The Treasure of Hidden Valley. Emerson Willis George
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