Persian Tales - Volume Ii - Bakhti R

Tales - Illustrated By Hilda Roberts

This wonderful book is the second of two volumes of old Persian tales.
These 28 tales originate from the province Bakhtiari, Iran and are
beautifully illustrated with black and white drawings and many
coloured plates by Hilda Roberts. Pook Press c

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Persian Tales - Volume Ii - Bakhti R Tales
- Illustrated By Hilda Roberts

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.
spotted this mountain beauty.”
Throwing himself onto his horse, he started down toward the
south fork of the Encampment river and on to the westward the
Shields ranch, wondering as he rode along who this strange girl of
the hills could be. Once or twice he thought of Stella Rain and he
manfully endeavored to keep his mind concentrated on the one to
whom he was betrothed, running over in memory her last letter,
reckoning the time that must elapse before the next one would
arrive, recalling the tender incidents of their parting now two months
ago. But his efforts were in vain. Always there kept recurring the
vision of loveliness he had encountered on the range, and the
mystery that surrounded the fair rider’s identity. Once again since
Major Buell Hampton’s long diatribe on love and matrimony, he was
vaguely conscious that his impetuous love-making on that
memorable evening at Galesburg might have been a mistake, and
that the little “college widow” in her unselfishness had spoken words
of wisdom when she had counselled him to wait awhile—until he
really did know his own mind—until he had really tried out his own
heart, yes, until—Great heavens, he found himself recalling her very
words, spoken with tears in her soft pretty eyes: “That’s just the
trouble, Roderick. You do not know—you cannot make a comparison,
nor you won’t know until the other girl comes along.”
Had the other girl at last come? But at the disloyal thought he
spurred his horse to a gallop, and as he did so the first snowflakes of
the coming storm fluttered cold and damp against his flushed
cheeks. At last he thought of other things; he was wondering now,
as he glanced around into the thickening atmosphere, whether all
the stray mavericks were at last safe in the winter pastures and
corrals.
 CHAPTER XI.—WINTER PASSES

T
HAT night the big snow storm did indeed come, and when
Roderick woke up next morning it was to find mountain and
valley covered with a vast bedspread of immaculate white and
the soft snowflakes still descending like a feathery down. The storm
did not catch Mr. Shields unprepared; his vast herds were safe and
snug in their winter quarters.
The break in the weather marked the end of Roderick’s range
riding for the season. He was now a stock feeder and engaged in
patching up the corrals and otherwise playing his part of a ranch
hand. And with this stay-at-home life he found himself thinking more
and more of the real mission that had brought him into this land of
mountains. Nearly every night when his work was finished, he
studied a certain map of the hills—the inheritance left him by his
father. On this map were noted “Sheep Mountain,” “Bennet Peak,”
“Hahn’s Peak” and several other prominent landmarks. From his own
acquaintance with the country Roderick now knew that the lost
valley was quite a distance to the south and west from the Shields
ranch.
Thus the wintry days wore on, and with their passing Roderick
became more and more firm in his determination to be ready, when
the snow was gone in the spring, to take up his father’s unfinished
task of finding again the sandbar abounding with nuggets of gold.
Indeed in his life of isolation it gradually came about that he thought
of little else by day and dreamed of nothing else at night. Sometimes
in the solitude of his room he smiled at his loneliness. What a
change from the old college days—from the stir and excitement of
New York. During the winter he had been invited to a score of
gatherings, dances, and parties, but somehow he had become
taciturn and had declined all invitations.
 Then, with stern self-control he had succeeded in putting out of
mind the mysterious beauty of the range. Love at first sight!—he
had laughed down such silliness, and rooted out of his heart the
base treason that had even for a fleeting moment permitted such a
thought. Yes, there was nothing but firmest loyalty in his mind for
Stella Rain, who was waiting for him so faithfully and patiently, and
whose letters cheered him and filled him with greater determination
than ever to find the lost mine.
His labors on the ranch were arduous but his health was excellent.
At college he had been an athlete—now he was a rugged, bronzed-
faced son of the hills. His only recreations were laying plans for the
future and writing letters to Stella.
Not infrequently his mind wandered back to Keokuk, the old river
town, and his heart grew regretful that he had quarreled with his
Unde Allen Miller, and his thoughts were tender of his Aunt Lois.
Once he wrote a letter to Whitley Adams, then tore it up in a
dissatisfied way, returning to the determination to make his fortune
before communicating with his old friends.
And so the winter passed, and spring had come again.
It was one morning in early May, just after he had finished his
chores, when to his surprise Grant Jones shouted to him through the
corral fence: “Hello, old man, how is ranching agreeing with you,
anyway?”
“Fine,” responded Roderick, “fine and dandy.” He let himself
through the gate of the corral and shook hands with Grant. “Come
up to the bunk house; seems mighty good to see you.”
“Thanks,” responded Grant, as they walked along. “Do you know,
Warfield, I have been shut up over on the other side of the range
ever since that first big snow-storm? I paddled out on snowshoes
only once during the winter, and then walked over the tops of trees.
Plenty of places up on the Sierra Madre,” continued Grant, nodding
his head to the westward, “where the snow is still twenty to thirty
feet deep. If a fellow had ever broken through, why, of course, he
would have been lost until the spring.”
 “Terrible to think about,” said Roderick.
“Oh, that’s not all,” said Grant with his old exuberant laugh. “It
would have been so devilish long from a fellow’s passing until his
obituary came to be written. That is what gets on my nerves when
I’m out on snowshoes. Of course the columns of the Doublejack are
always open to write-ups on dead unfortunates, but it likes to have
‘em as near as possible to the actual date of demise. Then it’s live
news.”
“Sounds rather grewsome,” said Roderick, smiling at Grant’s oddity
of expression.
Arriving at the bunk house, they were soon seated around a big
stove where a brisk fire was burning, for the air without was still
sharp and the wind cutting and cold.
“I can offer you a pipe and some mighty fine tobacco,” said
Roderick, pushing a tray toward him carrying a jar of tobacco and
half-a-dozen cob pipes.
“Smells good,” commented Grant, as he accepted and began to fill
one of the pipes.
“Well, tell me something about yourself, Grant. I supposed the
attraction over here at the ranch was quite enough to make you
brave snowstorms and snow-slides and thirty-foot snowdrifts.”
“Warfield,” said Grant, half seriously, between puffs at his pipe,
“that is what I want to talk with you about. The inducement is
sufficient for all you suggest. She is a wonder. Without any question,
Dorothy Shields is the sweetest girl that ever lived.”
“Hold on,” smiled Roderick. “There may be others in the different
parts of the world.”
“Is that so?” ejaculated Grant with a rising inflection, while his
countenance suggested an interrogation point.
“No, I have no confessions to make,” rejoined Roderick, as he
struck a match to light his pipe.
“Well, that’s just what is troubling me,” said Grant, still serious. “I
was just wondering if anyone else had been browsing on my range
over here at the Shields ranch while I have been penned up like a
groundhog, getting out my weekly edition of the Dillon Doublejock,
sometimes only fifty papers at an issue. Think of it!” And they both
laughed at the ludicrous meagerness of such a circulation.
“But never mind,” continued Grant, reflectively, “I will run my
subscriptions up to three or four hundred in sixty days when the
snow is off the ground.”
“Yes, that is all very well, old man. But when will the snow be off?
I am considerably interested myself, for I want to do some
prospecting.”
“Hang your prospecting,” said Grant, “or when the snow will go
either. You haven’t answered my question.”
“Oh, as to whether anyone has been browsing on your range?”
exclaimed Roderick. “I must confess I do not know. They have had
dances and parties and all that sort of thing but—I really don’t know,
I have not felt in the mood and declined to attend. How do you find
the little queen of your heart? Has she forgotten you?”
“No-o,” responded Grant, slowly. “But dam it all, I can’t talk very
well before the whole family. I am an out-door man. You give me the
hills as a background and those millions of wild flowers that color
our valleys along in July like Joseph’s coat, and it makes me bubble
over with poetry and I can talk to beat a phonograph monologist.”
This was said in a jovial, joking tone, but beneath it all Roderick
knew there was much serious truth.
“How is it, Grant? Are you pretty badly hit?”
“Right square between the eyes, old man. Why, do you know,
sitting over in that rocky gorge of Dillon canyon in the little town of
Dillon, writing editorials for the Double jack month after month and
no one to read my paper, I have had time to think it all over, and I
have made up my mind to come here to the Shields ranch and tell
Dorothy it is my firm conviction that she is the greatest woman on
top of the earth, and that life to me without her is simply—well, I
don’t have words to describe the pitiful loneliness of it all without
her.”
 Roderick leaned back in his chair and laughed hilariously at his
friend.
“This is no joking matter,” said Grant. “I’m a goner.”
Just then there came a knock at the door and Roderick hastily
arose to bid welcome to the caller. To the surprise of both the visitor
proved to be Major Buell Hampton.
Major Hampton exchanged cordial greetings and expressed his
great pleasure at finding his two young friends together. Accepting
the invitation to be seated, he drew his meerschaum from his pocket
and proceeded to fill from a tobacco pouch made of deer skin.
“My dear Mr. Jones and’ Mr. Warfield,” he began, “where have you
been all through the winter?”
“For myself, right here doing chores about twelve hours per day,”
answered Roderick.
“As for me,” said Grant, “I have been way over ‘yonder’ editing the
Dillon Doublejack. I have fully a score of subscribers who would
have been heartbroken if I had missed a single issue. I snow-shoed
in to Encampment once, but your castle was locked and nobody
seemed to know where you had gone, Major.”
Jones had again laughed good-naturedly over the limited
circulation of his paper. Major Hampton smiled, while Roderick
observed that there was nothing like living in a literary atmosphere.
“If your circulation is small your persistence is certainly
commendable,” observed the Major, looking benignly at Jones but
not offering to explain his absence from Encampment when Jones
had called. “I have just paid my respects,” he went on, “to Mr. and
Mrs. Shields and their lovely daughters, and learned that you were
also visiting these hospitable people. My errand contemplated calling
upon Mr. Warfield as well. I almost feel I have been neglected. The
latchstring hangs on the outside of my door for Mr. War-field as well
as for you, Mr. Jones.”
“Many thanks,” observed Roderick.
 “Your compliment is not unappreciated,” said Grant. “When do you
return to Encampment?”
“Immediately after luncheon,” replied the Major.
“Very well, I will go along with you,” said Grant. “I came over on
my skis.”
“It will be a pleasure for me to extend the hospitality of the
comfortable riding sled that brought me over,” responded the Major
with Chesterfieldian politeness. “Jim Rankin is one of the safest
drivers in the country and he has a fine spirited team, while the
sledding is simply magnificent.”
“Although the jingle of sleigh-bells always makes me homesick,”
remarked Roderick, “I’d feel mighty pleased to return with you.”
“It will be your own fault, Mr. Warfield, if you do not accompany
us. I have just been talking to Mr. Shields, and he says you are the
most remarkable individual he has ever had on his ranch—a regular
hermit They never see you up at the house, and you have not been
away from the ranch for months, while the young ladies, Miss
Barbara and Miss Dorothy, think it perfectly horrid—to use their own
expression—that you never leave your quarters here or spend an
evening with the family.”
“Roderick,” observed Grant, “I never thought you were a stuck-up
prig before, but now I know you for what you are. But there must be
an end to such exclusiveness. Let someone else do the chores. Get
ready and come on back to Encampment with us, and we’ll have a
royal evening together at the Major’s home.”
“Excellent idea,” responded the Major. “I have some great secrets
to impart—but I am not sure I will tell you one of them,” he added
with a good-natured smile. The others laughed at his excess of
caution.
“Very well,” said Roderick, “if Mr. Shields can spare me for a few
days I’ll accept your invitation.”
At this moment the door was opened unceremoniously and in
walked the two Miss Shields. The men hastily arose and laid aside
their pipes.
 “We are here as messengers,” said Miss Dorothy, smiling. “You, Mr.
Warfield, are to come up to the house and have dinner with us as
well as the Major and Grant.”
“Glorious,” said Grant, smiling broadly. “Roderick, did you hear
that? She calls you Mr. Warfield and she calls me Grant. Splendid,
splendid!”
“I know somebody that will have their ears cuffed in a moment,”
observed Miss Dorothy.
“Again I ejaculate splendid!” said Grant in great hilarity, as if
daring her.
“It is a mystery to me,” observed the Major, “how two such
charming young ladies can remain so unappreciated.”
“Why, Major,” protested Barbara, “we are not unappreciated.
Everybody thinks we are just fine.”
“Major,” observed Grant with great solemnity, “this is an
opportunity I have long wanted.” He cleared his throat, winked at
Roderick, made a sweeping glance at the young ladies and
observed: “I wanted to express my admiration, yes, I might say my
affection for—”
Dorothy’s face was growing pink. She divined Grant’s ardent
feelings although he had spoken not one word of love to her. Lightly
springing to his side, she playfully but firmly placed her hands over
his mouth and turned whatever else he had to say into incoherency.
This ended Grant’s declaration. Even Major Buell Hampton smiled
and Roderick inquired: “Grant, what are you mumbling about?”
Dorothy dropped her hand.
“Oh, just trying to tell her to keep me muzzled forever,” Grant
smiled, and Dorothy’s cheeks were red with blushes.
With this final sally all started for the big ranch house where they
found that a sumptuous meal had been prepared.
During the repast Barbara learned of the proposed reunion of the
three friends at Encampment, and insisted that her father should
give a few days’ vacation to Mr. Warfield. The favor was quickly
granted, and an hour later Jim Rankin brought up his bob-sled and
prancing team, and to the merry sound of the sleigh-bells Major
Buell Hampton and the two young men sped away for Encampment.
It was arranged that Roderick and Grant should have an hour or
two to themselves and then call later in the evening on the Major.
Roderick was half irritated to find no letter at the post office from
Stella Rain. In point of fact, during the past two months, he had
been noticing longer and longer gaps in her correspondence.
Sometimes he felt his vanity touched and was inclined to be either
angry or humiliated. But at other times he just vaguely wondered
whether his loved one was drifting away from him.
 CHAPTER XII—THE MAJOR’S FIND

W
HEN Grant Jones and Roderick arrived at the Major’s home
that evening they found other visitors already installed
before the cheerful blaze of the open hearth. These were
Tom Sun, owner of more sheep than any other man in the state;
Boney Earnest, the blast furnace man in the big smelting plant; and
Jim Rankin, who had joined his two old cronies after unharnessing
the horses from the sleigh.
Cordial introductions and greetings were exchanged. Although
Roderick had shaken hands before with Boney Earnest, this was
their first meeting in a social way. And it was the very first time he
had encountered Tom Sun. Therefore the fortuitous gathering of his
father’s three old friends came to him as a pleasant surprise. He was
glad of the chance to get better acquainted.
While the company were settling themselves in chairs around the
fireplace, Jim Rankin seized the moment for a private confabulation
with Roderick. He drew the young man into a corner and addressed
him in a mysterious whisper: “By gunnies, Mr. War-field, it sure is
powerful good to have yer back agin. It’s seemed a tarnation long
winter. But you bet I’ve been keepin’ my mind on things—our big
secret—you know.”
Roderick nodded and Rankin went on: “I’ve been prognosticatin’
out this here way and then that way on a dozen trips after our
onderstandin’, searchin’ like fur that business; but dang my buttons
it’s pesterin’ hard to locate and don’t you forgit it. Excuse us,
gentlemen, we are talkin’ about certain private matters but we don’t
mean ter be impolite. I’m ‘lowin’ it’s the biggest secret in these
diggin’s—ain’t that right, Roderick?”
Rankin laughed good-humoredly at his own remarks as he took
out his tobacco pouch of fine cut and stowed away a huge cud. “You
bet yer life,” he continued between vigorous chews, “somebody is
nachurlly going to be a heap flustrated ‘round here one of these
days, leastways that’s what we’re assoomin’.”
“Say, Jim,” observed Tom Sun, “what are you talkin’ about
anyway? Boney, I think Jim is just as crazy as ever.”
“I reckon that’s no lie,” responded Boney, good-naturedly. “Always
was as crazy as a March hare with a bone in its throat.”
“Say, look here you fellows, yer gittin’ tumultuous,” exclaimed
Rankin, “you’re interferin’. Say, Major Hampton, I’m not a dangnation
bit peevish or nuthin’ like that, but do you know who are the four
biggest and most ponderous liars in the state of Wyoming?” The
Major looked up in surprise but did not reply. “Waal,” said Rankin,
expectorating toward the burning logs in the open hearth and
proceeding to answer his own question, “Boney Earnest is sure one
uv ‘em, I am one uv ‘em, and Tom Sun is ‘tother two.” Rankin
guffawed loudly. This brought forth quite an expression of merriment
The only reply from Tom Sun was that his thirty odd years of
association with Jim Rankin and Boney Earnest was quite enough to
make a prince of liars of anyone.
Presently the Major said: “Gentlemen, after taking a strict
inventory I find there are six men in the world for whom I entertain
an especial interest. Of course, my mission in life in a general way is
in behalf of humanity, but there are six who have come to be closer
to me than all the rest Five of them are before me. Of the other I
will not speak at this time. I invited you here this evening because
you represent in a large measure the things that I stand for. The
snow will soon be going, spring is approaching and great things will
happen during the next year—far greater than you dream of. You are
friends of mine and I have decided under certain restrictions to
share with you an important secret.”
Thereupon he pointed to some little sacks, until now unnoticed,
that lay on the center table. “Untie these sacks and empty the
contents onto the table if you will, Mr. Warfield.” Roderick complied.
 Each sack held about a hatful of broken rock, and to the
amazement of the Major’s guests Roderick emptied out on the table
the richest gold ores that any of them had ever beheld. They were
porphyry and white quartz, shot full of pure gold and stringers of
gold. Indeed the pieces of quartz were seemingly held together with
purest wire gold.
The natural query that was in the heart of everyone was soon
given voice by Jim Rankin. After scanning the remarkable exhibit he
turned to Major Buell Hampton and exclaimed: “Gosh ‘lmighty, Major,
where did this here come from?”
“A most natural question but one which I am not inclined to
answer at this time,” said the Major, smiling benignly. “Gentlemen, it
is my intention that everyone present shall share with me in a
substantial way in the remarkable discovery, the evidence of which is
lying before you. There are five of you and I enjoin upon each the
most solemn pledge of secrecy, even as regards the little you have
yet learned of the great secret which I possess.”
They all gave their pledges, and the Major went on: “There is
enough of these remarkably rich ores for everyone. But should the
slightest evidence come to me that anyone of you gentlemen has
been so thoughtless, or held the pledge you have just made so
lightly, that you have shared with any outsider the information so far
given, his name will assuredly be eliminated from this pact.
Therefore, it is not only a question of honor but a question of self-
interest, and I feel sure the former carries with it more potency with
each of you than the latter.”
In the meantime Roderick was closely examining the samples of
gold. Instinctively he had put his hand to the inside pocket of his
coat and felt for his father’s map. He was wondering whether Buell
Hampton had come into possession of the identical piece of
knowledge he himself was searching for. Presently Jim Rankin
whispered in his ear: “By gunnies, Warfield, I guess the Major has
beat us to it.”
 But Roderick shook his head reassuringly. He remembered that his
father’s find was placer gold—water-worn nuggets taken from a
sandbar in some old channel, as the sample in Jim Rankin’s own
possession showed. The ores he was now holding were of quite a
different class—they had been broken from the living rock.
After the specimens had been returned to the sample sacks and
the excitement had quieted a little, Major Hampton threw his head
back in his own princely way, as he sat in his easy chair before the
fire and observed: “Money may be a blessing or it may be a curse.
Personally I shall regret the discovery if a single dollar of this wealth,
which it is in my power to bring to the light of day, should ever bring
sorrow to humanity. It is my opinion that the richest man in the
world should not possess more than a quarter of a million dollars at
most, and even that amount is liable to make a very poor citizen out
of an otherwise good man. Unnecessary wealth merely stimulates to
abnormal or wicked extravagance. It is also self-evident that a more
equal distribution of wealth would obtain if millionaires were
unknown, and greater happiness would naturally follow.”
“Yes, but the world requires ‘spenders’ as well as getters,’”laughed
Tom Sun. “Otherwise we would all be dying of sheer weariness of
each other.”
“Surely, there are arguments on both sides,” assented the Major.
“It is a difficult problem. I was merely contending that a community
of comparatively poor people who earn their bread by the sweat of
their brow—tilling the soil and possessed of high ideals of good
citizenship—such people beyond question afford the greatest
example of contentment, morality and happiness. Great wealth is the
cause of some of our worst types of degeneracy. However,” he
concluded, knocking the ashes from his pipe, “it is not my purpose
this evening to sermonize. Nor do I intend at present to say anything
more about the rich gold discovery I have made except to reiterate
my assurance that at the proper time all you gentlemen will be
called on to share in the enterprise and in its profits. Now I believe
some of you”—and he looked at Jim Rankin, Tom Sun and Boney
Earnest as he spoke—“have another engagement tonight. It was
only at my special request, Mr. Warfield, that they remained to meet
you and Mr. Jones.”
“And we’re much obliged to you, Major,” said Boney Earnest,
arising and glancing at his watch. “Hope old John Warfield’s boy and
I will get still better acquainted. But I’ve got to be going now. You
see my wife insisted that I bring the folks back early so that she
might have a visit with Mr. Rankin and Mr. Sun.”
Tom Sun shook hands cordially.
“Glad to have met you, Mr. Warfield,” he said, “for your father’s
sake as well as your own. I trust we’ll meet often. Good-night, Mr.
Jones.”
Rankin whispered something to Roderick, but Roderick did not
catch the words, and when he attempted to inquire the old fellow
merely nodded his head and said aloud: “You bet your life; I’m
assoomin’ this is jist ‘tween me and you.” Roderick smiled at this
oddity, as the man of mystery followed his friends from the room.
When the door closed and Roderick and Grant were alone with the
Major, pipes were again lighted, and a spell of silence fell upon the
group—the enjoyable silence of quiet companionship. The Major
showed no disposition to re-open the subject of the rich gold
discovery, nor did Roderick feel inclined to press for further
information. As he mused, however, he became more firmly
convinced than before that his secret was still his own—that Buell
Hampton, in this rugged mountain region with its many
undiscovered storehouses of wealth, had tumbled on a different
gold-bearing spot to that located by Uncle Allen Miller and his father.
Some day, perhaps, he would show the Major the letter and the
map. But to do this now might seem like begging the favor of further
confidences, so until these were volunteered Roderick must pursue
his own lonesome trail. The mere sight of the gold, however, had
quickened his pulse beats. To resume the humdrum life at the ranch
seemed intolerable. He longed to be out on the hills with his favorite
pony Badger, searching every nook and corner for the hidden
treasure.
 Presently Buell Hampton arose and laid his pipe aside, and going
to a curtained corner of the room returned with his violin. And long
into the night, with only a fitful light from the burning logs in the
open fireplace, the Major played for his young friends. It seemed his
repertoire was without beginning and without end. As he played his
moods underwent many changes. Now he was gay and happy, at
another moment sad and wistful. He passed from sweet low
measures into wild, thrilling abandonment. Now he was drawing
divine harmony from the strings by dainty caresses, again he was
almost brutally compelling them to render forth the fierce passion of
music that was surging in his own soul. The performance held the
listeners spellbound—left them for the moment speechless when at
last the player dropped into a chair. The instrument was laid across
his knees; he was still fondling it with gentle touches and taps from
his long slender fingers.
“You love your violin, Major,” Roderick at last managed to
articulate.
“Yes,” came the low-spoken fervent reply, “every crease, crevice
and string of the dear old Cremona that was given me more than
half a century ago.”
“I wish,” said Grant, “that I could express my appreciation of the
wonderful entertainment you have given us tonight.”
“You are very complimentary,” replied the Major, bestirring himself.
He rose, laid the violin on the table, and brightened up the fire with
additional fuel.
“But I’m afraid we must be going,” added Grant. “It is getting
late.”
“Well, I have a message for you young gentlemen,” said the Major.
“You are invited to attend one of the most distinguished soirees ever
given in the Platte River Valley. Mr. and Mrs. Shields mentioned this
today, and made me the special messenger to extend the invitation
to you both.”
“Splendid,” exclaimed Grant. “When does this come off?”
 “Two weeks from this evening,” replied the Major. “And we will
have a comparative newcomer to the valley to grace the occasion.
She has been here through the late fall and winter, but has been too
busy nursing her sick and bereaved old father to go out into society.”
“General Holden’s daughter?” queried Grant.
“The same. And Gail Holden is certainly a most beautiful young
lady. Have you seen her, Mr. War-field?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” replied Roderick.
“A most noble young woman, too,” continued the Major. “They are
Illinois people. The mother died last year under sad circumstances—
all the family fortune swept away. But the girl chanced to own these
Wyoming acres in her own right, so she brought her father here, and
has started a little cattle ranch, going in for pedigreed dairy stock
and likely to do well too, make no mistake. You should just see her
swing a lariat,” the speaker added with a ring of admiration in his
tone.
Roderick started. Great Scott! could this be the fair horsewoman
he had encountered on the mountain side just before the coming of
the big snow. But a vigorous slap on his shoulder administered by
Grant broke him from reverie.
“Why don’t you say something, old fellow? Isn’t this glorious
news? Are you not delighted at the opportunity of tripping the light
fantastic toe with a beauty from Illinois as well as our own home-
grown Wyoming belles?”
“Well,” replied Roderick slowly, “I have not been attending any of
these affairs, although I may do so in this instance.”
“Miss Barbara Shields,” said the Major, “especially requested me to
tell you, Mr. Warfield, that she positively insists on your being
present.”
“Ho, ho!” laughed Grant. “So you’ve made a hit in that quarter, eh,
Roderick? Well, better a prospective brother-in-law than a dangerous
rival. Dorothy’s mine, and don’t you forget it.”
 Grant’s boyish hilarity was contagious, his gay audacity amusing.
Even the Major laughed heartily. But Roderick was blushing furiously.
A moment before he had been thinking of one fair charmer. And now
here was another being thrown at him, so to speak, although in jest
and not in earnest. Barbara Shields—he had never dared to think of
her as within his reach even had not loyalty bound his affections
elsewhere. But the complications seemed certainly to be thickening.
“Come along, old chap,” said Grant, as they gained the roadway.
“We’ll have a look through the town, just to see if there’s any news
about.”

T
HE Bazaar was a popular resort. The proprietor was known as
“Southpaw.” Doubtless he had another name but it was not
known in the mining camp. Even his bank account was carried
in the name of “Southpaw.”
When Roderick and Grant entered the saloon they found a motley
crowd at the bar and in the gaming room, fully twenty cowboys with
their broad-rimmed sombreros, wearing hairy chaps, decorated with
fancy belts and red handkerchiefs carelessly tied about their necks.
Evidently one of them had just won at the wheel and they were
celebrating.
The brilliant lights and the commingling of half a hundred miners
and many cowboys presented a spectacular appearance that was
both novel and interesting. Just behind them came shuffling into the
room a short, stout, heavily-built man with a scowling face covered
with a short growth of black whiskers. His eyes were small and
squinty, his forehead low and his chin protruding.
Roderick and Grant were standing at the end of the bar, waiting
for lemonades they had ordered. Roderick’s attention was attracted
by the uncouth newcomer.
“Grant, who is that gorilla-looking chap?” he asked.
Grant half turned with a sweeping glance and then looking back at
Roderick, replied: “That is Bud Bledsoe. He is a sort of sleuth for
Grady, the manager of the smelting plant, the man I introduced you
to, remember, the first day you came to Encampment.”
 “I remember Grady all right,” nodded Roderick.
“Well, many people believe he keeps Bledsoe around him to do his
dirty work. A while ago there was a grave suspicion that this chap
committed a terrible crime, doubtless inspired by Grady, but it is not
known positively and of course Grady is all-powerful and nothing
was said about it outright.”
In the meantime Bud Bledsoe walked into the back part of the
room, and finding a vacant seat at a gaming table bought a stack of
chips and was soon busy over his cards. Presently the two friends,
having lighted fresh cigars, left the saloon.
Grant looked into two or three other places, but finding there was
“nothing doing,” no news of any kind stirring, at last turned for
home. Entering the familiar old bachelor shack, Roderick too felt at
home, and it was not long before a cheerful fire was kindled and
going. Grant was leaning an elbow on the mantel above and talking
to Roderick of the pleasure he anticipated at the coming dance over
at the Shields place.
“I wonder what Miss Barbara meant when she sent that special
message to you, Roderick? Have you a ground wire of some kind
with the young lady and are you on more intimate relations than I
have been led to believe?”
Grant smiled broadly at Roderick as he asked the question.
“Search me,” replied Roderick. “I have never spoken to her
excepting in the presence of other people.”
“I presume you know,” Grant went on, “that she is the object of
Carlisle’s affections and he gets awfully jealous if anyone pays court
to her?”
“And who’s Carlisle?” asked Roderick, looking up quickly.
“Oh, he is the great lawyer,” replied Grant “W. Henry Carlisle. Have
you never heard of the feud between Carlisle and Attorney
Bragdon?”
“No,” said Roderick. “Both names are new to me.”
 “Oh, I supposed everybody knew about their forensic battles. You
see, W. Henry Carlisle is the attorney for the Smelter and Ben
Bragdon is without doubt the most eloquent young lawyer that ever
stood before a jury in southern Wyoming. These two fellows are
usually against each other in all big lawsuits in these parts of the
country, and you should see the courthouse fill up when there is a
jury trial.”
Roderick did not seem especially interested, and throwing his cigar
stub into the open fire, he filled his pipe. “Now, I’ll have a real
smoke,” he observed as he pressed a glowing firestick from the
hearth down on the tobacco.
“Grady and Carlisle are together in all financial ventures,” Grant
continued.
“Don’t look as if you are very fond of this man Grady,” commented
Roderick.
“Fond of him?” ejaculated Grant in disgust; “he is the most
obnoxious creature in the district. He treats everybody who is
working for him as if they were dogs. He has this bruiser, Bud
Bledsoe, as a sort of bodyguard and this W. Henry Carlisle as a legal
protector, so he attempts to walk rough shod over everybody—
indifferent and insolent. Oh, let’s not talk about Grady. I become
indecently indignant whenever I think of his outrages against some
of the poor fellows in this camp.”
“All right,” said Roderick, jovially looking up; “let us talk about the
dance and especially Miss Dorothy.”
“That’s the text,” said Grant, “Dorothy—Dorothy Shields-Jones.
Won’t that make a corker of a name though? If I tell you a secret
will you promise it shall be sacred?”
“Certainly,” replied Roderick.
“Well,” said Grant, reddening, “while I was over there at the Dillon
Doublejack office, isolated from the world, surrounded with
mountains and snow—nothing but snow and snowbanks and high
mountains in every direction, why, I played job printer and set up
some cards with a name thereon—can’t you guess?”
 “Impossible,” said Roderick, smiling broadly.
“Well, Mrs. Dorothy Shields-Jones,” he repeated slowly, then
laughed uproariously at the confession.
“Let me see one of the cards,” asked Roderick.
“Oh, no, I only kept the proof I pulled before pieing the type, and
that I have since torn up. But just wait That girl’s destiny is marked
out for her,” continued Grant, enthusiastically, “and believe me,
Warfield, I shall make her life a happy one.”
“Hope you’ve convinced her of that, old man?”
“Convinced her! Why I haven’t had the courage yet to say a
word,” replied Grant, somewhat shamefacedly. “I’m going to rely on
you to speak up for me when the critical moment arrives.”
“It was rather premature, certainly, to print the lady’s double-
barreled-name visiting card,” laughed Roderick. “But there, you know
I’m with you and for you all the time.” And he extended the hand of
brotherly comradeship.
“And about you and Barbara?” ventured Grant, tentatively. “I’ve
heard your name mentioned in connection with hers several times.”
“Oh, forget all that rot,” responded Roderick, flushing slightly. He
had never mentioned the “college widow” to his friend, and felt that
he was sailing under false colors. “It will be a long time before I can
think of such matters,” he went on, turning toward his accustomed
stretcher. “Let’s get to bed. It has been a long day, and I for one am
tired.”
A few minutes later lights were out.
When they got up next morning, they found that a letter had been
pushed under the door. Warfield picked it up and read the scrawled
inscription. It was addressed to Grant.
“Gee,” said Grant as he took the letter from Roderick, “this town is
forging ahead mighty fast. Free delivery. Who in the demnition
bowwows do you suppose could have done this?”
Opening the envelope he spread the letter on the table, and both
bent above it to read its contents. There was just a couple of lines,
in printed characters.
Words had been cut out of a newspaper apparently, and stuck on
the white sheet of paper. They read as follows: “Tell your friend to
let Barbara alone or his hide will be shot full of holes.”
Grant and Roderick stood looking at each other, speechless with
amazement. Barbara was the only written word.
“What can be the meaning of this?” inquired Roderick.
“Beyond me,” replied Grant. “Evidently others besides myself have
come to think you are interested in Barbara Shields. Possibly the
young lady has been saying nice things about you, and somebody is
jealous.”
“Rank foolishness,” exclaimed Roderick hotly. Then he laughed, as
he added: “However, if the young lady interested me before she
becomes all the more interesting now. But let the incident drop. We
shall see what we shall see.”
They walked up the street to a restaurant and breakfasted.
“It might be,” remarked Grant, referring back to the strange letter,
“that Attorney Carlisle, who they say is daffy over Barbara Shields,
has had that sleuth of Grady’s, Bud Bledsoe, fix up this letter to sort
of scare you off.”
Grant laughed good-humoredly as he said this.
“Scare me off like hell,” said Roderick in disgust. “I am not easily
scared with anonymous letters. Only cowards write that sort of
stuff.”
They arose from the table and turned down the street towards the
smelting plant It was necessary to keep well on the sidewalks and
away from the mud in the roadway, for the weather was turning
warm and snow was melting very fast.
“There will be no sleighs and sleigh-bells at the Shields’
entertainment,” observed Grant. “This snow in the lowlands will all
be gone in a day or two.”
They paused on a street corner and noticed five logging outfits
swinging slowly down the street, then turn into the back yard of
Buell Hampton’s home and begin unloading.
“What do you suppose Major Hampton can want with all those
logs?” asked Grant.
“Let us make a morning call on the Major,” suggested Roderick.
“Right you are,” assented Grant.
The Major extended his usual hearty welcome. He had evidently
been busy at his writing table.
“We came down,” said Grant, “to get a job cutting wood.”
The Major looked out of the window at the great stack of logs and
smiled. “No, young gentlemen,” he said, “those logs are not for
firewood but to build an addition to my humble home. You see, I
have a small kitchen curtained off in the rear, and back of that I
intend putting in an extra room. I expect to have ample use for this
additional accommodation, but just at this time perhaps will not
explain its purposes. Won’t you be seated?”
They pulled up chairs before the fire, which was smouldering low,
for in the moderated condition of the weather a larger fire was not
needed.
“Only for a moment, Major. We do not wish to take you from your
work, whatever it may be. I will confess,” Grant went on, smiling,
“that we were curious to know about the logs, and decided we
would look in on you and satisfy our curiosity; and then, too, we
have the pleasure of saying hello.”
“Very kind of you, very kind, I am sure,” responded the Major; and
turning to Roderick he inquired when he expected to return to the
Shields ranch.
“I am going out this afternoon,” replied Roderick. “By the way,
Major, do you expect to be at the Shields’ entertainment?”
“No, it is hardly probable. I am very busy and then, too, I am far
past the years when such functions interest. Nevertheless, I can well
understand how two young gentlemen like yourselves will thoroughly
enjoy an entertainment given by such hospitable people as the
Shields.”
 Soon after they took their leave and walked up the street. Grant
made arrangements to start directly after luncheon for Dillon, where
copy had to be got ready for the next issue of his paper.
As Roderick rode slowly across the valley that afternoon, his mind
dwelt on the rich gold discovery made by Buell Hampton, and he
evolved plans for getting promptly to serious prospecting work on
his own account. Sometimes too he caught himself thinking of the
strange girl of the hills who could throw a lasso so cleanly and
cleverly; he wondered if their paths would ever cross again.
 CHAPTER XIV.—THE EVENING
PARTY

T
HE night of the big fiesta at the Shields ranch had arrived, and
the invited guests had gathered from far and near. And what a
bevy of pretty girls and gay young fellows they were! Even the
cowboys on this occasion were faultless Beau Brummels; chaps,
belts, and other frontier regalia were laid aside in favor of the
starched shirtfront and dress clothes of the fashionable East. The
entertainment was to consist of dancing and song, with a sumptuous
supper about the midnight hour.
Roderick of course was there—“by command” of the fair daughter
of the house, Barbara Shields. At the entrance to the reception hall
the twin sisters gave him cordial welcome, and gaily rallied him on
having at last emerged from his anchorite cell. On passing into the
crowded room, young Warfield had one of the greatest surprises of
his life.
“Hello, Roderick, old scout, how are you anyway?”
Someone had slapped him on the shoulder, and on turning round
he found himself face to face with Whitley Adams.
“Whitley, old man!” he gasped in sheer astonishment.
Then followed hand-shaking such as only two old college chums
can engage in after a long separation.
“How did it all happen?” inquired Roderick, when the first flush of
meeting was over.
“Tell you later,” said Whitley. “Gee, old man, I ought to beat you
up for not letting me know all this time where you were.”
“Well, I have been so confoundedly busy,” was the half-apologetic
reply.