CHAPTER XIX
In the interim Bryce had not been idle. From his woods-crew he pickedan old, experienced hand--one Jabez Curtis--to take the place of thevanished McTavish. Colonel Pennington, having repaired in three daysthe gap in his railroad, wrote a letter to the Cardigan Redwood LumberCompany, informing Bryce that until more equipment could be purchasedand delivered to take the place of the rolling-stock destroyed inthe wreck, the latter would have to be content with half-deliveries;whereupon Bryce irritated the Colonel profoundly by purchasing a lot ofsecond-hand trucks from a bankrupt sugar-pine mill in Lassen County anddelivering them to the Colonel's road via the deck of a steam schooner.
"That will insure delivery of sufficient logs to get out our orders onfile," Bryce informed his father. "While we are morally certain our millwill run but one year longer, I intend that it shall run full capacityfor that year. In fact, I'm going to saw in that one year remaining tous as much lumber as we would ordinarily saw in two years. To be exact,I'm going to run a night-shift."
The sightless old man raised both hands in deprecation. "The marketwon't absorb it," he protested.
"Then we'll stack it in piles to air-dry and wait until the market isbrisk enough to absorb it," Bryce replied.
"Our finances won't stand the overhead of that night-shift, I tell you,"his father warned.
"I know we haven't sufficient cash on hand to attempt it, Dad, but--I'mgoing to borrow some."
"From whom? No bank in Sequoia will lend us a penny, and long before youcame home I had sounded every possible source of a private loan."
"Did you sound the Sequoia Bank of Commerce?"
"Certainly not. Pennington owns the controlling interest in that bank,and I was never a man to waste my time."
Bryce chuckled. "I don't care where the money comes from so long as Iget it, partner. Pennington's money may be tainted; in fact, I'd risk abet that it is; but our employees will accept it for wages nevertheless.Desperate circumstances require desperate measures you know, and theday before yesterday, when I was quite ignorant of the fact that ColonelPennington controls the Sequoia Bank of Commerce, I drifted in on thepresident and casually struck him for a loan of one hundred thousanddollars."
"Well, I'll be shot, Bryce! What did he say?"
"Said he'd take the matter under consideration and give me an answerthis morning. He asked me, of course, what I wanted that much money for,and I told him I was going to run a night-shift, double my force of menin the woods, and buy some more logging-trucks, which I can get rathercheap. Well, this morning I called for my answer--and got it. TheSequoia Bank of Commerce will loan me up to a hundred thousand, butit won't give me the cash in a lump sum. I can have enough to buy thelogging-trucks now, and on the first of each month, when I present mypay-roll, the bank will advance me the money to meet it."
"Bryce, I am amazed."
"I am not--since you tell me Colonel Pennington controls that bank. Thatthe bank should accommodate us is the most natural procedure imaginable.Pennington is only playing safe--which is why the bank declined to giveme the money in a lump sum. If we run a night-shift, Penningtonknows that we can't dispose of our excess output under present marketconditions. The redwood trade is in the doldrums and will remain in themto a greater or less degree until the principal redwood centres secure arail outlet to the markets of the country. It's a safe bet our lumber isgoing to pile up on the mill dock; hence, when the smash comes and theSequoia Bank of Commerce calls our loan and we cannot possibly meet it,the lumber on hand will prove security for the loan, will it not? Infact, it will be worth two or three dollars per thousand more then thanit is now, because it will be air-dried. And inasmuch as all the signspoint to Pennington's gobbling us anyhow, it strikes me as a rather goodbusiness on his part to give us sufficient rope to insure a thorough jobof hanging."
"But what idea have you got back of such a procedure, Bryce?"
"Merely a forlorn hope, Dad. Something might turn up. The market maytake a sudden spurt and go up three or four dollars."
"Yes--and it may take a sudden spurt and drop three or four dollars,"his father reminded him.
Bryce laughed. "That would be Pennington's funeral, Dad. And whetherthe market goes up or comes down, it costs us nothing to make theexperiment."
"Quite true." his father agreed.
"Then, if you'll come down to the office to-morrow morning, Dad, we'llhold a meeting of our board of directors and authorize me, as presidentof the company, to sign the note to the bank. We're borrowing thiswithout collateral, you know."
John Cardigan sighed. Such daring financial acrobatics were not usualwith him, but as Bryce had remarked there was no reason why, in theirpresent predicament, they should not gamble. Hence he entered no furtherobjection, and the following day the agreement was entered into withthe bank. Bryce closed by wire for the extra logging-equipment andimmediately set about rounding up a crew for the woods and for thenight-shift in the mill.
For a month Bryce was as busy as the proverbial one-armed paper-hangerwith the itch, and during all that time he did not see Shirley Sumner orhear of her, directly or indirectly. Only at infrequent intervals did hepermit himself to think of her, for he was striving to forget, and thememory of his brief glimpse of paradise was always provocative of pain.
Moira McTavish, in the meantime, had come down from the woods andentered upon her duties in the mill office. The change from her dull,drab life, giving her, as it did, an opportunity for companionship withpeople of greater mentality and refinement than she had been used to,quickly brought about a swift transition in the girl's nature. With thepassing of the coarse shoes and calico dresses and the substitution ofthe kind of clothing all women of Moira's instinctive refinement andnatural beauty long for, the girl became cheerful, animated, and imbuedwith the optimism of her years. At first old Sinclair resented theadvent of a woman in the office; then he discovered that Moira's effortslightened his own labours in exact proportion to the knowledge of thebusiness which she assimilated from day to day.
Moira worked in the general office, and except upon occasions when Brycedesired to look at the books or Moira brought some document intothe private office for his perusal, there were days during whichhis pleasant "Good morning, Moira," constituted the extent of theirconversation. To John Cardigan, however, Moira was a ministering angel.Gradually she relieved Bryce of the care of the old man. She made acushion for his easy-chair in the office; she read the papers to him,and the correspondence, and discussed with him the receipt and deliveryof orders, the movements of the lumber-fleet, the comedies and tragediesof his people, which had become to him matters of the utmost importance.She brushed his hair, dusted his hat, and crowned him with it when heleft the office at nightfall, and whenever Bryce was absent in the woodsor in San Francisco, it fell to her lot to lead the old man to and fromthe house on the hill. To his starved heart her sweet womanly attentionswere tremendously welcome, and gradually he formed the habit of speakingof her, half tenderly, half jokingly, as "my girl."
Bryce had been absent in San Francisco for ten days. He had planned tostay three weeks, but finding his business consummated in less time,he returned to Sequoia unexpectedly. Moira was standing at the tallbookkeeping desk, her beautiful dark head bent over the ledger, when heentered the office and set his suitcase in the corner.
"Is that you, Mr. Bryce?" she queried.
"The identical individual, Moira. How did you guess it was I?"
She looked up at him then, and her wonderful dark eyes lighted with aflame Bryce had not seen in them heretofore. "I knew you were coming,"she replied simply.
"But how could you know? I didn't telegraph because I wanted to surprisemy father, and the instant the boat touched the dock, I went oversideand came directly here. I didn't even wait for the crew to run out thegangplank--so I know nobody could have told you I was due."
"That is quite right, Mr. Bryce. Nobody told me you were coming, but Ijust knew, when I heard the Noyo whistling as she made the
dock, thatyou were aboard, and I didn't look up when you entered the officebecause I wanted to verify my--my suspicion."
"You had a hunch, Moira. Do you get those telepathic messages veryoften?" He was crossing the office to shake her hand.
"I've never noticed particularly--that is, until I came to work here.But I always know when you are returning after a considerable absence."She gave him her hand. "I'm so glad you're back."
"Why?" he demanded bluntly.
She flushed. "I--I really don't know, Mr. Bryce."
"Well, then," he persisted, "what do you think makes you glad?"
"I had been thinking how nice it would be to have you back, Mr. Bryce.When you enter the office, it's like a breeze rustling the tops of theRedwoods. And your father misses you so; he talks to me a great dealabout you. Why, of course we miss you; anybody would."
As he held her hand, he glanced down at it and noted how greatly it hadchanged during the past few months. The skin was no longer rough andbrown, and the fingers, formerly stiff and swollen from hard work, weregrowing more shapely. From her hand his glance roved over the girl,noting the improvements in her dress, and the way the thick, wavy blackhair was piled on top of her shapely head.
"It hadn't occurred to me before, Moira," he said with a brightimpersonal smile that robbed his remark of all suggestion of masculineflattery, "but it seems to me I'm unusually glad to see you, also.You've been fixing your hair different."
The soft lambent glow leaped again into Moira's eyes. He had noticedher--particularly. "Do you like my hair done that way?" she inquiredeagerly.
"I don't know whether I do or not. It's unusual--for you. You lookmighty sweetly old-fashioned with it coiled in back--somewhat like anold-fashioned daguerreotype of my mother. Is this new style the latestin hairdressing in Sequoia?"
"I think so, Mr. Bryce. I copied it from Colonel Pennington's niece,Miss Sumner."
"Oh," he replied briefly. "You've met her, have you? I didn't know shewas in Sequoia still."
"She's been away, but she came back last week. I went to the Valley ofthe Giants last Saturday afternoon--"
Bryce interrupted. "You didn't tell my father about the tree that wascut, did you?" he demanded sharply.
"No."
"Good girl! He mustn't know. Go on, Moira. I interrupted you."
"I met Miss Sumner up there. She was lost; she'd followed the old trailinto the timber, and when the trees shut out the sun, she lost all senseof direction. She was terribly frightened and crying when I found herand brought her home."
"Well, I swan, Moira! What was she doing in our timber?"
"She told me that once, when she was a little girl, you had taken herfor a ride on your pony up to your mother's grave. And it seems she hada great curiosity to see that spot again and started out without sayinga word to any one. Poor dear! She was in a sad state when I found her."
"How fortunate you found her! I've met Miss Sumner three or four times.That was when she first came to Sequoia. She's a stunning girl, isn'tshe?"
"Perfectly, Mr. Bryce. She's the first lady I've ever met. She'sdifferent."
"No doubt! Her kind are not a product of homely little communities likeSequoia. And for that matter, neither is her wolf of an uncle. What didMiss Sumner have to say to you, Moira?"
"She told me all about herself--and she said a lot of nice things aboutyou, Mr. Bryce, after I told her I worked for you. And when I showedher the way home, she insisted that I should walk home with her. So Idid--and the butler served us with tea and toast and marmalade. Then sheshowed me all her wonderful things--and gave me some of them. Oh, Mr.Bryce, she's so sweet. She had her maid dress my hair in half a dozendifferent styles until they could decide on the right style, and--"
"And that's it--eh, Moira?"
She nodded brightly.
"I can see that you and Miss Sumner evidently hit it off just right witheach other. Are you going to call on her again?"
"Oh, yes! She begged me to. She says she's lonesome."
"I dare say she is, Moira. Well, her choice of a pal is a tribute to thebrains I suspected her of possessing, and I'm glad you've gotten to knoweach other. I've no doubt you find life a little lonely sometimes."
"Sometimes, Mr. Bryce."
"How's my father?"
"Splendid. I've taken good care of him for you."
"Moira, you're a sweetheart of a girl. I don't know how we ever managedto wiggle along without you." Fraternally--almost paternally--he gaveher radiant cheek three light little pats as he strode past her to theprivate office. He was in a hurry to get to his desk, upon which hecould see through the open door a pile of letters and orders, and amoment later he was deep in a perusal of them, oblivious to the factthat ever and anon the girl turned upon him her brooding, Madonna-likeglance.
That night Bryce and his father, as was their custom after dinner,repaired to the library, where the bustling and motherly Mrs. Tullyserved their coffee. This good soul, after the democratic fashion invogue in many Western communities, had never been regarded as a servant;neither did she so regard herself. She was John Cardigan's housekeeper,and as such she had for a quarter of a century served father andson their meals and then seated herself at the table with them. Thisarrangement had but one drawback, although this did not presentitself until after Bryce's return to Sequoia and his assumption of thedirection of the Cardigan destinies. For Mrs. Tully had a failingcommon to many of her sex: she possessed for other people's business aninterest absolutely incapable of satisfaction--and she was, in addition,garrulous beyond belief. The library was the one spot in the house whichat the beginning of her employment John Cardigan had indicated to Mrs.Tully as sanctuary for him and his; hence, having served the coffee thisevening, the amiable creature withdrew, although not without a pang asshe reflected upon the probable nature of their conversation and thevoid which must inevitably result by reason of the absence of her adviceand friendly cooperation and sympathy.
No sooner had Mrs. Tully departed than Bryce rose and closed the doorbehind her. John Cardigan opened the conversation with a contentedgrunt:
"Plug the keyhole, son," he continued. "I believe you have something onyour mind--and you know how Mrs. Tully resents the closing of that door.Estimable soul that she is, I have known her to eavesdrop. She can'thelp it, poor thing! She was born that way."
Bryce clipped a cigar and held a lighted match while his father "smokedup." Then he slipped into the easy-chair beside the old man.
"Well, John Cardigan," he began eagerly, "fate ripped a big hole in ourdark cloud the other day and showed me some of the silver lining. I'vebeen making bad medicine for Colonel Pennington. Partner, the pill I'mrolling for that scheming scoundrel will surely nauseate him when heswallows it."
"What's in the wind, boy?"
"We're going to parallel Pennington's logging-road."
"Inasmuch as that will cost close to three quarters of a milliondollars, I'm of the opinion that we're not going to do anything of thesort."
"Perhaps. Nevertheless, if I can demonstrate to a certain party that itwill not cost more than three quarters of a million, he'll loan me themoney."
The old man shook his head. "I don't believe it, Bryce. Who's the crazyman?"
"His name is Gregory. He's Scotch."
"Now I know he's crazy. When he hands you the money, you'll find he'stalking real money but thinking of Confederate greenbacks. For a saneScotchman to loan that much money without collateral security would beequivalent to exposing his spinal cord and tickling it with a rat-tailfile."
Bryce laughed. "Pal," he declared, "if you and I have any brains, theymust roll around in our skulls like buckshot in a tin pan. Here we'vebeen sitting for three months, and twiddling our thumbs, or lying awakenights trying to scheme a way out of our difficulties, when if we'd hadthe sense that God gives geese we would have solved the problem longago and ceased worrying. Listen, now, with all your ears. When BillHenderson wanted to build the logging railroad which he afterward soldto
Pennington, and which Pennington is now using as a club to beat ourbrains out, did he have the money to build it?"
"No."
"Where did he get it?"
"I loaned it to him. He only had about eight miles of road to buildthen, so I could afford to accommodate him."
"How did he pay you back?"
"Why, he gave me a ten-year contract for hauling our logs at a dollarand a half a thousand feet, and I merely credited his account with theamount of the freight-bills he sent me until he'd squared up the loan,principal and interest."
"Well, if Bill Henderson financed himself on that plan, why didn'twe think of using the same time-honoured plan for financing a road toparallel Pennington's?"
John Cardigan sat up with a jerk. "By thunder!" he murmured. That was asclose as he ever came to uttering an oath. "By thunder!" he repeated. "Inever thought of that! But then," he added, "I'm not so young as I usedto be, and there are any number of ideas which would have occurred to metwenty years ago but do not occur to me now."
"All right, John Cardigan. I forgive you. Now, then, continue to listen:to the north of that great block of timber held by you and Penningtonlie the redwood holdings of the Trinidad Redwood Timber Company."
"Never heard of them before."
"Well, timber away in there in back of beyond has never been welladvertised, because it is regarded as practically inaccessible. Byextending his logging-road and adding to his rolling-stock, Penningtoncould make it accessible, but he will not. He figures on buying all thatback timber rather cheap when he gets around to it, for the reason thatthe Trinidad Redwood Timber Company cannot possibly mill its timberuntil a railroad connects its holdings with the outside world. Theycan hold it until their corporation franchise expires, and it will notincrease sufficiently in value to pay taxes."
"I wonder why the blamed fools ever bought in there, Bryce."
"When they bought, it looked like a good buy. You will remember thatsome ten years ago a company was incorporated with the idea of buildinga railroad from Grant's Pass, Oregon, on the line of the SouthernPacific, down the Oregon and California coast to tap the redwood belt."
"I remember. There was a big whoop and hurrah and then the propositiondied abornin'. The engineers found that the cost of construction throughthat mountainous country was prohibitive."
"Well, before the project died, Gregory and his associates believedthat it was going to survive. They decided to climb in on the groundfloor--had some advance, inside information that the road was to bebuilt; go they quietly gathered together thirty thousand acres of goodstuff and then sat down to wait for the railroad, And they are stillwaiting. Gregory, by the way, is the president of the Trinidad RedwoodTimber Company. He's an Edinburgh man, and the fly American promotersgot him to put up the price of the timber and then mortgaged theirinterests to him as security for the advance. He foreclosed on theirnotes five years ago."
"And there he is with his useless timber!" John Cardigan murmuredthoughtfully. "The poor Scotch sucker!"
"He isn't poor. The purchase of that timber didn't even denthis bank-roll. He's what they call in England a tinned-goodsmanufacturer--purveyor to His Majesty the King, and all that. But hewould like to sell his timber, and being Scotch, naturally he desires tosell it at a profit. In order to create a market for it, however, he hasto have an outlet to that market. We supply the outlet--with his help;and what happens? Why, timber that cost him fifty and seventy-fivecents per thousand feet stumpage--and the actual timber will overrunthe cruiser's estimate every time--will be worth two dollars and fiftycents--perhaps more."
The elder Cardigan turned slowly in his chair and bent his sightlessgaze upon his son. "Well, well," he cried impatiently.
"He loans us the money to build our road. We build it--on through ourtimber and into his. The collateral security which we put up will bea twenty-five-years contract to haul his logs to tidewater on HumboldtBay, at a base freight-rate of one dollar and fifty cents, with anincrease of twenty-five cents per thousand every five years thereafter,and an option for a renewal of the contract upon expiration, at the rateof freight last paid. We also grant him perpetual booming-space for hislogs in the slough which we own and where we now store our logs untilneeded at the mill. In addition we sell him, at a reasonable figure,sufficient land fronting on tidewater to enable him to erect a sawmill,lay out his yards, and build a dock out into the deep water.
"Thus Gregory will have that which he hasn't got now--an outlet to hismarket by water; and when the railroad to Sequoia builds in from thesouth, it will connect with the road which we have built from Sequoia upinto Township Nine to the north; hence Gregory will also have an outletto his market by rail. He can easily get a good manager to run hislumber business until he finds a customer for it, and in the meantimewe will be charging his account with our freight-bills against him andgradually pay off the loan without pinching ourselves."
"Have you talked with Gregory?"
"Yes. I met him while I was in San Francisco. Somebody brought him upto a meeting of the Redwood Lumber Manufacturers' Association, and Ipounced on him like an owl on a mouse."
John Cardigan's old hand came gropingly forth and rested affectionatelyupon his boy's. "What a wonderful scheme it would have been a year ago,"he murmured sadly. "You forget, my son, that we cannot last in businesslong enough to get that road built though Gregory should agree tofinance the building of it. The interest on our bonded indebtedness ispayable on the first--"
"We can meet it, sir."
"Aye, but we can't meet the fifty thousand dollars which, under theterms of our deed of trust, we are required to pay in on July firstof each year as a sinking fund toward the retirement of our bonds. Bysuper-human efforts--by sacrificing a dozen cargoes, raising hob withthe market, and getting ourselves disliked by our neighbours--we managedto meet half of it this year and procure an extension of six months onthe balance due.
"That is Pennington's way. He plays with us as a cat does with a mouse,knowing, like the cat, that when he is weary of playing, he will devourus. And now, when we are deeper in debt than ever, when the market islower and more sluggish than it has been in fifteen years, to hope tomeet the interest and the next payment to the sinking fund taxes myoptimism. Bryce, it just can't be done. We'd have our road about halfcompleted when we'd bust up in business; indeed, the minute Penningtonsuspected we were paralleling his line, he'd choke off our wind. I tellyou it can't be done."
But Bryce contradicted him earnestly. "It can be done," he said."Gregory knows nothing of our financial condition. Our rating in thereports of the commercial agencies is as good as it ever was, and aman's never broke till somebody finds it out."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that if we can start building our road and have it halfcompleted before Pennington jumps on us, GREGORY WILL SIMPLY HAVE TOCOME TO OUR AID IN SELF-DEFENSE. Once he ties up with us, he's committedto the task of seeing us through. If we fall, he must pick us up andcarry us, whether he wants to or not; and I will so arrange the dealthat he will have to. I can do it, I tell you."
John Cardigan raised his hand. "No," he said firmly, "I will not allowyou to do this. That way--that is the Pennington method. If we fall,my son, we pass out like gentlemen, not blackguards. We will not takeadvantage of this man Gregory's faith. If he joins forces with us, welay our hand on the table and let him look."
"Then he'll never join hands with us, partner. We're done."
"We're not done, my son. We have one alternative, and I'm going to takeit. I've got to--for your sake. Moreover, your mother would have wishedit so."
"You don't mean--"
"Yes, I do. I'm going to sell Pennington my Valley of the Giants. ThankGod, that quarter-section does not belong to the Cardigan Redwood LumberCompany. It is my personal property, and it is not mortgaged. Penningtoncan never foreclose on it--and until he gets it, twenty-five hundredacres of virgin timber on Squaw Creek are valueless--nay, a source ofexpense to him. Bryce, he has to have it; and he'
ll pay the price, whenhe knows I mean business."
With a sweeping gesture he waved aside the arguments that rose tohis son's lips. "Lead me to the telephone," he commanded; and Bryce,recognizing his sire's unalterable determination, obeyed.
"Find Pennington's number in the telephone-book," John Cardigancommanded next.
Bryce found it, and his father proceeded to get the Colonel on the wire."Pennington," he said hoarsely, "this is John Cardigan speaking. I'vedecided to sell you that quarter-section that blocks your timber onSquaw Creek."
"Indeed," the Colonel purred. "I had an idea you were going to presentit to the city for a natural park."
"I've changed my mind. I've decided to sell at your last offer."
"I've changed my mind, too. I've decided not to buy--at my last offer.Good-night."
Slowly John Cardigan hung the receiver on the hook, turned and gropedfor his son. When he found him, the old man held him for a moment in hisarms. "Lead me upstairs, son," he murmured presently. "I'm tired. I'mgoing to bed."
When Colonel Seth Pennington turned from the telephone and facedhis niece, Shirley read his triumph in his face. "Old Cardigan hascapitulated at last," he cried exultingly. "We've played a waiting gameand I've won; he just telephoned to say he'd accept my last offerfor his Valley of the Giants, as the sentimental old fool calls thatquarter-section of huge redwoods that blocks the outlet to our SquawCreek timber."
"But you're not going to buy it. You told him so, Uncle Seth."
"Of course I'm not going to buy it--at my last offer. It's worth fivethousand dollars in the open market, and once I offered him fiftythousand for it. Now I'll give him five."
"I wonder why he wants to sell," Shirley mused. "From what BryceCardigan told me once, his father attaches a sentimental value to thatstrip of woods; his wife is buried there; it's--or rather, it used tobe--a sort of shrine to the old gentleman."
"He's selling it because he's desperate. If he wasn't teetering on theverge of bankruptcy, he'd never let me outgame him," Pennington repliedgayly. "I'll say this for the old fellow: he's no bluffer. However,since I know his financial condition almost to a dollar, I do not thinkit would be good business to buy his Valley of the Giants now. I'llwait until he has gone bust--and save twenty-five or thirty thousanddollars."
"I think you're biting off your nose to spite your face, Uncle Seth. TheLaguna Grande Lumber Company needs that outlet. In dollars and cents,what is it worth to the Company?"
"If I thought I couldn't get it from Cardigan a few months from now, I'dgo as high as a hundred thousand for it to-night," he answered coolly.
"In that event, I advise you to take it for fifty thousand. It'sterribly hard on old Mr. Cardigan to have to sell it, even at thatprice."
"You do not understand these matters, Shirley. Don't try. And don'twaste your sympathy on that old humbug. He has to dig up fifty thousanddollars to pay on his bonded indebtedness, and he's finding it adifficult job. He's just sparring for time, but he'll lose out."
As if to indicate that he considered the matter closed, the Colonel drewhis chair toward the fire, picked up a magazine, and commenced idly toslit the pages. Shirley studied the back of his head for some time,then got out some fancy work and commenced plying her needle. And as sheplied it, a thought, nebulous at first, gradually took form in her headuntil eventually she murmured loud enough for the Colonel to hear:
"I'll do it."
"Do what?" Pennington queried.
"Something nice for somebody who did something nice for me," sheanswered.
"That McTavish girl?" he suggested.
"Poor Moira! Isn't she sweet, Uncle Seth? I'm going to give her thatblack suit of mine. I've scarcely worn it--"
"I thought so," he interrupted with an indulgent yawn. "Well, dowhatever makes for your happiness, my dear. That's all money is for."
About two o'clock the following afternoon old Judge Moore, of theSuperior Court of Humboldt County, drifted into Bryce Cardigan's office,sat down uninvited, and lifted his long legs to the top of an adjacentchair.
"Well, Bryce, my boy," he began, "a little bird tells me your daddyis considering the sale of Cardigan's Redwoods, or the Valley of theGiants, as your paternal ancestor prefers to refer to that little oldquarter-section out yonder on the edge of town. How about it?"
Bryce stared at him a moment questioningly. "Yes, Judge," he replied,"we'll sell, if we get our price."
"Well," his visitor drawled, "I have a client who might be persuaded.I'm here to talk turkey. What's your price?"
"Before we talk price," Bryce parried, "I want you to answer aquestion."
"Let her fly," said Judge Moore.
"Are you, directly or indirectly, acting for Colonel Pennington?"
"That's none of your business, young man--at least, it would be noneof your business if I were, directly or indirectly, acting for thatunconvicted thief. To the best of my information and belief, ColonelPennington doesn't figure in this deal in any way, shape, or manner; andas you know, I've been your daddy's friend for thirty years."
Still Bryce was not convinced, notwithstanding the fact that he wouldhave staked his honour on the Judge's veracity. Nobody knew better thanhe in what devious ways the Colonel worked, his wonders to perform.
"Well," he said, "your query is rather sudden, Judge, but still I canname you a price. I will state frankly, however, that I believe it tobe over your head. We have several times refused to sell to ColonelPennington for a hundred thousand dollars."
"Naturally that little dab of timber is worth more to Pennington than toanybody else. However, my client has given me instructions to go as highas a hundred thousand if necessary to get the property."
"What!"
"I said it. One hundred thousand dollars of the present standard weightand fineness."
Judge Moore's last statement swept away Bryce's suspicions. He requirednow no further evidence that, regardless of the identity of the Judge'sclient, that client could not possibly be Colonel Seth Pennington or anyone acting for him, since only the night before Pennington had curtlyrefused to buy the property for fifty thousand dollars. For a momentBryce stared stupidly at his visitor. Then he recovered his wits.
"Sold!" he almost shouted, and after the fashion of the West extendedhis hand to clinch the bargain. The Judge shook it solemnly. "The Lordloveth a quick trader," he declared, and reached into the capaciousbreast pocket of his Prince Albert coat. "Here's the deed already madeout in favour of myself, as trustee." He winked knowingly.
"Client's a bit modest, I take it," Bryce suggested.
"Oh, very. Of course I'm only hazarding a guess, but that guess is thatmy client can afford the gamble and is figuring on giving Penningtona pain where he never knew it to ache him before. In plain English, Ibelieve the Colonel is in for a razooing at the hands of somebody with asmall grouch against him."
"May the Lord strengthen that somebody's arm," Bryce breathed fervently."If your client can afford to hold out long enough, he'll be able to buyPennington's Squaw Creek timber at a bargain."
"My understanding is that such is the programme."
Bryce reached for the deed, then reached for his hat. "If you'll be goodenough to wait here, Judge Moore, I'll run up to the house and getmy father to sign this deed. The Valley of the Giants is hispersonal property, you know. He didn't include it in his assets whenincorporating the Cardigan Redwood Lumber Company."
A quarter of an hour later he returned with the deed duly signed by JohnCardigan and witnessed by Bryce; whereupon the Judge carelessly tossedhis certified check for a hundred thousand dollars on Bryce's deskand departed whistling "Turkey in the Straw." Bryce reached for thetelephone and called up Colonel Pennington.
"Bryce Cardigan speaking," he began, but the Colonel cut him short.
"My dear, impulsive young friend," he interrupted in oleaginous tones,"how often do you have to be told that I am not quite ready to buy thatquarter-section?"
"Oh," Bryce retorted, "I merely called
up to tell you that every dollarand every asset you have in the world, including your heart's blood,isn't sufficient to buy the Valley of the Giants from us now."
"Eh? What's that? Why?"
"Because, my dear, overcautious, and thoroughly unprincipled enemy,it was sold five minutes ago for the tidy sum of one hundred thousanddollars, and if you don't believe me, come over to my office and I'lllet you feast your eyes on the certified check."
He could hear a distinct gasp. After an interval of five seconds,however, the Colonel recovered his poise. "I congratulate you," hepurred. "I suppose I'll have to wait a little longer now, won't I?Well--patience is my middle name. Au revoir."
The Colonel hung up. His hard face was ashen with rage, and he stared ata calendar on the wall with his cold, phidian stare. However, he was notwithout a generous stock of optimism. "Somebody has learned of the lowstate of the Cardigan fortune," he mused, "and taken advantage of it toinduce the old man to sell at last. They're figuring on selling to me ata neat profit. And I certainly did overplay my hand last night. However,there's nothing to do now except sit tight and wait for the new owner'snext move."
Meanwhile, in the general office of the Cardigan Redwood Lumber Company,joy was rampant. Bryce Cardigan was doing a buck and wing dance aroundthe room, while Moira McTavish, with her back to her tall desk,watched him, in her eyes a tremendous joy and a sweet, yearning glow ofadoration that Bryce was too happy and excited to notice.
Suddenly he paused before her. "Moira, you're a lucky girl," hedeclared. "I thought this morning you were going back to a kitchen in alogging-camp. It almost broke my heart to think of fate's swindlingyou like that." He put his arm around her and gave her a brotherly hug."It's autumn in the woods, Moira, and all the underbrush is golden."
She smiled, though it was winter in her heart.