The Treasure of Hidden Valley

“What happens?” repeated the frontiersman as he expectorated a huge pit-tew of tobacco juice at a cactus that stood near the roadway. “Why, by gunnies, hundreds uv ondefensible sheep have been actooally clubbed to death in a single night by raidin’ cowboys and the sheep-herders shot to death while sleepin’ in their camp wagons: and their cookin’ outfit, which is usually in one end uv the wagon, as well as the camp wagons, burned to conceal evidence of these dastardly murders. Oh, they sure do make things gay and genial like.”

“Astonishing! The cowboys must be a pretty wicked lot,” interrogated Roderick.

“Well, it’s about six uv one and half a dozen uv the other. You see these pesky sheep herders and the cowboys are all torn off the same piece uv cloth. Many a range rider has been picked from his hoss by these sheep men hidden away in these here rocky cliffs which overlook the valley. They sure ‘nuff get tumultuous.”

“But what about the law?” inquired Roderick. “Does it afford no protection?”

Jim laughed derisively, pushed his hat far back and replied: “Everybody that does any killin’ in these here parts sure does it in self-defense.” He chuckled at his superior knowledge of the West. “Leastways, that’s what the evidence brings out afore the courts. However, Tom Sun says the fussin’ is about over with. Last year more’n twenty cattle men were sentenced to the pen’tentiary up in the Big Horn country. Sort uv an offset fur about a score uv sheep men that’s been killed by the cow punchers while tendin’ their flocks on the range. You bet they’ve been mixin’ things up with artil’ry a heap.”

“I clearly perceive,” said Roderick, “that your sympathies are with the cattle men.”

Jim Rankin turned quickly and with his piercing black eyes glared at Roderick as if he would rebuke him for his presumption.

“Young man, don’t be assoomin’. I ain’t got no sympathy fur neither one uv ‘em. I don’t believe in murder and I don’t believe very much in the pen’tentiary. ‘Course when I was sheriff, I had to do some shootin’ but my shootin’ wuz all within the law. No, I don’t care a cuss one way or ‘tother. There are lots uv good fellers ridin’ range. Expect yer will be ridin’ before long. Think I can help yer get a job on the Shields ranch; if I can’t Grant Jones can. And ther’s lots uv mighty good sheep-herders too. My old pal, Tom Sun, is the biggest sheep-man in this whole dang-nation country and he’s square, he is. So you see I ain’t got no preference, ‘tho’ I do say the hull kit and bilin’ uv ‘em could be improved. Yes, I’m nootral. Put that in yer pipe and smoke it, fur it goes dangnation long ways in this man’s country to be nootral, and don’t git to furgit’n it.”

It was late in the afternoon when they neared the little town of Encampment. Old Jim Rankin began to cluck to his horses and swing his whip gently and finally more pronouncedly.

If it is the invariable habit of stage drivers at the point of departure to start off their horses in a full swinging gallop, it is an equally inviolable rule, when they approach the point of arrival, that they come in with a whoop and a hooray. These laws are just as immutable as ringing the bell or blowing the locomotive whistle when leaving or nearing a station. So when Jim Rankin cracked his whip, all six horses leaned forward in their collars, wheeled up the main street in a swinging gallop, and stopped abruptly in front of the little hotel.

As Roderick climbed down from the driver’s seat he was greeted with a hearty “Hello, Warfield, welcome to our city.” The speaker was none other than Grant Jones himself, for his newspaper instincts always brought him, when in town, to meet the stage.

The two young men shook hands with all the cordiality of old friends.

“If you cannot get a room here at the hotel, you can bunk with me,” continued Grant. “I have a little shack down towards the smelter.”

Roderick laughed and said: “Suppose, then, we don’t look for a room. I’ll be mighty pleased to carry my baggage to your shack now.”

“All right, that’s a go,” said Grant; and together they started down the street.

Grant Jones’ bachelor home consisted of a single room – a hastily improvised shack, as he had correctly called it, that had cost no very large sum to build. It was decorated with many trophies of college life and of the chase. Various college pennants were on the walls, innumerable pipes, some rusty antiquated firearms, besides a brace of pistols which Jim Rankin had given to Grant, supposed to be the identical flint-locks carried by Big Nose George, a desperado of the early days.

“You see,” explained Grant as he welcomed his guest, “this is my Encampment residence. I have another shack over at Dillon where I edit my paper, the Dillon Doublejack. I spend part of my time in one place and part in the other. My business is in Dillon but social attractions – Dorothy Shields, you may have already guessed – are over this way.” And he blushed red as he laughingly made the confession.

“And talking of the Shields, by the way,” resumed Grant. “I want to tell you I took the liberty of mentioning your name to the old man. He is badly in need of some more hands on the ranch – young fellows who can ride and are reliable.”

Roderick was all alert.

“The very thing I’m looking for,” he said eagerly. “Would he give me a place, do you think?”

“I’m certain of it. In fact I promised to bring you over to the ranch as soon as you turned up at Encampment.”

“Mighty kind of you, old fellow,” remarked Roderick, gratefully and with growing familiarity.

“Well, you can take that bed over there,” said the host. “This one is mine. You’ll excuse the humble stretchers, I know. Then after you have opened your grip and made yourself a little at home, we’ll take a stroll. I fancy that a good big porterhouse won’t come amiss after your long day’s drive. We’ve got some pretty good restaurants in the town. I suppose you’ve already discovered that a properly cooked juicy Wyoming steak is hard to beat, eh, you pampered New Yorker?”

Roderick laughed as he threw open his valise and arranged his brushes and other toilet appurtenances on the small table that stood at the head of the narrow iron stretcher.

A little later, when night had fallen, the young men went out into the main street to dine and look over the town. It was right at the edge of the valley with mountains rising in a semi-circle to south and west, a typical mountain settlement.

“You see everything is wide open,” said Grant, as he escorted Roderick along the streets, arm linked in arm. For they had just discovered that they belonged to the same college fraternity – Kappa Gamma Delta, so the bonds of friendship had been drawn tighter still.

“You have a great town here,” observed Roderick.

“We have about 1200 to 1500 people and 18 saloons!” laughed the other. “And every saloon has a gambling lay-out – anything from roulette to stud-poker. Over yonder is Brig Young’s place. Here is Southpaw’s Bazaar. The Red Dog is a little farther along; the Golden Eagle is one of the largest gambling houses in the town. We’ll have our supper first, and then I’ll take you over to Brig Young’s and introduce you.”

As they turned across the street they met a man coming toward them. He was straight and tall, rather handsome, but a gray mustache made him seem older than his years.

“Hello, here is Mr. Grady. Mr. Grady, I want to introduce you to a newcomer. This is Mr. Roderick Warfield.”

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Warfield,” said Grady in a smooth voice and with an oleaginous smile. To Roderick the face seemed a sinister one; instinctively he felt a dislike for the man.

“Your town is quite up-to-date, with all its brilliant electric lights,” he observed with a polite effort at conversation.

“Yes,” replied Grady, “but it is the monthly pay roll of my big smelting company that supports the whole place.”

There was a pomposity in the remark and the look that accompanied it which added to Roderick’s feelings of repulsion.

“Oh, I don’t know,” interposed Grant Jones, in a laughing way. “We have about five hundred prospectors up in the hills who may not yet be producers, but their monthly expenditures run up into pretty big figures.”

“Of course, that amounts to something; but think of my pay roll,” replied Grady, boastingly. “Almost a thousand men on my pay roll. We have the biggest copper mine in the Rocky Mountain region, Mr. War-field. Come down some day and see the smelter,” he added as he extended his hand in farewell greeting, with a leer rather than a smile on his face. “I’ll give you a pass.”

“Thank you,” said Roderick coldly. And the two friends resumed their walk toward Brig Young’s saloon.

“I don’t mind telling you,” remarked Grant, “that Grady is the most pompous, arrogant and all-round hated man in this mining camp.”

“He looks the part,” replied Roderick, and they both laughed.

A minute later they were seated in a cosy little restaurant. Ample justice was done to the succulent Wyoming porterhouse, and cigars were lighted over the cups of fragrant coffee that completed the meal. Then the young men resumed their peregrinations pursuant to the programme of visiting Brig Young’s place, certified by Grant Jones to be one of the sights of the town.

The saloon proved to be an immense room with a bar in the corner near the entrance. Roulette tables, faro lay-outs and a dozen poker tables surrounded with feverish players were all running full blast, while half a hundred men were standing around waiting to take the place of any player who went broke or for any reason dropped out of the game.

“I guess nearly all the gambling is done here, isn’t it?” asked Roderick.

“Not by a big sight. There are eighteen joints of this kind, and they are all running wide open and doing business all the time.”

“When do they close?” inquired Roderick.

“They never close,” replied Grant. “Brig Young boasts that he threw the key away when this place opened, and the door has never been locked since.”

As they spoke their attention was attracted to one corner of the gaming room. Seven players were grouped around a table, in the centre of which was stacked a pile of several thousand dollars in gold pieces. Grant and Roderick strolled over.

A score of miners and cowboys were standing around watching the game. One of them said to Grant Jones: “It’s a jack pot and they’re dealing for openers.”

Finally someone opened the pot for $500. “It’s an all-fired juicy pot and I wouldn’t think of openin’ it for less.” Tom Lester was the player’s name, as Grant whispered to Roderick.

“I’ll stay,” said One-Eyed Joe.

“So will I,” said another.