The Treasure of Hidden Valley

The players were quickly assisted with cards – four refused to come in, and the other three, having thrown their discards into the deck, sat facing each other ready for the final struggle in determining the ownership of the big pot before them. It was a neck and neck proposition. First one would see and raise and then another would see and go better. Finally, the showdown came, and it created consternation when it was discovered that there were five aces in sight.

Instantly Tom Lester jerked his Colt’s revolver from his belt and laid it carefully down on top of his three aces and said: “Steady, boys, don’t move a muscle or a hand until I talk.” The onlookers pushed back and quickly enlarged the circle.

“Sit perfectly still, gentlemen,” said Tom Lester, quietly and in a low tone of voice, with his cocked revolver in front of him. “I’m not makin’ any accusations or loud talk – I’m not accusin’ anybody in particular of anything. Keep perfectly cool an’ hear a cool determined man talk. Far be it from me to accuse anyone of crooked dealin’ or holdin’ high cards up their sleeves.”

As he spoke he looked at One-Eyed Joe who had both a reputation at card skin games and a record of several notches on his gun handle.

“I want to say,” Lester continued, “that I recognize in the game we’re playin’ every man is a perfect gentleman and it’s not Tom Lester who suspicions any impure motives or crooked work.

“We will now order a new deck of cards,” said Tom while fire was flashing out of his steel gray eyes. “We will play this game to a finish, by God, and the honest winner will take the stakes. But I will say here and now so there may be no misunderstandin’ and without further notice, that if a fifth ace shows up again around this table, I’ll shoot his other eye out.” And he looked straight at One-Eyed Joe, who never quivered or moved a muscle.

“This ends my remarks concernin’ the rules. How d’ye like ‘em, Joe?”

“Me?” said Joe, looking up in a surprised way with his one eye. “I’m ‘lowin’ you have made yer position plain – so dangnation plain that even a blind man kin see the pint.”

The new deck was brought and the game went on in silence. After a few deals the pot was again opened, and was in due course won by a player who had taken no part in the previous mix-up, without a word falling from the lips of either Tom Lester or One-Eyed Joe.

Roderick and Grant moved away.

“Great guns,” exclaimed the former. “But that’s a rare glimpse of western life.”

“Oh, there are incidents like that every night,” replied Grant, “and shooting too at times. Have a drink?” he added as they approached the bar.

“Yes, I will have a great big lemonade.”

“Well,” laughed Grant, “I’ll surprise both you and my stomach by taking the same.”

As they sipped their drinks, Grant’s face became a little serious as he said: “I’m mighty glad you have come. You seem to be of my own kind. Lots of good boys out here, but they are a little rough and many of them are rather careless. Guess I am getting a little careless myself. There are just two men in these mountains who have a good influence over the boys. One is Major Buell Hampton. Everybody trusts him. By the way, I must introduce you to him. He is one of the grandest men I have ever met” As Grant said this he brought his fist down decisively on the bar.

“The other is the Reverend Stephen Grannon,” he went on, “the travelling horseback preacher – carries saddle bags, and all that. Why, do you know, the boys are so respectful to Reverend Grannon that they hire a man to go up and down the street ringing a bell, and they close up all their places for an hour every time he comes to town. He preaches mostly in the big tent you perhaps saw further up the street, at other times in the little church. The boys are mighty respectful to him, and all because they know he goes about doing good. If anyone falls ill, Reverend Grannon is the first to offer help. He visits the poor and cheers them with a spirit of hope. He never leaves town without going into every saloon and shaking hands with the barkeepers, giving them the same kind of advice but not in the same way – the same advice that we used to get when we stood around our mother’s knee before we had learned the sorrows of the big world.”

For a moment Grant was serious. Then looking up at Roderick, he laughed and said: “We all have to think of those old days once in a while, don’t we?”

Roderick nodded gravely.

“Now I come to think of it,” said Grant, “the present moment’s a very good time. We’ll go down and call on one of Nature’s noblemen. He is somewhat of an enigma. You cannot tell how old he is by looking at him. He may have seen fifty years or a hundred and fifty – the Lord only knows, for nobody in this camp has any idea. But you will meet a magnificent character. Come along. I’m going to present you to my friend, Major Buell Hampton, about whom I’ve just been speaking. I guess we’ll catch him at home.”

CHAPTER VIII – A PHILOSOPHER AMONG THE MOUNTAINS

AS THE two young men walked down the brilliantly lighted main street of Encampment, Grant Jones explained that the water had been dammed several miles up the south fork of the Encampment river and conducted in a California red-wood pipe down to the smelter plant for power purposes; and that the town of Encampment was lighted at a less cost per capita than any other town in the world. It simply cost nothing, so to speak.

Grant had pointed out several residences of local celebrities, but at last a familiar name drew Roderick’s special attention – the name of one of his father’s old friends.

“This is Boney Earnest’s home,” Grant was remarking. “He is the fellow who stands in front of the furnaces at the smelter in a sleeveless shirt and with a red bandana around his neck. They have a family of ten children, every one of them as bright as a new silver dollar. Oh, we have lots of children here and by the way a good public school. You see that log house just beyond? That is where Boney Earnest used to live when he first came into camp – before his brood was quite so numerous. It now belongs to Major Buell Hampton. It is not much to look at, but just wait until you get inside.”

“Then this Major Hampton, I presume, has furnished it up in great shape?”

“No, nothing but rough benches, a table, some chairs and a few shelves full of books. What I mean is that Major Hampton’s personality is there and that beats all the rich furniture and all the bric-à-brac on earth. As a college man you will appreciate him.”

Without ceremony Grant rapped vigorously at the door and received a loud response to “come in.” At the far end of a room that was perhaps 40 feet long by 20 feet in width was an open fireplace in which huge logs of wood were burning. Here Major Hampton was standing with his back to the fire and his hands crossed behind him.

As his visitors entered, the Major said in courtly welcome: “Mr. Grant Jones, I am glad to see you.” And he advanced with hand extended.

“Major, let me introduce you to a newcomer, Roderick Warfield. We belong to the same ‘frat.’.rdquo;

“Mr. Warfield,” responded the Major, shaking the visitor’s hand, “I welcome you not only to the camp but to my humble dwelling.”

He led them forward and provided chairs in front of the open fire. On the center table was a humidor filled with tobacco and beside it lay several pipes.

“Mr. Warfield,” observed the Major, speaking with a marked southern accent, “I am indeed pleased, suh, to meet anyone who is a friend of Mr. Jones. I have found him a most delightful companion and I hope you will make free to call on me often. Interested in mining, I presume?”

“Well,” replied Roderick, “interested, yes, in a way. But tentative arrangements have been made for me to join the cowboy brigade. I am to ride the range if Mr. Shields is pleased with me, as our friend here seems to think he will be. He is looking for some more cowboys and my name has been mentioned to him.”

“Yes,” concurred Grant, “Mr. Shields needs some more cowboys very badly, and as Warfield is accustomed to riding, I’m quite sure he’ll fill the bill.”

“Personally,” observed the Major, “I am very much interested in mining. It has a great charm for me. The taking out of wealth from the bosom of the earth – wealth that has never been tainted by commercialism – appeals to me very much.”

“Then I presume you are doing some mining yourself.”

“No,” replied the Major. “If I had capital, doubtless I would be in the mining business. But my profession, if I may term it so, is that of a hunter. These hills and mountains are pretty full of game, and I manage to find two or three deer a week. My friend and next door neighbor, Mr. Boney Earnest, and his family consisting of a wife and ten children, have been very considerate of me and I have undertaken the responsibility of furnishing the meat for their table. Are you fond of venison, Mr. Warfield?”

“I must confess,” said Roderick, “I have never tasted venison.”

“Finest meat in the world,” responded the Major. “Of course,” he went on, “I aim to sell about one deer a week, which brings me a fair compensation. It enables me to buy tobacco and ammunition,” and he laughed good naturedly at his limited wants.

“One would suppose,” interjected Grant Jones, “that the Boney Earnest family must be provided with phenomenal appetites if they eat the meat of two deer each week. But if you knew the Major’s practice of supplying not less than a dozen poor families with venison because they are needy, you would understand why he does not have a greater income from the sale of these antlered trophies of the hills.”

The Major waved the compliment aside and lit his pipe. As he threw his head well back after the pipe was going, Roderick was impressed that Major Buell Hampton most certainly was an exceptional specimen of manhood. He was over six feet tall, splendidly proportioned, and perhaps weighed considerably more than two hundred pounds.

There were little things here and there that gave an insight into the character of the man. Hanging on the wall was a broad-brimmed slouch hat of the southern planter style. Around his neck the Major wore a heavy gold watch guard with many a link. To those who knew him best, as Roderick came subsequently to learn, this chain was symbolical of his endless kindnesses to the poor – notwithstanding his own poverty, of such as he had he freely gave; like the chain his charities seemed linked together without a beginning – without an end. His well-brushed shoes and puttees, his neatly arranged Windsor tie, denoted the old school of refinement and good breeding.

His long dark hair and flowing mustaches were well streaked with gray. His forehead was knotted, his nose was large but well formed, while the tangled lines of his face were deep cut and noticeable. From under heavily thatched eyebrows the eyes beamed forth the rare tenderness and gentle consideration for others which his conversation suggested. Long before the evening’s visit was over, a conviction was fixed in Roderick’s heart that here indeed was a king among men – one on whom God had set His seal of greatness.

In later days, when both had become well acquainted, Roderick sometimes discovered moments when this strange man was in deep meditation – when his eyes seemed resting far away on some mysterious past or inscrutable future. And Roderick would wonder whether it was a dark cloud of memory or anxiety for what was to come that obscured and momentarily dimmed the radiance of this great soul. It was in such moments that Major Buell Hampton became patriarchal in appearance; and an observer might well have exclaimed: “Here is one over whom a hundred winters or even countless centuries have blown their fiercest chilling winds.” But when Buell Hampton had turned again to things of the present, his face was lit up with his usual inspiring smile of preparedness to consider the simplest questions of the poorest among the poor of his acquaintances – a transfiguration indescribable, as if the magic work of some ancient alchemist had pushed the years away, transforming the centenarian into a comparatively young man who had seen, perhaps, not more than half a century. He was, indeed, changeable as a chameleon. But in all phases he looked, in the broadest sense of the word, the humanitarian.

As the three men sat that night around the fire and gazed into the leaping flames and glowing embers, there had been a momentary lull in the conversation, broken at last by the Major.

“I hope we shall become great friends, Mr. War-field,” he said. “But to be friends we must be acquainted, and in order to be really acquainted with a man I must know his views on politics, religion, social questions, and the economic problems of the age in which we live.”

He waved his hand at the bookshelves well filled with volumes whose worn bindings showed that they were there for reading and not for show. Long rows of periodicals, even stacks of newspapers, indicated close attention to the current questions of the day.

“Rather a large order,” replied Roderick, smiling. “It would take a long time to test out a man in such a thorough way.”

The Major paid no heed to the comment. Still fixedly regarding the bookshelves, he continued: “You see my library, while not extensive, represents my possessions. Each day is a link in life’s chain, and I endeavor to keep pace with the latest thought and the latest steps in the world’s progress.”

Then he turned round suddenly and asked the direct question: “By the way, Mr. Warfield, are you a married man?”

Roderick blushed the blush of a young bachelor and confessed that he was not.