minutes until, probably, he would see the object of his heart’s desire. How slow the time was going. He heard the laughter of a banqueting party over at the Poodle Dog, although at the time he did not know the place by name.
“Yes,” he murmured, “San Francisco is certainly in a class by itself. This is the land where there is no night.”
The contrast between the scenes in this gay city and the quiet hill life away up among the crags, the deep canyons and snow-clad peaks of southern Wyoming was indeed remarkable.
It was the morning of April eighteen, 1906, and the night had almost ended. There was a suggestion of purple on the eastern horizon—the forerunner of coming day. The crescent moon was hanging high above Mt. Tamalpais.
The town clock tolled the hour of five and still Roderick waited. Presently he was filled with a strange foreboding, a sense of oppression, that he was unable to analyze. He wondered if it presaged refusal of the great love surging in his heart for Gail Holden, the fair rider of the ranges, the sweet singer of the hills. An indescribable agitation seized him.
The minutes went slowly by. His impatience increased. He looked again at his watch and it was only a quarter after five. The city was wrapped in slumber.
Then suddenly and without warning Roderick was roughly thrown from his seat and sent sprawling onto the grass among the shrubbery. He heard an angry growling like the roar from some rudely awakened Goliath of destruction deep down in earth’s inner chambers of mystery—a roar of wrath and madness and resistless power. The ground was trembling, reeling, upheaving, shaking and splitting open into yawning fissures, while hideous noises were all around. Buildings about the park were being rent asunder and were falling into shapeless heaps of ruin.
Struggling to his feet, his first impulse was to hasten to the hotel and protect Gail. As he arose and started to run he was again thrown to earth. The bushes whipped the turf as if swished to and fro by an unseat hand. For a moment Roderick was stunned into inaction—stricken with the paralysis of unspeakable fear.
IT WAS but a few seconds until Roderick was again on his feet Hurriedly taking his bearings, he started off through the little park in the direction of the Palace Hotel. In the uncertain morning dawn the people from innumerable bedrooms above the stores were pouring into the streets. They were scantily attired, most of them simply in their night garments, and all were dazed and stunned with a terrible fright Before Roderick had reached Market Street the thoroughfare was almost blocked by this frantic and half-clothed mass of humanity. His powerful athletic frame and his football experience stood him in good stead, although here roughness had to be exchanged for greatest gentleness. He was very persistent, however, in his determination to reach the hotel in time if possible to be of assistance to Gail.
Less than ten feet in front of where he was crowding his way through the throng of people a portion of a cornice came tumbling down from far above. A wailing cry went up from the unfortunates pinned beneath. Roderick leaped quickly forward and with the strength of a Hercules began to heave aside the great blocks of stone. Others recognized his leadership, instantly obeyed his commands and lent their united strength in helping to release three men who had been caught under debris. The cries of the injured were piteous. Indifferent to the danger of falling bricks and mortar Roderick caught up one poor fellow in his arms and carried him as if he were a babe into a receding doorway.
“My legs, my legs,” the victim moaned. “They’re broken—they’re broken.”
Quickly removing his coat Roderick placed it beneath the man’s head for a pillow, and leaving others to guard, he hastened back to the scene of the tragedy, only to find that the spark of life had now gone out from the other two bodies pitifully maimed and crushed.
He pushed his way into the middle of the street amid the surging mob, and again turned his steps toward the Palace Hotel. At last he found himself near to the entrance of the great hostelry. But everyone was seeking to escape and rushing to the street in riotous disorder. By dint of indefatigable efforts he managed to get within the gateway and then to the large trysting room across the hall from the hotel office. A group of women were endeavoring to revive a poor sufferer who evidently had fainted. Approaching, he saw blood coursing down the fair face of the unfortunate.
“My God!” he exclaimed. “It is Gail.”
An instant later he had gently pushed the helpers aside and gathered the girl in his strong arms. Moving backwards, forcing a passage step by step with the determination of one who acts intuitively in a crisis, he managed to gain the open. He hoped the air would restore Gail to consciousness.
Crossing to the other side of the street where the throng was less dense he started toward a high hill that rose up far away. It was covered with residences, and if he could once reach that vantage point with his charge he felt sure it would be an asylum of safety. The distance was considerable and presently the way became steep. But he was unconscious of any weight in the burden he carried. His only thought was to get Gail away from the burning, falling buildings—away from the central part of the city which was now a fiery pit wrapped in sheets of devouring flame.
Finally attaining the eminence—it was Nob Hill although he did not know the name—he found the porches and front lawns of the beautiful houses filled with frightened people viewing the scene in awe and amazement. Formalities were forgotten; solicitude and helpful kindness reigned supreme among all the people of the stricken city.
He called to a little group huddled on the front porch of their home. “Here is a lady,” Roderick explained, “who has been injured and fainted. Will you please get water and help to revive her?”
In hurried eagerness to assist they quickly brought a cot to the porch and upon this Roderick gently placed the still unconscious girl. Her face was deathly white, and a great red gash was discovered across one side of her head, from which the blood was trickling down the marble cheek. The wound was bandaged by tender hands and the face laved with cooling water. After a little Gail opened her eyes and asked piteously: “Where am I? Where am I?”
“You are safe,” said Roderick as he knelt by her side.
“Oh, is it you, Mr. Warfield? How glad—how glad I am to see you. Where am I?”
“In San Francisco. Don’t you remember?”
“Yes, yes, I remember now,” she replied weakly and lifted one hand to her aching head. “But papa?—where is my father?”
“I am going to look for him now. You are with kind people and they will care for you. Rest quietly and be patient until I return.”
Her dark blue eyes looked helplessly up into his for a moment; then he turned and was gone.
Roderick rushed down the hill, back to the scene of devastation where he might be useful in helping to save human life, determined also in his heart to find General Holden. But where was he? In some hospital, as Gail’s telegram had told.
He was debating with himself whether he should return to seek some directions from Gail. But just then the surging, swaying crowd pushed him irresistibly back, then swept him away along Market Street. The Palace Hotel was on fire. Policemen and firemen were thrusting the people away from the known danger line.
Just then he heard a voice crying out in heart-rending anguish: “My little girl’, my little girl.” It was a frantic mother weeping and looking far up to the seventh story of a building she evidently had just left. There leaning out of a window was a curly haired tot of a child, perhaps not more than four years old, laughing and throwing kisses toward her mama, all unconscious of danger.
“I came down,” sobbed the weeping mother to those around, “to see what had happened. The stairway is now on fire, and I cannot return. Will no one, oh Lord, will no one save my little girl?”
Roderick looked up to where the woman was pointing and saw the child.
“My God!” he exclaimed, “smoke is coming out of the next window.” He noticed that the adjoining building was already a mass of fire. At a glance he took in the situation.
“Hold on a minute,” he shouted. “I will try.”
There was an outside fire escape that led from the top story down to the first floor. Roderick made a leap, caught hold of the awning braces, pulled himself up with muscles of steel, and grasped the lowermost rung of the escape. A moment later he was making his way up the narrow iron ladder, pushing through the aperture at each floor, with almost superhuman swiftness. When he reached the window he lifted the child in his arms and hastily started on the downward journey.
“Hold tight, little girl,” was all Roderick said as he felt the confiding clasp of her tiny arms about his neck.
Many of the people below besides the almost frenzied mother were watching the heroic deed with bated breath. Just then a cry of terror went up. The great wall of a burning building across the street was toppling outward and a moment later collapsed, burying many unhappy victims beneath the avalanche of broken brick and mortar.
Whether the little girl’s mother had been caught by the falling wall or not Roderick had no means of determining. A choking cloud of dust, ash, soot and smoke enveloped him in stifling darkness; he could hardly breathe. The very air was heated and suffocating. But down and down he went with his little burden clinging tightly to him. Arriving at the awnings he swung himself over, secured a momentary foothold, then grasped the braces with his hands and dropped to the littered sidewalk below.
The mother of the girl was nowhere to be seen. He turned down the street to get away from the horrible sight of the dead and the piteous cries of the dying. He had scarcely reached the next corner when the child, who was mutely clinging to him as if indeed she knew he was her savior, released her arms and called out gleefully: “Oh, there’s mama, mama, mama.” Then the mother stood before him, weeping now for joy, and through her tears Roderick saw a face of radiance and a smile of gratitude that time or eternity would never erase from his memory.
Nothing mattered now—her little girl was safe in her arms. “I don’t know who you are, sir,” she exclaimed, “but I owe to you the life of my child, and may the good God bless you.”
But this was no time for thanks. Roderick was looking upward.
“Come quickly,” he shouted, “come this way—hasten.” And he pulled them down a side street and away from another sky-scraper that was trembling and wavering as if about to fall.
They turned, and ran along a street that was still free from fire and led toward the St. Francis Hotel and the little park fronting it where Roderick had sat at dawn. Carefully he guided the woman’s steps, keeping to the middle of the street, for the sidewalk was encumbered with debris and threatened by partly dislodged brickwork above. Here and there the roadway was rumpled and rough as a washboard by reason of the earthquake, while at places were great gaping fissures where the earth had been split open many feet deep. But soon they were in the open square, and mother and child were safe. Knowing this, Roderick allowed them to pass on—to pass out of his life without even the asking or the giving of names.
For there was other work to his hand; he hurried back to the last crossing. There under the fallen débris, was a woman obviously of refinement and wealth whose life had been vanquished without warning. One hand was extended above the wreckage. It was shapely and encircled with a bracelet, while a single diamond solitaire ring adorned her finger—perhaps a betrothal ring. Two human ghouls—not men—had whipped out their ready knives and were in the very act of severing the finger to obtain the jewel. It was these brutes that Roderick had come back to face.
Like a flash he leaped forward and with a well directed sledge-hammer blow felled one of these would-be robbers of the dead. Then he grappled with the second scoundrel. The man in his grip was none other than the outlaw, Bud Bledsoe!
With knife already open and in his hand the inhuman wretch slashed Roderick’s cheek, and the red blood spurted down his face and neck. Roderick loosed his hold and stepped back a pace—the next gash of this kind might easily be a fatal one. But not for one instant did he lose his presence of mind or nerve. As the cowardly miscreant advanced, cruel murder in his eyes, Roderick by a swift swing of his right parried the upraised hand that held the knife, and then, seizing the opening, he delivered with his left a smashing uppercut. Bledsoe reeled for a moment like a drunken man, then sank to the ground a huddled heap, and finally rolled over kicking convulsively and quite insensible.
The knockout had been effected quickly and well—like a butcher would fell a bullock.
Already the devastated city was under martial law, and three or four soldiers coming hurriedly up just then, and having seen from the opposite corner the hellish attempt of the two wretches to despoil the dead, shot them instantly, Bledsoe where he lay writhing, the other as he staggered dazed-like to his feet.
Roderick wiped the blood from his face, and thanked the soldiers. “Good for you, young fellow,” cried one of them as they continued on their way.
His wound forgotten, Roderick again looked round to see where he could render the most efficient service.
The night came on, and he was still at work, rescuing and helping. He had been recognized by the Citizens’ Committee of Safety and now wore a badge that gave him the freedom of the streets. In all his goings and comings he was ever looking for General Holden, and he also made numerous trips to Nob Hill, searching for the house where he had left Gail. But he could never find the place again, for the raging fire was fast obliterating all guiding landmarks.
Thus for two days—terrible days, pitiful days—for two nights—terrible nights, pitiful nights—Roderick drifted with the bands of rescuers, doing deeds of valor and of helpfulness for others less strong than himself. His face was black with soot and clotted with blood, his coat he had parted with at the beginning of the disaster, the rest of his clothing was tattered and torn, his sombrero had disappeared, when and how he had not the faintest notion.
The fire had now burned out its center circle and was eating away at the rim in every direction. Roderick suddenly remembered he had tasted no food since his early breakfast at Tate’s an hour before the earthquake crash. The pangs of hunger had begun to make themselves felt, and he concluded to turn his steps toward the outer fire line and endeavor to find something to eat.
As he walked along from house to house he found them all deserted. Some of the household goods were scattered about the lawns, while boxes, trunks, and bulky packages were piled on the sidewalks. Presently he found a basket which contained a single loaf of bread. This he ate ravenously, and counted it the greatest feast he had ever had in his life. He ate as he hurried along, thinking of Gail and General Holden—wishing he might divide the bread with them.
The roar of consuming, crackling flames, the deep intonations of intermittent dynamite explosions, and the occasional wail of human beings in distress, rose and fell like a funeral dirge.
His feet intuitively turned back to the burned district. There might yet be more work for him to do.
He determined to pick his way across the ruins, and ascending the hill opposite make another desperate effort to find Gail. After a fatiguing climb over hot embers and around the twisted steel skeletons of burned-out buildings he finally stood on the rim of the hill above the saucer-shaped valley of flames. Only charred and smoking ruins were about him. The beautiful residential district had like the business sections below, been swept with the fires of destruction.
Where was Gail? Was she safe? Was she dead? Would he ever find her? These were some of the questions that kept him in agonizing incertitude.
There was a weird uncanny attraction about this great amphitheatre of flame—an attraction like that of a lodestone; and he feared lest Gail had left her refuge in a vain search for her father and met with another serious accident. Roderick had visited all the unburned hospitals, but no trace of General Holden had he been able to find. The quest for both must be resumed; so down the hill he trudged again.
Ashes and burning cinders were falling like huge flakes of snow. Once more Roderick was in the midst of a throng of people—gaunt and hollow-eyed, wearied and worn-out, just staggering along. At last he recognized the little park in front of the St. Francis Hotel. Yes, he would go there, stretch himself on the grass, and rest and sleep for at least a few hours. This would make him ill the fitter for his task of searching.
Just as he was about to cross the street a dozen people shouted for him to look out; but he did not turn quickly enough to discover nor escape a burning wooden rafter that fell from the upper story of a building and struck him an ugly glancing blow on the head. Roderick dropped to the ground unconscious.
At this very moment a Red Cross automobile was passing. It stopped abruptly at the sidewalk. Two men stepped quickly down and lifted the almost lifeless body into the machine. A moment later the auto glided away down a side street in the direction of Golden Gate Park.
That night there were many in the camps of refuge around the burning city who thought about the tall, strong-muscled, square-jawed young stranger in khaki garb, while their hearts welled up with gratitude for his timely assistance and chivalrous deeds of bravery. Had they but known of the fate that had at last befallen their nameless hero, grateful thoughts would have been turned into fervent prayers.