WHEN Grant Jones and Roderick arrived at the Major’s home that evening they found other visitors already installed before the cheerful blaze of the open hearth. These were Tom Sun, owner of more sheep than any other man in the state; Boney Earnest, the blast furnace man in the big smelting plant; and Jim Rankin, who had joined his two old cronies after unharnessing the horses from the sleigh.
Cordial introductions and greetings were exchanged. Although Roderick had shaken hands before with Boney Earnest, this was their first meeting in a social way. And it was the very first time he had encountered Tom Sun. Therefore the fortuitous gathering of his father’s three old friends came to him as a pleasant surprise. He was glad of the chance to get better acquainted.
While the company were settling themselves in chairs around the fireplace, Jim Rankin seized the moment for a private confabulation with Roderick. He drew the young man into a corner and addressed him in a mysterious whisper: “By gunnies, Mr. War-field, it sure is powerful good to have yer back agin. It’s seemed a tarnation long winter. But you bet I’ve been keepin’ my mind on things—our big secret—you know.”
Roderick nodded and Rankin went on: “I’ve been prognosticatin’ out this here way and then that way on a dozen trips after our onderstandin’, searchin’ like fur that business; but dang my buttons it’s pesterin’ hard to locate and don’t you forgit it. Excuse us, gentlemen, we are talkin’ about certain private matters but we don’t mean ter be impolite. I’m ‘lowin’ it’s the biggest secret in these diggin’s—ain’t that right, Roderick?”
Rankin laughed good-humoredly at his own remarks as he took out his tobacco pouch of fine cut and stowed away a huge cud. “You bet yer life,” he continued between vigorous chews, “somebody is nachurlly going to be a heap flustrated ‘round here one of these days, leastways that’s what we’re assoomin’.”
“Say, Jim,” observed Tom Sun, “what are you talkin’ about anyway? Boney, I think Jim is just as crazy as ever.”
“I reckon that’s no lie,” responded Boney, good-naturedly. “Always was as crazy as a March hare with a bone in its throat.”
“Say, look here you fellows, yer gittin’ tumultuous,” exclaimed Rankin, “you’re interferin’. Say, Major Hampton, I’m not a dangnation bit peevish or nuthin’ like that, but do you know who are the four biggest and most ponderous liars in the state of Wyoming?” The Major looked up in surprise but did not reply. “Waal,” said Rankin, expectorating toward the burning logs in the open hearth and proceeding to answer his own question, “Boney Earnest is sure one uv ‘em, I am one uv ‘em, and Tom Sun is ‘tother two.” Rankin guffawed loudly. This brought forth quite an expression of merriment The only reply from Tom Sun was that his thirty odd years of association with Jim Rankin and Boney Earnest was quite enough to make a prince of liars of anyone.
Presently the Major said: “Gentlemen, after taking a strict inventory I find there are six men in the world for whom I entertain an especial interest. Of course, my mission in life in a general way is in behalf of humanity, but there are six who have come to be closer to me than all the rest Five of them are before me. Of the other I will not speak at this time. I invited you here this evening because you represent in a large measure the things that I stand for. The snow will soon be going, spring is approaching and great things will happen during the next year—far greater than you dream of. You are friends of mine and I have decided under certain restrictions to share with you an important secret.”
Thereupon he pointed to some little sacks, until now unnoticed, that lay on the center table. “Untie these sacks and empty the contents onto the table if you will, Mr. Warfield.” Roderick complied.
Each sack held about a hatful of broken rock, and to the amazement of the Major’s guests Roderick emptied out on the table the richest gold ores that any of them had ever beheld. They were porphyry and white quartz, shot full of pure gold and stringers of gold. Indeed the pieces of quartz were seemingly held together with purest wire gold.
The natural query that was in the heart of everyone was soon given voice by Jim Rankin. After scanning the remarkable exhibit he turned to Major Buell Hampton and exclaimed: “Gosh ‘lmighty, Major, where did this here come from?”
“A most natural question but one which I am not inclined to answer at this time,” said the Major, smiling benignly. “Gentlemen, it is my intention that everyone present shall share with me in a substantial way in the remarkable discovery, the evidence of which is lying before you. There are five of you and I enjoin upon each the most solemn pledge of secrecy, even as regards the little you have yet learned of the great secret which I possess.”
They all gave their pledges, and the Major went on: “There is enough of these remarkably rich ores for everyone. But should the slightest evidence come to me that anyone of you gentlemen has been so thoughtless, or held the pledge you have just made so lightly, that you have shared with any outsider the information so far given, his name will assuredly be eliminated from this pact. Therefore, it is not only a question of honor but a question of self-interest, and I feel sure the former carries with it more potency with each of you than the latter.”
In the meantime Roderick was closely examining the samples of gold. Instinctively he had put his hand to the inside pocket of his coat and felt for his father’s map. He was wondering whether Buell Hampton had come into possession of the identical piece of knowledge he himself was searching for. Presently Jim Rankin whispered in his ear: “By gunnies, Warfield, I guess the Major has beat us to it.”
But Roderick shook his head reassuringly. He remembered that his father’s find was placer gold—water-worn nuggets taken from a sandbar in some old channel, as the sample in Jim Rankin’s own possession showed. The ores he was now holding were of quite a different class—they had been broken from the living rock.
After the specimens had been returned to the sample sacks and the excitement had quieted a little, Major Hampton threw his head back in his own princely way, as he sat in his easy chair before the fire and observed: “Money may be a blessing or it may be a curse. Personally I shall regret the discovery if a single dollar of this wealth, which it is in my power to bring to the light of day, should ever bring sorrow to humanity. It is my opinion that the richest man in the world should not possess more than a quarter of a million dollars at most, and even that amount is liable to make a very poor citizen out of an otherwise good man. Unnecessary wealth merely stimulates to abnormal or wicked extravagance. It is also self-evident that a more equal distribution of wealth would obtain if millionaires were unknown, and greater happiness would naturally follow.”
“Yes, but the world requires ‘spenders’ as well as getters,’”laughed Tom Sun. “Otherwise we would all be dying of sheer weariness of each other.”
“Surely, there are arguments on both sides,” assented the Major. “It is a difficult problem. I was merely contending that a community of comparatively poor people who earn their bread by the sweat of their brow—tilling the soil and possessed of high ideals of good citizenship—such people beyond question afford the greatest example of contentment, morality and happiness. Great wealth is the cause of some of our worst types of degeneracy. However,” he concluded, knocking the ashes from his pipe, “it is not my purpose this evening to sermonize. Nor do I intend at present to say anything more about the rich gold discovery I have made except to reiterate my assurance that at the proper time all you gentlemen will be called on to share in the enterprise and in its profits. Now I believe some of you”—and he looked at Jim Rankin, Tom Sun and Boney Earnest as he spoke—“have another engagement tonight. It was only at my special request, Mr. Warfield, that they remained to meet you and Mr. Jones.”
“And we’re much obliged to you, Major,” said Boney Earnest, arising and glancing at his watch. “Hope old John Warfield’s boy and I will get still better acquainted. But I’ve got to be going now. You see my wife insisted that I bring the folks back early so that she might have a visit with Mr. Rankin and Mr. Sun.”
Tom Sun shook hands cordially.
“Glad to have met you, Mr. Warfield,” he said, “for your father’s sake as well as your own. I trust we’ll meet often. Good-night, Mr. Jones.”
Rankin whispered something to Roderick, but Roderick did not catch the words, and when he attempted to inquire the old fellow merely nodded his head and said aloud: “You bet your life; I’m assoomin’ this is jist ‘tween me and you.” Roderick smiled at this oddity, as the man of mystery followed his friends from the room.
When the door closed and Roderick and Grant were alone with the Major, pipes were again lighted, and a spell of silence fell upon the group—the enjoyable silence of quiet companionship. The Major showed no disposition to re-open the subject of the rich gold discovery, nor did Roderick feel inclined to press for further information. As he mused, however, he became more firmly convinced than before that his secret was still his own—that Buell Hampton, in this rugged mountain region with its many undiscovered storehouses of wealth, had tumbled on a different gold-bearing spot to that located by Uncle Allen Miller and his father. Some day, perhaps, he would show the Major the letter and the map. But to do this now might seem like begging the favor of further confidences, so until these were volunteered Roderick must pursue his own lonesome trail. The mere sight of the gold, however, had quickened his pulse beats. To resume the humdrum life at the ranch seemed intolerable. He longed to be out on the hills with his favorite pony Badger, searching every nook and corner for the hidden treasure.
Presently Buell Hampton arose and laid his pipe aside, and going to a curtained corner of the room returned with his violin. And long into the night, with only a fitful light from the burning logs in the open fireplace, the Major played for his young friends. It seemed his repertoire was without beginning and without end. As he played his moods underwent many changes. Now he was gay and happy, at another moment sad and wistful. He passed from sweet low measures into wild, thrilling abandonment. Now he was drawing divine harmony from the strings by dainty caresses, again he was almost brutally compelling them to render forth the fierce passion of music that was surging in his own soul. The performance held the listeners spellbound—left them for the moment speechless when at last the player dropped into a chair. The instrument was laid across his knees; he was still fondling it with gentle touches and taps from his long slender fingers.
“You love your violin, Major,” Roderick at last managed to articulate.
“Yes,” came the low-spoken fervent reply, “every crease, crevice and string of the dear old Cremona that was given me more than half a century ago.”
“I wish,” said Grant, “that I could express my appreciation of the wonderful entertainment you have given us tonight.”
“You are very complimentary,” replied the Major, bestirring himself. He rose, laid the violin on the table, and brightened up the fire with additional fuel.
“But I’m afraid we must be going,” added Grant. “It is getting late.”
“Well, I have a message for you young gentlemen,” said the Major. “You are invited to attend one of the most distinguished soirees ever given in the Platte River Valley. Mr. and Mrs. Shields mentioned this today, and made me the special messenger to extend the invitation to you both.”
“Splendid,” exclaimed Grant. “When does this come off?”
“Two weeks from this evening,” replied the Major. “And we will have a comparative newcomer to the valley to grace the occasion. She has been here through the late fall and winter, but has been too busy nursing her sick and bereaved old father to go out into society.”
“General Holden’s daughter?” queried Grant.
“The same. And Gail Holden is certainly a most beautiful young lady. Have you seen her, Mr. War-field?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” replied Roderick.
“A most noble young woman, too,” continued the Major. “They are Illinois people. The mother died last year under sad circumstances—all the family fortune swept away. But the girl chanced to own these Wyoming acres in her own right, so she brought her father here, and has started a little cattle ranch, going in for pedigreed dairy stock and likely to do well too, make no mistake. You should just see her swing a lariat,” the speaker added with a ring of admiration in his tone.
Roderick started. Great Scott! could this be the fair horsewoman he had encountered on the mountain side just before the coming of the big snow. But a vigorous slap on his shoulder administered by Grant broke him from reverie.
“Why don’t you say something, old fellow? Isn’t this glorious news? Are you not delighted at the opportunity of tripping the light fantastic toe with a beauty from Illinois as well as our own home-grown Wyoming belles?”
“Well,” replied Roderick slowly, “I have not been attending any of these affairs, although I may do so in this instance.”
“Miss Barbara Shields,” said the Major, “especially requested me to tell you, Mr. Warfield, that she positively insists on your being present.”
“Ho, ho!” laughed Grant. “So you’ve made a hit in that quarter, eh, Roderick? Well, better a prospective brother-in-law than a dangerous rival. Dorothy’s mine, and don’t you forget it.”
Grant’s boyish hilarity was contagious, his gay audacity amusing. Even the Major laughed heartily. But Roderick was blushing furiously. A moment before he had been thinking of one fair charmer. And now here was another being thrown at him, so to speak, although in jest and not in earnest. Barbara Shields—he had never dared to think of her as within his reach even had not loyalty bound his affections elsewhere. But the complications seemed certainly to be thickening.
“Come along, old chap,” said Grant, as they gained the roadway. “We’ll have a look through the town, just to see if there’s any news about.”
THE Bazaar was a popular resort. The proprietor was known as “Southpaw.” Doubtless he had another name but it was not known in the mining camp. Even his bank account was carried in the name of “Southpaw.”
When Roderick and Grant entered the saloon they found a motley crowd at the bar and in the gaming room, fully twenty cowboys with their broad-rimmed sombreros, wearing hairy chaps, decorated with fancy belts and red handkerchiefs carelessly tied about their necks. Evidently one of them had just won at the wheel and they were celebrating.
The brilliant lights and the commingling of half a hundred miners and many cowboys presented a spectacular appearance that was both novel and interesting. Just behind them came shuffling into the room a short, stout, heavily-built man with a scowling face covered with a short growth of black whiskers. His eyes were small and squinty, his forehead low and his chin protruding.
Roderick and Grant were standing at the end of the bar, waiting for lemonades they had ordered. Roderick’s attention was attracted by the uncouth newcomer.
“Grant, who is that gorilla-looking chap?” he asked.
Grant half turned with a sweeping glance and then looking back at Roderick, replied: “That is Bud Bledsoe. He is a sort of sleuth for Grady, the manager of the smelting plant, the man I introduced you to, remember, the first day you came to Encampment.”
“I remember Grady all right,” nodded Roderick.
“Well, many people believe he keeps Bledsoe around him to do his dirty work. A while ago there was a grave suspicion that this chap committed a terrible crime, doubtless inspired by Grady, but it is not known positively and of course Grady is all-powerful and nothing was said about it outright.”
In the meantime Bud Bledsoe walked into the back part of the room, and finding a vacant seat at a gaming table bought a stack of chips and was soon busy over his cards. Presently the two friends, having lighted fresh cigars, left the saloon.
Grant looked into two or three other places, but finding there was “nothing doing,” no news of any kind stirring, at last turned for home. Entering the familiar old bachelor shack, Roderick too felt at home, and it was not long before a cheerful fire was kindled and going. Grant was leaning an elbow on the mantel above and talking to Roderick of the pleasure he anticipated at the coming dance over at the Shields place.
“I wonder what Miss Barbara meant when she sent that special message to you, Roderick? Have you a ground wire of some kind with the young lady and are you on more intimate relations than I have been led to believe?”
Grant smiled broadly at Roderick as he asked the question.
“Search me,” replied Roderick. “I have never spoken to her excepting in the presence of other people.”
“I presume you know,” Grant went on, “that she is the object of Carlisle’s affections and he gets awfully jealous if anyone pays court to her?”
“And who’s Carlisle?” asked Roderick, looking up quickly.
“Oh, he is the great lawyer,” replied Grant “W. Henry Carlisle. Have you never heard of the feud between Carlisle and Attorney Bragdon?”
“No,” said Roderick. “Both names are new to me.”
“Oh, I supposed everybody knew about their forensic battles. You see, W. Henry Carlisle is the attorney for the Smelter and Ben Bragdon is without doubt the most eloquent young lawyer that ever stood before a jury in southern Wyoming. These two fellows are usually against each other in all big lawsuits in these parts of the country, and you should see the courthouse fill up when there is a jury trial.”
Roderick did not seem especially interested, and throwing his cigar stub into the open fire, he filled his pipe. “Now, I’ll have a real smoke,” he observed as he pressed a glowing firestick from the hearth down on the tobacco.
“Grady and Carlisle are together in all financial ventures,” Grant continued.
“Don’t look as if you are very fond of this man Grady,” commented Roderick.
“Fond of him?” ejaculated Grant in disgust; “he is the most obnoxious creature in the district. He treats everybody who is working for him as if they were dogs. He has this bruiser, Bud Bledsoe, as a sort of bodyguard and this W. Henry Carlisle as a legal protector, so he attempts to walk rough shod over everybody—indifferent and insolent. Oh, let’s not talk about Grady. I become indecently indignant whenever I think of his outrages against some of the poor fellows in this camp.”
“All right,” said Roderick, jovially looking up; “let us talk about the dance and especially Miss Dorothy.”
“That’s the text,” said Grant, “Dorothy—Dorothy Shields-Jones. Won’t that make a corker of a name though? If I tell you a secret will you promise it shall be sacred?”
“Certainly,” replied Roderick.
“Well,” said Grant, reddening, “while I was over there at the Dillon Doublejack office, isolated from the world, surrounded with mountains and snow—nothing but snow and snowbanks and high mountains in every direction, why, I played job printer and set up some cards with a name thereon—can’t you guess?”
“Impossible,” said Roderick, smiling broadly.
“Well, Mrs. Dorothy Shields-Jones,” he repeated slowly, then laughed uproariously at the confession.
“Let me see one of the cards,” asked Roderick.
“Oh, no, I only kept the proof I pulled before pieing the type, and that I have since torn up. But just wait That girl’s destiny is marked out for her,” continued Grant, enthusiastically, “and believe me, Warfield, I shall make her life a happy one.”
“Hope you’ve convinced her of that, old man?”
“Convinced her! Why I haven’t had the courage yet to say a word,” replied Grant, somewhat shamefacedly. “I’m going to rely on you to speak up for me when the critical moment arrives.”
“It was rather premature, certainly, to print the lady’s double-barreled-name visiting card,” laughed Roderick. “But there, you know I’m with you and for you all the time.” And he extended the hand of brotherly comradeship.
“And about you and Barbara?” ventured Grant, tentatively. “I’ve heard your name mentioned in connection with hers several times.”
“Oh, forget all that rot,” responded Roderick, flushing slightly. He had never mentioned the “college widow” to his friend, and felt that he was sailing under false colors. “It will be a long time before I can think of such matters,” he went on, turning toward his accustomed stretcher. “Let’s get to bed. It has been a long day, and I for one am tired.”
A few minutes later lights were out.
When they got up next morning, they found that a letter had been pushed under the door. Warfield picked it up and read the scrawled inscription. It was addressed to Grant.
“Gee,” said Grant as he took the letter from Roderick, “this town is forging ahead mighty fast. Free delivery. Who in the demnition bowwows do you suppose could have done this?”
Opening the envelope he spread the letter on the table, and both bent above it to read its contents. There was just a couple of lines, in printed characters.
Words had been cut out of a newspaper apparently, and stuck on the white sheet of paper. They read as follows: “Tell your friend to let Barbara alone or his hide will be shot full of holes.”
Grant and Roderick stood looking at each other, speechless with amazement. Barbara was the only written word.
“What can be the meaning of this?” inquired Roderick.
“Beyond me,” replied Grant. “Evidently others besides myself have come to think you are interested in Barbara Shields. Possibly the young lady has been saying nice things about you, and somebody is jealous.”
“Rank foolishness,” exclaimed Roderick hotly. Then he laughed, as he added: “However, if the young lady interested me before she becomes all the more interesting now. But let the incident drop. We shall see what we shall see.”
They walked up the street to a restaurant and breakfasted.
“It might be,” remarked Grant, referring back to the strange letter, “that Attorney Carlisle, who they say is daffy over Barbara Shields, has had that sleuth of Grady’s, Bud Bledsoe, fix up this letter to sort of scare you off.”
Grant laughed good-humoredly as he said this.
“Scare me off like hell,” said Roderick in disgust. “I am not easily scared with anonymous letters. Only cowards write that sort of stuff.”
They arose from the table and turned down the street towards the smelting plant It was necessary to keep well on the sidewalks and away from the mud in the roadway, for the weather was turning warm and snow was melting very fast.
“There will be no sleighs and sleigh-bells at the Shields’ entertainment,” observed Grant. “This snow in the lowlands will all be gone in a day or two.”
They paused on a street corner and noticed five logging outfits swinging slowly down the street, then turn into the back yard of Buell Hampton’s home and begin unloading.
“What do you suppose Major Hampton can want with all those logs?” asked Grant.
“Let us make a morning call on the Major,” suggested Roderick.
“Right you are,” assented Grant.
The Major extended his usual hearty welcome. He had evidently been busy at his writing table.
“We came down,” said Grant, “to get a job cutting wood.”
The Major looked out of the window at the great stack of logs and smiled. “No, young gentlemen,” he said, “those logs are not for firewood but to build an addition to my humble home. You see, I have a small kitchen curtained off in the rear, and back of that I intend putting in an extra room. I expect to have ample use for this additional accommodation, but just at this time perhaps will not explain its purposes. Won’t you be seated?”
They pulled up chairs before the fire, which was smouldering low, for in the moderated condition of the weather a larger fire was not needed.
“Only for a moment, Major. We do not wish to take you from your work, whatever it may be. I will confess,” Grant went on, smiling, “that we were curious to know about the logs, and decided we would look in on you and satisfy our curiosity; and then, too, we have the pleasure of saying hello.”
“Very kind of you, very kind, I am sure,” responded the Major; and turning to Roderick he inquired when he expected to return to the Shields ranch.
“I am going out this afternoon,” replied Roderick. “By the way, Major, do you expect to be at the Shields’ entertainment?”
“No, it is hardly probable. I am very busy and then, too, I am far past the years when such functions interest. Nevertheless, I can well understand how two young gentlemen like yourselves will thoroughly enjoy an entertainment given by such hospitable people as the Shields.”
Soon after they took their leave and walked up the street. Grant made arrangements to start directly after luncheon for Dillon, where copy had to be got ready for the next issue of his paper.
As Roderick rode slowly across the valley that afternoon, his mind dwelt on the rich gold discovery made by Buell Hampton, and he evolved plans for getting promptly to serious prospecting work on his own account. Sometimes too he caught himself thinking of the strange girl of the hills who could throw a lasso so cleanly and cleverly; he wondered if their paths would ever cross again.
THE night of the big fiesta at the Shields ranch had arrived, and the invited guests had gathered from far and near. And what a bevy of pretty girls and gay young fellows they were! Even the cowboys on this occasion were faultless Beau Brummels; chaps, belts, and other frontier regalia were laid aside in favor of the starched shirtfront and dress clothes of the fashionable East. The entertainment was to consist of dancing and song, with a sumptuous supper about the midnight hour.
Roderick of course was there—“by command” of the fair daughter of the house, Barbara Shields. At the entrance to the reception hall the twin sisters gave him cordial welcome, and gaily rallied him on having at last emerged from his anchorite cell. On passing into the crowded room, young Warfield had one of the greatest surprises of his life.
“Hello, Roderick, old scout, how are you anyway?”
Someone had slapped him on the shoulder, and on turning round he found himself face to face with Whitley Adams.
“Whitley, old man!” he gasped in sheer astonishment.
Then followed hand-shaking such as only two old college chums can engage in after a long separation.
“How did it all happen?” inquired Roderick, when the first flush of meeting was over.
“Tell you later,” said Whitley. “Gee, old man, I ought to beat you up for not letting me know all this time where you were.”
“Well, I have been so confoundedly busy,” was the half-apologetic reply.
“And so have I myself. I am taking a post-graduate course just now in being busy. You would never guess what a man of affairs I’ve come to be.”
“You certainly surprise me,” laughed Roderick drily.
“Oh, but I’m going to take your breath away. Since you’ve gone, I’ve become quite chummy with your Uncle Allen.”
“You don’t say?”
“Yes, siree. I think he took to me first of all in the hope that through me he would get news of the lost prodigal—the son of his adoption whose absence he is never tired of deploring.”
“Poor old uncle,” murmured Roderick, affectionately and regretfully.
“Oh, he takes all the blame to himself for having driven you away from home. But here—let’s get into this quiet corner, man. You haven’t yet heard half my news.”
The two chums were soon installed on a seat conveniently masked—for other purposes, no doubt—by pot plants and flowers.
“And how’s dear Aunt Lois?” asked Roderick, as they settled themselves.
“Oh, dear Aunt Lois can wait,” replied Whitley.
“She’s all right—don’t look a day older since I remember her. It is I who am the topic of importance—I”—and he tapped his chest in the fervency of his egoism.
“Well, fire away,” laughed Roderick.
Whitley rambled on: “Well, I was just going to tell you how your uncle and I have been pulling along together fine. After stopping me in the street two or three times to ask me whether I had yet got news of you, he ended in offering me a position in the bank.”
“Gee whizz!”
“Oh, don’t look so demed superior. Why, man alive. I’m a born banker—a born man of affairs! So at least your uncle tells me in the intervals of asking after you.”
“Yes, you’ve certainly taken my breath away. But how come you to be in Encampment, Whitley?”
“On business, of course—important business, you bet, or I wouldn’t have been spared from the office. Oh, I’ll tell you—you’re a member of the firm, or will be some day, which is all the same thing. There’s a fellow here, W. B. Grady, wanting a big loan on some smelter bonds.”
“I know the man. But I thought he was rolling in money.”
“Oh, it’s just the fellows who are rolling in money who need ready money worst,” smiled the embryonic banker with a shrewd twinkle in his eyes. “He’s a big speculator on the outside, make no mistake, even though he may be a staid and stolid business man here. Well, he needs hard cash just at present, and the proposed loan came the way of our bank. Your uncle jumped at it.”
“Security must be pretty good,” laughed Roderick.
“No doubt. But there’s another reason this time for your uncle’s financial alacrity. Seems an old friend of his was swindled out of the identical block of bonds offered by this same Grady, and your uncle sees a possible chance some day of getting them out of his clutches and restoring them to where they properly belong.”
“But all that’s contrary to one of Uncle Allen’s most cherished principles—that friendship and business don’t mix. I’ve heard him utter that formula a score of times.”
“Well, cherished principles or no cherished principles, he seems downright determined this time to let friendship play a hand. He tells me—oh, I’m quite in his confidence, you see—that it’s a matter of personal pride for him to try and win back his fortune for this old friend, General Holden—that’s the name.”
“Holden?—Holden?” murmured Roderick. He seemed to have heard the name before, but could not for the moment locate its owner.
“Yes, General Holden. He’s ranching up here for the present—or rather his daughter is. They say she’s a stunning girl, and my lawyer friend Ben Bragdon has promised to introduce me. Oh, though I’m a man of affairs, old chap, I’ve an eye for a pretty girl too, all the time. And I’m told she’s a top-notcher in the beauty line, this Gail Holden.”
“Gail Holden!” Roderick repeated the name out loud, as he started erect in his seat. He knew who the father was now—the daughter was no other than the mysterious rider of the range.
Whitley’s face wore a quizzical look.
“Hello! you know her then, old chap?”
“I never met her—at least I have never been introduced to her.”
“That’s good hearing. Then we’ll start level tonight. Of course I’ll cut you out in the long run if she proves to be just my style.”
“Go ahead,” smiled Roderick. He had already recovered his self-possession. “But you haven’t informed me yet how you come to know Ben Bragdon, our cleverest young lawyer here, I’ve been told, and likely enough to get the Republican nomination for state senator.”
“Oh, simple enough. I’ve come up to investigate one technical point in regard to those smelter bonds. Well, Ben Bragdon, your political big gun, happens to be your uncle’s legal adviser in Wyoming.”
“Which reminds me,” interposed Roderick earnestly, “that you are not to give away my whereabout, Whitley—just yet.”
“A bit rough on the old uncle not to tell him where you are—or at least let him know that you are safe and well. He loves you dearly, Rod, my boy.”
“And I love him—yes, I’ll admit it, I love him dearly, and Aunt Lois too. But this is a matter of personal pride, Whitley. You spoke a moment ago of Uncle Allen’s personal pride. Well, I’ve got mine too, and that day of my last visit to Keokuk, when he told me that not one dollar of his fortune would ever be mine unless I agreed to certain abominable conditions he chose to lay down, I on my side resolved that I would show him I could win a fortune from the world by my own unaided efforts. And that’s what I’m going to do, Whitley; make no mistake. I don’t want him to butt in and interfere in any way. I am going to play this game absolutely alone, and luckily my name gives no clue to the lawyer Ben Bragdon or anyone else here of my relationship with the rich banker of Keokuk, Allen Miller.”
“Of course, Rod, whatever you say goes. But all the same there can be no harm in my relieving your uncle’s mind by at least telling him that I’ve heard from you—that you are in good health, and all that sort of thing. But you bet I won’t let out where you are or what you are doing. Oh, I’ll go up in the old chap’s estimation by holding on tight to such a secret. To be absolutely immovable when it would be a breach of confidence to be otherwise is part of a successful young banker’s moral make-up, you understand.”
Roderick laughed, his obduracy broken down by the other’s gay insistence.
“All right, old fellow, we’ll let it go at that But as to my being in Wyoming, remember dead secrecy’s the word. Shake hands on that; my faith in such a talented and discreet young banker is implicit. But now we must join the others or they’ll be thinking us rather rude.”
“That—or the dear girls may be fretting out their hearts on my account. A rich young banker from Iowa doesn’t blow into Encampment every day, you know.” And Whitley Adams laughed with all the buoyant pride of youth, good looks, good health, and good spirits. “Come along, dear boy,” he went on, linking his hand in Roderick’s arm. “We’ll find Lawyer Bragdon, get our introductions, and start fair with the beauteous chatelaine of the cattle range.”
Roderick had heard about Ben Bragdon from Grant Jones, but had not as yet happened to meet the brilliant young attorney who was fast becoming a political factor in the state of Wyoming. So it fell to the chance visitor to the town, Whitley Adams, to make these two townsmen acquainted. Bragdon shook Roderick’s hand with all the cordiality and geniality of a born “mixer” and far-seeing politician. But Whitley cut out all talk and unblushingly demanded that he and his friend should be presented without further delay to General Holden’s daughter.
They found her in company with Barbara Shields who, her duties of receiving over, was now mingling with her guests.
“Miss Holden, let me present you to Mr. Roderick Warfield.” The introducer was Ben Bragdon.
“One of papa’s favorite boys,” added Barbara kindly, “and one of our best riders on the range.”
“As I happen to know,” said Gail Holden; and with a frank smile of recognition she extended her hand. “We have already met in the hills.”
Roderick was blushing. “Yes,” he laughed nervously. “I was stupid enough to offer to help you with a young steer. But I didn’t know then I was addressing such a famous horsewoman and expert with the lariat.”
Gail Holden smiled, pleasedly but composedly. She possessed that peculiar modesty of dignified reserve which challenges the respect of men.
“Oh, you would have no doubt done a great deal better than I did,” she replied graciously.
But Whitley Adams had administered a kick to Roderick’s heel, and was now pushing him aside with a muttered: “You never told me you had this flying start, you cunning dog. But it’s my turn now.” And he placed himself before Miss Holden, and was duly presented by Bragdon.
A moment later Whitley was engaging Gail in a sprightly conversation. Roderick turned to Barbara, only to find her appropriated by Ben Bragdon. And Barbara seemed mightily pleased with the young lawyer’s attentions—she was smiling, and her eyes were sparkling, as she listened to some anecdote he was telling. Roderick began to feel kind of lonesome. If there was going to be anyone “shot full of holes” because of attentions to the fair Miss Barbara, he was evidently not the man. He had said to Grant Jones that any association of his name with hers was “rank foolishness,” and humbly felt now the absolute truthfulness of the remark. He began to look around for Grant—he felt he was no ladies’ man, that he was out of his element in such a gathering. There were many strange faces; he knew only a few of those present.
But his roving glance again lighted and lingered on Gail Holden. Yes, she was beautiful, indeed, both in features and in figure. Tall, willowy, stately, obviously an athlete, with a North of Ireland suggestion in her dark fluffy hair and sapphire blue eyes and pink-rose cheeks. He had seen her riding the range, a study in brown serge with a big sombrero on her head, and he saw her now in the daintiest of evening costumes, a deep collar of old lace around her fair rounded neck, a few sprigs of lily of the valley in her corsage, a filigree silver buckle at the belt that embraced her lissom form. And as he gazed on this beauty of the hills, this splendid type of womanhood, there came back to him in memory the wistful little face—yes, by comparison the somewhat worn and faded face—of the “college widow” to whom his troth was plighted, for whom he had been fighting and was fighting now the battle of life, the prize of true love he was going to take back proudly to Uncle Allen Miller along with the fortune he was to win with his own brain and hands.
“By gad, it’s more than three weeks since Stella wrote to me,” he said to himself, angrily. Somehow he was glad to feel angry—relieved in mind to find even a meagre pitiful excuse for the disloyal comparison that had forced itself upon his mind.
But at this moment the music struck up, there was a general movement, and he found himself next to Dorothy Shields. Whitley had already sailed away with Miss Holden.
“Where is Grant?” asked Roderick.
“Not yet arrived,” replied Dorothy. “He warned me that he would be late.”
“Then perhaps I may have the privilege of the first waltz, as his best friend.”
“Or for your own sake,” she laughed, as she placed her hand on his shoulder.
Soon they were in the mazy whirl. When the dance was ended Dorothy, taking his arm, indicated that she wished him to meet some people in another part of the room. After one or two introductions to young ladies, she turned to a rather heavy set, affable-looking gentleman and said: “Mr. Warfield, permit me to introduce you to Mr. Carlisle—Mr. Carlisle, Mr. Warfield.”
The men shook hands and looked into each other’s eyes. Roderick remembered this was the attorney of the smelting plant, and Carlisle remembered this was the young gentleman of whom the Shields sisters had so often spoken in complimentary terms. W. Henry Carlisle was a man perhaps forty years old. He was not only learned in the law, but one could not talk with him long without knowing he was purposeful and determined and in any sort of a contest worthy of his foeman’s steel.
Later Roderick danced with Barbara, and when he had handed her over to the next claimant on her card was again accosted by Ben Bragdon. He had liked the young attorney from the first, and together they retired for a cigarette in the smoking room.
“I saw you were introduced to that fellow Carlisle,” began Bragdon.
“Yes,” replied Roderick, smiling, for he already knew of the professional feud between the two men.
“Well, let me say something to you,” Bragdon continued. “You look to me like a man that is worth while, and I take the opportunity of telling you to let him alone. Carlisle is no good. Outside of law business and the law courts I would not speak to him if he were the last man on earth.”
“Why,” said Roderick, “you are pronounced in your views to say the least.”
Bragdon turned to Roderick and for a moment was silent. Then he asked: “What are you, a Republican or a Democrat?”
“Why, I am a Republican.”
“Shake,” said Bragdon, and they clasped hands without Roderick hardly understanding why. “Let me tell you something else,” Bragdon went on. “Carlisle claims to be a Republican but I believe he is a Democrat. He don’t look like a Republican to me. He looks like a regular secessionist Democrat and there is going to be a contest this fall for the nomination for state senator. W B. Grady and the whole smelting outfit are going to back this man Carlisle and I am going to beat him. And say—old man—” he smiled at Roderick when he said this and slapped him on the shoulder familiarly—“I want you on my side.”
“Well,” said Roderick, half embarrassed and hesitatingly, “I guess I am getting into politics pretty lively among other things. I don’t see at this moment why I should not be on your side.”
“Well, come and see me at my office over at Encampment and we will talk this matter over.” And so it was agreed.
Just then they heard singing, so they threw their cigarettes away and went back to the ballroom. A quartet of voices accompanied on the piano by Gail Holden were giving a selection from the Bohemian Girl. Whitley Adams was hovering near Miss Holden, and insisted on turning the music At the close of the number Whitley requested that Mr. Warfield should sing. Everyone joined in the invitation; it was a surprise to his western friends that he was musical. Reluctantly Roderick complied, and proving himself possessed of a splendid baritone voice, delighted everyone by singing “Forgotten” and one or two other old-time melodies. Among many others, Dorothy, Barbara, and Grant Jones, who had now put in an appearance, overwhelmed him with congratulations. Gail Holden, too, who had been his accompanist, quietly but none the less warmly, complimented him.
Then Gail herself was prevailed upon to sing. As she resumed her seat at the piano, she glanced at Roderick.
“Do you know ‘The Rosary’.” she asked in a low voice unheard by the others.
“One of my favorites,” he answered.
“Then will you help me with a second?” she added, as she spread open the sheet of music.
“I’ll be honored,” he responded, taking his place by her side.
Her rich contralto voice swelled forth like the sweeping fullness of a distant church organ, and Roderick softly and sweetly blended his tones with hers. Under the player’s magic touch the piano with its deep resonant chords added to the perfect harmony of the two voices. The interpretation was wonderful; the listeners were spellbound, and there followed an interval of tense stillness after the last whispered notes had died away.
As Gail rose and stood before him, she looked into Roderick’s eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, she was enveloped in the mystery of song, carried away by music’s subtle power. Roderick too was exalted.
“Superb,” he murmured ecstatically.
“Thanks to you,” she replied in a low voice and with a little bow.
Then the buzz of congratulations was all around them. During that brief moment, even in the crowded ballroom they had been alone—soul had spoken to soul. But now the tension was relaxed. Gail was laughing merrily. Whitley Adams was punching Roderick in the ribs.
“Say, old man, that’s taking another mean advantage.”
“What do you mean?” asked Roderick, recovering his composure.
“Singing duets like that isn’t toeing the line. The start was to be a fair one, but you’re laps ahead already.” Whitley was looking with comical dolefulness in the direction of Gail Holden.
“Oh, I catch your drift,” laughed Roderick. “Well, you brought the trouble on yourself, my boy. It was you who gave me away by declaring I could sing.”
“Which shows the folly of paying a false compliment,” retorted Whitley. “However, I’m going to get another dance anyhow.”
He made a step toward Gail, but Roderick laid a detaining hand on his shoulder.
“Not just yet; the next is mine.” And with audacity that amazed himself Roderick advanced to Gail, bowed, and offered his arm. The soft strains of a dreamy waltz had just begun.
Without a word she accepted his invitation, and together they floated away among the maze of dancers.
“Well, that’s going some,” murmured Whitley, as he glanced around in quest of consolation. Dorothy Shields appeared to be monopolized by Grant Jones, but the two lawyers, Eragdon and Carlisle, were glowering at each other, as if in defiance as to which should carry off Barbara. So Whitley solved the problem by sailing in and appropriating her for himself. He was happy, she seemed pleased, and the rivals, turning away from each other, had the cold consolation that neither had profited by the other’s momentary hesitation.
After the first few rounds Roderick opened a conversation with his partner. He felicitated her upon her playing and singing. She thanked him and said: “Most heartily can I return the compliment.” He bowed his acknowledgment.
“You must come to Conchshell ranch and call on my father. He will be glad to meet you—has been an invalid all the winter, but I’m thankful he is better now.”
“I’ll be honored and delighted to make his acquaintance,” replied Roderick.
“Then perhaps we can have some more singing together,” she went on.
“Which will be a great pleasure to me,” he interjected fervently.
“And to me,” she said, smiling.
Whether listening or speaking there was something infinitely charming about Gail Holden. When conversing her beautiful teeth reminded one of a cupid’s mouth full of pearls.
“It has been some time,” explained Roderick, “since I was over your way.”
For a moment their eyes met and she mischievously replied;
“Oh, yes. Next time, I’ll not only sing for you, but if you wish I will teach you how to throw the lariat.”
“I don’t presume,” replied Roderick banteringly, “you will guarantee what I might catch even if I turned out to be an expert?”
“That,” Gail quickly rejoined, “rests entirely with your own cleverness.”
Just then it was announced from the dining room that the tables with the evening collation were spread, and as Roderick was about to offer his arm to Miss Holden, Barbara came hurriedly up, flushed and saying: “Oh, Gail, here is Mr. Carlisle who wants to take you to supper. And Mr. Warfield, you are to escort me.” She smiled triumphantly up into his face as she took his arm.
As they walked away together and Barbara was vivaciously talking to him, he wondered what it all meant Everybody seemed to be playing at cross purposes. Again he thought of the letter of warning pushed under Grant Jones’ door and mentally speculated how it would all end.