The Treasure of Hidden Valley. Emerson Willis George
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.
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