 CHAPTER XIX In the interim Bryce had not been idle. From his woods-crew he picked an old, experienced hand, one Jebes Curtis, to take the place of the vanished MacTavish. Colonel Pennington, having repaired in three days the gap in his railroad, wrote a letter to the Cartigan Redwood Lumber Company, informing Bryce that until more equipment could be purchased and delivered to take the place of the rolling stock destroyed in the wreck, the latter would have to be content with half deliveries. Whereupon Bryce irritated the Colonel profoundly by purchasing a lot of second-hand trucks from a bankrupt sugar-pine mill in Lassen County, and delivering them to the Colonel's Road via the deck of a steam schooner. That will ensure delivery of sufficient logs to get out our orders on file, Bryce informed his father. While we are morally certain our mill will run but one year longer, I intend that it shall run full capacity for that year. In fact, I'm going to saw in that one year remaining to us as much lumber as we could ordinarily saw in two years. To be exact, I'm going to run a night shift. The sightless old man raised both hands in deprecation. The market won't absorb it, he protested. Then we'll stack it in piles to air-dry and wait until the market is brisk enough to absorb it, Bryce replied. Our finances won't stand the overhead of that night shift, I tell you, his father warned. I know we haven't sufficient cash on hand to attempt it, Dad, but I'm going to borrow some. From whom? No bank in Sequoia will lend us a penny, and long before you came home I had sounded every possible source of a private loan. Did you sound the Sequoia Bank of Commerce? Certainly not. Pennington owns the controlling interest in that bank, and I was never a man to waste my time. Bryce chuckled. I don't care where the money comes from so long as I get it, partner. Pennington's money may be tainted, in fact, I'd risk a bet that it is, but our employees will accept it for wages nevertheless. Current circumstance has required desperate measures, you know, and the day before yesterday, when I was quite ignorant of the fact that Colonel Pennington controls the Sequoia Bank of Commerce, I drifted in on the President and casually struck him for a loan of one hundred thousand dollars. Well, I'll be shot, Bryce. What did he say? Said he'd take the matter under consideration and give me an answer this morning. He asked me, of course, what I wanted that much money for, and I told him I was going to run a night shift, double my force of men in the woods, and buy some more logging trucks, which I can get rather cheap. Well, this morning I called for my answer, and got it. The Sequoia Bank of Commerce will loan me up to a hundred thousand, but it won't give me the cash in a lump sum. I can have enough to buy the logging trucks now, and on the first of each month, when I present my payroll, the bank will advance me the money to meet it. Bryce, I am amazed! I am not. Since you tell me Colonel Pennington controls that bank, that the bank should accommodate us as the most natural procedure imaginable. Pennington is only playing safe, which is why the bank declined to give me the money in a lump sum. If we run a night shift, Pennington knows that we can't dispose of our excess output under present market conditions. The redwood trade is in the doldrums, and will remain in them, to a greater or less degree, until the principal redwood centers secure a rail outlet to the markets of the country. It's a safe bet our lumber is going to pile up on the mill dock. Hence, when the smash comes and the Sequoia Bank of Commerce calls our loan, and we cannot possibly meet it, the lumber on hand will prove security for the loan, will it not? In fact, it will be worth two or three dollars per thousand more than it is now, because it will be air-dried. And in as much as all the signs point to Pennington's gobbling us anyhow, it strikes me as a rather good business on his part to give us sufficient rope to ensure a thorough job of hanging. But what idea have you got back of such a procedure, Bryce? Merely a forlorn hope, Dad. Something might turn up. The market may take a sudden spurt and go up three or four dollars. Yes, and it may take a sudden spurt and drop three or four dollars, his father reminded him. Bryce laughed. That would be Pennington's funeral, Dad. And whether the market goes up or comes down, it costs us nothing to make the experiment. Quite true, his father agreed. Then, if you'll come down to the office tomorrow morning, Dad, we'll hold a meeting of our Board of Directors and authorize me, as President of the Company, to sign the note to the bank. We're borrowing this without collateral, you know. John Cardigan sighed. Such daring financial acrobatics were not usual with him. But as Bryce had remarked, there was no reason why, in their present predicament, they should not gamble. Hence he entered no further objection, and the following day the agreement was entered into with the bank. Bryce closed by wire for the extra logging equipment and immediately set about rounding up a crew for the woods and for the night shift in the mill. For a month Bryce was as busy as the proverbial one-armed paper-hanger with the itch, and during all that time he did not see Shirley Sumner or hear of her directly or indirectly. Only at the infrequent intervals did he permit himself to think of her, for he was striving to forget, and the memory of his brief glimpse of paradise was always provocative of pain. Moira MacTavish, in the meantime, had come down from the woods and entered upon her duties in the mill-office. The change from her dull, drab life, giving her, as it did, an opportunity for companionship with people of greater mentality and refinement than she had been used to, quickly brought about a swift transition in the girl's nature. With the passing of the coarse shoes and calico dresses and the substitution of the kind of clothing all women of Moira's instinctive refinement and natural beauty long for, the girl became cheerful, animated, and imbued with the optimism of her years. At first old Sinclair resented the advent of a woman in the office. Then he discovered that Moira's efforts lightened his own labours in exact proportion to the knowledge of the business which she assimilated from day to day. Moira worked in the general office, and except upon occasions when Bryce desired to look at the books, or Moira brought some document into the private office for his perusal, there were days during which his pleasant good-morning Moira constituted the extent of their conversation. To John Cartigan, however, Moira was a ministering angel. Gradually she relieved Bryce of the care of the old man. She made a cushion for his easy-chair in the office. She read the papers to him and the correspondence, and discussed with him the receipt and delivery of orders, the movements of the lumber fleet, the comedies and tragedies of his people which had become to him matters of the utmost importance. She brushed his hair, dusted his hat, and crowned him with it when he left the office at nightfall. And whenever Bryce was absent in the woods, or in San Francisco, it fell to her lot to lead the old man to and from the house on the hill. To his starved heart her sweet womanly attentions were tremendously welcome, and gradually he formed the habit of speaking to her, half tenderly, half jokingly, as my girl. Bryce had been absent in San Francisco for ten days. He had planned to stay three weeks, but finding his business consummated in less time, he returned to Sequoia unexpectedly. Moira was standing at the tall bookkeeping desk, her beautiful dark head bent over the ledger when he entered the office and set his suitcase in the corner. "'Is that you, Mr. Bryce?' she queried. "'The identical individual, Moira. How did you guess it was I?' She looked up at him then, and her wonderful dark eyes lighted with a flame Bryce had not seen in them here too far. "'I knew you were coming,' she replied simply. "'But how could you know? I didn't telegraph because I wanted to surprise my father, and the instant the boat touched the dock, I went over side and came directly here. I didn't even wait for the crew to run out the gang-plank. So I know nobody could have told you I was due.' "'That is quite right, Mr. Bryce. Nobody told me you were coming. But I just knew, when I heard the noy-o whistling as she made the dock, that you were aboard, and I didn't look up when you entered the office because I wanted to verify my suspicion. You had a hunch, Moira. Do you get those telepathic messages very often?' He was crossing the office to shake her hand. "'I've never noticed particularly. That is, until I came to work here. But I always know when you are returning after a considerable absence,' she gave her hand. "'I'm so glad you're back.' "'Why?' he demanded bluntly. She flushed. "'I really don't know, Mr. Bryce.' "'Well, then,' he persisted. "'What do you think makes you glad?' "'I had been thinking how nice it would be to have you back, Mr. Bryce. When you enter the office, it's like a breeze rustling the tops of the redwoods. "'And your father misses you so. He talks to me a great deal about you. Why, of course, we miss you, anybody would.' As he held her hand, he glanced down at it and noted how greatly it had changed during the past few months. The skin was no longer rough and brown, and the fingers, formally stiff and swollen from hard work, were growing more shapely. From her hand his glance roved over the girl, noting the improvements in her dress, and the way the thick, wavy black hair was piled on top of her shapely head. "'It hadn't occurred to me before, Moira,' he said, with a bright and personal smile that robbed his remark of all suggestion of masculine flattery. "'But it seems to me I'm unusually glad to see you also. You've been fixing your hair different.' The soft, lambant glow leaped again into Moira's eyes. He had noticed her, particularly. "'Do you like my hair done that way?' she inquired eagerly. "'I don't know whether I do or not. It's unusual for you. You look mighty, sweetly old-fashioned with the coiled in back, somewhat like an old-fashioned daguerreotype of my mother. Is this new style the latest in hairdressing in Sequoia?' "'I think so, Mr. Bryce. I copied it from Colonel Pennington's niece, Miss Sumner.' "'Oh,' he replied briefly. "'You've met her, have you? I didn't know she was in Sequoia still.' "'She's been away, but she came back last week. "'I went to the Valley of the Giants last Saturday afternoon,' Bryce interrupted. "'You didn't tell my father about the tree that was cut, did you?' he demanded sharply. "'No.' "'Good girl. He mustn't know.' "'Go on, Moira. I interrupted you.' "'I met Miss Sumner up there. She was lost. She'd followed the old trail into the timber, and when the tree shut out the sun, she lost all sense of direction. She was terribly frightened and crying when I found her and brought her home. "'Well, I swan, Moira. What was she doing in our timber?' She told me that once, when she was a little girl, you had taken her for a ride on your pony up to your mother's grave. And it seemed she had a great curiosity to see that spot again, and started out without saying a word to anyone. Poor dear! She was in a sad state when I found her.' "'How fortunate you found her! I've met Miss Sumner three or four times. That was when she first came to Sequoia. She's a stunning girl, isn't she?' "'Perfectly, Mr. Bryce. She's the first lady I've ever met. She's different.' "'No doubt. Her kind are not a product of homely little communities like Sequoia. And for that matter neither is her wolf of an uncle. What did Miss Sumner have to say to you, Moira?' She told me all about herself, and she said a lot of nice things about you, Mr. Bryce, after I told her I worked for you. And when I showed her the way home, she insisted that I should walk home with her. So I did. And the butler served us with tea and toast and marmalade. Then she showed me all her wonderful things, and gave me some of them. Oh, Mr. Bryce, she's so sweet. She had her maid dress my hair in half a dozen different styles, until they could decide in the right style. And— And that's it, eh, Moira?' She nodded brightly. "'I can see that you and Miss Sumner evidently hit it off just right with each other. Are you going to call on her again?' "'Oh, yes. She begged me to. She says she's lonesome.' "'I daresay she is, Moira. Well, her choice of a pal is a tribute to the brains I suspected her of possessing. And I'm glad you've gotten to know each other. I have no doubt you find life a little lonely sometimes.' "'Sometimes, Mr. Bryce?' "'How's my father?' "'Splendid! I've taken good care of him for you.' "'Moira, you're a sweetheart of a girl. I don't know how we ever managed to wiggle along without you.' Fraternally, almost paternally, he gave her radiant cheek three light little pats as he strode past her to the private office. He was in a hurry to get to his desk, upon which he could see through the open door a pile of letters and orders, and a moment later he was deep in a perusal of them, oblivious to the fact that ever and a non the girl turned upon him her brooding Madonna-like glance. That night, Bryce and his father, as was their custom after dinner, repaired to the library, where the bustling and motherly Mrs. Tully served their coffee. This good soul, after the democratic fashion in vogue in many western communities, had never been regarded as a servant. Neither did she so regard herself. She was John Cardigan's housekeeper, and as such she had for a quarter of a century served father and son their meals, and then seated herself at the table with them. This arrangement had but one drawback, although this did not present itself until after Bryce's return to Sequoia, and his assumption of the direction of the Cardigan destinies, for Mrs. Tully had a failing common to many of her sex. She possessed, for other people's business, an interest absolutely incapable of satisfaction, and she was, in addition, garrulous beyond belief. The library was the one spot in the house which, at the beginning of her employment, John Cardigan had indicated to Mrs. Tully as sanctuary for him and his. Hence, having served the coffee this evening, the amiable creature withdrew, although not without a pang as she reflected upon the probable nature of their conversation and the void which must inevitably result by reason of the absence of her advice and friendly cooperation and sympathy, no sooner had Mrs. Tully departed than Bryce rose and closed the door behind her. John Cardigan opened the conversation with a contented grunt. "'Plug the keyhole, son,' he continued. "'I believe you have something on your mind, and you know how Mrs. Tully resents the closing of that door. Estimable soul that she is, I have known her to Eve's drop. She can't help it, poor thing. She was born that way.' Bryce clipped a cigar and held a lighted match while his father smoked up. Then he slipped into the easy-chair beside the old man. "'Well, John Cardigan,' he began eagerly. Fate ripped a big hole in our dark cloud the other day and showed me some of the silver lining. I've been making bad medicine for Colonel Pennington. Partner, the pill I'm rolling for that scheming scoundrel will surely nauseate him when he swallows it. "'What's in the wind, boy?' "'We're going to parallel Pennington's logging-road. In as much as that will cost close to three-quarters of a million dollars, I'm of the opinion that we're not going to do anything of the sort. Perhaps, nevertheless, if I can demonstrate to a certain party that it will not cost more than three-quarters of a million, he'll loan me the money.' The old man shook his head. "'I don't believe it, Bryce. Who's the crazy man?' "'His name is Gregory. He's Scotch.' "'Now I know he's crazy. When he hands you the money, you'll find he's talking real money, but thinking of Confederate green-backs. For a sane Scotchman to loan that much money without collateral security would be equivalent to exposing his spinal cord and tickling it with a rat-tail file.' Bryce laughed. "'Pell,' he declared. "'If you and I have any brains, they must roll around in our skulls like buckshot in a tin pan. Here we've been sitting for three months and twiddling our thumbs, or lying awake nights trying to scheme away out of our difficulties, when if we'd had the sense that God gives geese we would have solved the problem long ago and ceased worrying. Listen now with all your ears. When Bill Henderson wanted to build the logging-rail road which he afterward sold to Pennington, and which Pennington is now using as a club to beat our brains out, did he have the money to build it?' "'No. Where did he get it?' "'I loaned it to him. He only had about eight miles of road to build, then, so I could afford to accommodate him.' "'How did he pay you back?' "'Why, he gave me a ten-year contract for hauling our logs at a dollar and a half a thousand feet, and I merely credited his account with the amount of the freight bills he sent me until he'd squared up the loan, principle and interest.' "'Well, if Bill Henderson financed himself on that plan, why didn't we think of using the same time-honored plan for financing a road to parallel Pennington's?' John Cartigan sat up with a jerk. "'By thunder,' he murmured. That was as close as he ever came to uttering an oath. "'By thunder,' he repeated. I never thought of that. But then,' he added, "'I'm not so young as I used to be, and there are any number of ideas which would have occurred to me twenty years ago, but do not occur to me now.' "'All right, John Cartigan, I forgive you. Now, then, continue to listen. To the north of that great block of timber held by you and Pennington lie the redwood holdings of the Trinidad Redwood Timber Company.' "'Never heard of them before?' "'Well, timber away and there in back of beyond has never been well advertised, because it is regarded as practically inaccessible. By extending his logging-road and adding to his rolling-stock, Pennington could make it accessible, but he will not. He figures on buying all that back timber rather cheap when he gets around to it, for the reason that the Trinidad Redwood Timber Company cannot possibly mill its timber until a railroad connects its holdings with the outside world. They can hold it until their corporation franchise expires, and it will not increase sufficiently in value to pay taxes.' "'I wonder why the blamed fools ever bought in there, Bryce?' "'When they bought, it looked like a good buy. You'll remember that some ten years ago a company was incorporated with the idea of building a railroad from Grants Pass, Oregon, on the line of the Southern Pacific, down the Oregon and California coast to tap the redwood belt. I remember there was a big whoopin' hurrah and then the proposition died a-bornin. The engineers found that the cost of construction through that mountainous country was prohibitive. Well, before the project died, Gregory and his associates believed that it was going to survive. They decided to climb in on the ground floor, had some advance inside information that the road was to be built. So they quietly gathered together 30,000 acres of good stuff, and then sat down to wait for the railroad. And they are still waiting. Gregory, by the way, is the president of the Trinidad Redwood Timber Company. He's an Edinburgh man, and the fly American promoters got him to put up the price of the timber and then mortgage their interest to him as security for the advance. He foreclosed on their notes five years ago. "'And there he is with his useless timber,' John Cartigan murmured thoughtfully. "'The poor scotch-sucker!' "'He isn't poor. The purchase of that timber didn't even dent his bankroll. He's what they call in England a tinned goods manufacturer, purveyor to his Majesty the King and all that. But he would like to sell his timber, and being scotch, naturally he desires to sell it at a profit. In order to create a market for it, he has to have an outlet to that market. We supply the outlet with his help. And what happens? Why timber that cost him fifty and seventy-five cents per thousand feet's stumpage, and the actual timber will overrun the cruiser's estimate every time, will be worth two dollars and fifty cents, perhaps more?' The elder Cartigan turned slowly in his chair and bent his sightless gaze upon his son. "'Well, well!' he cried impatiently. "'He loans us the money to build our road. We build it on through our timber and into his. The collateral security which we put up will be a twenty-five-year contract to haul the timber into Tidewater on Humboldt Bay at a base freight rate of one dollar and fifty cents, with an increase of twenty-five cents per thousand every five years thereafter, and an option for a renewal of the contract upon expiration at the rate of freight last paid. We also grant him perpetual booming space for his logs in the slew which we own and where we now store our logs until needed at the mill. In addition, we sell him, at a reasonable figure, sufficient land fronting on Tidewater to enable him to erect a sawmill, lay out his yards, and build a dock out into the deep water. Thus Gregory will have that which he hasn't got now, an outlet to his market by water. And when the railroad to Sequoia builds in from the south, it will connect with the road which we have built from Sequoia up into Township 9 to the north. Hence Gregory will also have an outlet to his market by rail. He can easily get a good manager to run his lumber business until he finds a customer for it, and in the meantime we will be charging his account with our freight bills against him and gradually pay off the loan without pinching ourselves. Have you talked with Gregory? Yes, I met him while I was in San Francisco. Somebody brought him up to a meeting of the Redwood Lumber Manufacturers Association, and I pounced on him like an owl on a mouse. John Cardigan's old hand came gropingly forth and rested affectionately upon his boys. What a wonderful scheme it would have been a year ago, he murmured sadly. You forget, my son, that we cannot last in business long enough to get that road built, though Gregory should agree to finance the building of it. The interest on our bonded indebtedness is payable on the first. We can meet it, sir. I, but we can't meet the fifty thousand dollars which, under the terms of our deed of trust, we are required to pay in on July 1st of each year as a sinking fund toward the retirement of our bonds. By superhuman efforts, by sacrificing a dozen cargos, raising hob with the market, and getting ourselves disliked by our neighbors, we managed to meet half of it this year and procure an extension of six months on the balance due. That is Pennington's way. He plays with us as a cat does with a mouse, knowing, like the cat, that when he is weary of playing, he will devour us. And now, when we are deeper in debt than ever, when the market is lower and more sluggish than it has been in fifteen years, to hope to meet the interest and the next payment to the sinking fund, taxes my optimism. Bryce, it just can't be done. We'd have our road about half completed when we'd bust up in business. Indeed, the minute Pennington suspected we were paralleling his line, he'd choke off our wind. I tell you, it can't be done. But Bryce contradicted him earnestly. It can be done, he said. Gregory knows nothing of our financial condition. Our rating in the reports of the commercial agencies is as good as it ever was, and a man's never broke till somebody finds it out. What do you mean? I mean that if we can start building our road and have it half completed before Pennington jumps on us, Gregory will simply have to come to our aid in self-defense. Once he ties up with us, he's committed to the task of seeing us through. If we fall, he must pick us up and carry us, whether he wants to or not. And I will so arrange the deal that he will have to. I can do it, I tell you. John Cartigan raised his hand. No, he said firmly. I will not allow you to do this. That way, that is Pennington's method. If we fall, my son, we pass out like gentlemen, not black guards. We will not take advantage of this man Gregory's faith. If he joins forces with us, we lay our hand on the table and let him look. Then he'll never join hands with us, partner. We're done. We're not done, my son. We have one alternative, and I'm going to take it. I've got to, for your sake. Moreover, your mother would have wished it so. You don't mean, yes I do. I'm going to sell Pennington my Valley of the Giants. Thank God that quarter section does not belong to the Cartigan-Redwood Lumber Company. It is my personal property, and it is not mortgaged. Pennington can never foreclose on it, and until he gets it, twenty-five hundred acres of virgin timber on Squar Creek are valueless. Nay, a source of expense to him. Bryce, he has to have it, and he'll pay the price when he knows I mean business. With a sweeping gesture he waved aside the arguments that rose to his son's lips. Lead me to the telephone, he commanded, and Bryce, recognizing his sire's unalterable determination, obeyed. Find Pennington's number in the telephone book, John Cartigan commanded next. Bryce found it, and his father proceeded to get the Colonel on the wire. Pennington, he said hoarsely. This is John Cartigan speaking. I've decided to sell you that quarter section that blocks your timber on Squar Creek. Indeed, the Colonel purred. I had an idea you were going to present it to the city for a natural park. I've changed my mind. I've decided to sell at your last offer. I've changed my mind, too. I've decided not to buy at my last offer. Good night. Slowly John Cartigan hung the receiver on the hook, turned and groped for his son. When he found him, the old man held him for a moment in his arms. Lead me upstairs, son, he murmured presently. I'm tired. I'm going to bed. When Colonel Seth Pennington turned from the telephone and faced his niece, Shirley read his triumph in his face. Old Cartigan has capitulated at last. He cried exultingly. We've played a waiting game, and I've won. He'd just telephoned to say he'd accept my last offer for his Valley of the Giants, as the sentimental old fool calls that quarter section of huge redwoods that blocks the outlet to our Squar Creek timber. But you're not going to buy it. You told him so, Uncle Seth. Of course I'm not going to buy it, at my last offer. It's worth five thousand dollars in the open market, and once I offered him fifty thousand for it. Now I'll give him five. I wonder why he wants to sell, Shirley mused. From what Bryce Cartigan told me once, his father attaches a sentimental value to that strip of woods. His wife is buried there. It's, or rather it used to be, a sort of shrine to the old gentleman. He's selling it because he's desperate. If he wasn't teetering on the verge of bankruptcy, he'd never let me out game him, Pennington replied gaily. I'll say this for the old fellow. He's no bluffer. However, since I know his financial condition almost to a dollar, I do not think it would be good business to buy his Valley of the Giants now. I'll wait until he has gone bust, and save twenty five or thirty thousand dollars. I think you're biting off your nose to spite your face, Uncle Seth. The Laguna Grande lumber company needs that outlet. In dollars and cents, what is it worth to the company? If I thought I couldn't get it from Cartigan a few months from now, I'd go as high as a hundred thousand for it tonight, he answered coolly. In that event I advise you to take it for fifty thousand. It's terribly hard on old Mr. Cartigan to have to sell it, even at that price. You do not understand these matters surely. Don't try. And don't waste your sympathy on that old humbug. He has to dig up fifty thousand dollars to pay on his bonded indebtedness, and he's finding it a difficult job. He's just sparring for time, but he'll lose out. As if to indicate that he considered the matter closed, the Colonel drew his chair toward the fire, picked up a magazine, and commenced idly to slit the pages. Shirley studied the back of his head for some time, then got out some fancy work, and commenced plying her needle. And as she plied it, a thought, nebulous at first, gradually took form in her head, until eventually she murmured loud enough for the Colonel to hear, I'll do it! Do what, Pennington queried. Something nice for somebody who did something nice for me, she answered. That MacTavish girl, he suggested. Poor Moira. Isn't she sweet, Uncle Seth? I'm going to give her that black suit of mine. I've scarcely worn it. I thought so. He interrupted with an indulgent yawn. Well, do whatever makes for your happiness, my dear. That's all money is for. About two o'clock the following afternoon, old Judge Moore, of the Superior Court of Humboldt County, drifted into Bryce Cartigan's office, sat down uninvited, and lifted his long legs to the top of an adjacent chair. Well, Bryce, my boy, he began. A little bird tells me your daddy is considering the sale of Cartigan's Redwoods, or the Valley of the Giants, as your paternal ancestor prefers to refer to that little old quarter-section out yonder on the edge of town. How about it? Bryce stared at him a moment questioningly. Yes, Judge, he replied. We'll sell if we get our price. Well, his visitor drawled. I have a client who might be persuaded. I'm here to talk turkey. What's your price? Before we talk price, Bryce parrot, I want you to answer a question. Let her fly, said Judge Moore. Are you directly or indirectly acting for Colonel Pennington? That's none of your business, young man. At least it would be none of your business if I were, directly or indirectly, acting for that unconvicted thief. To the best of my information and belief, Colonel Pennington doesn't figure in this deal in any way, shape, or manner. And as you know, I've been your daddy's friend for thirty years. Still, Bryce was not convinced, notwithstanding the fact that he would have staked his honor on the judge's veracity. Nobody knew better than he in what devious ways the Colonel worked his wonders to perform. Well, he said. Your query is rather sudden, Judge. But still, I can name you a price. I will state, frankly, however, that I believe it to be over your head. We have several times refused to sell to Colonel Pennington for a hundred thousand dollars. Naturally, that little dab of timber is worth more to Pennington than to anybody else. However, my client has given me instructions to go as high as a hundred thousand, if necessary, to get the property. What? I said it. One hundred thousand dollars of the present standard weight and fineness. Judge Moore's last statement swept away Bryce's suspicions. He required now no further evidence that, regardless of the identity of the judge's client, that client could not possibly be Colonel Seth Pennington or anyone acting for him, since only the night before Pennington had curtly refused to buy the property for fifty thousand dollars. For a moment Bryce stared stupidly at his visitor. Then he recovered his wits. Sold, he almost shouted, and after the fashion of the West extended his hand to clinch the bargain. The judge shook it solemnly. The Lord loveth a quick trader, he declared, and reached into the capacious breast pocket of his Prince Albert coat. Here's the deed already made out in favour of myself as trustee. He winked knowingly. Clients a bit modest, I take it, Bryce suggested. Oh, very! Of course I'm only hazarding a guess, but that guess is that my client can afford the gamble and is figuring on giving Pennington a pain where he has never knew it to ache him before. In plain English, I believe the Colonel is in for a resuing at the hands of somebody with a small grouch against him. May the Lord strengthen that somebody's arm, Bryce breathed fervently. If your client can afford to hold out long enough, he'll be able to buy Pennington's Squaw Creek Timber at a bargain. My understanding is that such is the program. Bryce reached for the deed, then reached for his hat. If you'll be good enough to wait here, Judge More, I'll run up to the house and get my father to sign this deed. The Valley of the Giants is his personal property, you know. He didn't include it in his assets when incorporating the Cardigan Redwood Lumber Company. A quarter of an hour later he returned with the deed duly signed by John Cardigan and witnessed by Bryce, whereupon the Judge carelessly tossed his certified check for a hundred thousand dollars on Bryce's desk and departed whistling turkey in the straw. Bryce reached for the telephone and called up Colonel Pennington. Bryce Cardigan speaking, he began, but the Colonel cut him short. My dear impulsive young friend, he interrupted in oleoginous tones. How often do you have to be told that I am not quite ready to buy that quarter section? Oh! Bryce retorted. I merely called up to tell you that every dollar and every asset you have in the world, including your heart's blood, isn't sufficient enough to buy the Valley of the Giants from us now. Huh? What's that? Why? Because, my dear overcautious and thoroughly unprincipled enemy, it was sold five minutes ago for the tidy sum of one hundred thousand dollars. And if you don't believe me, come over to my office and I'll let you feast your eyes on the certified check. He could hear a distinct gasp. After an interval of five seconds, however, the Colonel recovered his poise. I congratulate you, he purred. I suppose I'll have to wait a little longer now, won't I? Well, patience is my middle name. Au revoir! The Colonel hung up. His hard face was ashen with rage and he stared at a calendar on the wall with his cold, fiddian stare. However, he was not without a generous stock of optimism. Somebody has learned of the low state of the cardigan fortune, he mused, and taken advantage of it to induce the old man to sell at last. They're figuring on selling to me at a neat profit. And I certainly did overplay my hand last night. However, there's nothing to do now except sit tight and wait for the new owner's next move. Meanwhile, in the general office of the cardigan Redwood Lumber Company, Joy was rampant. Bryce Cardigan was doing a buck and wing dance around the room, while Moira McTavish, with her back to her tall desk, watched him, in her eyes a tremendous joy and a sweet yearning glow of adoration that Bryce was too happy and excited to notice. Suddenly he paused before her. Moira, you're a lucky girl! he declared. I thought this morning you were going back to a kitchen in a logging camp. It almost broke my heart to think of fate swindling you like that. He put his arm around her and gave her a brotherly hug. It's autumn in the woods, Moira, and all the underbrush is golden. She smiled, though it was winter in her heart. End of Chapter 19 Recording by Roger Moline Chapter 20 of The Valley of the Giants This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Moline The Valley of the Giants by Peter B. Kine Chapter 20 Not the least of the traits which formed Shirley Sumner's character was pride. Proud people quite usually are fiercely independent and meticulously honest. And Shirley's pride was monumental. Hers was the pride of lineage, of womanhood, of an assured station in life, combined with that other pride which is rather difficult of definition without verbosity, and is perhaps better expressed in the terse and illuminating phrase, a dead game sport. Unlike her precious relative, unlike the majority of her sex, Shirley had a wonderfully balanced sense of the eternal fitness of things. Her coat of honor resembled that of a very gallant gentleman. She could love well and hate well. A careful analysis of Shirley's feelings toward Bryce Cartigan, immediately following the incident in Pennington's Woods, had showed her that under more propitious circumstances she might have fallen in love with that tempestuous young man in sheer recognition of the many lovable and manly qualities she had discerned in him. As an offset to the credit side of Bryce's account with her, however, there appeared certain debits in the consideration of which Shirley always lost her temper and was immediately quite certain she loathed the unfortunate man. He had been an honored and, for ought Shirley knew to the contrary, welcome guest in the Pennington home one night, and the following day had assaulted his host, committed great bodily injuries upon the latter's employees for little or no reason, saved the satisfaction of an abominable temper, made threats of further violence, declared his unfaltering enmity to her nearest and best-love relative, and in the next breath had had the insolence to pray of his respect and admiration for her. Indeed, incogitating on this latter incongruity, Shirley recalled that the extraordinary fellow had been forced rather abruptly to check himself in order to avoid a fervid declaration of love. And all of this under the protection of a double-bitted ax, one eye on her and the other on his enemies. However, all of these grave crimes and misdemeanors were really insignificant compared with his crowning offence. What had infuriated Shirley was the fact that she had been at some pains to inform Bryce Cartigan that she loathed him, whereat he had looked her over coolly, grinned a little, and declined to believe her. Then, seemingly as if fate had decreed that her futility should be impressed upon her still further, Bryce Cartigan had been granted an opportunity to save, in a strikingly calm, heroic, and painful manner, her and her uncle from certain and horrible death, thus placing upon Shirley an obligation that was as irritating to acknowledge as it was futile to attempt to reciprocate. That was where the shoe pinched. Before that day was over she had been forced to do one of two things, acknowledge in no uncertain terms her indebtedness to him, or remain silent and be convicted of having been, in plain language, a robber. So she had telephoned him and purposely left a jar the door to their former friendly relations. Monstrous! He had seen the open door and deliberately slammed it in her face. Luckily for them both she had heard, all unsuspected by him as he slowly hung the receiver on the hook, the soliloquy wherein he gave her a pointed hint of the distress with which he abdicated, which knowledge was all that deterred her from despising him with the fervor of a woman scorned. Resolutely Shirley set herself to the task of forgetting Bryce when, after the passage of a few weeks, she realized that he was quite sincere in his determination to forget her. Frequent glimpses of him on the streets of Sequoia, the occasional mention of his name in the Sequoia Sentinel, the very whistle of Cardigan's Mill, made her task a difficult one, and presently in desperation she packed up and departed for an indefinite stay in the southern part of the state. At the end of six weeks, however, she discovered that absence had had the traditional effect upon her heart and found herself possessed of a great curiosity to study the villain at short range and discover, if possible, what new rascality he might be meditating. About this time a providential attack of that aristocratic ailment, gout, having laid Colonel Pennington low, she told herself her duty lay in Sequoia, that she had surely Sumner in hand at last and that the danger was over. In consequence she returned to Sequoia. The fascination which a lighted candle holds for a moth is too well known to require further elucidation here. In yielding one day to a desire to visit the valley of the giants, Shirley told herself that she was going there to gather wild blackberries. She had been thinking of a certain blackberry pie, which thought naturally induced reflection on Bryce Cardigan and reminded Shirley of her first visit to the giants under the escort of a boy in Nickerbockers. She had a very vivid remembrance of that little amphitheater with the sunbeams falling like a halo on the plain tombstone. She wondered if the years had changed at all and decided that there could not possibly be any harm in indulging a very natural curiosity to visit and investigate. Her meeting with Moira McTavish that day and the subsequent friendship formed with the woods boss's daughter, renewed all her old apprehensions. On the assumption that Shirley and Bryce were practically strangers to each other, an assumption which Shirley, for obvious reasons, did not attempt to dissipate, Moira did not hesitate to mention Bryce very frequently. To her he was the one human being in the world utterly worthwhile, and it is natural for women to discuss, frequently and at great length, the subject nearest their hearts. In the three stock subjects of the admirable sex, man, dress, and the ills that flesh is heir to, man readily holds the ascendancy. And by degrees Moira, discovering that Shirley, having all the dresses she required, several dozen more, in fact, and being neither subnormal mentally nor fragile physically, gave the last two topics scant attention, formed the habit of expatiating at great length on the latter. Moira described Bryce in minute detail and related to her eager auditor little unconscious daily acts of kindness, thoughtfulness, or humor performed by Bryce. His devotion to his father, his idealistic attitude toward the cardigan employees, his ability, his industry, the wonderful care he bestowed upon his fingernails, his marvelous taste in neckwear, the boyishness of his lighter and the manishness of his serious moments, and presently, little by little, Shirley's resentment against him faded, and in her heart was born a great wistfulness, bread of the hope that some day she would meet Bryce cardigan on the street, and that he would pause, lift his hat, smile at her, his compelling smile, and forthwith proceed to bully her into being friendly and forgiving, browbeat her into admitting her change of heart and glorifying in it. To this remarkable state of mind had Shirley Sumner attained, at the time old John cardigan, leading his last little trump in a vain hope that it would enable him to take the odd trick in the huge game he had played for fifty years, decided to sell his Valley of the Giants. Shortly after joining her uncle in Sequoia, Shirley had learned from the Colonel the history of old man cardigan and his Valley of the Giants, or, as the townspeople called it, Cardigan's Red Woods. Therefore, she was familiar with its importance to the assets of the Laguna Grande Lumber Company, since, while that quarter section remained the property of John cardigan, two thousand five hundred acres of splendid timber owned by the former were rendered inaccessible. Her uncle had explained to her that ultimately this would mean the tying up of some two million dollars, and in as much as the Colonel never figured less than five percent return on anything, he was in this instance facing a net loss of one hundred thousand dollars for each year Obstinate John cardigan persisted in retaining that quarter section. I'd gladly give him a hundred thousand for that miserable little dab of timber and let him keep a couple of acres surrounding his wife's grave, if the old fool would only listen to reason, the Colonel had complained bitterly to her. I've offered him that price a score of times, and he tells me blandly the property isn't for sale. Well, he who laughs last laughs best, and if I can't get that quarter section by paying more than ten times what it's worth in the open market, I'll get it some other way if it costs me a million. How! Shirley had queried at the time. Never mind, my dear, he had answered darkly. You wouldn't understand the procedure if I told you. I'll have to run all around Robin Hood's barn and put up a deal of money, one way or another. But in the end I'll get it all back with interest, and cardigan's redwoods. The old man can't last forever, and what with his fool methods of doing business he's about broke anyhow. I expect to do business with his executor or his receiver within a year. Shirley, as explained in a preceding chapter, had been present the night John Cardigan, desperate and brought to bay at last, had telephoned Pennington at the latter's home, accepting Pennington's last offer for the Valley of the Giants. The cruel triumph in the Colonel's handsome face as he curtly rebuffed old Cardigan had been too apparent for the girl to mistake. Recalling her conversation with him announced the impending possibility of his doing business with John Cardigan's receiver or executor, she realized now that a crisis had come in the affairs of the Cardigans, and across her vision there flashed again the vision of Bryce Cardigan's homecoming. Of a tall man with his trembling arms clasped around his boy, with grizzled cheek laid against his sons, as one who, seeking comfort through bitter years, at length had found it. Presently another thought came to Shirley. She knew Bryce Cardigan was far from being indifferent to her. She had given him his opportunity to be friendly with her again, and he had chosen to ignore her, though sorely against his will. For weeks Shirley had pondered this mysterious action, and now she thought she caught a glimpse of the reason underlying it all. In Sequoia Bryce Cardigan was regarded as the heir to the throne of Humboldt's first Timber King. But Shirley knew now that as a Timber King Bryce Cardigan bade fair to wear a tinsel crown. Was it this knowledge that had led him to avoid her? I wonder, she mused. He's proud. Perhaps the realization that he will soon be penniless and shorn of his high estate has made him cherry of acquiring new friends in his old circle. Perhaps if he were secure in his business affairs. Ah, yes! Poor boy! He was desperate for fifty thousand dollars. Her heart swelled. Oh, Bryce! Bryce! She murmured. I think I'm beginning to understand some of your fury that day in the woods. It's all a great mystery, but I'm sure you didn't intend to be so, so terrible. Oh, my dear! If we had only continued to be the good friends we started out to be, perhaps you'd let me help you now. For what good is money if one cannot help one's dear friend in distress? Still, I know you wouldn't let me help you, for men of your stamp cannot borrow from a woman no matter how desperate their need. And yet you only need a paltry fifty thousand dollars. Shirley carried to bed with her that night the woes of the cardigans, and in the morning she telephoned Moira MacTavish and invited the latter to lunch with her at home that noon. It was in her mind to question Moira with a view to acquiring additional information. When Moira came, Shirley saw that she had been weeping. My poor Moira! she said, putting her arms around her visitor. What has happened to distress you? Has your father come back to Sequoia? Forgive me for asking. You never mentioned him, but I have heard. There, there, dear, tell me all about it. Moira laid her head on Shirley's shoulder and sobbed for several minutes. Then, it's Mr. Bryce, she wailed. He's so unhappy. Something's happened. They're going to sell cardigans redwoods, and they don't want to. Old Mr. Cardigan is home, ill, and just before I left the office Mr. Bryce came in and stood a moment looking at me so tragically I asked him what had happened. Then he patted my cheek, oh, I know I'm just one of his responsibilities, and said, poor Moira, never any luck, and went into his private office. I waited a little, and then I went in too. And, oh, Miss Sumner, he had his head down on his desk, and when I touched his head he reached up and took my hand and held it and laid his cheek against it a little while. And, oh, his cheek was wet. It's cruel of God to make him unhappy. He's good, too good. And, oh, I love him so, Miss Shirley. I love him so. And he'll never, never know. I'm just one of his responsibilities, you know, and I shouldn't presume. But nobody has ever been kind to me but Mr. Bryce and you, and I can't help loving people who are kind and gentle to nobodies. The hysterical outburst over Shirley led the girl to her cozy sitting-room upstairs and prevailed upon the girl to put on one of her own beautiful négligés. Moira's story, her confession of love, so tragic because so hopeless, had stirred Shirley deeply. She seated herself in front of Moira and cupped her chin in her palm. Of course, dear, she said, you couldn't possibly see anybody you loved suffer so and not feel dreadfully about it. And when a man like Bryce Cardigan is struck down, he's apt to present rather a tragic and helpless figure. He wanted sympathy, Moira, woman's sympathy, and it was dear of you to give it to him. I'd gladly die for him, Moira answered simply. Oh, Miss Shirley, you don't know him the way we who work for him do. If you did, you'd love him too. You couldn't help it, Miss Shirley. Perhaps he loves you too, Moira. The words came with difficulty. Moira shook her head hopelessly. No, Miss Shirley, I'm only one of his many human problems, and he just won't go back on me for old times' sake. We played together ten years ago when he used to spend his vacations at our house in Cardigan's Woods, when my father was Woods-boss. He's Bryce Cardigan, and I used to work in the kitchen of his logging camp. Never mind, Moira, he may love you even though you do not suspect it. You mustn't be so despairing. Providence has a way of working out these things. Tell me about his trouble, Moira. I think it's money. He's been terribly worried for a long time, and I'm afraid things aren't going right with the business. I've felt, ever since I've been there, that there's something that puts a cloud over Mr. Bryce's smile. It hurts them terribly to have to sell the Valley of the Giants, but they have to. Colonel Pennington is the only one who would consider buying it. They don't want him to have it, and still they have to sell it to him. I happen to know, Moira, that he isn't going to buy it. Yes, he is, but not at the price that will do them any good. They have always thought he would be eager to buy whenever they decided to sell, and now he says he doesn't want it. And old Mr. Cartigan is ill over it all. Mr. Bryce says his father has lost his courage at last. And, oh dear, things are in such a mess. Mr. Bryce started to tell me all about it, and then he stopped suddenly and wouldn't say another word. Shirley smiled. She thought she understood the reason for that. However, she did not pause to speculate on it, since the crying need of the present was the distribution of a ray of sunshine to broken-hearted Moira. Silly! she chided. How needlessly you are grieving. You say my uncle has declined to buy the Valley of the Giants? Moira nodded. My uncle doesn't know what he's talking about, Moira. I'll see that he does buy it. What price are the Cartigans asking for it now? Well, Colonel Pennington has offered them $100,000 for it time and again, but last night he withdrew that offer. Then they named a price of $50,000, and he said he didn't want it at all. He needs it, and it's worth every cent of $100,000 to him, Moira. Don't worry, dear. He'll buy it, because I'll make him. And he'll buy it immediately. Only you must promise me not to mention a single word of what I'm telling you to Bryce Cartigan, or in fact to anybody. Do you promise? Moira seized Shirley's hand and kissed it impulsively. Very well, then, Shirley continued. That matter is adjusted, and now we'll all be happy. Here comes Thelma with luncheon. Cheer up, dear, and remember that some time this afternoon you're going to see Mr. Bryce smile again. And perhaps there won't be so much of a cloud over his smile this time. When Moira returned to the office of the Cartigan Redwood Lumber Company, Shirley rang for her maid. Bring me my motorcoat and hat, Thelma, she ordered, and telephone for the limousine. She seated herself before the mirror at her dressing table, and dusted her adorable nose with a powder puff. Mr. Smarty Cartigan, she murmured happily. You walked roughshod over my pry, didn't you? Placed me under an obligation I could never hope to meet, and then ignored me, didn't you? Very well, old boy. We all have our innings sooner or later, you know, and I'm going to make a substantial payment on that huge obligation, as sure as my name is Shirley Sumner. Then some day when the sun is shining for you again, you'll come to me and be very, very humble. You're entirely too independent, Mr. Cartigan. But, oh my dear, I do hope you will not need so much money. I'll be put to my wit's end to get it to you without letting you know, because if your affairs go to smash, you'll be perfectly intolerable. And yet you deserve it. You're such an idiot for not loving Moira. She's an angel, and I gravely fear I'm just an interfering, mischievous, resentful little devil seeking vengeance on— She paused suddenly. No, I'll not do that, either, she soliloquized. I'll keep it myself for an investment. I'll show Uncle Seth I'm a businesswoman after all. He has had his fair chance at the Valley of the Giants, after waiting years for it, and now he has deliberately sacrificed that chance to be mean and vindictive. I'm afraid Uncle Seth isn't very sporty, after what Bryce Cartigan did for us that day the log-train ran away. I'll have to teach him not to hit an old man when he's down and begging for mercy. I'll buy the Valley, but keep my identity secret from everybody. Then, when Uncle Seth finds a stranger in possession, he'll have a fit, and perhaps, before he recovers, he'll sell me all his Squaw Creek Timber. Only he'll never know I'm the buyer. And when I control the outlet, well, I think that Squaw Creek Timber will make an excellent investment if it's held for a few years. Surely, my dear, I'm pleased with you. Really, I never knew until now why men could be so devoted to business. Won't it be jolly to step in between Uncle Seth and Bryce Cartigan, hold up my hand like a policeman, and say, Stop it, boys! No fighting, if you please! And if anybody wants to know whose boss around here, start something! And Shirley laid her head upon the dressing table and laughed heartily. She had suddenly bethought herself of Aesop's fable of the lion and the mouse. When her uncle came home that night, Shirley observed that he was preoccupied and disinclined to conversation. I noticed in this evening's paper, she remarked presently, that Mr. Cartigan has sold his Valley of the Giants. So you bought it, after all? No such luck, he almost barked. I'm an idiot. I should be placed in charge of a keeper. Now, for heaven's sake, Shirley, don't discuss that Timber with me, for if you do, I'll go plain lunatic crazy. I've had a very trying day. Poor Uncle Seth, she purred sweetly. Her apparent sympathy soothed his rasped soul. He continued, Oh, I'll get the infernal property, and it will be worth what I have to pay for it, only if certainly does gravel me to realize that I am about to be held up, with no help in sight. I'll see Judge Moore to-morrow, and offer him a quick profit for his client. That's the game, you know. I do hope the new owner exhibits some common sense, Uncle Deere, she replied, and turned back to the piano. But I greatly fear, she added to herself, that the new owner is going to prove a most obstinate creature and frightfully hard to discover. True to his promise, the colonel called on Judge Moore, brightened early the following morning. Act Three of that little business drama entitled The Valley of the Giants, my dear Judge, he announced pleasantly. I play the lead in this act. You remember me, I hope. I played a bid in Act Two. Insofar as my information goes, sir, you've been cut out of the cast in Act Three. I don't seem to find any lines for you to speak. One line, Judge, one little line. What profit does your client want on that quarter section? That quarter section is not in the market, Colonel. When it is, I'll send for you, since you're the only logical prospect should my client decide to sell, and remembering how you butted in on politics in this county last fall, and provided a slush fund to beat me and place a crook on the superior court bench in order to give you an edge in the many suits you are always filing, or having filed against you, I rise to remark that you have about ten split seconds in which to disappear from my office. If you linger longer, I'll start throwing paper weights. And as if to emphasize his remark, the Judge's hand closed over one of the articles in question. The Colonel withdrew with what dignity he could muster. End of Chapter 20. Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 21 Of The Valley Of The Giants This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline The Valley Of The Giants by Peter B. Kine Chapter 21 Upon his return from the office that night Bryce Cartigan found his father had left his bed and was seated before the library fire. Feeling a whole lot better today, eh, pal? His son queried. John Cartigan smiled. Yes, son! he replied plaintively. I guess I'll manage to live till next spring. Oh, I knew there was nothing wrong with you, John Cartigan, that a healthy check wouldn't cure. Pennington rather jolted you, though, didn't he? He did, Bryce. It was jolt enough to be forced to sell that quarter. I never expected we'd have to do it, but when I realized that it was a case of sacrificing you or my Giants, of course you won. And I didn't feel so badly about it as I used to think I would. I suppose that's because there is a certain morbid pleasure in a real sacrifice for those we love. And I never doubted but that Pennington would snap up the property the instant I offered to sell. Hence his refusal, in the face of our desperate need for money to carry on until conditions improve, almost floored your old man. Well, we can afford to draw our breath now, and that gives us a fighting chance, partner. And right after dinner you and I will sit down and start brewing a pot of powerful bad medicine for the Colonel. Son, I've been sitting here simmering all day. There was a note of the old dominant fighting, John Cartigan, in his voice now. And it has occurred to me that even if I must sit on the bench and root, I've not reached the point where my years have begun to affect my thinking ability. He touched his Leonine head. I'm as right as a fox upstairs, Bryce. Right, oh, Johnny, we'll buck the line together. After dinner you trot out your plan of campaign, and I'll trot out mine. Then we'll tear them apart, select the best pieces of each, and weld them into a perfect hole. Accordingly, dinner disposed of, father and son sat down together to prepare the plan of campaign. For the space of several minutes a silence settled between them, the while they puffed meditatively upon their cigars. Then the old man spoke, we'll have to fight him in the dark. Why? Because if Pennington knows, or even suspects, the identity of the man who is going to parallel his logging-rail road, he will throw all the weight of his truly capable mind, his wealth and his ruthlessness against you, and you will be smashed. To beat that man you must do more than spend money. You will have to outthink him, outwork him, outgame him, and when eventually you have won, you'll know you've been in the fight of your career. You have one advantage starting out. The Colonel doesn't think you have the courage to parallel his road in the first place. In the second place, he knows you haven't the money. And in the third place, he is morally certain you cannot borrow it, because you haven't any collateral to secure your note. We are mortgaged now to the limit, and our floating indebtedness is very large. On the face of things, and according to the Colonel's very correct inside information, we're helpless. And unless the lumber market stiffens very materially this year, by the time our hauling contract with Pennington's road expires, we'll be back where we were yesterday before we sold the Giants. Pennington regards that hundred thousand as get-away money for us. So all things considered, the Colonel will be slow to suspect us of having an ace in the hole. But by jinx we have it, and we're going to play it. No, said Bryce. We're going to let somebody else play it for us. The point you make to wit that we must remain absolutely in the background is well taken. Very well, agreed the old man. Now let us proceed to the next point. You must engage some reliable engineer to look over the proposed route of the road and give us an estimate of the cost of construction. For the sake of argument we will consider that done, and that the estimate comes within the scope of the sum Gregory is willing to advance us. Your third step, then, will be to incorporate a railroad company under the laws of the State of California. I think I'll favor the fair State of New Jersey with our trade, Bryce suggested dryly. I noticed that when Pennington bought out the Henderson interests and reorganized that property, he incorporated the Laguna Grande Lumber Company under the laws of the State of New Jersey, home of the trusts. There must be some advantage connected with such a course. Have it your own way, boy. What's good enough for the Colonel is good enough for us. Now, then, you are going to incorporate a company to build a road 12 miles long and a private road at that. That would be a fatal step. Pennington would know somebody was going to build a logging-road, and regardless of who the builders were, he would have to fight them in self-protection. How are you going to cover your trail, my son? Bryce pondered. I will, to begin, have a dummy Board of Directors. Also, my road cannot be private. It must be a common carrier. And that's where the shoe pinches. Common carriers are subject to the rules and regulations of the Railroad Commission. They are wise and just rules, commented the old man. Expensive to obey at times, but quite necessary. We can obey and still be happy. Objection overruled. Well, then, since we must be a common carrier, we might as well carry our deception still further and incorporate for the purpose of building a road from Sequoia to Grants Pass, Oregon, there to connect with the Southern Pacific. John Cardigan smiled. The old dream revived, huh? Well, the old jokes always bring a hearty laugh. People will laugh at your company because folks up this way realize that the construction cost of such a road is prohibitive, not to mention the cost of maintenance, which would be tremendous and out of all proportion to the freight area tapped. Well, since we're not going to build more than twelve miles of our road during the next year, and probably not more than ten miles additional during the present century, we won't worry over it. It doesn't cost a cent more to procure a franchise to build a road from here to the moon. If we fail to build to Grants Pass, our franchise to build the uncompleted portion of the road merely lapses and we hold only that portion which we have constructed. That's all we want to hold. How about Rites of Way? They will cost us very little, if anything. Most of the landowners along the proposed route will give us Rites of Way free gratis and for nothing, just to encourage the lunatics. Without a railroad, the land is valueless, and as a common carrier, they know we can condemn Rites of Way capriciously withheld, something we cannot do as a private road. Moreover, deeds to Rites of Way can be drawn with a time limit after which they revert to the original owners. Good strategy, my son! And certainly, as a common carrier, we will be welcomed by the farmers and cattlemen along our short line. We can handle their freight without much annoyance and perhaps at a slight profit. Well, that about completes the rough outline of our plan. The next thing to do is to start and keep right on moving. For as old Omar has it, the bird of time hath but a little way to flutter, and the bird-shot is catching up with him. We have a year in which to build our road. If we do not hurry, the mill will have to shut down for lack of logs, when our contract with Pennington expires. You forget the manager for our new corporation, the vice president and general manager. The man we engage must be the fastest and most convincing talker in California. Not only must he be able to tell a lie with a straight face, but he must be able to believe his own lies. And he must talk in millions, look millions, and act as if a million dollars were equivalent in value to a redwood stump. In addition, he must be a man of real ability and a person you can trust implicitly. I have the very man you mentioned. His name is Buck Ogilvy, and only this very day I received a letter from him begging me for a small loan. I have Buck on Ice in a fifth-class San Francisco hotel. Tell me about him, Bryce. Don't have to. You've just told me about him. However, I'll read you his letter. I claim there is more character in a letter than in a face. Here, Bryce read aloud. Golden Gate Hotel, rooms 50 cents and up, San Francisco, California, August 15, 1916. My dear Cartigan, hark to the voice of one crying in the wilderness, then picture to yourself the unlovely spectacle of a strong man crying. Let us assume that you have duly considered. Now wind up your wrist and send me a rectangular piece of white, blue, green, or pink paper bearing in the lower right-hand corner in your clear, bold chirography, the magic words Bryce Cartigan, with the little up and down hook and flourish which identifies your signature given in your serious moods and lends value to otherwise worthless paper. Five dollars would make me jerk up. Ten would start a slight smile. Twenty would put a beam in my eye. Fifty would cause me to utter shrill cries of unadulterated joys, and a hundred would inspire me to actions like unto those of a whirling dervish. I am so flat-busted my arches make hollow sounds as I tread the hard pavements of a great city seeking a job. Pausing on the brink of despair, that destiny which shapes our ends inspired me to think of old times and happier days, and particularly of that pink and white midget of a girl who tended the soda fountain just back of the railroad station at Princeton. You stole that damsel from me, and I never thanked you. Then I remembered you were a timber-king with a kind heart and that you lived somewhere in California. So I looked in the telephone book and found the address of the San Francisco office of the Cartigan-Ridwood Lumber Company. You have a mean man in charge there. I called on him, told him I was an old college pal of yours, and tried to borrow a dollar. He spurned me with contumely. So much of it, in fact, that I imagine you have a number of such friends. While he was abusing me, I stole from his desk the stamped envelope which bears to you these tidings of great woe. And while awaiting your reply, be advised that I subsist on the bitter cut of reflection, fresh air and water, all of which, thank God, cost nothing. My tale is soon told. When you knew me last, I was a prosperous young contractor. Alas, I put all my eggs in one basket and produced an omelet. Took a contract to build a railroad in Honduras. Honduras got to fighting with Nicaragua. The government I had done business with went out of business, and the Nicaraguan army recruited all my laborers and mounted them on my mules and horses, swiped all my grub, and told me to go home. I went. Why stay? Moreover, I had an incentive consisting of about an inch of bayonet, fortunately not applied in a vital spot, which accelerated rather than decreased my speed. Hurry, my dear cardigan! Tempest fidgets, remember Moriarty, which, if you still remember your Latin, means time flies. Remember tomorrow. I finished eating my overcoat the day before yesterday. Make it a hundred, and God will bless you. When I get it, I'll come to Sequoia and kiss you. I'll pay you back sometime, of course. Wistfully thine, Buck Ogilvy. P.S. Delays are dangerous, and procrastination is the thief of time. B. John Cardigan chuckled. I'd take Buck Ogilvy, Bryce. He'll do. Is he honest? I don't know. He was the last time I saw him. Then wire him a hundred. Don't wait for the mail. The steamer that carries your letter might be wrecked, and your friend Ogilvy forced to steal. I have already wired him the hundred. In all probability he is now out whirling like a dervish. Good boy! Well, I think we've planned sufficient for the present, Bryce. You'd better leave for San Francisco tomorrow and close your deal with Gregory. Arrange with him to leave his own representative with Ogilvy to keep tab on the job, check the bills, and pay them as they fall due. And above all things, insist that Gregory shall place the money in a San Francisco bank, subject to the joint check of his representative and ours. Hire a good lawyer to draw up the agreement between you. Be sure you're right, and then go ahead. Full speed. When you return to Sequoia, I'll have a few more points to give you. I'll mull them over in the meantime. End of Chapter 21. Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 22 of The Valley of the Giants This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline The Valley of the Giants by Peter B. Kine Chapter 22 When Bryce Cartigan walked down the gang plank at the steamship dock in San Francisco, the first face he saw among the waiting crowd was Buck Ogilvy's. Mr. Ogilvy wore his overcoat and a joyous smile, proving that in so far as he was concerned, all was well with the world. He pressed forward and thrust forth a great speckled paw for Bryce to shake. Bryce ignored it. Why, don't you remember me? Ogilvy demanded. I'm Buck Ogilvy. Bryce looked him fairly in the eye and favored him with a lightening wink. I have never heard of you, Mr. Ogilvy. You are mistaking me for someone else. Sorry, Ogilvy murmured. My mistake. Thought you were Bill Carrick, who used to be a partner of mine. I'm expecting him on this boat, and he's the speaking image of you. Bryce nodded and passed on, hailed a taxi cab, and was driven to the San Francisco office of his company. Five minutes later the door opened and Buck Ogilvy entered. I was a bit puzzled at the dock, Bryce, he explained, as they shook hands, but decided to play safe and then follow you to your office. What's up? Have you killed somebody, and are the detectives on your trail? If so, fess up and I'll assume the responsibility for your crime, just to show you how grateful I am for that hundred. No, I wasn't being shadowed, Buck, but my principal enemy was coming down the gang-plank right behind me, and— So was my principal enemy, Ogilvy interrupted. What does our enemy look like? Like ready money, and if he had seen me shaking hands with you, he'd have suspected a connection between us later on. Buck, you have a good job, about five hundred a month. Thanks, old man, I'd work for you for nothing. What are we going to do? Build twelve miles of logging railroad and parallel the line of the old wolf I spoke of a moment ago. Good news! We'll do it. How soon do you want it done? As soon as possible. You're the vice president and general manager. I accept the nomination. What do I do first? Listen carefully to my story, analyze my plan for possible weak spots, and then get busy. Because after I have provided the funds and given the word go, the rest is up to you. I must not be known in the transaction at all, because that would be fatal. And I miss my guess, if once we start building or advertising the building of the road, you and I and everybody connected with the enterprise will not be shadowed day and night by an army of Pinkerton's. I listen, said Buck Ogilvy, and he inclined a large speckled ear in Bryce's direction, the while his large speckled hand drew a scratch pad toward him. Three hours later Ogilvy was in possession of the most minute details of the situation in Sequoia, had tabulated, indexed, and cross-indexed them in his ingenious brain, and was ready for business, and so announced himself. And in as much as that hundred you sent me has been pretty well shattered, he concluded. Suppose you call in your cold-hearted manager who refused me alms on your credit, and give him orders to honor my sight-drafts. If I'm to light in Sequoia looking like ready money, I've got to have some high-class, tailor-made clothes, and a shine and a shave and a shampoo, and a trunk and a private secretary. If there was a railroad running into Sequoia, I'd insist on a private car. This final detail having been attended to, Mr. Ogilvy promptly proceeded to forget business and launched forth into a recital of his manifold adventures since leaving Princeton. And when at length all of their classmates had been accounted for, and listed as dead, married, prosperous, or properized, the amiable and highly entertaining buck took his departure with the announcement that he would look around a little and try to buy some good second-hand grading equipment and a locomotive, in addition to casting an eye over the labor situation and sending a few wires east for the purpose of sounding the market on steel rails. Always an enthusiast in all things, in his mind's eye, Mr. Ogilvy could already see a long trainload of logs coming down the northern California and Oregon railroad, as he and Bryce had decided to christen the venture. NC and O, Mr. Ogilvy murmured, sounds brisk and snappy. I like it. Hope that old Hunks Pennington likes it, too. He'll probably feel that NC and O stands for northern California outrage. When Bryce Cartigan returned to Sequoia, his labors, in so far as the building of the road were concerned, had been completed. His agreement with Gregory of the Trinidad Redwood Timber Company had been signed, sealed, and delivered. The money to build the road had been deposited in bank, and Buck Ogilvy was already spending it like a drunken sailor. From now on, Bryce could only watch, wait, and pray. On the next steamer, a surveying party with complete camping equipment arrived in Sequoia, purchased a wagon and two horses, piled their dunnage into the wagon, and disappeared up country. Hard on their heels came Mr. Buck Ogilvy, and occupied the bridal suite in the Hotel Sequoia, arrangements for which had previously been made by wire. In the sitting-room of the suite, Mr. Ogilvy installed a new desk, a filing cabinet, and a brisk young male secretary. He had been in town less than an hour when the editor of the Sequoia Sentinel sent up his card. The announcement of the incorporation of the northern California outrage, for so had Mr. Ogilvy, in huge enjoyment of the misery he was about to create, dubbed the road, had previously been flashed to the Sentinel by the United Press Association as a local feature story, and already speculation was rife in Sequoia as to the identity of the harebrained individuals who dared to back an enterprise as nebulous as the millennium. Mr. Ogilvy was expecting the visit, in fact, impatiently awaiting it, and since the easiest thing he did was to speak for publication, naturally the editor of the Sentinel got a story which, to that individual simple soul, seemed to warrant a seven-column head which it received. Having boned up on the literature of the Redwood Manufacturer's Association, what Buck Ogilvy didn't know about Redwood timber, Redwood lumber, the remaining Redwood acreage and market conditions, past and present, might have been secreted in the editorial eye without seriously hampering the editorial site. He stated that the capital behind the project was foreign, that he believed in the success of the project, and that his entire fortune was dependent upon the completion of it. In glowing terms he spoke of the billions of tons of timber products to be hauled out of this wonderfully fertile and little-known country, and confidently predicted for the county a future commercial supremacy that would be simply staggering to contemplate. When Colonel Seth Pennington read this outburst he smiled. That's a bright scheme on the part of that Trinidad Redwood Timber Company gang to start a railroad excitement and unload their white elephant, he declared. A scheme like that stuck them with their timber, and I suppose they figured there's a sucker born every minute, and that the same old gag might work again. Chances are they have a prospect in tow already. When Bryce Cardigan read it he laughed. The interview was so like Buck Ogilvy. In the morning the latter's automobile was brought up from the steamship dock, and accompanied by his secretary, Mr. Ogilvy disappeared into the north, following the bright new stakes of his surveying gang, and for three weeks was seen no more. As for Bryce Cardigan that young man buckled down to business, and whenever questioned about the new railroad was careful to hoot at the idea. On a day when Bryce's mind happened to be occupied with thoughts of Shirley Sumner he bumped into her on the main street of Sequoia, and to her great relief, but profound surprise he paused in his tracks, lifted his hat, smiled, and opened his mouth to say something. Thought better of it, changed his mind, and continued on about his business. As Shirley passed him she looked him squarely in the face, and in her glance there was neither coldness nor malice. Bryce felt himself afire from heels to hair one instant, and cold and clammy the next, for Shirley spoke to him. Good morning, Mr. Cardigan. He paused, turned, and approached her. Good morning, Shirley, he replied. How have you been? I might have been dead for all the interest you took in me, she replied sharply. As matters stand, I'm exceedingly well, thank you. By the way, are you still belligerent? He nodded. I have to be. Still peeved at my uncle? Again he nodded. I think you're a great big grouch, Bryce Cardigan, she flared at him suddenly. You make me unutterably weary. I'm sorry, he answered, but just at present I am forced to subject you to the strain. Say a year from now, when things are different with me, I'll strive not to offend. I'll not be here a year from now, she warned him. He bowed. Then I'll go wherever you are and bring you back. And with a mocking little grin he lifted his hat and passed on. End of chapter 22, recording by Roger Maline