Thus spoke the Reverend Stephen Grannon, the Flockmaster of the Hills.
CHAPTER XXXV.—A CALL TO SAN FRANCISCO
DOROTHY mourned for Grant Jones—for days she wept and would not be consoled. Roderick had not seen her since the disaster; when he had called at the ranch Barbara had brought a message from her room that she dared not trust herself yet to speak to anyone, least of all to the one whom she knew to have been Grant’s closest and dearest friend.
Roderick had now taken apartments in the Bonhomme Hotel—it would have been too heartrending an experience to return to the shack where everything was associated with the memory of his lost comrade. It had been his painful task to pack the books, the little ornaments, the trophies of the chase, the other odds and ends of sacred relics, and send them back East to the old folks at home. He had known it to have been Grant’s own wish that, when death should come, his body should rest among the hills of Wyoming. So when a simple headstone had been placed on the grave in God’s acre at Encampment, the last sad duty had been performed. Grief was now deadened. The sweet pleasures of fond reminiscence remained, the richest legacy that man can leave behind him.
Buell Hampton and Roderick never met without speaking of Grant, without recalling some pleasant episode in their association, some brilliant or thoughtful contribution he had made to their past conversations. With the aid of fragments of torn paper that had been clutched in the dead man’s left hand, the hand that had been doubled under him when the body was found, they had pieced together the story of that fateful encounter with Grady. The latter, bent on discovering and jumping Buell Hampton’s secret mine, had carried into the mountains the proper declaration papers in printed forms, with only the blanks to be filled in—name, date, exact location, etc. Grant must have become aware that these papers were all ready signed in Grady’s pocket—perhaps in defiance the claim-jumper had flaunted them in his face. For the struggle had been for the possession of these documents, the torn quarters of which were still in Grant’s hand when the fatal dislodgement of snow had taken place. The full infamy of Grady’s long contrived plot was revealed. Righteously indeed had he gone to his doom.
A week had passed when Roderick found a letter on the breakfast table at his hotel. It was from Barbara Shields.
“My dear Mr. Warfield:—
“I write to tell you that we are going to California—to spend the winter in Los Angeles. We are all sorrow-stricken over the great calamity up in the hills, and Dorothy—the poor dear girl is simply stunned. I have known for a long while that she was very fond of Grant, but I had no idea of the depths of her feelings.
“Papa says Mama and I must start at once and endeavor to cheer up Dorothy and help her forget as much as possible the sadness of this terrible affair.
“Mr. Bragdon called last night, and is to be our escort to the coast. We shall probably return about the first of May. Please accept this as an affectionate good-by for the time being from us all.
“With cordial good wishes,
“Sincerely your friend,
“Barbara.”
Meanwhile snow had been descending off and on day after day, until now the whole of the mountain country was effectively sealed. Evidently a rigorous winter had set in, and it would be many months before Hidden Valley would be again accessible. Roderick was not sorry—the very mention of gold and mining had become distasteful to his ears. Even when with the Major, they, never now spoke about the secret canyon and its hoarded treasures—in subtle sympathy with each other’s feelings the subject was tabooed for the present Bud Bledsoe had disappeared from the district, no doubt temporarily enriched by the nuggets with which he had filled his pockets. In the spring most likely he would return and rally his gang of mountain outlaws. But until then there need be no worry about the snow-enshrouded claims, the location papers for which had been now duly registered at the county seat in the names of their proper owners.