The Valley of the Giants

by Peter B. Kyne

  CHAPTER XVII

  Through the green timber Bryce Cardigan strode, and there was a liltin his heart now. Already he had forgotten the desperate situation fromwhich he had just escaped; he thought only of Shirley Sumner's face,tear-stained with terror; and because he knew that at least some ofthose tears had been inspired by the gravest apprehensions as to hisphysical well-being, because in his ears there still resounded herfrantic warning, he realized that however stern her decree of banishmenthad been, she was nevertheless not indifferent to him. And it was thisknowledge that had thrilled him into song and which when his song wasdone had brought to his firm mouth a mobility that presaged his oldwhimsical smile--to his brown eyes a beaming light of confidence andpride.

  The climax had been reached--and passed; and the result had been farfrom the disaster he had painted in his mind's eye ever since theknowledge had come to him that he was doomed to battle to a knockoutwith Colonel Pennington, and that one of the earliest fruits ofhostilities would doubtless be the loss of Shirley Sumner's prizedfriendship. Well, he had lost her friendship, but a still small voicewhispered to him that the loss was not irreparable--whereat he swung hisaxe as a bandmaster swings his baton; he was glad that he had startedthe war and was now free to fight it out unhampered.

  Up hill and down dale he went. Because of the tremendous trees he couldnot see the sun; yet with the instinct of the woodsman, an instinctas infallible as that of a homing pigeon, he was not puzzled as todirection. Within two hours his long, tireless stride brought him outinto a clearing in the valley where his own logging-camp stood. He wentdirectly to the log-landing, where in a listless and half-hearted mannerthe loading crew were piling logs on Pennington's logging-trucks.

  Bryce looked at his watch. It was two o'clock; at two-fifteenPennington's locomotive would appear, to back in and couple to the longline of trucks. And the train was only half loaded.

  "Where's McTavish?" Bryce demanded of the donkey-driver.

  The man mouthed his quid, spat copiously, wiped his mouth with theback of his hand, and pointed. "Up at his shanty," he made answer, andgrinned at Bryce knowingly.

  Up through the camp's single short street, flanked on each side withthe woodsmen's shanties, Bryce went. Dogs barked at him, for he was astranger in his own camp; children, playing in the dust, gazed upon himowlishly. 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 neighbours the house was painted with the coarse redpaint that is used on box-cars, while a fence, made of fancy pointedpickets painted white, inclosed a tiny garden in front of the house. AsBryce came through the gate, a young girl rose from where she knelt in abed 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 Cardigan."

  A look of fright crept into the girl's eyes. "Are you--Bryce Cardigan?"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 saw you last, Mr.Bryce."

  He came toward her with outstretched hand. "And you were a little girlwhen I saw you last. Now--you're a woman." She grasped his hand with thefrank heartiness of a man. "I'm mighty glad to meet you again, Moira. Ijust guessed who you were, for of course I should never have recognizedyou. 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 have 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, simplygowned in a gingham dress. Her hands were soiled from her recent laboursin the pansy-bed, and her shoes were heavy and coarse; yet neither handsnor feet were large or ungraceful. Her head was well formed; her hair,jet black and of unusual lustre and abundance, was parted in the middleand held in an old-fashioned coil at the nape of a neck the beautyof which was revealed by the low cut of her simple frock. Moira was adecided brunette, with that wonderful quality of skin to be seen onlyamong brunettes who have roses in their cheeks; her brow was broad andspiritual; in her eyes, large, black, and listrous, there was a broodingtenderness not untouched with sorrow--some such expression, indeed, asda Vinci put in the eyes of his Mona Lisa. Her nose was patrician, herface oval; her lips, full and red, were slightly parted in the adorableCupid's bow which is the inevitable heritage of a short upper lip; herteeth were white as Parian marble; and her full breast was rising andfalling swiftly, as if she laboured under suppressed excitement.

  So delightful a picture did Moira McTavish make that Bryce forgot allhis troubles in her sweet presence. "By the gods, Moira," he declaredearnestly, "you're a peach! When I saw you last, you were awkward andleggy, like a colt. I'm sure you weren't a bit good-looking. And nowyou'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 sincerecompliments.

  "What? Not married. Why, what the deuce can be the matter with theeligible young fellows hereabouts?"

  "There aren't any eligible young fellows hereabouts, Mr. Bryce. And I'velived 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 inthese woods," she went on earnestly, as if she found pleasure in thisopportunity 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 PrinceCharming will come by, riding the log-train, and after that it willalways be autumn in the woods for you. Everything will just naturallyturn 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 itis always winter in one's heart. That frieze of timber on the skylinelimits my world, Mr Bryce. Hills and timber, timber and hills, and thethunder of falling redwoods. And when the trees have been logged off sowe 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 tearswas in her sad eyes. He saw them and placed his arm fraternallyaround her shoulders. "Tut-tut, Moira! Don't cry," he soothed her. "Iunderstand perfectly, and of course we'll have to do something aboutit. You're too fine for this." With a sweep of his hand he indicated thecamp. He had led her to the low stoop in front of the shanty. "Sit downon the steps, Moira, and we'll talk it over. I really called to see yourfather, 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. Ifibbed. Father isn't sick. He's drunk."

  "I thought so when I saw the loading-crew taking it easy at thelog-landing. I'm terribly sorry."

  "I loathe it--and I cannot leave it," she burst out vehemently. "I'mchained to my degradation. I dream dreams, and they'll never come true.I--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 justat present I'm having an extra helping, it seems. You're cursed with toomuch imagination, Moira. I'm sorry about your father. He's been with usa long time, and my father has borne a lot from him for old sake's sake;he told me the other night that he has discharged Mac fourteen timesduring the past ten years, but to date he hasn't been able to make itstick. For all his sixty years, Moira, your confounded parent can stillmanhandle any man on the pay-roll, and as fast as Dad put in a newwoods-boss
old Mac drove him off the job. He simply declines tobe fired, and Dad's worn out and too tired to bother about his oldwoods-boss any more. He's been waiting until I should get back."

  "I know," said Moira wearily. "Nobody wants to be Cardigan's woods-bossand have to fight my father to hold his job. I realize what a nuisancehe has become."

  Bryce chuckled. "I asked Father why he didn't stand pat and let Mac workfor nothing; having discharged him, my father was under no obligationto give him his salary just because he insisted on being woods-boss. Dadmight have starved your father out of these woods, but the troublewas that old Mac would always come and promise reform and end up byborrowing a couple of hundred dollars, and then Dad had to hire himagain to get it back! Of course the matter simmers down to this: Dad isso fond of your father that he just hasn't got the moral courage to workhim over--and now that job is up to me. Moira, I'm not going tobeat about the bush with you. They tell me your father is a hopelessinebriate."

  "I'm 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 drinkswith the men around pay-day, but after Mother died, he began takinghis drinks between pay-days. Then he took to going down to Sequoia onSaturday nights and coming back on the mad-train, the maddest of thelot. I suppose he was lonely, too. He didn't get real bad, however, tillabout two years ago."

  "Just about the time my father's eyes began to fail him and he ceasedcoming up into the woods to jack Mac up? So he let the brakes go andstarted to coast, and now he's reached the bottom! I couldn't get himon the telephone to-day or yesterday. I suppose he was down in Arcata,liquoring up."

  She nodded miserably.

  "Well, we have to get logs to the mill, and we can't get them withold John Barleycorn for a woods-boss, Moira. So we're going to changewoods-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 inmyself. By the way, is Mac ugly in his cups?"

  "Thank God, no," she answered fervently. "Drunk or sober, he has neversaid an unkind word to me."

  "But how do you manage to get money to clothe yourself? Sinclair tellsme Mac needs every cent of his two hundred and fifty dollars a month toenjoy himself."

  "I used to steal from him," the girl admitted. "Then I grew ashamed ofthat, 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 campdining room. You see, I had to have something here. I couldn't leave myfather. 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 ideaof 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 plumppalm, the thick finger-joints that hinted so of toil, the nails that hadnever been manicured save by Moira herself. "Do you remember when I wasa boy, Moira, how I used to come up to the logging-camps to hunt andfish? I always lived with the McTavishes then. And in September, whenthe huckleberries were ripe, we used to go out and pick them together.Poor Moira! Why, we're old pals, and I'll be shot if I'm going to seeyou 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'tyou?"

  "Yes, I was graduated from the high school there. I used to ride thelog-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 J.B. now, not the Cardigan Redwood LumberCompany. I really ought to pension him after his long years in theCardigan service, but I'll be hanged if we can afford pensionsany more--particularly to keep a man in booze; so the best our oldwoods-boss gets from me is this shanty, or another like it when we moveto new cuttings, and a perpetual meal-ticket for our camp dining roomwhile the Cardigans remain in business. I'd finance him for a trip tosome State institution where they sometimes reclaim such wreckage, if Ididn't think he's too old a dog to be taught new tricks."

  "Perhaps," she suggested sadly, "you had better talk the matter overwith him."

  "No, I'd rather not. I'm fond of your father, Moira. He was a man whenI saw him last--such a man as these woods will never see again--andI don't want to see him again until he's cold sober. I'll write him aletter. As for you, Moira, you're fired, too. I'll not have you waitingon table in my logging-camp--not by a jugful! You're to come down toSequoia and go to work in our office. We can use you on the books,helping Sinclair, and relieve him of the task of billing, checkingtallies, and looking after the pay-roll. I'll pay you a hundred dollarsa 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 andhills--and I'm going to set you free. Perhaps in Sequoia you'll findyour Prince Charming. There, there, girl, don't cry. We Cardigans hadtwenty-five years of faithful service from Donald McTavish before hecommenced slipping; after all, we owe him something, I think."

  She drew his hand suddenly to her lips and kissed it; her hot tears ofjoy fell on it, but her heart was too full for mere words.

  "Fiddle-de-dee, Moira! Buck up," he protested, hugely pleased, butembarrassed withal. "The way you take this, one would think you hadexpected me to go back on an old pal and had been pleasantly surprisedwhen I didn't. Cheer up, Moira! Cherries are ripe, or at any rate theysoon will be; and if you'll just cease shedding the scalding and listento me, I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll advance you two months' salaryfor--well, you'll need a lot of clothes and things in Sequoia that youdon't need here. And I'm glad I've managed to settle the McTavish hashwithout kicking up a row and hurting your feelings. Poor old Mac! I'msorry I can't bear with him, but we simply have to have the logs, youknow."

  He rose, stooped, and pinched her ear; for had he not known her sincechildhood, and had they not gathered huckleberries together in thelong ago? She was sister to him--just another one of his problems--andnothing more. "Report on the job as soon as possible, Moira," he calledto her from the gate. Then the gate banged behind him, and with a smileand a debonair wave of his hand, he was striding down the little campstreet where the dogs and the children played in the dust.

  After a while Moira walked to the gate and leaning upon it, looked downthe street toward the log-landing where Bryce was ragging the laggardcrew into some thing like their old-time speed. Presently the locomotivebacked in and coupled to the log tram, and when she saw Bryce leapaboard and seat himself on a top log in such a position that he couldnot fail to see her at the gate, she waved to him. He threw her acareless kiss, and the train pulled out.

  Presently, when Moira lifted her Madonna glance to the frieze of timberon the skyline, there was a new glory in her eyes; and lo, it was autumnin the woods, for over that hill Prince Charming had come to her, andlife was all crimson and gold!

  When the train loaded with Cardigan logs crawled in on the main trackand stopped at the log-landing in Pennington's camp, the locomotiveuncoupled and backed in on the siding for the purpose of kicking thecaboose, in which Shirley and Colonel Pennington had ridden to thewoods, out onto the main line again--where, owing to a slight downhillgrade, the caboose, controlled by the brakeman, could coast gentlyforward and be hooked on to the end of the log-train for the returnjourney to Sequoia.

  Throughout the afternoon Shirley, following the battle royal betweenBryce and the Pennington retainers, had sat dismally in the caboose. Shewas prey to many conflicting emotions; but having had what her sexterm "a good cry," she had to a great extent recovered her customarypoise--and was busily speculating on the rapidity with which she couldleave Sequoia and forget she had ever met Bryce Cardigan--when thelog-train rumbled into the landing and the last of the long string oftrucks came to a stop directly opposite the caboose.

  Shirley happened to be looking t
hrough the grimy caboose window atthat moment. On the top log of the load the object of her unhappyspeculations was seated, apparently quite oblivious of the fact that hewas back once more in the haunt of his enemies, although knowledge thatthe double-bitted axe he had so unceremoniously borrowed of ColonelPennington was driven deep into the log beside him, with the haftconvenient to his hand, probably had much to do with Bryce's air ofdetached indifference. He was sitting with his elbows on his knees, hischin in his cupped hands, and a pipe thrust aggressively out the cornerof his mouth, the while he stared moodily at his feet.

  Shirley suspected she knew what he was thinking of; he was less thansix feet from her, and a morbid fascination moved her to remain at thewindow and watch the play of emotions over his strong, stern face.She told herself that should he move, should he show the slightestdisposition 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 cabooseand shunted it briskly up the siding; at the sound of the impact Bryceraised his troubled glance just in time to see Shirley's body, yieldingto the shock, sway into full view at the window.

  With difficulty he suppressed a grin. "I'll bet my immortal soul shewas peeking at me," he soliloquized. "Confound the luck! Another meetingthis afternoon would be embarrassing." Tactfully he resumed his study ofhis feet, not even looking up when the caboose, after gaining the maintrack, slid gently down the slight grade and was coupled to the rearlogging-truck. Out of the tail of his eye he caught a glimpse of ColonelPennington passing alongside the log-train and entering the caboose; heheard the engineer shout to the brakeman--who had ridden down from thehead of the train to unlock the siding switch and couple the caboose--tohurry up, lock the switch, and get back aboard the engine.

  "Can't get this danged key to turn in the lock," the brakeman shoutedpresently. "Lock's rusty, and something's gone bust inside."

  Minutes passed. Bryce's assumed abstraction became real, for he had manymatters to occupy his busy brain, and it was impossible for him to sitidle without adverting to some of them. Presently he was subconsciouslyaware that the train was moving gently forward; almost immediately, itseemed to him, the long string of trucks had gathered their customaryspeed; and then suddenly it dawned upon Bryce that the train had startedoff without a single jerk--and that it was gathering headway rapidly.

  He looked ahead--and his hair grew creepy at the roots. There was nolocomotive attached to the train! It was running away down a two percent. grade, and because of the tremendous weight of the train, it wasgathering momentum at a fearful rate.

  The reason for the runaway dawned on Bryce instantly. The road, beingprivately owned, was, like most logging-roads, neglected as to roadbedand rolling-stock; also it was undermanned, and the brake-man, who alsoacted as switchman, had failed to set the hand-brakes on the leadingtruck after the engineer had locked the air-brakes. As a result, duringthe five or six minutes required to "spot in" the caboose, and an extraminute or two lost while the brakeman struggled with the recalcitrantlock on the switch, the air had leaked away through the worn valvesand rubber tubing, and the brakes had been released--so that the train,without warning, had quietly and almost noiselessly slid out of thelog-landing and started on its mad career. Before the engineer couldbeat it to the other switch with the locomotive, run out on the maintrack, let the runaway gradually catch up with him and holdit--no matter how or what happened to him or his engine--the firstlogging-truck had cleared the switch and blocked pursuit. There wasnothing to do now save watch the wild runaway and pray, for of all themad runaways in a mad world, a loaded logging-train is by far the worst.

  For an instant after realizing his predicament, Bryce Cardigan wastempted to jump and take his chance on a few broken bones, before thetrain could reach a greater speed than twenty miles an hour. His impulsewas to run forward and set the handbrake on the leading truck, but aglance showed him that even with the train standing still he could nothope to leap from truck to truck and land on the round, freshly peeledsurface of the logs without slipping for he had no calks in 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 hand-brake; should I succeed in locking thewheels, the brute would be doing fifty miles an hour by that time--thefront truck would slide and skid, leave the tracks and pile up with meat the bottom of a mess of wrecked rolling-stock and redwood logs."

  Then he remembered. In the wildly rolling caboose Shirley Sumner rodewith her uncle, while less than two miles ahead, the track swung in asharp curve high up along the hillside above Mad River. Bryce knew theleading truck would never take that curve at high speed, even if theancient 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 theriver.

  "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 inparticular, 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 towardthe end, and by using the haft to cling to, crawled toward the rearof the load and looked down at the caboose coupling. The top log wasa sixteen-foot butt; the two bottom logs were eighteen footers. With asilent prayer of thanks to Providence, Bryce slid down to the landingthus formed. He was still five feet above the coupling, however; butby leaning over the swaying, bumping edge and swinging the axe with onehand, he managed to cut through the rubber hose on the air connection."The blamed thing might hold and drag the caboose along after I'vepulled out the coupling-pin," he reflected. "And I can't afford to takechances now."

  Nevertheless he took them. Axe in hand, he leaped down to the narrowledge formed by the bumper in front of the cabooses--driving his faceinto the front of the caboose; and he only grasped the steel rod leadingfrom the brake-chains to the wheel on the roof in time to avoid fallinghalf stunned between the front of the caboose and the rear of thelogging-truck. The caboose had once been a box-car; hence there wasno railed front platform to which Bryce might have leaped in safety.Clinging perilously on the bumper, he reached with his foot, got his toeunder the lever on the side, jerked it upward, and threw the pin outof the coupling; then with his free hand he swung the axe and drove thegreat steel jaws of the coupling apart.

  The caboose was cut out! But already the deadly curve was in sight; intwo minutes the first truck would reach it; and the caboose, though cutloose, 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 theeffects of the blow when, leaping down from the loaded truck to thecaboose bumper, his face had smashed into the front of the caboose. Hischin was bruised, skinned, and bloody; his nose had been broken, andtwin rivulets of blood ran from his nostrils. He wiped it away, swunghis axe, drove the blade deep into the bumper and left it there with thehaft quivering; turning, he climbed swiftly up the narrow iron ladderbeside the brake-rod until he reached the roof; then, still standingon the ladder, he reached the brake-wheel and drew it promptly butgradually around until the wheel-blocks began to bite, when he exertedhis tremendous strength to the utmost and with his knees braced doggedlyagainst the front of the caboose, held the wheel.

  The brake screamed, but the speed of the caboose was not appreciablyslackened. "It's had too good a start!" Bryce moaned. "The momentum ismore than I can overcome. Oh, Shirley, my love! God help you!"

  He cast a sudden despairing look over his shoulder downward at thecoupling. He was winning, after all, for a space of six feet now yawnedbetween the end of the logging-truck and the bumper of the caboose. Ifhe could but hold that tremendous strain on the wheel for a quarter ofa mile, he might get the demon caboose under control! Again he dug hisknees into the front of the car
and twisted on the wheel until it seemedthat his muscles must crack.

  After what seemed an eon of waiting, he ventured another look ahead. Therear logging-truck was a hundred yards in front of him now, and from thewheels of the caboose an odour of something burning drifted up to him."I've got your wheels locked!" he half sobbed. "I'll hold you yet, youbrute. Slide! That's it! Slide, and flatten your infernal wheels. Hah!You're quitting--quitting. I'll have you in control before we reach thecurve. Burn, curse you, burn!"

  With a shriek of metal scraping metal, the head of the Juggernaut aheadtook the curve, clung there an instant, and was catapulted out intospace. Logs weighing twenty tons were flung about like kindling; oneinstant, Bryce could see them in the air; the next they had disappeareddown the hillside. A deafening crash, a splash, a cloud of dust--

  With a protesting squeal, the caboose came to the point where thelogging-train had left the right of way, carrying rails and ties withit. The wheels on the side nearest the bank slid into the dirt first andplowed deep into the soil; the caboose came to an abrupt stop, trembledand rattled, overtopped its centre of gravity, and fell over against thecut-bank, wearily, like a drunken hag.

  Bryce, still clinging to the brake, was fully braced for the shock andwas not flung off. Calmly he descended the ladder, recovered the axefrom the bumper, climbed back to the roof, tiptoed off the roof to thetop of the bank and sat calmly down under a manzanita bush to awaitresults, for he was quite confident that none of the occupants of theconfounded caboose had been treated to anything worse than a wild rideand a rare fright, and he was curious to see how Shirley Sumner wouldbehave in an emergency.

  Colonel Pennington was first to emerge at the rear of the caboose. Heleaped lightly down the steps, ran to the front of the car, looked downthe track, and swore feelingly. Then he darted back to the rear of thecaboose.

  "All clear and snug as a bug under a chip, my dear," he called toShirley. "Thank God, the caboose became uncoupled--guess that foolbrakeman forgot to drop the pin; it was the last car, and when it jumpedthe track and plowed into the dirt, it just naturally quit and toppledover against the bank. Come out, my dear."

  Shirley came out, dry-eyed, but white and trembling. The Colonel placedhis arm around her, and she hid 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 logsweren't even mine! As for the trucks, they were a lot of ratty antiquesand only fit to haul Cardigan's logs. About a hundred yards of roadbedruined--that's the extent of my loss, for I'd charged off the trucks toprofit and loss two years ago."

  "Bryce Cardigan," she sobbed. "I saw him--he was riding a top log on thetrain. He--ah, God help him!"

  The Colonel shook her with sudden ferocity. "Young Cardigan," he criedsharply. "Riding 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 intoMad River with a trainload of logs and survived. The devil himselfcouldn't." He heaved a great sigh, and added: "Well, that clears theatmosphere considerably, although for all his faults, I regret, for hisfather's sake, that this dreadful affair has happened. Well, it can't behelped, Shirley. Don't cry, my dear. I know it's terrible, but--there,there my love. Do brace up. Poor devil! For all his damnable treatmentof me, I wouldn't have had this happen for a million dollars."

  Shirley burst into wild weeping. Bryce's heart leaped, for he understoodthe reason for her grief. She had sent him away in anger, and he hadgone to his death; ergo it would be long before Shirley would forgiveherself. Bryce had not intended presenting himself before her in hisbattered and bloody condition, but the sight of her distress now wasmore than he could bear. He coughed slightly, and the alert Colonelglanced up at him instantly.

  "Well, I'll be hanged!" The words fell from Pennington's lips with aheartiness that was almost touching. "I thought you'd gone with thetrain."

  "Sorry to have disappointed you, old top," Bryce replied blithely, "butI'm just naturally stubborn. Too bad about the atmosphere you thoughtcleared a moment ago! It's clogged worse than ever now."

  At the sound of Bryce's voice, Shirley raised her head, whirled andlooked up at him. He held his handkerchief over his gory face that thesight might not distress her; he could have whooped with delight at thejoy that flashed through her wet lids.

  "Bryce Cardigan," 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 spyingon me, you--you--oh, YOU!"

  "Cuss a little, if it will help any," he suggested. "I had to get out ofyour way--out of your sight--and up there was the best place. I was onthe roof of the caboose when it toppled over, so all I had to do wasstep 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 weepingbecause I was supposed to be with the angels, I couldn't help coughingto let you know I was still hanging around, ornery as a book-agent."

  "How did you ruin your face, Mr. Cardigan?"

  "Tried to take a cast of the front end of the caboose in my classiccountenance--that's all."

  "But you were riding the top log on the last truck--"

  "Certainly, but I wasn't hayseed enough to stay there until we struckthis curve. I knew exactly what was going to happen, so I climbed downto the bumper of the caboose, uncoupled it from the truck, climbed upon the roof, and managed to get the old thing under control with thehand-brake; then I skedaddled up into the brush because I knew you wereinside, and---By the way, Colonel Pennington, here is your axe, which Iborrowed this afternoon. Much obliged for its use. The last up-train isprobably waiting on the siding at Freshwater to pass the latelamented; consequently a walk of about a mile will bring you a means oftransportation 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 desiredthan my company, so I'll start now."

  He lifted his hat, turned, and walked briskly down the ruined track.

  Shirley made a little gesture of dissent, half opened her lips to callhim back, thought better of it, and let him go. When he was out ofsight, 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 BryceCardigan had not come up here to-day to thrash your woods-boss?"

  "We'd both be in Kingdom Come now," he answered truthfully.

  "Under the circumstances, then," Shirley continued, "suppose we allagree to forget that anything unusual happened to-day--"

  "I bear the young man no ill will, Shirley, but before you permityourself to be carried away by the splendour of his action in cuttingout the caboose and getting it under control, it might be well toremember that his own precious hide was at stake also. He would have cutthe 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 itfor her sake was very sweet to her and would persist. "Cooped up in thecaboose, we did not know the train was running away until it was toolate for us to jump, while Bryce Cardigan, riding out on the logs, musthave known it almost immediately. He would have had time to jump beforethe runaway gathered too much headway--and he would have jumped, UncleSeth, for his father's sake."

  "Well, he certainly didn't stay for mine, Shirley."

  She dried her moist eyes and blushed furiously. "Uncle Seth," shepleaded, taking him lovingly by the arm, "let's be friends with BryceCardigan; let's get together and agree on an equitable contract fo
rfreighting his logs over our road."

  "You are now," he replied severely, "mixing sentiment and business; ifyou persist, the result will be chaos. Cardigan has in a large measuresquared himself for his ruffianly conduct earlier in the day, and I'llforgive him and treat him with courtesy hereafter; but I want you tounderstand, Shirley, that such treatment by me does not constitutea license for that fellow to crawl up in my lap and be petted. He ispractically a pauper now, which makes him a poor business risk, andyou'll please me greatly by leaving him severely alone--by making himkeep his distance."

  "I'll not do that," she answered with a quiet finality that caused heruncle to favour her with a quick, searching glance.

  He need not have worried, however, for Bryce Cardigan was too well awareof his own financial condition to risk the humiliation of asking ShirleySumner to share it with him. Moreover, he had embarked upon a war--a warwhich he meant to fight to a finish.