IT WAS the morning following the big entertainment at the Shields ranch when Roderick and two other cowboy companions began the work of breaking some outlaw horses to the saddle. The corral where they were confined was a quarter of a mile away from the bunk house.
Grant Jones had remained overnight, ostensibly to pay Roderick a visit during the succeeding day. He was still sound asleep when Roderick arose at an early hour and started for the corral. Whitley Adams had also been detained at the ranch house as a guest. He had invited himself to the broncho-busting spectacle, and was waiting on the veranda for Roderick as the latter strolled by.
An unbroken horse may or may not be an outlaw. If he takes kindly to the bridle and saddle and, after the first flush of scared excitement is over with, settles down and becomes bridle-wise then he is not an outlaw. On the other hand when put to the test if he begins to rear up—thump down on his forefeet—buck and twist like a corkscrew and continues jumping sideways and up and down, bucking and rearing until possibly he falls over backward, endangering the life of his rider and continues in this ungovernable fashion until finally he is given up as unbreakable, why, then the horse is an outlaw. He feels that he has conquered man, and the next attempt to break him to the saddle will be fraught with still greater viciousness.
Bull-dogging a wild Texas steer is nothing compared with the skill necessary to conquer an outlaw pony.
Nearly all cowboy riders, take to broncho-busting naturally and good-naturedly, and they usually find an especial delight in assuring the Easterner that they have never found anything that wears hair they cannot ride. Of course, this is more or less of a cowboy expression and possibly borders on vanity. However, as a class, they are not usually inclined to boast.
Very excellent progress had been made in the work of breaking the bronchos to the saddle. It was along about eleven o’clock when Roderick had just made his last mount upon what seemed to be one of the most docile ponies in the corral. He was a three-year-old and had been given the name of Firefly. The wranglers or helpers had no sooner loosened the blindfold than Roderick realized he was on the hurricane deck of a pony that would probably give him trouble. When Firefly felt the weight of Roderick upon his back, apparently he was stunned to such an extent that he was filled with indecision as to what he should do and began trembling and settling as if he might go to his knees. Roderick touched his flank with a sharp spur and then, with all the suddenness of a flash of lightning from a clear sky, rider and horse became the agitated center of a whirling cloud of dust. The horse seemingly would stop just long enough in his corkscrew whirls to jump high in the air and light on his forefeet with his head nearly on the ground and then with instantaneous quickness rear almost upright Whitley Adams was terribly scared at the scene. The struggle lasted perhaps a couple of minutes, and then Roderick was whirled over the head of the pony and with a shrill neigh Firefly dashed across the corral and leaping broke through a six foot fence and galloped away over the open prairie. The two wranglers and Whitley hastened to Roderick’s side. He had been stunned but only temporarily and not seriously injured, as it proved.
“Oh, that’s all right,” he said presently as he rubbed his eyes.
“Are you hurt?” Whitley inquired. Roderick slowly rose to his feet with Whitley’s assistance and stretching himself looked about as if a bit dazed. “No, no,” he replied, “I am not hurt but that infernal horse has my riding saddle.”
“You had better learn to ride a rocking horse before trying to ride an outlaw, Warfield,” said Scotty Meisch, one of the new cowpunchers, sneeringly.
Roderick whirled on him. “I’ll take you on for a contest most any day, if you think you are so good and I am so poor as all that,” he said. “Come on, what do you say?”
“Well, I ride in the Frontier Day’s celebration that comes on in July at our local fair,” the cowboy said. “Guess if you want to ride in a real contest with me you’d better enter your name and we’ll see how long you last.”
“Very well, I’ll just do that for once and show you a little something about real roughriding,” said Roderick; “and Firefly will be one of the outlaws.”
Turning he limped off towards the bunk house with Whitley.
Whitley was greatly relieved that Roderick, although he had wrenched the tendons of his leg, had no broken bones. A couple of other cowboys mounted their ponies, and with lariats started off across the prairie to capture the outlaw and bring back the saddle. Whitley was assured that they were breaking horses all the time and now and then the boys got hold of an outlaw but no one was ever very seriously injured.
Reaching the lounging room of the bunk house, they learned that Grant was up and dressed. He had evidently gone up to the ranch house and at that very moment was doubtless basking in the smiles of Miss Dorothy.
The college chums, pipes alight, soon got to talking of old times.
“By the way,” remarked Whitley between puffs, “last month I was back at the class reunion at Galesburg and called on Stella Rain.”
Roderick reddened and Whitley went blandly on: “Mighty fine girl—I mean Stella. Finest college widow ever. I did not know you were the lucky dog, though?”
“What do you mean by my being the lucky dog?”
“Oh, you were always smitten in that quarter—everyone knew that. And now those tell-tale flushes on your face, together with what Stella said, makes it all clear. Congratulations, old man,” said Whitley, laughing good-naturedly at Roderick’s discomfiture.
As their hands met, Roderick said: “I don’t know, old chap, whether congratulations are in order or not. She don’t write as often as she used to. It don’t argue very well for me.”
“Man alive,” said Whitley, “what do you want with a college widow or a battalion of college widows when you are among such girls as you have out here? Great Scott, don’t you realize that these girls are the greatest ever? Grant Jones shows his good sense; he seems to have roped Miss Dorothy for sure. At first I thought I had your measure last night, when you were talking to Miss Barbara Shields—for the moment I had forgotten about Stella. Then you switched off and cut me out with the fair singer. Say, if somebody don’t capture Miss Gail Holden—”
He paused, puffed awhile, then resumed meditatively: “Why, old man, down in Keokuk Gail Holden wouldn’t last a month. Someone would pick her up in a jiffy.”
“Provided,” said Roderick, and looked steadily at Whitley.
“Oh, yes, of course, provided he could win her.”
“These western girls, I judge,” said Roderick slowly—“understand I am not speaking from experience—are pretty hard to win. There is a freedom in the very atmosphere of the West that thrills a fellow’s nerves and suggests the widest sort of independence. And our range girls are pronouncedly independent, unless I have them sized up wrong. Tell me,” he continued, “how you feel about Miss Holden?”
“Oh,” replied Whitley, “I knew ahead that she was a stunning girl, and after that first waltz I felt withered all in a heap. But when I saw and heard you singing together at the piano, I realized what was bound to come. Oh, you needn’t blush so furiously. You’ve got to forget a certain party down at Galesburg. As for me, I’ve got to fly at humbler game. Guess I’ll have another look around.”
He laughed somewhat wistfully, as he rose and knocked the ashes from the bowl of his pipe.
Roderick had not interrupted; he was becoming accustomed to others deciding for him his matrimonial affairs. He was musing over the complications that seemed to be crowding into his life.
“You see I retire from the contest,” Whitley went on, his smile broadening, “and I hope you’ll recognize the devoted loyalty of a friend. But now those Shields girls—one or other of them—both are equally charming.”
“You can’t cut Grant Jones out,” interrupted Roderick firmly. “Remember, next to yourself, he’s my dearest friend.”
“Oh, well, there’s Miss Barbara left. Now don’t you think I would be quite irresistible as compared with either of those lawyer fellows?” He drew himself up admiringly.
“You might be liable to get your hide shot full of holes,” replied Roderick.
“What do you mean?”
But Roderick did not explain his enigmatic utterance.
“I think I’ll have a lay-down,” he said, “and rest my stiff bones.” He got up; he said nothing to Whitley, but the bruised leg pained him considerably.
“All right,” replied Whitley gaily. “Then I’ll do a little further reconnoitering up at the ranch house. So long.”
Warfield was glad to be alone. Apart from the pain he was suffering, he wanted to think things over. He was not blind to the truth that Gail Holden had brought a new interest into his life. Yet he was half saddened by the thought that almost a month had gone by without a letter from Stella Rain. Then Whitley’s coming had brought back memories of Uncle Allen, Aunt Lois, and the old days at Keokuk. He was feeling very homesick—utterly tired of the rough cow-punching existence he had been leading for over six months.
IN A day or two the excitement over the great evening party at the Shields ranch had passed and the humdrum duties of everyday life had been resumed. Whitley Adams had completed his business at Encampment and taken his departure with the solemnly renewed promise to Roderick that for the present the latter’s whereabouts would not be disclosed to the good folks at Keokuk although their anxiety as to his safety and good health would be relieved. Grant Jones had torn himself away from his beloved to resume his eternal—and as he felt at the moment infernal—task of getting out the next issue of his weekly newspaper. Gail Holden had ridden off over the foothills, the Shields sisters had returned to their domestic duties, and all the other beauties of the ballroom had scattered far and wide like thistledown in a breeze. The cowboys had reverted to chaps and sombreros, dress clothes had been stowed away with moth balls to keep them company, and the language of superlative politeness had lapsed back into the terser vernacular of the stock corral. Roderick was pretty well alone all day in the bunk house, nursing the stiff leg that had resulted from the broncho-busting episode.
Between embrocations he was doing a little figuring and stock-taking of ways and means. During his six months on the ranch most of his salary had been saved. The accumulated amount would enable him to clear off one-half of his remaining indebtedness in New York and leave him a matter of a hundred dollars for some prospecting on his own account during the summer months among the hills. But he would stay by his job for yet another month or two, because, although the words had been spoken in the heat of the moment, he had pledged himself to meet the cowboy Scotty Meisch in the riding contest at the Frontier Day’s celebration. Yes, he would stick to that promise, he mused as he rubbed in the liniment Gail Holden, when she had come to bid him good-by and express her condolence over his accident, had announced her own intention of entering for the lariat throwing competition, but he would never have admitted to himself that the chance of meeting her again in such circumstances, the chance of restoring his prestige as a broncho-buster before her very eyes, had the slightest thing to do with his resolve to delay his start in systematic quest of the lost mine.
Meanwhile Buell Hampton seemed to have withdrawn himself from the world. During the two weeks that had intervened between the invitation and the dance, he had not called at the ranch. Nor did he come now during the weeks that followed, and one evening when Grant Jones paid a visit to the Major’s home he found the door locked. Grant surveyed with both surprise and curiosity the addition that had been made to the building. It was a solid structure of logs, showing neither door nor window to the outside, and evidently was only reached through the big living room.
He reported the matter to Roderick, but the latter, his stiff leg now all right again, was too busy among the cattle on the ranges to bother about other things.
But Buell Hampton all this time had been very active indeed. During the winter months he had thought out his plans. Somehow he had come to look upon the hidden valley with its storehouse of golden wealth as a sacred place not to be trespassed on by the common human drove. Just so soon as the melting snows rendered the journey practicable, he had returned all alone to the sequestered nook nested in the mountains. He had discovered that quite a little herd of deer had found shelter and subsistence there during the months of winter. As he came among them, they had shown, themselves quite tame and fearless; three or four does had nibbled the fresh spring grass almost at his very feet as he had sat on the porphyry dyke, enjoying the beautiful scene, alone in his little kingdom, with only these gentle creatures and the twittering birds for companions.
And there and then Buell Hampton had resolved that he would not desecrate this sanctuary of nature—that he would not bring in the brutal eager throng of gold seekers, changing the lovely little valley into a scene of sordid greed and ugliness, its wild flowers crushed underfoot, its pellucid stream turned to sludge, its rightful inhabitants, the gentle-eyed deer, butchered for riotous gluttony. No, never! He would take the rich God-given gift of gold that was his, gratefully and for the ulterior purpose of spreading human happiness. But all else he would leave undisturbed.
The gold-bearing porphyry dyke stretching across the narrow valley was decomposed; it required no drilling nor blasting; its bulk could easily be broken by aid of sledge hammer and crowbar. Two or three men working steadily for two or three months could remove the entire dyke as it lay visible between mountain rock wall and mountain rock wall, and taking the assay value of the ore as already ascertained, from this operation alone there was wealth for all interested beyond the dreams of avarice. Buell Hampton debated the issues all through that afternoon of solitude spent in the little canyon. And when he regained his home he had arrived at a fixed resolution. He would win the treasure but he would save the valley—he would keep it a hidden valley still.
Next evening he had Tom Sun, Boney Earnest and Jim Rankin all assembled in secret conclave. While the aid of Grant Jones and Roderick Warfield would be called in later on, for the present their services would not be required. So for the present likewise there would be nothing more said to them—the fewer in the “know” the safer for all concerned.
It was agreed that Tom Sun, Jim Rankin and the Major would bring out the ore. Jim was to hire a substitute to drive his stage, while Tom Sun would temporarily hand over the care of his flocks to his manager and herders. Boney Earnest could not leave his work at the smelter—his duties there were so responsible that any sudden withdrawal might have stopped operations entirely and so caused the publicity all were anxious to avoid. But as he did not go to the plant on Sundays, his active help would be available each Saturday night. Thus the plans were laid.
But although Buell Hampton had allied himself with these helpers in his work and participants in the spoil, he yet guarded from them the exact locality of his find. All this was strictly in accordance with goldmining usage among the mountains of Wyoming, so the Major offered no apology for his precautions, his associates asked for or expected none. Each man agreed that he would go blindfolded to the spot where the rich ore was to be broken and packed for removal.
Thus had it come about that, while Buell Hampton seemed to have disappeared from the world, all the while he was very busy indeed, and great things were in progress. Actual work had commenced some days before the dance at the Shields’ home, and it continued steadily in the following routine.
The Major, Tom Sun and Jim Rankin passed most of the day sleeping. At night after dark, they would sally forth into the hills, mounted on three horses with three pack burros. A few miles away from Encampment the Major would blindfold his two assistants, and then they would proceed in silence. When they arrived near Spirit Falls the horses and burros would be tethered and Major Hampton would lead the way down the embankment to the river’s bank, then turn to the left, while Tom Sun, blindfolded, extended one hand on Buell Hampton’s shoulder and still behind was Jim Rankin with his hand extended on Tom Sun’s shoulder. Thus they would make their way to a point back of the waterfall, and then some considerable distance into the mountain cavern where the blindfolds were removed. With an electric torch the Major lighted the way through the grotto into the open valley.
A little farther on was the dyke of porphyry, quartz and gold. Here the sacks would be filled with the rich ore—their loads all that each man could carry. Footsteps were then retraced with the same precautions as before.
Placing the ore sacks on the backs of their burros, the night riders would climb into their saddles and slowly start out on the return journey, the Major driving the burros ahead along a mountain path, while Tom Sun and Jim Rankin’s horses followed. After they had gone on for a few miles Major Hampton would shout back to his assistants to remove the blindfolds, and thus they would return to the town of Encampment in the gray dawn of morning, unloading their burros at the door of Major Hampton’s house. Jim Rankin would take charge of the stock and put them in a stable and corral he had prepared down near the banks of the Platte River just over the hill. Tom Sun would show his early training by preparing a breakfast of ham and eggs and steaming coffee while the Major was placing the ore in one hundred pound sacks and carrying them back into the blockade addition he had built to his home. He would then lock the heavy door connecting the storehouse with the living room.
Usually the breakfast was ready by the time the Major had finished his part of the work and Jim Rankin had returned. After the morning meal and a smoke, these three mysterious workers of the night would lie down to sleep, only to repeat the trip the following evening. Each Saturday night, as has been explained, Boney Earnest was added to the party, as well as an extra horse and burro.
Buell Hampton estimated that each burro was bringing out one hundred pounds nightly, or about three hundred pounds every trip for the three burros, with an extra hundred pounds on Saturday night. If this ore yielded $114.00 per pound, the assay value already paid him, or call it $100.00, it meant that he was adding to his storehouse of treasure about $220,000.00 as the result of each week’s labors. Thus in three months’ time there would be not far short of $3,000,-000.00 worth of high grade gold ores accumulated. If reduced to tons this would make nearly a full carload when the time came for moving the vast wealth to the railroad.
One night in the midst of these operations, when Jim Rankin and Tom Sun supposed they were on the point of starting on the usual trip into the hidden valley, Buell Hampton filled his pipe for an extra smoke and invited his two faithful friends to do likewise. “We are not going tonight,” said he. “We will have a rest and hold a conference.”
“Good,” said Jim Rankin. “Speakin’ wide open like, by gunnies, my old bones are gettin’ to be pretty dangnation sore.”
“Too bad about you,” said Tom Sun. “Too bad that you aren’t as young as I am, Jim.”
“Young, the devil,” returned Jim. “I’m prognosticatin’ I have pints about me that’d loco you any time good and plenty. ‘Sides you know you are seven years older than me. Gosh ‘lmighty, Tom, you an’ me have been together ever since we struck this here country mor’n forty years ago.”
Tom laughed and the Major laughed.
It was arranged that when the carload was ready Jim Rankin was to rig up three four-horse teams and Grant Jones and Roderick Warfield would be called on to accompany the whole outfit to Walcott, the nearest town on the Union Pacific, where a car would be engaged in advance for the shipment of the ore to one of the big smelters at Denver. The strictest secrecy would be kept even then, for reasons of safety as well as to preserve the privacy desired by Buell Hampton. So they would load up the wagons at night and start for the railroad about three o’clock in the morning.
Thus as they smoked and yawned during their night of rest the three men discussed and decided every detail of these future plans.
FOR a time Roderick had hung back from accepting the invitation to call at the Conchshell ranch, as the Holden place was called. In pursuing the acquaintanceship with Gail he knew that he was playing with fire—a delightful game but one that might work sad havoc with his future peace of mind. However, one day when he had an afternoon off and had ridden into Encampment again to be disappointed in finding no letter from Stella, he had felt just the necessary touch of irritation toward his fiancée that spurred him on to seek some diversion from his thoughts of being badly treated and neglected. Certainly, he would call on General Holden—he did not say to himself that he was bent on seeing Gail again, looking into her beautiful eyes, hearing her sing, perhaps joining in a song.
He was mounted on his favorite riding horse Badger, a fine bay pony, and had followed the road up the North Fork of the Encampment River a number of miles. Taking a turn to the left through the timbered country with rocky crags towering on either side in loftiest grandeur, he soon reached the beautiful plateau where Gail Holden’s home was located. The little ranch contained some three hundred acres, and cupped inward like a saucer, with a mountain stream traversing from the southerly to the northerly edge, where the Conchshell canyon gashed through the rim of the plateau and permitted the waters to escape and flow onward and away into the North Fork.
As Roderick approached the house, which was on a knoll planted with splendid firs and pines, he heard Gail singing “Robert Adair.” He dismounted and hitched his horse under the shelter of a wide spreading oak. Just as he came up the steps to the broad porch Gail happened to see him through one of the windows. She ceased her singing and hastened to meet him with friendly greeting.
“Welcome, Mr. Warfield, thrice welcome, as Papa sometimes says,” said Gail, smiling.
“Thank you,” said Roderick, gallantly. “I was riding in this direction and concluded to stop in and accept your kind invitation to meet the General.”
“He will be delighted to see you, Mr. Warfield, I have told him about your singing.”
“Oh, that was making too much of my poor efforts.”
“Not at all. You see my father is very fond of music—never played nor sang in his life, but has always taken keen delight in hearing good music. And I tell you he is quite a judge.”
“Which makes me quite determined then not to sing in his presence,” laughed Roderick.
“Well, you can’t get out of it now you’re here. He won’t allow it. Nor will I. You won’t refuse to sing for me, will you? Or with me?” she added with a winning smile.
“That would be hard indeed to refuse,” he replied, happy yet half-reproaching himself for his very happiness.
“Daddie is walking around the grounds somewhere at present,” continued Gail. “Won’t you step inside and rest, Mr. Warfield? He’ll turn up presently.”
“Oh, this old rustic seat here on the porch looks exceedingly comfortable. And I fancy that is your accustomed rocker,” he added, pointing to a piece of embroidery, with silk and needles, slung over the arm of a chair.
“You are a regular Sherlock Holmes,” she laughed. “Well, I have been stitching all the afternoon, and just broke off my work for a song.”
“I heard you. Can’t you be persuaded to continue?”
“Not at present. We’ll wait till Papa comes. And the weather is so delightfully warm that I will take my accustomed rocker—and the hint implied as well.”
Again she laughed gaily as she dropped into the commodious chair and picked up the little square of linen with its half-completed embroidery.
Roderick took the rustic seat and gazed admiringly over the cup-shaped lands that spread out before him like a scroll, with their background of lofty mountains.
“You have a delightful view from here,” he said.
“Yes,” replied Gail, as she threaded one of her needles with a strand of crimson. “I know of no other half so beautiful. And it has come to be a very haven of peace and happiness. Perhaps you know that my father last year lost everything he possessed in the world through an unfortunate speculation. But that was nothing—we lost my dear mother then as well. This little ranch of Conchshell was the one thing left that we could call our own, and here we found our refuge and our consolation.”
She was speaking very softly, her hands had dropped on her lap, there was the glisten of tears in her eyes. Roderick was seeing the daring rider of the hills, the acknowledged belle of the ballroom in yet another light, and was lost in admiration.
“Very sad,” he murmured, in conventional commiseration.
“Oh, no, not sad,” she replied brightly, looking up, sunshine showing through her tears. “Dear mother is at rest after her long illness, father has recovered his health in this glorious mountain air, and I have gained a serious occupation in life. Oh, I just love this miniature cattle range,” she went on enthusiastically. “Look at it”—she swept the landscape with an upraised hand. “Don’t all my sweet Jerseys and Hainaults dotted over those meadows look like the little animals in a Noah’s ark we used to play with when children?”
“They do indeed,” concurred Roderick, with heartily responsive enthusiasm.
“And I’m going to make this dairy stock business pay to beat the band,” she added, her face fairly aglow. “Just give me another year or two.”
“You certainly deserve success,” affirmed Roderick, emphatically.
“Oh, I don’t know. But I do try so hard.”
Her beautiful face had sweet wistfulness in it now. Roderick was admiring its swift expressive changes—he was saying to himself that he could read the soul of this splendidly frank young woman like a book. He felt thrilled and exalted.
“But here comes Papa,” exclaimed Gail, springing delightedly to her feet
Roderick’s spirits dropped like a plummet. At such an interesting psychological moment he could have wished the old General far enough.
But there was a pleasant smile on his face as Gail presented him, genuine admiration in the responsive pressure of his hand as he gazed into the veteran’s handsome countenance and thanked him for his cordial welcome.
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Warfield,” General Holden was saying. “My friend Shields has spoken mighty well of you, and Gail here says you have the finest baritone voice in all Wyoming.”
“Oh, Daddie!” cried Gail, in blushing confusion.
“Well, I’m going to decide for myself. Come right in. We’ll have a song while Gail makes us a cup of tea. An old soldier’s song for a start—she won’t be listening, so I can suit myself this time.”
And Roderick to his bewilderment found himself clutched by the arm, and being led indoors to the piano like a lamb to the slaughter. Gail had disappeared, and he was actually warbling “Marching through Georgia,” aided by a thunderous chorus from the General.
“As we go marching through Georgia,” echoed Gail, when at the close of the song she advanced from the domestic quarters with sprightly military step, carrying high aloft a tea tray laden with dainty china and gleaming silverware.
All laughed heartily, and a delightful afternoon was initiated—tea and cake, solos and duets, intervals of pleasant conversation, a Schubert sonata by Gail, and a rendition by Roderick of the Soldiers’ Chorus from Faust that fairly won the old General’s heart.
The hours had sped like a dream, and it was in the sunset glow that Roderick, having declined a pressing invitation to stay for dinner, was bidding Gail good-by. She had stepped down from the veranda and was standing by his horse admiring it and patting its silky coat.
“By the way, you mentioned at the Shields’ party that you expected to go trout fishing, Mr. Warfield. Did you have good luck?”
Roderick confessed that as yet he had not treated himself to a day’s sport with the finny tribe. “I was thinking about it this very morning,” he went on, “and was wondering if I had not better secure a companion—someone skilled with rod and reel and fly to go with me, as I am a novice.”
“Oh, I’ll go with you,” she exclaimed quickly. “Would be glad to do so.”
“That’s mighty kind of you, Miss Holden,” replied Roderick, half hesitatingly, while a smile played about his handsome face. “But since you put it that way I would be less than courteous if I did not eagerly and enthusiastically accept. When shall we go?”
“You name the day,” said Gail.
Roderick leaned hastily forward and placing one hand on his heart said with finely assumed gallantry: “I name the day?”
“Oh, you know quite well I do not mean that.”
She laughed gaily, but all the same a little blush had stolen into her cheeks.
“I thought it was the fair lady’s privilege to name the day,” said Roderick, mischievously.
“Very well,” said Gail, soberly, “we will go trout fishing tomorrow.”
“It is settled,” said Roderick. “What hour is your pleasure?”
“Well, it is better,” replied Gail, “to go early in the morning or late in the evening. Personally I prefer the morning.”
“Very well, I will be here and saddle Fleetfoot for you, say, at seven tomorrow morning.”
And so it was agreed.
It was only when he was cantering along the roadway toward home that Roderick remembered how Barbara Shields had on several occasions invited him to go trout fishing with her, but in some way circumstances had always intervened to postpone the expedition. In Gail’s case, however, every obstacle seemed to have been swept aside—he had never even thought of asking Mr. Shields for the morning off. However, that would be easily arranged, so he rode on in blissful contentment and happy anticipation for the morrow.
The next morning at the appointed time found him at Conchshell ranch. Before he reached the house he discovered Fleetfoot saddled and bridled standing at the gate.
Gail came down the walk as he approached and a cheery good-morning was followed by their at once mounting their horses and following a roadway that led eastward to the South Fork of the Encampment River.
“You brought your flies, Mr. Warfield?”
“Oh, yes,” replied Roderick. “I have plenty of flies—both hackle and coachman. These have been specially recommended to me, but as I warned you last night I am a novice and don’t know much about them.”
“I sometimes use the coachman,” said Gail, “although, like yourself, I am not very well up on the entomology of fly fishing.”
Soon the road led them away from the open valley into a heavy timber that crowned the westerly slope of the river. They soon arrived at their destination. Dismounting they quickly tethered their horses. Gail unfastened her hip boots from back of her saddle, and soon her bifurcated bloomer skirts were tucked away in the great rubber boots and duly strapped about her slender waist. Roderick was similarly equipped with wading boots, and after rods, lines and flies had been carefully adjusted they turned to the river. The mountains with their lofty rocky ledges—the swift running waters rippling and gurgling over the rocky bed of the river—the beautiful forests that rose up on either side, of pine and spruce and cottonwood, the occasional whistle and whirr of wild birds—the balmy morning air filled life to overflowing for these two disciples of Izaak Walton bent upon filling their baskets with brook and rainbow trout.
“The stream is sufficiently wide,” observed Gail, “so we can go downstream together. You go well toward the west bank and I will hug the east bank.” Roderick laughed.
“What are you laughing at?” asked Gail.
“Oh, I was just sorry I am not the east bank.” The exhilarating mountain air had given him unwonted audacity.
“You are a foolish fellow,” said Gail—“at least sometimes. Usually I think you are awfully nice.”
“Do you think we had better fish,” asked Roderick, whimsically, “or talk this matter over?”
Gail looked very demure and very determined.
“You go right on with your fishing and do as I do, Mr. Roderick Warfield. Remember, I’m the teacher.” She stamped her little booted foot, and then waded into the water and cast her fly far down stream. “See how I cast my line.”
“You know a whole lot about fishing, don’t you?” asked Roderick.
“Oh, yes, I ought to. During occasional summer visits to the ranch I have fished in these waters ever so many times. You must not talk too much,” she added in a lower voice. “Trout are very alert, you know.”
“If fish could hear as well as see
Never a fish would there be—
in our baskets.” And she laughed softly at this admonition for Roderick to fish and cease badinage.
“Which way is the wind?” asked Roderick.
“There is none,” replied Gail.
“When the wind is from the North
The skilful fisherman goes not forth,”
quoted Roderick. “Don’t that prove I know something about fishing—I mean fly fishing?”
“You have a much better way to prove your sport-manship,” insisted Gail. “The fish are all around you and your basket is hanging empty from your shoulder.”
“Rebuked and chided,” exclaimed Roderick, softly.
They continued to cast and finally Gail said: “I have a Marlow Buzz on my hook.”
“What is that?” inquired Roderick.
“Oh, it is a species of the Brown Palmer fly. I like them better than the hackle although the coachman may be equally as good. Look out!” she suddenly exclaimed.
Roderick turned round quickly and saw her line was taut, cutting the water sharply to the right and to the left while her rod was bent like a bow. She quickly loosened her reel which hummed like a song of happiness while her line sliced the waters like a knife.
“Guess you have a rainbow,” cried Roderick excitedly, but Gail paid no attention to his remark.
Presently the trout leaped from the water and fell back again, then attempted to dart away; but the slack of line was not sufficient for the captive to break from the hook.
The trout finally ceased its fight, and a moment later was lifted safely from the water and landed in Gail’s net. But even now it continued to prove itself a veritable circus performer, giving an exhibition of flopping, somersaulting, reversed handsprings—if a fish could do such things—with astonishing rapidity.
“Bravo,” shouted Roderick, as Gail finally released the hook and deposited the fish in her basket.
Less than a minute later Roderick with all the enthusiasm and zeal imaginable was letting out his reel and holding his line taut, for he, too, had been rewarded. And soon he had proudly deposited his first catch of the day in his fish basket.
On they went down the river, over riffles and into deep pools where the water came well up above their knees; but, nothing daunted, these fishermen kept going until the sun was well up in the eastern sky. At last Gail halloed and said: “Say, Mr. Warfield, my basket is almost full and I am getting hungry.”
“All right,” said Roderick, “we will retrace our steps. There is a pretty good path along the east bank.”
“How many have you?” asked Gail.
“Twenty-six,” replied Roderick as he scrambled up the bank.
“I have thirty-one,” said Gail, enthusiastically.
Roderick approached the bank, and reaching down helped her to a footing on the well-beaten path. Then they started up-stream for their horses.
It was almost eleven o’clock when they arrived at their point of departure and had removed their wading boots. Gail went to her saddle and unlashed a little luncheon basket.
She utilized a large tree stump for a table, and after it had been covered with a napkin and the dainty luncheon of boned chicken, sardines and crackers had been set forth, she called to Roderick and asked him to fill a pair of silver collapsible drinking cups which she handed to him. He went to the brook and returned with the ice-cold mountain vintage.
“I am just hungry enough,” said Gail, “to enjoy this luncheon although it is not a very sumptuous repast.”
Roderick smiled as he took a seat upon the felled tree.
“Expect you think you will inveigle me into agreeing with you. But not on your life. I would enjoy such a luncheon as this any time, even if I were not hungry. But in the present circumstances—well, I will let you pass judgment upon my appetite after we have eaten.”
“As they say on the long army marches in the books,” said Gail, gaily, “I guess we had better fall to.” And forthwith with much merriment and satisfaction over their morning’s catch they proceeded to dispose of the comestibles.
It was only a little after noon when they reached the Conchshell ranch, and soon thereafter Roderick’s pony was galloping along the road on his homeward way. He had never enjoyed such a morning in all his life.