THERE was great excitement among the bunch of cowboys on the Shields’ ranch when the local newspapers came out with startling headlines and full announcements in regard to the annual frontier celebration. That night every line of the full page advertisements, also the columns of editorial elaborations on the contests and other events, were read aloud to an eager assemblage of all hands in front of the bunk house.
The Dillon Doublejack predicted that this year’s celebration would undoubtedly afford the greatest Wild West show ever witnessed outside of a regular circus display organized as a money-making undertaking. Everything was going to be just the real thing—the miners’ drilling contest, the roping competition, the bucking-broncho features, and so on. More than a score of outlaw horses that had thrown every cow-puncher who ever attempted to ride them had already been engaged. The Doublejack further declared that the tournament would be both for glory and for bags of yellow gold, with World’s Championships to the best rider, to the best bucking broncho buster, to the best trick roper, to the fastest cowpony, and to the most daring and lucky participant in the bull-dogging of wild steers.
In the columns of the Encampment Herald special attention was drawn to the fact that in the rough riding and outlaw bucking contest for the world’s championship there was a purse of $1,000 to be divided—$450 for first prize, $300 second prize, $150 third prize and $100 fourth prize, while in addition Buck Henry, the banker, offered a $200 championship saddle to the rider who took first place. It was also announced that the fair association would pay $50 in cash for every horse brought to the grounds that was sufficiently unmanageable to throw every rider; each participant to ride any horse and as often as the judges might deem necessary to determine the winner; chaps and spurs to be worn by the riders, and leather pulling would disqualify.
Both papers referred to the band concerts as a feature of great interest throughout the three days of the fair. Everything was to be decorated in colors—red and green, black and yellow, blue and white, pink and scarlet—from the grandstand down to the peanut boy. The race track was fast and in excellent condition, and everything would be in readiness at the appointed time.
After each item of news was read out there was a buzz of comment among the assembled cowboys, challenges were made, bets freely offered and accepted. As the gathering dispersed Roderick Warfield and Scotty Meisch exchanged significant glances but spoke no word—they had been as strangers to each other ever since their fierce quarrel on the morning of the broncho-busting exercises. Roderick was glad that the day was near at hand when the fellow would be made to eat his words. And with the thought also came thoughts of Gail Holden. Gee, but it would be fine to see her ride in such a contest of nerve and skill!
At last the eventful morning dawned and the people swarmed into Encampment from all the surrounding country. They came from far below Saratoga to the north. The entire Platte Valley from as far south as the Colorado state line and beyond were on hand. In fact, from all over the state and even beyond its confines the whole population moved in to participate in this great frontier day celebration. A crowd came over from Steamboat Springs and brought with them the famous outlaw horse Steamboat, who had never been ridden although he had thrown at least a dozen cowpunchers of highest renown.
When the programmes were distributed, Firefly was found upon the list of outlaw horses, and also to the surprise of many of his friends the name of Roderick Warfield appeared as one of the contestants in both the bull-dogging and bucking broncho events.
It was a veritable Mecca of delight for the miners in their drilling contests and for the cowboys in their dare-devil riding of outlaw horses—testing their prowess and skill in conquering the seemingly unconquerable. The lassoing of fleet-footed and angry cattle, the bull-dogging of wild steers gathered up from different parts of the country because of their reputation for long horns and viciousness, were spectacles to challenge the admiration of the immense throng seated in the grandstand and on the bleachers.
It was just ten o’clock on the morning of the first day when the judges sounded the gong and started the series of contests. The first event was a cow-pony race, with no restriction as to the sex of the riders. Ponies were to be fourteen hands two inches or under. There were seven starters. Up in one corner of the grandstand sat Grant Jones surrounded by a bevy of beautiful girls. Among them of course was Dorothy Shields. All were in a flutter of excitement over the race that was about to be run; for Gail Holden was among the contestants.
Gail Holden, quiet, unassuming, yet full of determination, looked a veritable queen as she sat her pony Fleetfoot clad in soft silk shirtwaist, gray divided skirt, and gray soft felt hat. With a tremor of delight Roderick noticed that she wore on her sleeve as her colors one of his college arm-bands, which he had given her when calling at the Conchshell ranch one evening after the trout fishing expedition.
At last the bell sounded and the word “Go” was given. A shout went up from the grandstand—“They’re off—they’re off.” And away the seven horses dashed—-four men and three lady riders. At the moment of starting Gail had flung her hat to the winds. She used no quirt but held her pony free to the right and in the open. It was a half-mile track and the race was for one mile. When they swept down past the grandstand on the first lap Fleetfoot had gained third place. A pandemonium of shouts went up as the friends of each madly yelled to the riders to urge their mounts to greater speed. At the far turn it was noticed that Fleetfoot was running almost neck and neck with the two leaders, and then as they came up the stretch, running low, it seemed as if the race would finish in a dead heat between all three ponies.
Just then Gail reached down and was seen to pat her pony upon the neck and evidently was talking to him. Fleetfoot leaned forward as if fired with fierce determination to comply with her request for still greater effort His muscles seemed to be retensioned. He began creeping away inch by inch from his adversaries, and amid the plaudits and shouts of the people in the grandstand and bleachers, who rose to their feet waving handkerchiefs and hats in a frenzy of tumultuous approval, Gail’s horse passed first under the wire—winner by a short head, was the judges’ verdict.
The second feature was a great drilling contest of the miners from the surrounding hills. There were twelve pairs of contestants, and Grant Jones became wild with excitement when friends of his from Dillon were awarded the championship.
And thus event followed event until the day’s program was completed.
Gail and Roderick were bidding each other goodnight at the gateway of the enclosure.
“I owe you my very special thanks,” he said as he held her hand.
“What for?” she enquired.
“For wearing my old college arm-band in the pony race.”
“Oh,” said Gail, blushing slightly, “I had to have something to keep my sleeve from coming down too far on my wrist Besides they are pretty colors, aren’t they?”
But Roderick was not going to be sidetracked by any such naive questioning.
“I refuse pointblank,” he answered, smiling, “to accept any excuse for your wearing the badge. I insist it was a compliment to me and shall interpret it in no other way.”
Her blush deepened, but she made no further protest. General Holden had approached. She turned and took his arm.
“Until tomorrow then,” exclaimed Roderick, raising his hat to both father and daughter.
“Until tomorrow,” she quietly responded.
The morrow brought resumption of the tournament. Gail Holden was to display her prowess in throwing the lariat, while Roderick had entered his name in the bull-dogging event.
In the roping contest Gail was the only lady contestant. The steers were given a hundred feet of start, and then the ropers, swinging their lariats, started after them in a mad gallop.
Gail was again mounted on Fleet foot, and if anything ever looked like attempting an impossibility it was for this slender girl with her neatly gloved little hands, holding a lariat in the right and the reins of the pony in her left, to endeavor to conquer and hogtie a three-year-old steer on the run. And yet, undismayed she undertook to accomplish this very thing. When the word was given she dashed after the fleeing three-year-old, and then as if by magic the lariat sprang away from her in a graceful curve and fell cleverly over the horns of the steer. Immediately Fleetfoot set himself for the shock he well knew was coming.
The steer’s momentum was so suddenly arrested that it was thrown to the ground. Gail sprang from the saddle, and the trained pony as he backed away kept the lariat taut. Thus was the steer hogtied by Gail’s slender hands in 55 3/5 seconds from the time the word was given.
All of the lassoers had been more or less successful, but the crowd stood up and yelled in wildest enthusiasm, and waved their hats and handkerchiefs, as the time for this marvelous feat by Gail was announced from the judges’ stand.
In the afternoon the bull-dogging contest was reached, and Grant Jones said to those about him: “Now get ready for some thrills and breathless moments.”
When the word was given a wild long-horned steer came rushing down past the grandstand closely followed by a cowboy on his fleet and nimble pony. In the corral were perhaps a score of steers and there was a cowboy rider ready for each of them. Four or five steers were bull-dogged one after the other. Some had been quickly thrown to the ground by the athletic cowboys amid the plaudits of the onlookers. But one had proven too strong for the skill and quickness of his adversary, and after rather severely injuring the intrepid youthful gladiator rushed madly on down the race track.
Presently Roderick Warfield came into view astride his favorite pony, Badger, riding at full tilt down the race course, chasing a huge cream-colored steer with wide-spread horns, cruelly sharp and dangerous-looking. As horse and steer came abreast Roderick’s athletic form swayed in his saddle for a moment, and then like a flash he was seen to leap on to the steer’s back and reaching forward grab the animal’s horns. An instant later he had swung his muscular body to the ground in front of his sharp homed adversary and brought him to an abrupt halt.
Gail Holden’s face grew pale as she watched the scene from among a group of her girl friends on the grandstand.
The object of the bull-dogging contest is to twist the neck of the steer and throw him to the ground. But Roderick accomplished more. The steer lifted him once from the ground, and the great throng of people on the grandstand and bleachers, also the hundreds who had been unable to obtain seating accommodation and were standing along the rails, held their breath in bated silence. The powerful cream-colored steer threw his head up, and lifting Roderick’s feet from their anchorage started on a mad run. But when he lowered his head a moment later Roderick’s feet caught the earth again, and the steer was brought to a standstill. Then the milling back and forth began. Roderick’s toes sank deep into the sand that covered the race track; the muscles of his neck stood out in knots. Finally, with one heroic twist on the long horns as a pry over a fulcrum, he accomplished the feat of combined strength and endurance, and the intense silence of the great throng was broken by a report like the shot of a pistol as the bull-dogged steer fell heavily to the earth—dead. The animal’s neck was broken.
There are very few cases on record where a steer’s neck has been broken in bull-dogging contests. Roderick therefore had gained a rare distinction. But technically he had done too much, for the judges were compelled to withhold from him the honors of the championship because in killing the animal he had violated the humane laws of the state, which they were pledged to observe throughout the series of contests. But this did not affect the tumult of applause that acclaimed his victory over the huge and vicious-looking steer. Afterwards when his friends gathered around him in wonderment at his having entered for such an event he confessed that for several weeks he had been practicing bull-dogging out on the range, preparing for this contest.
In the afternoon of the last day, the finals of the bucking-broncho competition were announced from the grandstand. There were only three contestants remaining out of the score or more of original entries, and Roderick Warfield was among the number. Scotty Meisch was there—the cowboy whom Roderick had challenged—also Bud Bledsoe, the bodyguard and sleuth of W. B. Grady. Three of the unconquered outlaws were brought out—each attended by two wranglers; the names of the horses were put in a hat and each cowboy drew for his mount. Roderick Warfield drew Gin Fizz, Bud Bledsoe drew Steamboat and Scotty Meisch drew Firefly. And in a few moments the wranglers were busy.
Three horses and six wranglers working on them at the same time! It was a sight that stirred the blood with expectation. These horses had been successful in throwing the riders who had previously attempted to subdue them. The outlaws were recognized by the throng even before their names were called from the grandstand.
The method of the game is this: One wrangler approaches the horse while the other holds taut the lariat that has been thrown over his neck; and if the freehanded wrangler is quick enough or lucky enough he seizes the horse by the ears and throws his whole weight on the animal’s head, which is then promptly decorated with a hackamore knotted bridle. A hackamore is a sort of a halter, but it is made of the toughest kind of rawhide and so tied that a knot presses disastrously against the lower jaw of the horse. After being haltered the outlaw is blindfolded with a gunnysack. To accomplish all this is a dangerous struggle between horse and the wranglers. Then the word “Saddle” is shouted, and the saddles are quickly adjusted to the backs of these untamed denizens of the wild. It takes considerable time to accomplish all this and have the girths tightened to the satisfaction of the wranglers first and of the rider last. Invariably the rider is the court of final resort in determining that the outlaw is in readiness to be mounted.
At last the moments of tense expectancy were ended. It was seen that one of the outlaws was ready, and at a call from the judges’ stand, Scotty Meisch the first rough-rider leaped on to the back of his untamed horse.
The “Ki-yi” yell was given—the blindfold slipped from Firefly’s eyes, and the rowels of the rider sunk into the flanks of his horse. Bucking and plunging, wheeling and whirling, all the time the rider not daring to “pull leather” and so disqualify himself under the rules, the outlaw once again proved himself a veritable demon. In just two minutes after the struggle began Scotty Meisch measured his length on the ground and Firefly was dashing for the open. The scene had been a thrilling one. Roderick noticed that Scotty had to be helped off the track, but he felt no concern—the rough-rider parted from his mount in a hurry may be temporarily dazed but is seldom seriously hurt.
Steamboat was the next horse. Bud Bledsoe was wont to brag there was nothing wore hair that he could not ride. But Steamboat, when he felt the weight of a rider on his back, was as usual possessed of a devil. But Bledsoe was not the man to conquer the noted outlaw, and down he went in prompt and inglorious defeat.
Gin Fizz was a magnificent specimen of horseflesh—black as midnight with a coat of hair that shone like velvet. His proud head was held high in air. He stood like a statue while blindfolded and Roderick Warfield was making ready to mount.
The vast assemblage in the grandstand held their breath in amazement and wondered what would become of the rider of the giant black.
Then Roderick quickly mounted, and men and women rose to their feet to see the terribleness of it all. Roderick sent his spurs deep into the flanks of the black and plied the quirt in a desperate effort quickly to master and subdue the outlaw.
The horse reared and plunged with lightning quickness, and at times was the center of a whirlwind of dust in his determined zig-zag efforts to dislodge his rider. He rose straight up on his hind legs and for a moment it looked as if he were going to fall over backwards. Then seemingly rising still higher in air from his back feet he leaped forward and downward, striking his front feet into the earth as if he would break the saddle girth and certainly pitch the rider over his head. He squatted, jumped, corkscrewed and sun-fished, leaped forward; then he stopped suddenly and in demoniacal anger, as if determined not to be conquered, he threw his head far around endeavoring to bite his assailant’s legs. But at last the horse’s exertions wore him down and he seemed to be reluctantly realizing that he had found his master. In the end, after a terrible fight lasting fully seven minutes, he quieted down in submission, and Gin Fizz thus acknowledged Roderick’s supremacy. He was subdued. Roderick drew rein, patted him kindly, dismounted and turned him over to the wranglers. Gin Fizz was no longer an outlaw; he suffered himself to be led away, trembling in every limb but submissive as a well-trained cow-pony.
Approaching the judges’ stand, Roderick received a tremendous ovation both from the onlookers and from his brother cowboys. The championship ribbon was pinned to his breast, and now he was shaking hands promiscuously with friends, acquaintances and strangers. But all the while his eyes were roaming around in search of Gail Holden.
At last he was out of the crowd, in a quiet corner, with Grant Jones, the Shields sisters, and a few intimates.
“Where is Miss Holden?” he enquired of Barbara.
“Oh, she took poor Scotty Meisch to the hospital in an automobile. She insisted on going.”
“He’s not badly hurt, is he?” he asked drily.
“Oh, no. Just shaken up a lot. He’ll be all right in a week’s time, Dr. Burke says.”
“Then Gail—I mean Miss Holden—didn’t see Gin Fizz broken?”
“No. But she’ll hear about it all right,” exclaimed Barbara enthusiastically. “My word, it was great!” And she shook his hand again.
But the day of triumph had ended in disappointment for Roderick Warfield. He slipped away, saddened and crestfallen.
“It was all for her I did it”—the thought kept hammering at his brain. “And she never even stopped to see. I suppose she’s busy now bathing the forehead of that contemptible little runt in the hospital. Stella wouldn’t have turned me down like that.”
And he found himself thinking affectionately and longingly of the little “college widow.” He hadn’t been to the post office for three days. The belated letter might have arrived at last. He would go and see at all events; and to drown thought he whistled “The Merry Widow” waltz as he grimly stalked along.
YES, there was a letter from Stella Rain. Roderick took it eagerly from the hands of the clerk at the general delivery window. A good number of people were already crowding into the post office from the fair grounds. But he was too hungry for news to wait for quieter surroundings. So he turned to a vacant corner in the waiting room and ripped open the envelope. The letter was as follows:
“Roderick:—
“I am sure that what I am about to tell you will be for your good as well as my own. It seems so long ago since we were betrothed. At that time you were only a boy and I freely confess I liked you very, very much. I had known you during your four years in college and you were always just splendid. But Roderick, a real love affair has come into my life—something different from all other experiences, and when you receive this letter I shall be Mrs. Vance Albertrum Carter.
“Mr. Carter, financially, is able to give me a splendid home. He is a fine fellow and I know you would like him. Let me be to you the same as to the other boys of old Knox—your friend, the ‘college widow.’
“Very sincerely,
“Stella Rain.”
Not a muscle of his face quivered as he read the letter, but at its close he dropped both hands to his side in an attitude of utter dejection. The blow had fallen so unexpectedly; he felt crushed and grieved, and at the same time humiliated. But in an instant he had recovered his outward composure. He thrust the letter into his pocket, and shouldered his way through the throng at the doorway. He had left Badger in a stall at the fair grounds. Thither he bent his steps, taking a side street to avoid the crowd streaming into the town. The grandstand and surrounding buildings were already deserted. He quickly adjusted saddle and bridle, and threw himself on the pony’s back.
“‘She knows I would like him,’”he muttered, as he gained the race track, the scene of his recent triumphs, its turf torn and dented with the hoofs of struggling steers and horses, thronged but an hour before with a wildly excited multitude but now silent and void. “‘Like him’.” he reiterated bitterly. “Yes—like hell.”
And with the words he set his steed at the farther rail. Badger skimmed over it like a deer and Roderick galloped on across country, making for the hills.
That night he did not return to the bunk house.
It was high noon next day when he showed up at the ranch. He went straight to Mr. Shields’ office, gave in his resignation, and took his pay check. No explanations were required—Mr. Shields had known for a considerable time that Roderick was leaving. He thanked him cordially for his past services, congratulated him on his championship honors at the frontier celebration, and bade him come to the ranch home at any time as a welcome guest. Roderick excused himself from saying good-by for the present to the ladies; he was going to stay for a while in Encampment with his friend Grant Jones, and would ride out for an evening visit before very long. Then he packed his belongings at the bunk house, left word with one of the helpers for trunk and valise to be carted into town, and rode away. Badger was Roderick’s own personal property; he had purchased the pony some months before from Mr. Shields, and as he leaped on its back after closing the last boundary gate he patted the animal’s neck fondly and proudly. Badger alone was well worth many months of hard and oftentimes distasteful work, a horse at all events could be faithful, he and his good little pony would never part—such was the burden of his thoughts as he left the Shields ranch and the cowboy life behind him.
Grant Jones was in Encampment, and jumped up from his writing table when Roderick threw open the door of the shack and walked in.
“Hello, old man, this is indeed a welcome visit. Where in the wide world have you been?”
He turned Roderick around so the light would fall upon his face as he extended his hand in warmest welcome, and noticed he was haggard and pale.
“Oh,” said Roderick, “I have been up in the hills fighting it out alone, sleeping under the stars and thinking matters over.”
“What does this all mean, anyway, old man? I don’t understand you,” said Grant with much solicitude.
“Well, guess you better forget it then,” said Roderick half abruptly. “But I owe you an apology for going away so unceremoniously from the frontier gathering. I know we had arranged to dine together last night But I just cleared out—that’s all. Please do not ask me any questions, Grant, as to why and wherefore. If in the future I should take you into my confidence that will be time enough.”
“All right, old man,” said Grant, “here is my hand. And know now and for all time it don’t make a derned bit of difference what has happened, I am on your side to the finish, whether it is a desperate case of petty larceny or only plain murder.”
Grant laughed and tried to rouse his friend into hilarity.
“It is neither,” replied Roderick laconically. “All the same I’ve got some news for you. I have quit my job.”
“At the Shields ranch?” cried Grant in astonishment. “Surely there’s been no trouble there?”
“Oh, no, we are all the best of friends. I am just tired of cow-punching, and have other plans in view. Besides, remember the letter we got pushed under the door here on the occasion of my last visit. Perhaps I may be a bit skeered about having my hide shot full of holes, eh, old man?” Roderick was now laughing.
But Grant looked grave. He eyed his comrade tentatively.
“Stuff and nonsense. The lunatic who wrote that letter was barking up the wrong tree. He mistook you for the other fellow. You were never seriously smitten in that quarter, now were you, Rod, old man?”
“Certainly not. Barbara Shields is a fine girl, but I never even dreamed of making love to her. I didn’t come to Wyoming to chase after a millionaire’s daughter,” he added bitterly.
“Oh, that’s Barbara’s misfortune not her fault,” laughed Grant. “But I was afraid you had fallen in love with her, just as I fell head over heels in love with Dorothy—for her own sake, dear boy, and not for anything that may ever come to her from her father.”
“You were afraid, do you say?” quizzed Roderick. “Have you Mormonistic tendencies then? Do you grudge a twin to the man you always call your best friend?”
“Oh, you know there’s no thought like that in my mind,” protested Grant. “But you came on to the field too late. You see Ben Bragdon was already almost half engaged.”
“So that’s the other fellow, is it?” laughed Roderick. “Oh, now I begin to understand. Then things have come to a crisis between Barbara and Bragdon.”
“Well, this is in strict confidence, Rod. But it is true. That’s why I was a bit nervous just now on your account—I kind of felt I had to break bad news.”
“Oh, don’t you worry on my account. Understand once and for all that I’m not a marrying man.”
“Well, we’ll see about that later on,” replied Grant, smiling. “But I should have been real glad had you been the man to win Barbara Shields. How jolly happy we would have been, all four together.”
“Things are best just as they are,” said Roderick sternly. “I wouldn’t exchange Badger, my horse out there, for any woman in the world. Which reminds me, Grant, that I’ve come here to stay with you for a while. Guess I can put Badger in the barn.”
“Sure—you are always welcome; I don’t have to say that. But remember that Barbara-Bragdon matter is a dead secret. Dorothy just whispered it to me in strictest confidence. Hard lines that, for the editor of such an enterprising newspaper as the Dillon Doublejack. But the engagement is not to be announced until the Republican nomination for state senator is put through. You know, of course, that Ben Bragdon has consented to run against Carlisle and the smelter interests.”
“I’m glad to hear it And now we have an additional reason to put our shoulders to the wheel. We’ve got to send Ben Bragdon to Cheyenne for Barbara’s sake. Count me in politics from this day on, old man. You see I am out of a job. This will be something worth while—to help down that blood-sucker Grady, and at the same time secure Bragdon’s election.”
“Ben Bragdon is the best man for Wyoming.”
“I know it. Put me on his committee right away.”
“You’ll be a tower of strength,” exclaimed Grant enthusiastically. “The champion broncho-buster of the world—just think of that.”
Roderick laughed loud and long. This special qualification for political work mightily amused him.
“Oh, don’t laugh,” Grant remonstrated, in all seriousness. “You are a man of note now in the community, make no mistake. You can swing the vote of every cow-puncher in the land. You are their hero—their local Teddy Roosevelt.”
Again Roderick was convulsed.
“And by the way,” continued Grant, “I never had the chance to congratulate you on that magnificent piece of work on Gin Fizz. It was the greatest ever.”
“Oh, we’ll let all that slide.”
“No, siree. Wait till you read my column description of the immortal combat in the Doublejack.” He turned to his writing desk, and picked up a kodak print. “Here’s your photograph—snapped by Gail Holden on the morning of the event, riding your favorite pony Badger. Oh, I’ve got all the details; the half-tone has already been made. The Encampment Herald boys have been chasing around all day for a picture, but I’m glad you were in hiding. The Doublejack will scoop them proper this time.”
But Roderick was no longer listening. The name of Gail Holden had sent his thoughts far away.
“How’s Scotty Meisch?” he asked—rather inconsequentially as the enthusiastic editor thought.
“Oh, Scotty Meisch? He’s all right. Slight concussion of the brain—will be out of the hospital in about two weeks. But Miss Holden, as it turned out, did the lad a mighty good turn in rushing him to the hospital He was unconscious when they got there. She knew more than Doc Burke—or saw more; or else the Doc could not deny himself the excitement of seeing you tackle Gin Fizz. But there’s no selfishness in Grail Holden’s make-up—not one little streak.”
In a flash Roderick Warfield saw everything under a new light, and a great glow of happiness stole into his heart. It was not indifference for him that had made Gail Holden miss the outlaw contest. What a fool he had been to get such a notion into his head.
“Guess I’ll go and feed Badger,” he said, as he turned away abruptly and left the room.
“When you come back I’ve a lot more to talk about,” shouted Grant, resuming his seat and making a grab for his lead-pencil.
But it was several hours before Roderick returned. He had baited the pony, watched him feed, and just drowsed away the afternoon among the fragrant bales of hay—drowsing without sleeping, chewing a straw and thinking all the time.
At last he strolled in upon the still busy scribe. Grant threw down his pencil.
“Thought you had slipped away again to the hills and the starlight and all that sort of thing. I’m as hungry as a hunter. Let’s go down town and eat.”
“I’m with you,” assented Roderick. “But after dinner I want to see Major Buell Hampton. Is he likely to be at home?”
“It was about Buell Hampton I was going to speak to you. Oh, you don’t know the news.” Grant was hopping around in great excitement, changing his jacket, whisking the new coat vigorously. “But there, I am pledged again to secrecy—Good God, what a life for a newspaper man to lead, bottled up all the time!”
“Then when am I to be enlightened?”
“He sent for me this morning and I spent an hour with him. He also wanted you, but you were not to be found. He wants to see you immediately. Tonight will be the very time, for he said he would be at home.”
“That’s all right, Grant. But, say, old fellow, I want half an hour first with the Major—all alone.”
“Mystery after mystery,” fairly shouted the distracted editor. “Can’t you give me at least this last news item for publication? I’m losing scoops all the time.”
“I’m afraid you must go scoopless once again,” grinned Roderick. “But after dinner you can do a little news-hunting on your own account around the saloons, then join me later on at the Major’s. That suit you?”
“Oh, I suppose I’ve got to submit,” replied Grant, as he drew on his now well-brushed coat. “But all through dinner, I’ll have you guessing, old man. You cannot imagine the story Buell Hampton’s going to tell you. Oh, you needn’t question me. I’m ironclad—bomb-proof—as silent as a clam.”
Roderick laughed at the mixed metaphors, and arm in arm the friends started for their favorite restaurant.
A COUPLE of hours later Roderick arrived at Buell Hampton’s home. The Major was alone; there were no signs of Jim Rankin or Tom Sun; no traces of the recent midnight toil. The room looked just the same as on the occasion of Roderick’s last visit, now more than two months ago, except for a curtain hanging across one wall.
Buell Hampton was seated before the great fireplace and notwithstanding the season of the year had a small bed of coals burning.
“It takes the chill away, for one thing,” he explained after greeting his visitor, “and then it gives me the inspiration of real live embers into which to look and dream. There are so many poor people in the world, so much suffering and so many heartaches, that one hardly knows where to begin.”
“Well, Major,” said Roderick, “I am glad to find you in this mood. I’m one of the sufferers—or at least have been. I have come to you for some heartache balm. Oh, I’m not jesting. Really I came here tonight determined to give you my confidence—to ask your advice as to my future plans.”
“I am extremely glad you feel toward me like that, my lad,” exclaimed Buell Hampton, grasping Roderick’s arm and looking kindly into his eyes. “I have always felt some subtle bond of sympathy between us. I have wanted to help you at the outset of a promising career in every way I can. I count it a privilege to be called in to comfort or to counsel, and you will know later that I have something more for you than mere words of advice.”
“Well, it is your advice I want most badly now, Major. In the first place I have thrown up my job with Mr. Shields.”
“Tired of cow-punching?” nodded Buell Hampton with a smile. “I knew that was coming.”
“In the second place I want to be perfectly candid with you. I have a prospecting venture in view.”
“That I have guessed from several hints you have dropped from time to time.”
“Well, you spoke a while ago about your reserving some little interest for me in your great gold discovery. That was mighty kind, and rest assured I appreciate your goodness to one who only a few months ago was a stranger to you.”
“You forget that I am a reader of character—that no kindred souls are strangers even at a first meeting, my son.”
Buell Hampton spoke very softly but very clearly; his gaze rested fixedly on Roderick; the latter felt a thrill run through him—yes, assuredly, this great and good man had been his friend from the first moment they had clasped hands.
“You were very good then, Major,” he replied, “in judging me so kindly. But I am afraid that I evoked your special sympathy and interest because of the confidences I gave you at one of our early meetings. You will not have forgotten how I spoke in a most sacred way about certain matters in Galesburg and what I intended to do when I had sufficient money to carry out my plans.”
“I remember distinctly,” said the Major. “Your frank confidence greatly pleased me. Well, has anything happened?”
“There is just one man on earth I will show this letter to, and you, Major, are the man.”
Saying this Roderick handed over Stella Rain’s letter.
After the Major had carefully perused it and put it back in the envelope, he reached across to Roderick.
“No,” said Roderick, “don’t give that letter back to me. Kindly lay it on the red coals and let me see it burn to gray ashes. I have fought this thing out all alone up in the hills, and I am now almost glad that letter came, since it had to be. But let it vanish now in the flames, just as I am going to put Stella Rain forever out of my thoughts. Yesterday the receipt of this letter was an event; but from now on I shall endeavor to regard it as only an incident.”
Silently and musingly the Major complied with Roderick’s request and consigned the letter to the glowing embers. When the last trace had disappeared, he looked up at Roderick.
“I will take one exception to your remarks,” he said. “Do not think unkindly of Stella Rain, nor even attempt to put her out of your thoughts. Her influence over you has been all for good during the past months, and she has shown herself a very fine and noble woman in the gentle manner in which she has broken the bonds that had tied you—bonds impulsively and all too lightly assumed on your part, as she knew quite well from the beginning. I have a profound admiration for your little ‘college widow,’ Roderick, and hold her in high esteem.”
There was just the suspicion of tears in Roderick’s eyes—a lump in his throat which rendered it impossible for him to reply. Yes; all bitterness, all sense of humiliation, were now gone. He too was thinking mighty kindly of sweet and gentle Stella Rain.
“Remember,” continued the Major quietly, “you told me how she warned you that some other day another girl, the real girl, would come along. I guess that has happened now.”
Roderick started; there was a protesting flush upon his cheek.
“Even though you may not yet fully realize it,” quietly added the Major.
“What do you mean?” faltered Roderick; the flush of offended dignity had now turned into the blush of confusion.
The Major smiled benignantly.
“Oh, my young friend, remember again that I read men’s minds and hearts just a little. There must be some new influence in your life.”
“How do you know that—how can you say that?”
Buell Hampton laid a hand on the young man’s shoulder and smiled.
“Because otherwise you would be still up among the hills alone, young man. Your fight in the wilderness would have lasted for forty days—not for a single night. The fever of love does not die down so suddenly without an antidote. The resignation you have shown while we burned that letter is not merely a negative condition of mind. There is something positive as well.”
“Oh, I can’t admit that,” protested Roderick. “Or at least I dare not allow myself to think like that,” he corrected himself hurriedly.
“Well, we shall see what we shall see. Meanwhile all is well. The rich harvest of experience has been reaped; the fertile soil awaits the next tillage. The important moment of every life is ‘The Now.’ And this is what we have to think about tonight, Roderick.”
“Precisely, Major. And that is just why I opened the conversation. As I said at the outset, you assigned me an interest in your gold mine for a specific object that no longer exists.”
“On the contrary,” replied Buell Hampton, “I assigned it on general principles—on the general principle of helping a worthy young man at the critical period of starting into useful life-work. But I may tell you also,” he laughed lightly, “that I had in my mind’s eye valuable and important future services whereby the interest would be paid for most adequately.”
“And these services are what?” asked Roderick, with a delighted gleam in his eyes.
“We’ll come to that presently. Where is Grant Jones?”
“He was to follow me here in half an hour. Time’s almost up, unless he’s on the trail of a newspaper scoop.” Roderick was smiling happily now.
“Well, we shall await his coming. What do you say to a little music to beguile the time?”
The Major glanced at his violin resting on a side table.
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” responded Roderick, jumping up with alacrity and handing to the master his old Cremona.
“I am glad you like music,” said Buell Hampton, as he began to tighten his bow. “Its rhythmic cadences of tone are a language universal. Its power is unseen but felt, captivating and enthralling alike the cultured and the untutored. The harmony of tone enwraps the soul like a mantle. It influences heart and intellect It may depress in saddest tears or elevate to highest ecstasy. Music is the melody of the Gods. It is like an ethereal mist—a soft and dainty distillation of a thousand aromatic perfumes, inspiring and wholesome to the soul as the morning dew is to buds and blossoms.”
As he spoke he had been gently thrumming the strings, and now he placed the violin to his chin. Soft and plaintive melodies alternating with wild and warring airs followed one after the other until the entire room seemed to be quivering with melody. For fully an hour, unconscious of the passing time, the Major entertained his guest, and concluded with a rapid surging theme as if it were a call to battle and for greater achievements.
Grant Jones had not yet arrived. Roderick recovered from the trance into which the music had thrown him. He thanked the Major for the pleasure he had given, then threw a glance at the doorway.
“Where the deuce can he be?” he murmured.
But at the very moment the door opened, and in walked the belated editor.
“Where have you been all this time?” asked Roderick, half petulantly.
“On the porch of course,” replied Grant. “Do you think I was going to interrupt such divine melody?”
Buell Hampton smiled pleasedly while he laid down the violin on the table.
“Well,” he said, “be seated, Grant, my boy. I am going to lose no further time. I have some figures to work on tonight. This is my first night at home, Roderick, for many weeks. Grant already knows the story. Now I shall tell it to you.”
And straightway the Major related how Jim Rankin, Tom Sun, and Boney Earnest had garnered the midnight harvests of gold. Then he drew aside the curtain hanging on the wall, unlocked the stout door which it concealed, and, to Roderick’s amazement, displayed the piled up sacks of golden ore.
“All quite equal to the rich samples you handled here several months ago,” said Buell Hampton, as he waved his hand toward the accumulated treasure.
“Great Cæsar!” gasped Roderick. “There must be hundreds of thousands of dollars there.”
“The total will run into millions, young man,” smiled the Major. Then he closed the door, relocked it, and dropped the curtain. But he did not resume his seat.
“Now this is where your services, and those of Grant Jones will come in. This great wealth must be safely transported to Denver. And as I have already explained to you tonight, I still want to guard jealously my secret of the Hidden Valley on whose resources I may or may not draw again—this the future must decide. All of us who are interested have abundance for the present; we are equipped for many good works. The removal of this large quantity of ore, without attracting public attention here, requires good judgment on the part of men who can be absolutely trusted. You are the men selected for the responsible duty. And remember it will be dangerous duty should our secret leak out. The days of hold-ups are passing in the West, but have not yet passed; for as you both know there are still a good few desperadoes among the wilds of our Wyoming mountains.”
“My God—what loot!” murmured Roderick, glancing toward the curtain.
“Yes—a rich loot,” acquiesced the Major. “Now you young men will understand that your interests are my own—that while I am delighted to share this treasure with my chosen friends, these friends have been and continue to be quite indispensable to me. Roderick, your question earlier in the evening is answered—you will have a rightful share in this gold. Get ready in about a week’s time to earn it Now go tonight. I will see you later on to unfold my plans for the journey in closer detail.”
“Great guns,” groaned Grant Jones, as the two young men gained the roadway. “What a newspaper story—what a scoop! And not one damned word can be put in type.”