 CHAPTER XIV Colonel Seth Pennington looked up sourly as a clerk entered his private office. Well, he demanded brusquely. When addressing his employees, the Colonel seldom bothered to assume his pontifical manner. Mr. Bryce Cartigan is waiting to see you, sir. Very well, show him in. Bryce entered. Good morning, Colonel. He said pleasantly and brazenly thrust out his hand. Not for me, my boy, the Colonel assured him. I had enough of that last night. We'll just consider the handshaking all attended to, if you please. Have a chair, sit down, and tell me what I can do to make you happy. I'm delighted to find you in such a generous frame of mind, Colonel. You can make me genuinely happy by renewing, for ten years on the same terms as the original contract, your arrangement to freight the logs of the Cartigan Redwood Lumber Company from the woods to Tidewater. Colonel Pennington cleared his throat with a propitiatory ahem. Then he removed his gold spectacles and carefully wiped them with a silk handkerchief, as carefully replaced them upon his aristocratic nose, and then gazed curiously at Bryce. Upon my soul, he breathed. I realized, of course, that this is reopening an issue which you have been pleased to regard as having been settled in the last letter my father had from you, and wherein you named terms that were absolutely prohibitive. My dear young friend, my very dear young friend, I must protest at being asked to discuss this matter. Your father and I have been over it in detail. We fail to agree, and that settles it. As a matter of fact, I am not in position to handle your logs with my limited rolling stock. And that old hauling contract which I took over when I bought the mills, timberlands, and logging railroad from the late Mr. Henderson, and incorporated into the Laguna Grande Lumber Company, has been an embarrassment I have longed to rid myself of. Under those circumstances you could scarcely expect me to saddle myself with it again at your mere request, and solely to oblige you. I did not expect you to agree to my request. I am not quite that optimistic, Bryce replied evenly. Then why did you ask me? I thought that possibly, if I reopened negotiations, you might have a reasonable counter-proposal to suggest. I haven't thought of any. I suppose if I agreed to sell you that quarter-section of timber in the little valley over Yonder, he pointed to the east, and the natural outlet for your Squaw Creek timber, you'd quickly think of one, Bryce suggested pointedly. No, I'm not in the market for that valley of the giants, as your idealistic father prefers to call it. Once I would have purchased it for double its value, but at present I am not interested. Nevertheless it would be an advantage for you to possess it. My dear boy, the possession of that big timber is an advantage I expect to enjoy before I acquire any more gray hairs. But I do not expect to pay for it. Do you expect me to offer it to you as a bonus for renewing our hauling contract? The Colonel snapped his fingers. By George, he declared, that's a bright idea. And a few months ago I would have been inclined to consider it very seriously. But now? You figure you've got us winging, huh? Bryce was smiling pleasantly. I'm making no admissions. Pennington responded enigmatically. No are any hauling contracts for my neighbor's logs, he added. You may change your mind. Never. I suppose I'll have to abandon logging in Township Nine and go back to the Sanhedrin, Bryce sighed resignantly. If you do, you'll go broke. You can't afford it. You can't afford it. You're on the verge of insolvency this minute. I suppose, since you declined to haul our logs, after the expiration of our present contract, and in view of the fact that we are not financially able to build our own logging railroad, that the wisest course my father and I could pursue would be to sell our timber in Township Nine to you. It adjoins your holdings in the same Township. I had a notion the situation would begin to dawn upon you. The Colonel was smiling now. His handsome face was gradually assuming the expression pontifical. I'll give you a dollar a thousand feet stumpage for it. On whose cruise? Oh, my own cruisers will estimate it. I'm afraid I can't accept that offer. We paid a dollar and a half for it, you know, and if we sold it to you at a dollar, the sale would not bring us sufficient money to take up our bonded indebtedness. We'd only have the Sanhedrin timber and the Valley of the Giants left, and since we cannot log either of these at present, naturally, we'd be out of business. That's the way I figured it, my boy. Well, we're not going out of business. Pardon me for disagreeing with you. I think you are. Not much. We can't afford it. The Colonel smiled, benignantly. My dear boy, my very dear young friend, listen to me. Your paternal ancestor is the only human being who has ever succeeded in making a perfect monkey of me. When I wanted to purchase from him a right of way through his absurd Valley of the Giants, in order that I might log my Squaw Creek timber, he refused me. And to add insult to injury, he spouted a lot of rot about his big trees, how much they meant to him, and the utter artistic horror of running a logging train through the Grove, particularly since he planned to bequeath it to Sequoia as a public park. He expects the city to grow up to it during the next 20 years, my boy, that was the first bad break your father made. His second break was his refusal to sell me a mill site. He was the first man in this county, and he had been shrewd enough to hog all the waterfront real estate and hold on to it. I remember he called himself a progressive citizen, and when I asked him why he was so assiduously blocking the wheels of progress, he replied that the railroad was the only site. He replied that the railroad would build in from the south some day, but that when it did, its builders would have to be assured of terminal facilities on Humboldt Bay. By holding intact the spot where rail and water are bound to meet, he told me, I ensure the terminal on Tidewater which the railroad must have before consenting to build. But if I sell it to Tom, Dick, and Harry, they will be certain to gouge the railroad when the latter tries to buy it from them. They may scare the railroad away. Naturally, Bryce replied, the average human being is a hog and merciless when he has the upper hand. He figures that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. My father, on the contrary, has always planned for the future. He didn't want that railroad blocked by land speculators and its building delayed. The country needed rail connection with the outside world, and moreover, his Sanhedrin timber isn't worth a hoot until that feeder to a transcontinental road shall be built to tap it. But he sold Bill Henderson the mill site on Tidewater that he refused to sell me. And later I had to pay Henderson's heirs a whopping price for it, and I haven't half the land I need. But he needed Henderson then. They had a deal on together. You must remember, Colonel, that while Bill Henderson held that Squaw Creek timber he later sold you, my father would never sell him a mill site. Can't you see the sporting point of view involved? My father and Bill Henderson were good-natured rivals. For thirty years they had tried to out game each other on that Squaw Creek timber. Henderson thought he could force my father to buy at a certain price, and my father thought he could force Henderson to sell at a lesser price. They were perfectly frank about it with each other and held no grudges. Of course, after you bought Henderson out, you foolishly took over his job of trying to out game my father. That's why you bought Henderson out, isn't it? You had a vision of my father's paying you a nice profit on your investment. But he fooled you, and now you're peeved and won't play. Bryce hitched his chair farther toward the Colonel. Why shouldn't my dad be nice to Bill Henderson after the feud ended, he continued. They could play the game together then, and they did. Colonel, why can't you be as sporty as Henderson and my father? They fought each other, but they fought fairly and in the open, and they never lost the respect and liking each had for the other. I will not renew your logging contract. That is final, young man. No man can ride me with spurs and get away with it. Oh, I knew that yesterday. Then why have you called on me today, taking up my time on a dead issue? I wanted to give you one final chance to repent. I know your plan. You have it in your power to smash the Cardigan Redwood Lumber Company, acquire it at fifty percent of its value, and merge its assets with your Laguna Grande Lumber Company. You are an ambitious man. You want to be the greatest Redwood manufacturer in California, and in order to achieve your ambitions, you are willing to ruin a competitor. You decline to play the game like a thoroughbred. I play the game of business according to the rules of the game. I do nothing illegal, sir. And nothing generous or chivalrous. Colonel, you know your plea of a shortage of rolling stock is that the contract for hauling our logs has been very profitable and will be more profitable in the future. If you will accept a fifty cent per thousand increase on the freight rate and renew the contract for ten years. Nothing doing, young man. Remember, you are not in a position to ask favors. Then I suppose we'll have to go down fighting? I do not anticipate much of a fight. You'll get as much as I can give you. I'm not at all apprehensive. And I'll begin by running your woods-boss out of the country. Ah! You know why, of course, those burl panels in your dining room. Rondo fell to tree in our valley of the giants to get that burl for you, Colonel Pennington. Pennington flushed. I defy you to prove that," he almost shouted. Very well. I'll make Rondo confess. Perhaps he'll even tell me who sent him after the burl. Upon my word I think you inspired that dastardly raid. At any rate I know Rondo is guilty, and you, as his employer and the beneficiary of his crime, must accept the odium. The Colonel's face went white. I do not admit anything except that you appear to have lost your head, young man. However, for the sake of argument, granting that Rondo felled that tree, he did it under the apprehension that your valley of the giants is a part of my Squaw Creek timber adjoining. I do not believe that. There was malice in the act, brutality even. For my mother's grave identified the land as ours, and Rondo fell to the tree on her tombstone. If that is so, and Rondo fell to that tree, I do not believe he did. I am sincerely sorry, Cartigan. Name your price, and I will pay you for the tree. I do not desire any trouble to develop over this affair. You can't pay for that tree, Bryce burst forth. No pitiful human being can pay in dollars and cents for the wanton destruction of God's handiwork. You wanted that burl, and when my father was blind and could no longer make his Sunday pilgrimage up to that grove, your woods-boss went up and stole that which you knew you could not buy. That will be about all from you, young man. Get out of my office. And, by the way, forget that you have met my niece. It's your office, so I'll get out. As for your second command—he snapped his fingers in Pennington's face—fui! When Bryce had gone, the Colonel hurriedly called his logging camp on the telephone and asked for Jules Rondeau, only to be informed by the timekeeper who answered the telephone that Rondeau was up in the green timber with the choppers and could not be gotten to the telephone in less than two hours. Do not send for him, then, Pennington commanded. I'm coming up on the eleven-fifteen train and we'll talk to him when he comes in for his lunch. At eleven o'clock, and just as the Colonel was leaving to board the eleven-fifteen logging train, bound empty for the woods, Shirley Sumner made her appearance in his office. Uncle Seth, she complained. I'm lonesome. The bookkeeper tells me you're going up to the logging camp. May I go with you? By all means. Usually I ride in the cab with the engineer and fireman, but if you're coming, I'll have them hook on the caboose. Step lively, my dear, or they'll be holding the train for us and upsetting our schedule. By virtue of their logging contract with Pennington, the Cardigans and their employees were transported free over Pennington's logging railroad. Hence, when Bryce Cardigan resolved to wait upon Jules Rondeau in the matter of that murdered giant, it was characteristic of him to choose the shortest and most direct route to his quarry. And as the long string of empty logging trucks came crawling off the Laguna Grande Lumber Company's log dump, he swung over the side, quite ignorant of the fact that Shirley and her precious relative were riding in the little caboose in the rear. At twelve-ten, the train slid in on the log landing of the Laguna Grande Lumber Company's main camp, and Bryce dropped off and approached the engineer of the little donkey engine used for loading the logs. Where's Rondeau? he asked. The engineer pointed to a huge, swarthy man approaching across the clearing in which the camp was situated. That's him, he replied. And without further ado, Bryce strode to meet his man. Are you Jules Rondeau? he demanded as he came up to the woods-boss. The latter nodded. I'm Bryce Cartigan, his interrogator announced, and I'm here to thrash you for chopping that big redwood tree over in that little valley where my mother is buried. Oh, Rondeau smiled. It's pleasure, monsieur. And without a moment's hesitation he rushed. Bryce backed away from him warily, and they circled. When I get through with you, Rondeau, Bryce said distinctly, it'll take a good man to lead you to your meals. This country isn't big enough for both of us, and since you came here last you've got to go first. Bryce stepped in, fainted for Rondeau's jaw with his right, and when the woods-boss quickly covered, ripped a sizzling left into the latter's mid-drift. Rondeau grunted and dropped his guard, with the result that Bryce's great fists played a devil's tattoo on his countenance before he could crouch and cover. This is a tough one, thought Bryce. His blows had not apparently had the slightest effect on the woods-boss. Crouched low, and with his arms wrapped around his head, Rondeau still came on, unfalteringly, and Bryce was forced to give way before him. To save his hand he avoided the risk of battering Rondeau's hard head and sinewy arms. Already word that the woods-boss was battling with a stranger had been shouted into the camp dining-room, and the entire crew of that camp, abandoning their half-finished meal, came pouring forth to view the contest. Out of the tail of his eye Bryce saw them coming, but he was not apprehensive, for he knew the code of the woodsman. Let every man roll his own hoop. It would be a fight to a finish, for no man would interfere. Striking, kicking, gouging, biting, or choking would not be looked upon as unsportsmanlike. And as Bryce backed cautiously away from the huge, lithe, active, and powerful man before him, he realized that Jewel Rondeau was, as his father had stated, top dog among the lumberjacks. Rondeau, it was apparent, had no stomach for Bryce's style of combat. He wanted a rough-and-tumble fight and kept rushing, hoping to clench. If he could but get his great hands on Bryce, he would wrestle him down, climb him, and finish the fight in jig time. But a rough-and-tumble was exactly what Bryce was striving to avoid. Hence, when Rondeau rushed, Bryce sidestepped and peppered the woodsman's ribs. But the woods crew, which by now was ringed around them, began to voice disapproval of this style of battle. Clench with him, dancing master, a voice roared. Tie into him, Rondeau, another shouted. It's a fair match, cried another. And the red one picked on the main push. He was looking for a fight, and he ought to get it. But these fancy fights don't suit me. Flop him, stranger. Flop him. Rondeau can't catch him, a fourth man jeered. He's a foot racer, not a fighter. Suddenly, two powerful hands were placed between Bryce's shoulders, effectually halting his backward progress. Then he was propelled violently forward until he collided with Rondeau. With a bellow of triumph, the woods boss's guerrilla-like arms were around Bryce, swinging him until he faced the man who had forced him into that terrible grip. This was no less a personage than Colonel Seth Pennington. And it was obvious he had taken charge of what he considered the obsequies. Stand back, you men, and give them room, he shouted. Rondeau will take care of him now. Stand back, I say. I'll discharge the man that interferes. With a heave and a grunt, Rondeau lifted his antagonist, and the pair went crashing to the earth together, Bryce, underneath. And then something happened. With a howl of pain, Rondeau rolled over on his back and lay clasping his left wrist in his right hand, while Bryce scrambled to his feet. The good old wristlock does the trick, he announced, and stooping, he grasped the woods boss by the collar with his left hand, lifted him, and struck him a terrible blow in the face with his right. But for the arm that upheld him, Rondeau would have fallen. To have him fall, however, was not part of Bryce's plan. Jerking the fellow toward him, he passed his arm around Rondeau's neck, holding the latter's head as in a vice with the crook of his elbow. And then the battering started. When it was finished, Bryce let his man go, and Rondeau, bloody, sobbing, and semi-conscious, sprawled on the ground. Bryce bent over him. Now, damn you, he roared, who felled that tree in Cardigan's red woods? I did, monsieur. Enough. I confess, the words were a whisper. Did Colonel Pennington suggest it to you? He wants the burl. By God, I don't want to fells that tree. That's all I want to know. Stooping, Bryce seized Rondeau by the nape of the neck and the slack of his overalls, lifted him shoulder high and threw him, as one throws a sack of meal, full at Colonel Pennington. You threw me at him? Now I throw him at you. You damned, thieving, greedy, hypocritical scoundrel. If it weren't for your years and your years, you would have killed me. I'd killed you. The helpless hulk of the woods-boss descended upon the Colonel's expansive chest and sent him crashing earthward. Then Bryce, warm-ad, turned to face the ring of Laguna Grande employees about him. Next, he roared, singly in pairs the whole damn pack. Mr. Cardigan! He turned. Colonel Pennington's breath had been knocked out of his body by the impact of his semi-conscious woods-boss, and he lay inert, gasping like a hooked fish. Beside him, Shirley Sumner was kneeling, her hands clasping her uncles, but with her violet eyes blazing fiercely on Bryce Cardigan. How dare you, she cried, you coward, to hurt my uncle! He gazed at her a moment, fiercely, defiantly, his chest rising and falling from his recent exertions, his knotted fists gory with the blood of his enemy. Then the light of battle died, and he hung his head. I'm sorry, he murmured, not for his sake, but yours. I didn't know you were here. I forgot myself. I'll never speak to you again so long as I live, she burst out passionately. He advanced a step and stood gazing down upon her. Her angry glance met his unflinchingly, and presently for him the light went out of the world. Very well, he murmured. Good-bye. And with bowed head he turned and made off through the green timber toward his own logging-camp five miles distant. End of Chapter 15. Recording by Roger Maline. Chapter 16 of The Valley of the Giant. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline. The Valley of the Giant. By Peter B. Kine. Chapter 16. With the descent upon his breast of the limp body of his big woods-bully, Colonel Pennington had been struck to earth as effectively as if a fair-sized tree had fallen on him. Indeed, with such force did his proud head collide with terra firma, and the tree had fallen on him. He twisted his proud head collide with terra firma, that had it not been for the soft cushion of ferns and tidy redwood twigs, his neck must have been broken by the shock. To complete his withdrawal from active service, the last whiff of breath had been driven from his lungs. And for the space of a minute during which Jules Rondeau lay heavily across his mid-drift, the Colonel was quite unable to get it back. Pale, gasping, and jarred from soul to suspenders, he was merely aware that something unexpected and disconcerting had occurred. While the Colonel fought for his breath, his woodsmen remained in the offing, paralyzed into inactivity by reason of the swiftness and thoroughness of Bryce Cardigan's work. Then surely motioned to them to remove the wreckage, and they hastened to obey. Freed from the weight on the geometric center of his being, Colonel Pennington stretched his legs, rolled his head from side to side, and snorted violently several times like a buck. After the sixth snort he felt so much better that a clear understanding of the exact nature of the catastrophe came to him. He struggled and sat up, looking around a little wildly. Where did Cardigan go? he gasped. One of his men pointed to the timber into which the enemy had just disappeared. Surround him, take him, Pennington ordered. I'll give a month's pay to each of the six men that bring that scoundrel to me. Get him, quickly, understand? Not a man moved. Pennington shook with fury. Get him, he croaked. There are enough of you to do the job. Close in on him, everybody. I'll give a month's pay to everybody. A man of that indiscriminate mixture of Spaniard and Indian, known in California as Cholo, swept the circle of men with an alert and knowing glance. His name was Flavio Aterlan, but his straight black hair, dark russet complexion, beady eyes, and hawk nose gave him such a resemblance to a fowl that he was known among his fellows as the Black Menorca, regardless of the fact that this sobriquet was scarcely fair to a very excellent breed of chicken. That offers good enough for me, he remarked in business like tones. Come on, everybody. A month's pay for five minutes' work. I wouldn't tackle the job with six men, but there are twenty of us here. Hurry! the colonel urged them. Shirley Sumner's flashing glance rested upon the Black Menorca. Don't you dare! she cried. Twenty to one, for shame! For a month's pay, he replied impudently, and grinned evilly. And I'm taking orders from my boss. He started on a dog-trot for the timber, and a dozen men trailed after him. Shirley turned helplessly on her uncle, seized his arm, and shook it frantically. Call them back! Call them back! she pleaded. Her uncle got, uncertainly, to his feet. Not on your life, he growled, and in his cold gray eyes there danced the lights of a thousand devils. I told you the fellow was a ruffian. Now perhaps you'll believe me. We'll hold him until Rondo revives, and then Shirley guessed the rest, and she realized that it was useless to plead that she was only wasting time. Brace! Brace! she called. Run! they're after you! Twenty of them! Run! run! for my sake! His voice answered her from the timber. Run! from those cattle? Not from man or devil? A silence. Then. So you've changed your mind, have you? You've spoken to me again. There was triumph, exultation in his voice. The timber's too thick, Shirley. I couldn't get away, anyhow, so I'm coming back. She saw him burst through a thicket of alder saplings into the clearing, saw a half a dozen of her uncle's men close in around him, like wolves around a sick steer, and at the shock of their contact she moaned and hit her face in her trembling hands. Half-man and half-tiger that he was, the Black Menorca, as self-appointed leader, reached Brace first. The cholo was a squat-powerful little man, with more bounce to him than a rubber ball. Leading his men by a dozen yards, he hesitated not an instant, but dodged under the blow Brace lashed out at him and came up inside the latter's guard, feeling for Brace's throat. Instead he met Brace's knee in his abdomen, and forthwith he folded up like an accordion. The next instant Brace had stooped, caught him by the slack of the trousers and the scruff of the neck, and thrown him, as he had thrown Rondo, into the midst of the men advancing to his aid. Three of them went down backward, and Brace, charging over them, stretched two more with well-placed blows from left and right, and continued on across the clearing, running at top speed, for he realized that for all the desperation of his fight and the losses already inflicted on his assailants, the odds against him were insurmountable. Seeing him running away, the Laguna Grande woodsman took heart and hope and pursued him. Straight for the loading donkey at the log landing, Brace ran. Beside the donkey stood a neat tear of firewood. In the chopping block, where the donkey-fireman had driven it, prior to abandoning his post to view the contest between Brace and Jules Rondo, was a double-bitted axe. Brace jerked it loose, swung it, whirled on his pursuers, and rushed them. Like turkeys scattering before the raid of a coyote, they fled in diverse directions and from a safe distance turned to gaze apprehensively upon this demon they had been ordered to bring in. Brace lowered the axe, removed his hat, and mopped his moist brow. From the center of the clearing men were crawling or staggering to safety, with the exception of the Black Menorca who lay moaning softly. Colonel Pennington, seeing his fondest hopes expire, lost his head completely. Get off my property, you savage, he shrilled. Don't be a nut, Colonel, Brace returned soothingly. I'll get off when I get good and ready, and not a second sooner. In fact, I was trying to get off as rapidly as I could when you sent your men to bring me back. Prithee! Why, old thing? Didst crave more conversation with me, or didst want thy camp cleaned out? He started toward Pennington, who backed hastily away. Shirley stood her ground, bending upon Brace as he approached her, a cold and disapproving glance. I'll get you yet, the Colonel declared from the shelter of an old stump behind which he had taken refuge. Barking dogs never bite, Colonel, and that reminds me, I've heard enough from you. One more cheap out of you, my friend, and I'll go up to my own logging-camp, return here with a crew of blue-noses and wild Irish, and run your wops, bull hunks, and cholos out of the county. I don't fancy the class of labour you're importing into this county, anyhow. The Colonel, evidently deciding that discretion was the better part of Valor, promptly subsided, although Brace could see that he was mumbling threats to himself, though not in an audible voice. The demon cardigan halted beside Shirley and stood gazing down at her. He was smiling at her whimsically. She met his glance for a few seconds. Then her lids were lowered, and she began to look at her bitter lip with fixation. Shirley, he said. You are presumptuous, she quavered. You set me an example in presumption, he retorted, good-humoredly. Did you not call me by my first name a minute ago? He glanced toward Colonel Pennington and observed the ladder with his neck craned across his protecting stump. He was all ears. Brace pointed sternly across the clearing, and the Colonel promptly abandoned his refuge and retreated hastily in the direction indicated. The heir to Cardigan's Redwoods bent over the girl. You spoke to me after your promise not too surely, he said gently. You will always speak to me. She commenced to cry softly. I loathe you, she sobbed. For you I have the utmost respect and admiration, he replied. No, you haven't. If you had, you wouldn't hurt my uncle, the only human being in all the world who is dear to me. Gosh, he murmured plaintively. I'm jealous of that man. However, I'm sorry I hurt him. He is no longer young, while I—well, I forgot the chivalry my daddy taught me. I give you my word, I came here to fight fairly. He merely tried to stop you from fighting. No, he didn't, surely. He interfered and fouled me. Still, despite that, if I had known you were a spectator, I think I should have controlled myself and refrained from pulling off my vengeance in your presence. I shall never cease to regret that I subjected you to such a distressing spectacle. I do hope, however, that you will believe me when I tell you I am not a bully, although, when there is a fight worth while, I never dodge it, and this time I fought for the honor of the House of Cartigan. If you want me to believe that, you will beg my uncle's pardon. I can't do that. I can't do that. He is my enemy, and I shall hate him forever. I shall fight him and his way of doing business until he reforms, or I am exhausted. She looked up at him, showing a face in which resentment, outrage, and wistfulness were mirrored. You realize, of course, what your insistence on that plan means, Mr. Cartigan? Call me Bryce, he pleaded. You're going to call me that some day anyhow, so why not start now? You are altogether insufferable, sir. Please, go away, and never presume to address me again. You are quite impossible. He shook his head. I do not give up that readily, surely. I didn't know how dear what your friendship meant to me, until you sent me away. I didn't think there was any hope until you warned me those dogs were hunting me and called me Bryce. He held out his hand. God gave us our relations, he quoted, but thank God we can choose our friends. And I'll be a good friend to you, surely some day, until I have earned the right to be something more. Won't you shake hands with me? Remember, this fight today is only the first skirmish in a war to the finish, and I am leading a forlorn hope. If I lose, well, this will be good-bye. I hate you, she answered drearily. All our fine friendship smashed, and you growing stupidly sentimental. I didn't think it of you. Please go away, you are distressing me. He smiled at her tenderly, forgivingly, wistfully, but she did not see it. Then it is really good-bye, he murmured with mock dolerousness. She nodded her bowed head. Yes, she whispered. After all, I have some pride, you know. You mustn't presume to be the butterfly preaching contentment to the toad in the dust. As you will it, Shirley. He turned away. I'll send your axe back with the first trainload of logs from my camp, Colonel," he called to Pennington. Once more he strode away into the timber. Shirley watched him pass out of her life, and gloried in what she conceived to be his agony, for she had both temper and spirit, and Bryce Cartigan, calmly, blunderingly, rather stupidly, as she thought, had presumed flagrantly on brief acquaintance. Her uncle was right. He was not of their kind of people, and it was well she had discovered this before permitting herself to develop a livelier feeling of friendship for him. It was true he possessed certain manly virtues, but his crudities by far outweighed these. The Colonel's voice broke in upon her bitter reflections. That fellow Cartigan is a hard nut to crack. I'll say that for him. He had crossed the clearing to her side, and was addressing her with his customary air of expansiveness. I think, my dear, you'd better go back into the caboose, away from the prying eyes of these rough fellows. I'm sorry you came, Shirley. I'll never forgive myself for bringing you. If I had thought, but how could I know that scoundrel was coming here to raise a disturbance? And only last night he was at our house for dinner. That's just what makes it so terrible, Uncle Seth, she quavered. It is hard to believe that a man of young Cartigan's evident intelligence and advantages could be such a bore, Shirley. However, I, for one, am not surprised. You will recall that I warned you he might be his father's son. The best course to pursue now is to forget that you have ever met the fellow. I wonder what could have occurred to make such a madman of him, the girl queried wonderingly. He acted more like a demon than a human being. Just like his old father, the Colonel purred benevolently. When he can't get what he wants, he sulks. I'll tell you what got in these confounded nerves. I've been freighting logs for the senior Cartigan over my railroad. The contract for hauling them was a heritage from old Bill Henderson, from whom I bought the mill in Timberlands. And of course, as his assignee, it was incumbent upon me to fulfill Henderson's contract with Cartigan, even though the freight rate was ruinous. Well, this morning, young Cartigan came to my office, reminded me that the contract would expire by limitation next year, and asked me to renew it. And at the same freight rate. I offered to renew the contract, but at a higher freight rate, and explained to him that I could not possibly continue to haul his logs at a loss. Well, right away he flew into a rage and called me a robber. Whereupon I informed him that since he thought me a robber, perhaps we had better not attempt to have any business dealings with each other. That I really didn't want his contract at any price, having scarcely sufficient rolling stock to handle my own logs. That made him calm down. But in a little while he lost his head again and grew snarly and abusive, to such an extent, indeed, that finally I was forced to ask him to leave my office. Nevertheless, Uncle Seth, I cannot understand why he should make such a furious attack upon your employee. The Colonel laughed with a fair imitation of sincerity and tolerant amusement. My dear, that is no mystery to me. There are men who, finding it impossible or inadvisable to make a physical attack upon their enemy, find ample satisfaction in poisoning his favorite dog, burning his house, or beating up one of his faithful employees. Cardigan picked on Rondo for the reason that a few days ago he tried to hire Rondo away from me, offered him $25 a month more than I was paying him by George. Of course, when Rondo came to me with Cardigan's proposition, I promptly met Cardigan's bid and retained Rondo. Consequently, Cardigan hates us both, and took the earliest opportunity to vent his spite on us. The Colonel sighed and brushed the dirt and leaves from his tweeds. Thunder, he continued philosophically. It's all in the game, so why worry over it? And why continue to discuss an unpleasant topic, my dear? A groan from the Black Menorca challenged her attention. I think that man has badly heard, uncle, she suggested. Serves him right, he returned coldly. He tackled that cyclone full twenty feet in advance of the others. If they had all closed in together, they would have pulled them down. I'll have that cholo and Rondo sent down with the next train load of logs to the company hospital. They're a poor lot and deserve manhandling. They paused, facing toward the timber from which came a voice, powerful, sweetly resonant, raised in song. Shirley knew that half-trained baritone, for she had heard at the night before, when Bryce Cardigan, faking his own accompaniment at the piano, had sung for her a number of carefully expurgated lumberjack ballads, the lunatic humor of which had delighted her exceedingly. She marveled now at his choice of minstrelsy, for the melody was hauntingly plaintive, the words Eugene Field's poem of childhood, Little Boy Blue. The little toy dog is covered with dust, but sturdy and staunch he stands, and the little toy soldier is red with rust, and his musket molds in his hands. Time was when the little toy dog was new, and the soldier was passing fair, and that was the time when our Little Boy Blue kissed them and put them there. Lighthearted devil, isn't he? the Colonel commented approvingly. And his voice isn't half bad. Just singing to be defiant, I suppose. Shirley did not answer. But a few minutes previously she had seen the singer a raging fury, brandishing in acts and driving men before him. She could not understand, and presently the song grew faint among the timber and died away entirely. Her uncle took her gently by the arm and steered her toward the caboose. Well, what do you think of your company now? he demanded gaily. I think, she answered soberly, that you have gained an enemy worthwhile, and that it behooves you not to underestimate him. End of Chapter 16. Recording by Roger Maline. Chapter 17 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 17. Through the green timber Bryce Cardigan strode, and there was a lilt in his heart now. Already he had forgotten the desperate situation from which he had just escaped. He thought only of Shirley Sumner's face, tear stained with terror. And because he knew that at least some of those tears had been inspired by the gravest apprehensions, as to his physical well-being, because in his ears there still resounded her frantic warning, he realized that however stern her decree of banishment had been, she was nevertheless not indifferent to him. And it was this knowledge that had thrilled him into song, and which when his song was done, had brought to his firm mouth a mobility that presaged his old whimsical smile, to his brown eyes a beaming light of confidence and pride. The climax had been reached, and passed. And the result had been far from the disaster he had painted in his mind's eye, ever since the knowledge had come to him, that he was doomed to battle to a knockout with Colonel Pennington, and that one of the earliest fruits of hostilities would doubtless be the loss of Shirley Sumner's prized friendship. Well, he had lost her friendship. But a still small voice whispered to him that the loss was not irreparable, where at he swung his axe as a bandmaster swings his baton. He was glad that he had started the war, and was now free to fight it out, unhampered. Up hill and down dale he went. Because of the tremendous trees he could not see the sun, yet with the instinct of the woodsmen, an instinct as infallible as that of a homing pigeon, he was not puzzled as to direction. Within two hours his long tireless stride brought him out into a clearing in the valley where his own logging camp stood. He went directly to the log landing, where in a listless and half-hearted manner the loading crew were piling logs on Pennington's logging trucks. Bryce looked at his watch. It was two o'clock. At two-fifteen Pennington's locomotive would appear to back in and couple to the long line of trucks, and the train was only half-loaded. Where is MacTavish? Bryce demanded of the donkey driver. The man mouthed his quid, spat copiously, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and pointed. Up at his shanty he made answer and grinned at Bryce knowingly. Up through the camp's single short street flanked on each side with the woodsmen's shanties Bryce went. Dogs barked at him, for he was a stranger in his own camp. Children, playing in the dust, gazed upon him owlishly. At the most pretentious shanty on the street Bryce turned in. He had never seen it before, but he knew it to be the woods boss's home, for unlike its neighbors the house was painted with the coarse red paint that is used on boxcars, while a fence made of fancy pointed pickets painted white enclosed a tiny garden in front of the house. As Bryce came through the gate a young girl rose from where she knelt in a bed of freshly transplanted pansies. Bryce lifted his hat. Is Mr. McTavish at home? he asked. She nodded. He cannot see anybody, she hastened to add. He's sick. I think he'll see me. And I wonder if you're Moira, McTavish? Yes, I'm Moira. I'm Bryce Cartigan. A look of fright crept into the girl's eyes. Are you Bryce Cartigan? She faltered and looked at him more closely. Yes, you're Mr. Bryce. You've changed, but then it's been six years since we last saw you, Mr. Bryce. He came toward her with outstretched hand. And you were a little girl when I saw you last. Now you're a woman. She grasped his hand with the frank heartiness of a man. I'm mighty glad to meet you again, Moira. I just guessed who you were, for of course I should never have recognized you. When I saw you last, you wore your hair in a braid down your back. I'm twenty years old, she informed him. Stand right where you are until I've looked at you. He commanded and backed off a few feet, the better to contemplate her. He saw a girl slightly above medium height, tanned, robust, simply gowned in a gingham dress. Her hands were soiled from her recent labors in the pansy bed, and her shoes were heavy and coarse. Yet neither hands nor feet were large or ungraceful. Her head was well formed. Her hair, jet black and of unusual luster and abundance, was parted in the middle and held in an old-fashioned coil at the nape of a neck, the beauty of which was revealed by the low cut of her simple frock. Moira was a decided brunette, with that wonderful quality of skin to be seen only among brunettes who have roses in their cheeks. Her brow was broad and spiritual. In her eyes, large, black and listrous, there was a brooding tenderness not untouched with sorrow. Some such expression, indeed, as Da Vinci put in the eyes of his Mona Lisa. Her nose was patrician, her face oval. Her lips, full and red, were slightly parted in the adorable cupid's bow, which is the inevitable heritage of a short upper lip. Her teeth were white as perian marble, and her full breast was rising and falling swiftly as if she labored under suppressed excitement. So delightful a picture did Moira MacTavish make that Bryce forgot all his troubles in her sweet presence. By the gods, Moira, he declared earnestly, you're a peach. When I saw you last, you were awkward and leggy like a colt. I'm sure you weren't a bit good-looking. And now you're the most ravishing young lady in seventeen counties. By Jingo, Moira, you're a stunner and no mistake. Are you married? She shook her head, blushing pleasurably at his unpolished but sincere compliments. What, not married? Why, what the deuce can be the matter with the eligible young fellows hereabouts? There aren't any eligible young fellows hereabouts, Mr. Bryce, and I've lived in these woods all my life. That's why you haven't been discovered. And I don't intend to marry a lumberjack and continue to live in these woods, she went on earnestly, as if she found pleasure in this opportunity to announce her rebellion. Despite her defiance, however, there was a note of sad resignation in her voice. You don't know a thing about it, Moira. Some bright day your Prince Charming will come by riding the log train, and after that it will always be autumn in the woods for you. Everything will just naturally turn to crimson and gold. How do you know, Mr. Bryce? He laughed. I read about it in a book. I prefer spring in the woods, I think. It seems—it's so foolish of me, I know. I ought to be contented, but it's hard to be contented when it is always winter in one's heart. That freeze of timber on the skyline limits my world, Mr. Bryce. Hills and timber, timber and hills, and the thunder of falling redwoods. And when the trees have been logged off, so we can see the world, we move back into green timber again. She sighed. Are you lonely, Moira? She nodded. Poor Moira, he murmured absently. The thought that he so readily understood touched her. A glint of tears was in her sad eyes. He saw them and placed his arm fraternally around her shoulders. Ta-ta, Moira, don't cry, he soothed her. I understand perfectly, and, of course, we'll have to do something about it. You're too fine for this. With the sweep of his hand he indicated the camp. He had led her to the low stoop in front of the shanty. Sit down on the steps, Moira, and we'll talk it over. I really called to see your father, but I guess I don't want to see him after all, if he's sick. She looked at him bravely. I didn't know you at first, Mr. Bryce. I fibbed. Father isn't sick. He's drunk. I thought so when I saw the loading crew taking it easy at the log landing. I'm terribly sorry. I loathe it, and I cannot leave it, she burst out vehemently. I'm chained to my degradation. I dream dreams, and they'll never come true. I—oh, Mr. Bryce, Mr. Bryce, I'm so unhappy. So am I, he retorted. We all get our dose of it, you know, and just at present I'm having an extra helping, it seems. You're cursed with too much imagination, Moira. I'm sorry about your father. He's been with us a long time, and my father has borne a lot from him for old times' sake. He told me the other night that he has discharged Mack fourteen times during the past ten years. But to date he hasn't been able to make it stick. For all his sixty years, Moira, your confounded parent can still manhandle any man on the payroll. And as fast as Dad put in a new woods-boss, old Mack drove him off the job. He simply declines to be fired, and Dad's worn out and too tired to bother about his old woods-boss any more. He's been waiting until I should get back. I know, said Moira, wearily. Nobody wants to be Cardigan's woods-boss and have to fight my father to hold his job. I realize what a nuisance he has become. Bryce chuckled. I asked father why he didn't stand pat and let Mack work for nothing. Having discharged him, my father was under no obligation to give him his salary just because he insisted on being woods-boss. Dad might have starved your father out of these woods. But the trouble was that old Mack would always come and promise reform and end up by borrowing a couple of hundred dollars, and then Dad had to hire him again to get it back. Of course the matter simmers down to this. Dad is so fond of your father that he just hasn't got the moral courage to work him over. And now that job is up to me. Moira, I'm not going to beat about the bush with you. They tell me your father is a hopeless inebriate. I am afraid he is, Mr. Bryce. How long has he been drinking to excess? About ten years, I think. Of course he would always take a few drinks with the men around payday, but after mother died he began taking his drinks between paydays. Then he took to going down to Sequoia on Saturday nights and coming back on the mad train, the maddest of the lot. I suppose he was lonely, too. He didn't get real bad, however, till about two years ago. Just about the time my father's eyes began to fail him and he ceased coming up into the woods to jack Mack up. So he let the breaks go and started to coast. And now he's reached the bottom. I couldn't get him on the telephone today or yesterday. I suppose he was down in Arcada, liquor-ing up. She nodded miserably. Well, we have to get logs to the mill, and we can't get them with old John Barley corn for a woods-boss, Moira. So we're going to change woods-bosses. And the new woods-boss will not be driven off the job, because I'm going to stay up here a couple of weeks and break him in myself. By the way, is Mack ugly in his cups? Thank God no, she answered fervently. Drunk or sober, he has never said an unkind word to me. But how do you manage to get money to clothe yourself? Sinclair tells me Mack needs every cent of his two hundred and fifty dollars a month to enjoy himself. I used to steal from him, the girl admitted. Then I grew ashamed of that, and for the past six months I've been earning my own living. Mr. Sinclair was very kind. He gave me a job waiting on table in the camp dining-room. You see, I had to have something here. I couldn't leave my father. He had to have somebody to take care of him. Don't you see, Mr. Bryce? Sinclair is a fuzzy old fool, Bryce declared with emphasis. The idea of our woods-boss's daughter slinging hash to lumberjacks. Poor Moira. He took one of her hands in his, noting the callous spots on the plump palm, the thick finger joints that hinted so of toil, the nails that had never been manicured, saved by Moira herself. Do you remember when I was a boy, Moira, how I used to come up to the logging camps to hunt and fish? I always lived with the MacTavishes then. And in September, when the Huckleberries were ripe, we used to go out and pick them together. Poor Moira. Why, where old pals? And I'll be shot if I'm going to see you suffer. She glanced at him shyly with beaming eyes. You haven't changed a bit, Mr. Bryce, not one little bit. Let's talk about you, Moira. You went to school in Sequoia, didn't you? Yes, I was graduated from the high school there. I used to ride the log trains into town and back again. Good news! Listen, Moira, I'm going to fire your father, as I've said, because he's working for old JB now. Not the Cardigan-Redwood Lumber Company. I really ought to penchant him after his long years in the Cardigan service, but I'll be hanged if we can afford pensions any more, particularly to keep a man in booze. So the best our old woods-boss gets from me is this shanty, or another like it when we move to new cuttings, and a perpetual meal ticket for our camp dining room while the Cardigans remain in business. I'd finance him for a trip to some state institution where they sometimes reclaim such wreckage, if I didn't think he's too old a dog to be taught new tricks. Perhaps, she suggested sadly, you had better talk the matter over with him. No, I'd rather not. I'm fond of your father, Moira. He was a man when I saw him last. Such a man as these woods will never see again, and I don't want to see him again until he's cold sober. I'll write him a letter. As for you, Moira, you're fired, too. I'll not have you waiting on table in my log-in camp, not by a jug-full. You're to come down to Sequoia and go to work in our office. We can use you on the books, helping Sinclair, and relieve him of the task of billing, checking tallies, and looking after the payroll. I'll pay you a hundred dollars a month, Moira. Can you get along on that? Her hard hand closed over his tightly, but she did not speak. All right, Moira, it's a go, then. Hills and timber, timber and hills, and I'm going to set you free. Perhaps in Sequoia you'll find your Prince Charming. There, there, girl, don't cry. We cardigans had twenty-five years of faithful service from Donald McTavish, before he commenced slipping. After all, we owe him something, I think. She drew his hand suddenly to her lips and kissed it. Her hot tears of joy fell on it, but her heart was too full for mere words. Failedy-dee, Moira, buck up, he protested, hugely pleased, but embarrassed with all. The way you take this, one would think you had expected me to go back on an old pal, and had been pleasantly surprised when I didn't. Cheer up, Moira. Cherries are ripe, or at any rate they soon will be. And if you'll just cease shuffling, and if you'll just cease shedding the scalding, and listen to me, I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll advance you two-month salary for— Well, you'll need a lot of clothes and things in Sequoia that you don't need here. And I'm glad I've managed to settle the McTavish hash without kicking up a row and hurting your feelings. Poor old Mac. I'm sorry I can't bear with him, but we simply have to have the logs, you know. He rose, stooped, and pinched her ear, for he had not known her since childhood, and had they not gathered huckleberries together in the long ago? She was sister to him, just another one of his problems, and nothing more. Report on the job as soon as possible, Moira, he called to her from the gate. Then the gate banged behind him, and with a smile and a debonair wave of his hand he was striding down the little camp street where the dogs and the children played in the dust. After a while Moira walked to the gate, and, leaning upon it, looked down the street toward the log landing where Bryce was ragging the laggard crew into something like their old-time speed. Presently the locomotive backed in and coupled to the log tram. And when she saw Bryce leap aboard and seat himself on a top log, in such a position that he could not fail to see her at the gate, she waved to him. He threw her a careless kiss, and the train pulled out. Presently, when Moira lifted her Madonna glance to the frieze of timber on the skyline, there was a new glory in her eyes, and lo! it was autumn in the woods. For over that hill Prince Charming had come to her, and life was all crimson and gold. When the train loaded with cardigan logs crawled in on the main track and stopped at the log landing in Pennington's camp, the locomotive uncoupled and backed in on the siding for the purpose of kicking the caboose, in which Shirley and Colonel Pennington had ridden to the woods, out onto the main line again, where, owing to a slight downhill grade, the caboose, controlled by the breakman, could coast gently forward and be hooked on to the end of the log train for the return journey to Sequoia. Throughout the afternoon, Shirley, following the battle royal between Bryce and the Pennington retainers, had sat dismally in the caboose. She was prey to many conflicting emotions. But having had what her sex term a good cry, she had to a great extent recovered her customary poise, and was busily speculating in the rapidity with which she could leave Sequoia, and forget she had ever met Bryce cardigan, when the log train rumbled into the landing, and the last of the long string of trucks came to a stop directly opposite the caboose. Shirley happened to be looking through the grimy caboose window at that moment. On the top log of the load, the object of her unhappy speculations was seated, apparently quite oblivious of the fact that he was once more in the haunt of his enemies, although knowledge that the double-bitted ax he had so unceremoniously borrowed of Colonel Pennington was driven deep into the log beside him, with the half convenient to his hand, probably had much to do with Bryce's air of detached indifference. He was sitting with his elbows on his knees, his chin in his cupped hands, and a pipe thrust aggressively out the corner of his mouth, the while he stared moodily at his feet. Shirley suspected she knew what he was thinking of. He was less than six feet from her, and a morbid fascination moved her to remain at the window and watch the play of emotions over his strong stern face. She told herself that should he move, should he show the slightest disposition to raise his head and bring his eyes on a level with hers, she would dodge away from the window in time to escape his scrutiny. She reckoned without the engine. With a smart bump it struck the caboose and shunted it briskly up the siding. At the sound of the impact Bryce raised his troubled glance just in time to see Shirley's body yielding to the shock sway into full view at the window. With difficulty he suppressed a grin. I'll bet my immortal soul she was peeking at me, he soliloquized. Conn found the luck. Another meeting this afternoon would be embarrassing. Tackfully he resumed his study of his feet, not even looking up when the caboose, after gaining the main track, slid gently down the slight grade and was coupled to the rear logging truck. Out of the tail of his eye he cut a glimpse of Colonel Pennington passing alongside the log train and entering the caboose. He heard the engineer shout to the breakman, who had ridden down from the head of the train to unlock the siding switch and couple the caboose. To hurry up, lock the switch and get back aboard the engine. Can't get this danged key to turn in the lock, the breakman shouted presently. Locks rusty and something's gotten bust inside. Minutes passed. Bryce is assuming that the train was going to turn in the bus, his assumed abstraction became real, for he had many matters to occupy his busy brain, and it was impossible for him to sit idle without averting to some of them. Presently he was subconsciously aware that the train was moving gently forward. Almost immediately, it seemed to him, the long string of trucks had gathered their customary speed, and then suddenly it dawned upon Bryce that the train had started off without a single jerk, and that it was gathering headway rapidly. He looked ahead, and his hair grew creepy at the roots. There was no locomotive attached to the train. It was running away down a two percent grade, and because of the tremendous weight of the train, it was gathering momentum at a fearful rate. The reason for the runaway dawned on Bryce instantly. The road, being privately owned, was, like most logging roads, neglected as to road-bed and rolling-stock. Also it was under-manned, and the breakman, who also acted as switchmen, had failed to set the handbrakes on the leading truck after the engineer had locked the air brakes. As a result, during the five or six minutes required to spot in the caboose, and an extra minute or two lost while the breakman struggled with the recalcitrant lock on the switch, the air had leaked away through the worn valves and rubber tubing, and the brakes had been released, so that the train, without warning, had quietly and almost noiselessly slid out of the log landing and started on its mad career. Before the engineer could beat it to the other switch with the locomotive, run out on the main track, let the runaway gradually catch up with him and hold it, no matter how or what happened to him or his engine, the first logging truck had cleared the switch and blocked pursuit. There was nothing to do now, save watch, the wild runaway and pray. For of all the mad runaways in a mad world, a loaded logging train is by far the worst. For an instant after realizing his predicament, Bryce Cartigan was tempted to jump and take his chance on a few broken bones before the train could reach a greater speed than twenty miles an hour. His impulse was to run forward and set the handbrake on the leading truck, but a glance showed him that even with the train standing still he could not hope to leap from truck to truck and land on the round freshly peeled surface of the logs without slipping, for he had no cocks on his boots. And to slip now meant swift and horrible death. Too late, he muttered, even if I could get to the head of the train, I couldn't stop her with the handbrake. Should I succeed in locking the wheels, the brute would be doing fifty miles an hour by that time. The front truck would slide and skid, leave the tracks and pile up with me at the bottom of a mess of wrecked rolling stock and redwood logs. Then he remembered. In the wildly rolling caboose, Shirley Sumner rode with her uncle. While less than two miles ahead, the track swung in a sharp curve, high up along the hillside above Mad River. Bryce knew the leading truck would never make that curve at high speed, even if the ancient rolling stock should hold together until the curve was reached, but would shoot off at a tangent into the canyon, carrying trucks, logs, and caboose with it, rolling over and over down the hillside to the river. The caboose must be cut out of this runaway, Bryce soliloquized, and it must be cut out in a devil of a hurry. Here goes nothing in particular, and may God be good to my dear old man. He jerked his axe out of the log, drove it deep into the top log toward the end, and by using the haft to cling to, crawled toward the rear of the load and looked down at the caboose coupling. The top log was a sixteen-foot butt. The two bottom logs were eighteen-footers. With a silent prayer of thanks to Providence, Bryce slid down to the landing, thus formed. He was still five feet above the coupling, however, but by leaning over the swaying, bumping edge and swinging the axe with one hand, he managed to cut through the rubber hose and the air connection. The blamed thing might hold and drag the caboose along after I've pulled out of the coupling pin, he reflected, and I can't afford to take chances now. Nevertheless, he took them. Axe in hand, he leaped down to the narrow ledge formed by the bumper in front of the cabooses, driving his face into the front of the caboose, and he only grasped the steel rod leading from the brake-chains to the wheel and the roof in time to avoid falling half-stunned between the front of the caboose and the rear of the logging-truck. The caboose had once been a box-car, hence there was no railed front platform to which Bryce might have leaped in safety. Clinging perilously on the bumper, he reached with his foot, got his toe under the lever on the side, jerked it upward, and threw the pin out of the coupling. Then, with his free hand, he swung the axe and drove the great steel jaws of the coupling apart. The caboose was cut out, but already the deadly curve was in sight. In two minutes the first truck would reach it, and the caboose, though cut loose, had to be stopped. Else with the headway it had gathered, it too would follow the logging-trucks to glory. For a moment Bryce clung to the brake-rod, weak and dizzy from the effects of the blow when, leaping down from the loaded truck to the caboose-bumper, his face had smashed into the front of the caboose. His chin was bruised, skinned, and bloody. His nose had been broken, and twin rivulets of blood ran from his nostrils. He wiped it away, swung his axe, drove the blade deep into the bumper, and left it there with the halft quivering. Turning, he climbed swiftly up the narrow iron ladder beside the brake-rod until he reached the roof. Then, still standing on the ladder, he reached the brake-wheel and drew it promptly but gradually around until the wheel blocks began to bite. When he exerted his tremendous strength to the utmost and with his knees braced doggedly against the front of the caboose, held the wheel. The brake screamed, but the speed of the caboose was not appreciably slackened. It's had too good a start, Bryce moaned. The momentum is more than I can overcome. Oh, Shirley, my love, God help you! He cast a sudden despairing look over his shoulder downward at the coupling. He was winning, after all, for a space of six feet now yawned between the end of the logging-truck and the bumper of the caboose. If he could but hold that tremendous strain on the wheel for a quarter of a mile, he might get the demon caboose under control. Again, he dug his knees into the front of the car and twisted on the wheel until it seemed that his muscles must crack. After what seemed an eon of waiting, he ventured another look ahead. The rear logging-truck was a hundred yards in front of him now, and from the wheels of the caboose an order of something burning drifted up to him. I've got your wheels locked, he half sobbed. I'll hold you yet, you brute! Slide! That's it! Slide! And flatten your infernal wheels! Ha! You're quitting! Quitting! I'll have you in control before we reach the curve! Burn, curse you! Burn! With a shriek of metal scraping metal, the head of the juggernaut ahead took the curve, clung there an instant, and was catapulted out into space. Logs weighing twenty tons were flung about like kindling. One instant Bryce could see them in the air, the next they had disappeared down the hillside. A deafening crash, a splash, a cloud of dust. With a protesting squeal, the caboose came to the point where the logging-train had left the right of way, carrying rails and ties with it. The wheels on the side nearest the bank slid into the dirt first and plowed deep into the soil. The caboose came to an abrupt stop, trembled and rattled, overtopped at center of gravity and fell over against the cut bank, wearily like a drunken hag. Bryce, still clinging to the brake, was fully braced for the shock and was not flung off. Calmly he descended the ladder, recovered the ax from the bumper, climbed back to the roof, tiptoed off the roof to the top of the bank and sat calmly down under a Manzanita bush to await results. For he was quite confident that none of the occupants of the confounded caboose had been treated to anything worse than a wild ride and a rare fright. And he was curious to see how surely Sumner would behave in an emergency. Colonel Pennington was first to emerge at the rear of the caboose. He leaped lightly down the steps, ran to the front of the car, looked down the track and swore feelingly. Then he darted back to the rear of the caboose. All clear and snug as a bug under a chip, my dear, he called to surely. Thank God the caboose became uncoupled. Guess that fool Breakman forgot to drop the pin. It was the last car and when it jumped the track and plowed into the dirt it just naturally quit and toppled over against the bank. Come out, my dear. Surely came out, dry-eyed, but white and trembling. The Colonel placed his arm around her and she hit her face on his shoulder and shuddered. There, there, he soothed her affectionately. It's all over, my dear. All's well that ends well. The train, she cried in a choking voice. Where is it? In little pieces, down in Mad River, he laughed happily, and the logs weren't even mine. As for the trucks, they were a lot of ratty antiques and only fit to Hall Cardigan's logs. About a hundred yards of roadbed ruined, that's the extent of my loss, for I'd charged off the trucks to profit and loss two years ago. Bryce Cardigan, she sobbed. I saw him. He was riding a top log on the train. He—ah, God help him! The Colonel shook her with sudden ferocity. Young Cardigan, he cried sharply. Writing the logs? Are you certain? She nodded and her shoulders shook piteously. Then Bryce Cardigan is gone! Pennington's pronouncement was solemn, deadly with its flat finality. No man could have rolled down into Mad River with a train load of logs and survived. The Devil himself couldn't. He heaved a great sigh and added, Well, that clears the atmosphere considerably, although for all his faults I regret, for his father's sake, that this dreadful affair has happened. Well, that can't be helped, surely. Don't cry, my dear. I know it's terrible, but there, there, my love, do brace up. Poor Devil! For all his damnable treatment of me, I wouldn't have had this happen for a million dollars. Shirley burst into wild weeping. Bryce's heart leaped, for he understood the reason for her grief. She had sent him away in anger, and he had gone to his depth. Ergo, it would be long before Shirley would forgive herself. Bryce had not intended presenting himself before her in his battered and bloodied condition, but the sight of her distress now was more than he could bear. He coughed slightly, and the alert colonel glanced up at him instantly. Well, I'll be hanged. The words fell from Pennington's lips with heartiness that was almost touching. I thought you'd gone with the train. Sorry to have disappointed you, old top, Bryce replied blithely. But I'm just naturally stubborn. Too bad about the atmosphere you thought cleared up a moment ago. It's clogged worse than ever now. At the sound of Bryce's voice Shirley raised her head, whirled and looked up at him. He held his handkerchief over his gory face that the sight might not distress her. He could have whooped with delight at the joy that flashed through her wet lids. Bryce Cartigan, she commanded sternly, come down here this instant. I'm not a pretty sight, Shirley. Better let me go about my business. She stamped her foot. Come here. Well, since you insist, he replied, and he slid down the bank. How did you get up there? And what do you mean by hiding there spying on me? You, you, oh, you. Cuss a little if it'll help any, he suggested. I had to get out of your way, out of your sight, and up there was the best place. I was on the roof of the caboose when it toppled over, so all I had to do was step ashore and sit down. Then why didn't you stay there? She demanded furiously. You wouldn't let me, he answered demurely. And when I saw you weeping because I was supposed to be with the angels, I couldn't help coughing to let you know I was still hanging around, ornery as a book agent. How did you ruin your face, Mr. Cartigan? Tried to take a cast of the front end of the caboose in my class accountants, that's all. But you were riding the top log on the last truck. Certainly, but I wasn't hasty enough to stay there until we struck this curve. I knew exactly what was going to happen, so I climbed down to the bumper of the caboose, uncoupled it from the truck, climbed up on the roof, and managed to get the old thing under control with the handbrake. Then I skedaddled up into the brush because I knew you were inside, and— By the way, Colonel Pennington, here is your axe, which I borrowed this afternoon. Much obliged for its use. The last up-train is probably waiting on the siding at Freshwater to pass the late Lamented. Consequently, a walk of about a mile will bring you a means of transportation back to Sequoia. Walk leisurely. You have lots of time. As for myself, I'm in a hurry, and my room is more greatly to be desired than my company, so I'll start now. He lifted his hat, turned, and walked bristly down the ruined track. Shirley made a little gesture of dissent, half opened her lips to call him back, thought better of it, and let him go. When he was out of sight, it dawned on her that he had risked his life to save hers. Uncle Seth, she said soberly. What would have happened to us if Bryce Cardigan had not come up here to thrash your woods-boss? We'd both be in kingdom come now, he answered truthfully. Under the circumstances then, Shirley continued. Suppose we all agree to forget that anything unusual happened today. I bear the young man no ill will, Shirley, but before you permit yourself to be carried away by the splendor of his action in cutting out the caboose and getting it under control, it might be well to remember that his own precious hide was at stake also. He would have cut the caboose out, even if you and I had not been in it. No, he would not, she insisted. For the thought that he had done it for her sake was very sweet to her and would persist. Couped up in the caboose, we did not know the train was running away until it was too late for us to jump, while Bryce Cardigan, riding out on the logs, must have noted almost immediately. He would have had time to jump before the runaway gathered too much headway, and he would have jumped, Uncle Seth, for his father's sake. Well, he certainly didn't stay for mine, Shirley. She dried her moist eyes and blushed furiously. Uncle Seth, she pleaded, taking him lovingly by the arm. Let's be friends with Bryce Cardigan. Let's get together and agree on an equitable contract for freighting his logs over our road. You are now, he replied severely, mixing sentiment and business. If you persist, the result will be chaos. Cardigan has in a large measure squared himself for his ruffianly conduct earlier in the day, and I'll forgive him and treat him with courtesy hereafter. But I want you to understand, Shirley, that such treatment by me does not constitute a license for that fellow to crawl up in my lap and be petted. He is practically a pauper now, which makes him a poor business risk, and you'll please me greatly by leaving him severely alone, by making him keep his distance. I'll not do that, she answered, with a quiet finality that caused her uncle to favor her with a quick searching glance. He need not have worried, however, for Bryce Cardigan was too well aware of his own financial condition to risk the humiliation of asking Shirley Sumner to share it with him. Moreover, he had embarked upon a war, a war which he meant to fight to a finish. End of Chapter 17, Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 18 George C. Otter, summoned by telephone, came out to fresh water, the station nearest the wreck, and transported his battered young master back to Sequoia. Here Bryce sought the doctor in the Cardigan Redwood Lumber Company's little hospital, and had his wrecked nose reorganized, and his cuts bandaged. It was characteristic of his father's son that when this detail had been attended to, he should go to the office and work until the six o'clock whistle blew. Old Cardigan was waiting for him at the gate when he reached home. George C. Otter had already given the old man a more or less garbled account of the runaway log train, and Cardigan eagerly awaited his son's arrival in order to ascertain the details of this new disaster which had come upon them. For disaster it was, in truth. The loss of the logs was trifling, perhaps three or four thousand dollars. The destruction of the rolling stock was the crowning, misfortune. Both Cardigans knew that Pennington would eagerly seize upon this point to stint his competitors still further on the logging equipment, that there would be delays, purposeful but apparently unavoidable, before this lost rolling stock would be replaced. And in the interim the Cardigan mill, unable to get a sufficient supply of logs to fill orders in hand, would be forced to close down. Full well Pennington knew that anything which tends to bring about a shortage of raw material for any manufacturing plant will result inevitably in the loss of customers. Well, son, said John Cardigan mildly, as Bryce unlatched the gate. Another bump, huh? Yes, sir, right on the nose. I meant another bump to your heritage, my son. I'm worrying more about my nose, partner. In fact, I'm not worrying about my heritage at all. I've come to a decision on that point. We're going to fight and fight to the last. We're going down fighting. And, by the way, I started the fight this afternoon. I wailed the wadding out of that bucko-woods-boss of Pennington's, and as a special compliment to you, John Cardigan, I did an almighty fine job of cleaning. Even went so far as to must the kernel up a little. Wow, wow, Bryce! Bully for you! I wanted that man Rondo taken apart. He has terrorized our woodsmen for a long time. He's king of the mad train, you know. Bryce was relieved. His father did not know, then, of the act of vandalism in the Valley of the Giants. This fact strengthened Bryce's resolve not to tell him, also to get the fallen monarchs sought up and the stump blasted out before an operation should restore his father's sight and reveal to him the crowning cruelty of his enemy. Arm in arm they walked up the garden path together. Just as they entered the house, the telephone in the hall tinkled, and Bryce answered. Mr. Cardigan, came surely somener's voice over the wire. Ah, Bryce, he corrected her. She ignored the correction. I—I don't know what to say to you, she faltered. There is no necessity for saying anything, surely. But you saved our lives, and at least have a right to expect due and grateful acknowledgment of our debt. I rang up to tell you how splendid and heroic your action was. I had my own life to save, surely. You did not think of that at the time. Well, I didn't think of your uncles either, he replied, without enthusiasm. I'm sure we never can hope to catch even with you, Mr. Cardigan. Don't try. Your revered relative will not, so why should you? You are making it somewhat hard for me to—to rehabilitate our friendship, Mr. Cardigan. We have just passed through a most extraordinary day, and if at evening I can feel as I do now, I think you ought to do your share and help. Bless your heart, he murmured. The very fact that you bothered to ring me up at all makes me your debtor. Surely can you stand some plain speaking between friends, I mean? I think so, Mr. Cardigan. Well then, said Bryce, listen to this. I am your uncle's enemy until death do us part. Neither he nor I expect to ask or to give quarter, and I'm going to smash him if I can. If you do, you smash me, she warned him. Likewise our friendship. I am sorry, but it's got to be done if I can do it. Shall—shall we say goodbye, Shirley? Yes—there was a break in her voice. Good-bye, Mr. Cardigan. I wanted you to know. Good-bye. Well, that's cutting the mustard, he murmured, Saravoche. And there goes another bright daydream. Unknown to himself, he spoke directly into the transmitter, and surely, clinging half-hopefully to the receiver at the other end of the wire, heard him, caught every inflection of the words. Commonplace enough, but freighted with the pathos of Bryce's first real tragedy. Oh, Bryce! she cried sharply. But he did not hear her. He had hung up his receiver now. The week that ensued was remarkable for the amount of work Bryce accomplished in the investigation of his father's affairs. Also for a visit from Donald MacTavish, the woods-boss. Bryce found him sitting in the private office one morning at seven o'clock. Hello, MacTavish! he saluted the woods-boss cheerfully, and extended his hand for a cordial greeting. His wayward employee stood up, took the proffered hand in both of his huge and callous ones, and held it rather childishly. Well, tis the wee laddy, hissel! he boomed. I'm glad to see you, boy. You'd have seen me the day before yesterday, if you'd been seeable. Bryce reminded him with a bright smile. Mac, old man, they tell me you've gotten to be a regular or go to hell. Oh, nay deny, I take a wee drappy now and then, the woods-boss admitted frankly, albeit there was a harried hangdog looking his eyes. Bryce sat down at his desk, lighted his pipe, and looked MacTavish over soberly. The woods-boss was a big, raw bone Scotsman, with a plentiful sprinkling of silver in his thick mane of red hair, which fell far down on the shoulders. A tremendous nose rose majestically out of a face so strong and rugged, one searched in vain for out of manly beauty in it. His long arms hung gorilla-like, almost to his knees, and he was slightly stooped as if from bearing heavy burdens. Though in the late fifties his years had touched him lightly, but John Barleycorn had not been so considerate. Bryce noted that MacTavish was carrying some thirty pounds of whiskey-fat, and that the pupils of his fierce blue eyes were permanently distended, showing that alcohol had begun to affect his brain. His hands trembled as he stood before Bryce, smiling fatuously and plucking at the cuffs of his Mackinaw. The latter realized that MacTavish was waiting for him to broach the object of the visit. So with an effort he decided to begin the disagreeable task. Mac, did Moira give you my message? I? Well, I guess we understand each other, Mac. Was there something else you wanted to see me about? MacTavish sidled up to the desk. You'll no be firing old Mac out of hand, he pleaded hopefully. Mon, you have the heart to do it after all these years? Bryce nodded. If you have the heart, after all these years, to drop pay you do not earn, then I have the heart to put a better man in your place. You has never allowed me to have you bit joke. It's no good arguing, Mac. You're off the payroll onto the pension roll. You're shanty in the woods. You're meals at the camp kitchen. You're clothing and tobacco that I send out to you. Neither more nor less. He reached into his desk and drew forth a check. Here's your wages to the fifteenth. It's the last cardigan check you'll ever finger. I'm terribly sorry, but I'm terribly in earnest. Who do you put in my place? I don't know. However, it won't be a difficult task to find a better man than you. Ah, now let him work! MacTavish's voice deepened to a growl. You worked that racket on my father. Try it on me, and you'll answer to me, personally. Lay the weight of your finger on your successor, Mac, and you'll die in the county poor farm. No threats, old man. You know the cardigans. They never bluff. MacTavish's glance met the youthful masters for several seconds. Then the woods-boss trembled, and his gaze sought the answer. MacTavish was on the office floor. Bryce knew he had his man whipped at last, and MacTavish realized it too, for quite suddenly he burst into tears. Didn't it fire me, lad? he pleaded. I'll go back on the job and leave Whiskey alone. Nothing doing, Mac. Leave Whiskey alone for a year, and I'll discharge your successor to give you back your job. For the present, however, my verdict stands. You're discharged. Who kends the cardigan woods as I ken them, MacTavish blubbered? Who'll swamp a road at the timber, sixty percent clear when the mill's running on foreign orders, and the old man's calling for clear logs? Who'll fell trees with the least amount of breakage? Who'll get the work out of the men? Who'll don't plead, Mac? Bryce interrupted gently. You're quite through, and I can't waste any more time on you. You didn't mean it, lad. You cannot mean it. On your way, Mac, I loathe arguments, and don't forget your check. I won't see your father about this. He'll not stand for sick treatment on an old employee. Bryce's temper flared up. You keep away from my father. You've worried him enough in the past, you drunkard. If you go up to the house to annoy my father with your pleadings, MacTavish, I'll manhandle you. He glanced at his watch. The next train leaves for the woods in twenty minutes. If you do not go back on it and behave yourself, you can never go back to cardigan woods. I will not take charity from any man, MacTavish thundered. I'll now bother the old man, and I'll not go back to you on woods to live on your bounty. Well, go somewhere, Mac, and be quick about it. Only, when you've reformed, please come back. You'll be mighty welcome. Until then, however, you're as popular with me, that is, in a business way, as a wet dog. You're not the man your father was, the woods-boss half-sobbed. You have a heart of stone. You've been drunk for fifteen days, and I'm paying you for it, Mac, Bryce reminded him gently. Don't leave your check behind. You'll need it. With a fine show of contempt and rage, MacTavish tore the check into strips and threw them at Bryce. I was never a man to take charity, he roared furiously, and left the office. Bryce called after him a cheerful good-bye, but he did not answer. And he did not remain in town. Neither did he return to his shanty in the woods. For a month his whereabouts remained a mystery. Then one day Moira received a letter from him, informing her that he had a job knee-bolting in a shingle mill in Mendocino County. End of Chapter 18.