CHAPTER III
A young half-breed Digger woman, who had suffered the loss of the latestof her numerous progeny two days prior to Mrs. Cardigan's death, wasinstalled in the house on the knoll as nurse to John Cardigan's son whomhe called Bryce, the family name of his mother's people. A Mrs.Tully, widow of Cardigan's first engineer in the mill, was engaged ashousekeeper and cook; and with his domestic establishment reorganizedalong these simple lines, John Cardigan turned with added eagerness tohis business affairs, hoping between them and his boy to salvage asmuch as possible from what seemed to him, in the first pangs of hisloneliness and desolation, the wreckage of his life.
While Bryce was in swaddling clothes, he was known only to those femalesof Sequoia to whom his half-breed foster mother proudly exhibited himwhen taking him abroad for an airing in his perambulator. With hisadvent into rompers, however, and the assumption of his Americanprerogative of free speech, his father developed the habit of bringingthe child down to the mill office, to which he added a playroom thatconnected with his private office. Hence, prior to his second birthday,Bryce divined that his father was closer to him than motherly Mrs. Tullyor the half-breed girl, albeit the housekeeper sang to him the lullabysthat mothers know while the Digger girl, improvising blank verse paeansof praise and prophecy, crooned them to her charge in the unmusicalmonotone of her tribal tongue. His father, on the contrary, wasted notime in singing, but would toss him to the ceiling or set him astridehis foot and swing him until he screamed in ecstasy. Moreover, hisfather took him on wonderful journeys which no other member of thehousehold had even suggested. Together they were wont to ride to andfrom the woods in the cab of the logging locomotive, and once they bothgot on the log carriage in the mill with Dan Keyes, the head sawyer, andhad a jolly ride up to the saw and back again, up and back again untilthe log had been completely sawed; and because he had refrained fromcrying aloud when the greedy saw bit into the log with a shrill whine,Dan Keyes had given him a nickel to put in his tin bank.
Of all their adventures together, however, those which occurred on theirfrequent excursions up to the Valley of the Giants impressed themselvesimperishably upon Bryce's memory. How well he remembered their firsttrip, when, seated astride his father's shoulders with his sturdy littlelegs around Cardigan's neck and his chubby little hands clasping theold man's ears, they had gone up the abandoned skid-road and intothe semi-darkness of the forest, terminating suddenly in a shower ofsunshine that fell in an open space where a boy could roll and playand never get dirty. Also there were several dozen gray squirrels therewaiting to climb on his shoulder and search his pockets for pine-nuts, asupply of which his father always furnished.
Bryce always looked forward with eagerness to those frequent trips withhis father "to the place where Mother dear went to heaven." From hisperch on his father's shoulders he could look vast distances into theunderbrush and catch glimpses of the wild life therein; when the lastnut had been distributed to the squirrels in the clearing, he wouldfollow a flash of blue that was a jay high up among the evergreenbranches, or a flash of red that was a woodpecker hammering a home inthe bark of a sugar-pine. Eventually, however, the spell of the forestwould creep over the child; intuitively he would become one with theall-pervading silence, climb into his father's arms as the latter satdreaming on the old sugar-pine windfall, and presently drop off tosleep.
When Bryce was six years old, his father sent him to the public schoolin Sequoia with the children of his loggers and mill-hands, thus layingthe foundation for a democratic education all too infrequent with thesons of men rated as millionaires. At night old Cardigan (for so men hadnow commenced to designate him!) would hear his boy's lessons, takingthe while an immeasurable delight in watching the lad's mind develop. Asa pupil Bryce was not meteoric; he had his father's patient, unexcitablenature; and, like the old man, he possessed the glorious gift ofimagination. Never mediocre, he was never especially brilliant, butwas seemingly content to maintain a steady, dependable average in allthings. He had his mother's dark auburn hair, brown eyes, and fair whiteskin, and quite early in life he gave promise of being as large andpowerful a man as his father.
Bryce's boyhood was much the same as that of other lads in Sequoia,save that in the matter of toys and, later guns, fishing-rods, dogs, andponies he was a source of envy to his fellows. After his tenth year hisfather placed him on the mill pay-roll, and on payday he was wont toline up with the mill-crew to receive his modest stipend of ten dollarsfor carrying in kindling to the cook in the mill kitchen each day afterschool.
This otherwise needless arrangement was old Cardigan's way of teachinghis boy financial responsibility. All that he possessed he had workedfor, and he wanted his son to grow up with the business to realize thathe was a part of it with definite duties connected with it developingupon him--duties which he must never shirk if he was to retain the richredwood heritage his father had been so eagerly storing up for him.
When Bryce Cardigan was about fourteen years old there occurred animportant event in his life. In a commendable effort to increase hisincome he had laid out a small vegetable garden in the rear of hisfather's house, and here on a Saturday morning, while down on his kneesweeding carrots, he chanced to look up and discovered a young ladygazing at him through the picket fence. She was a few years his junior,and a stranger in Sequoia. Ensued the following conversation: "Hello,little boy."
"Hello yourself! I ain't a little boy."
She ignored the correction. "What are you doing?"
"Weedin' carrots. Can't you see?"
"What for?"
Bryce, highly incensed at having been designated a little boy by thissuperior damsel, saw his opportunity to silence her. "Cat's fur forkitten breeches," he retorted--without any evidence of originality, wemust confess. Whereat she stung him to the heart with a sweet smile andpromptly sang for him this ancient ballad of childhood:
"What are little boys made of? What are little boys made of? Snakes and snails, And puppy dog's tails, And that's what little boys are made of."
Bryce knew the second verse and shrivelled inwardly in anticipationof being informed that little girls are made of sugar and spice andeverything nice. Realizing that he had begun something which might notterminate with credit to himself, he hung his head and for the space ofseveral minutes gave all his attention to his crop. And presently thevisitor spoke again.
"I like your hair, little boy. It's a pretty red."
That settled the issue between them. To be hailed as little boy was badenough, but to be reminded of his crowning misfortune was addinginsult to injury. He rose and cautiously approached the fence withthe intention of pinching the impudent stranger, suddenly andsurreptitiously, and sending her away weeping. As his hand crept betweenthe palings on its wicked mission, the little miss looked at him infriendly fashion and queried:
"What's your name?"
Bryce's hand hesitated. "Bryce Cardigan," he answered gruffly.
"I'm Shirley Sumner," she ventured, "Let's be friends."
"When did you come to live in Sequoia?" he demanded.
"I don't live here. I'm just visiting here with my aunt and uncle. We'restaying at the hotel, and there's nobody to play with. My uncle's nameis Pennington. So's my aunt's. He's out here buying timber, and we livein Michigan. Do you know the capital of Michigan?"
"Of course I do," he answered. "The capital of Michigan is Chicago."
"Oh, you big stupid! It isn't. It's Detroit."
"'Tain't neither. It's Chicago."
"I live there--so I guess I ought to know. So there!"
Bryce was vanquished, and an acute sense of his imperfections in mattersgeographical inclined him to end the argument. "Well, maybe you'reright," he admitted grudgingly. "Anyhow, what difference does it make?"
She did not answer. Evidently she was desirous of avoiding an argumentif possible. Her gaze wandered past Bryce to where his Indian pony stoodwith her head out the window of her box-stall contemplating her
master.
"Oh, what a dear little horse!" Shirley Sumner exclaimed. "Whose is he?"
"'Tain't a he. It's a she. And she belongs to me."
"Do you ride her?"
"Not very often now. I'm getting too heavy for her, so Dad's bought me ahorse that weighs nine hundred pounds. Midget only weighs five hundred."He considered her a moment while she gazed in awe upon this man with twohorses. "Can you ride a pony?" he asked, for no reason that he was awareof.
She sighed, shaking her head resignedly. "We haven't any room to keep apony at our house in Detroit," she explained, and added hopefully: "ButI'd love to ride on Midget. I suppose I could learn to ride if somebodytaught me how."
He looked at her again. At that period of his existence he was inclinedto regard girls as a necessary evil. For some immutable reason theyexisted, and perforce must be borne with, and it was his hope that hewould get through life and see as little as possible of the exasperatingsex. Nevertheless, as Bryce surveyed this winsome miss through thepalings, he was sensible of a sneaking desire to find favour in hereyes--also equally sensible of the fact that the path to that desirableend lay between himself and Midget. He swelled with the importance ofone who knows he controls a delicate situation. "Well, I suppose if youwant a ride I'll have to give it to you," he grumbled, "although I'mmighty busy this morning."
"Oh, I think you're so nice," she declared.
A thrill shot through him that was akin to pain; with difficulty did herestrain an impulse to dash wildly into the stable and saddle Midgetin furious haste. Instead he walked to the barn slowly and with extremedignity. When he reappeared, he was leading Midget, a little silverpointrunt of a Klamath Indian pony, and Moses, a sturdy pinto cayuse from thecattle ranges over in Trinity County. "I'll have to ride with you," heannounced. "Can't let a tenderfoot like you go out alone on Midget."
All aflutter with delightful anticipation, the young lady climbed upon the gate and scrambled into the saddle when Bryce swung the ponybroadside to the gate. Then he adjusted the stirrups to fit her, passeda hair rope from Midget's little hackamore to the pommel of Moses'saddle, mounted the pinto, and proceeded with his first adventure as ariding-master. Two hours of his valuable time did he give that morningbefore the call of duty brought him back to the house and his neglectedcrop of carrots. When he suggested tactfully, however, that it wasnow necessary that his guest and Midget separate, a difficulty arose.Shirley Sumner refused point blank to leave the premises. She likedBryce for his hair and because he had been so kind to her; she was astranger in Sequoia, and now that she had found an agreeable companion,it was far from her intention to desert him.
So Miss Sumner stayed and helped Bryce weed his carrots, and since asa voluntary labourer she was at least worth her board, at noon Brycebrought her in to Mrs. Tully with a request for luncheon. When hewent to the mill to carry in the kindling for the cook, the young ladyreturned rather sorrowfully to the Hotel Sequoia, with a fervent promiseto see him the next day. She did, and Bryce took her for a long rideup into the Valley of the Giants and showed her his mother's grave. Thegray squirrels were there, and Bryce gave Shirley a bag of pine-nutsto feed them. Then they put some flowers on the grave, and when theyreturned to town and Bryce was unsaddling the ponies, Shirley drewMidget's nose down to her and kissed it. Then she commenced to weeprather violently.
"What are you crying about?" Bryce demanded. Girls were so hard tounderstand.
"I'm go-going h-h-h-home to-morrow," she howled.
He was stricken with dismay and bade her desist from her vainrepinings. But her heart was broken, and somehow--Bryce appeared toact automatically--he had his arm around her. "Don't cry, Shirley," hepleaded. "It breaks my heart to see you cry. Do you want Midget? I'llgive her to you."
Between sobs Shirley confessed that the prospect of parting with him andnot Midget was provocative of her woe. This staggered Bryce and pleasedhim immensely. And at parting she kissed him good-bye, reiterating heropinion that he was the nicest, kindest boy she had ever met or hoped tomeet.
When Shirley and her uncle and aunt boarded the steamer for SanFrancisco, Bryce stood disconsolate on the dock and waved to Shirleyuntil he could no longer discern her on the deck. Then he went home,crawled up into the haymow and wept, for he had something in his heartand it hurt. He thought of his elfin companion very frequently for aweek, and he lost his appetite, very much to Mrs. Tully's concern. Thenthe steelhead trout began to run in Eel River, and the sweetest eventthat can occur in any boy's existence--the sudden awakening tothe wonder and beauty of life so poignantly realized in his firstlove-affair--was lost sight of by Bryce. In a month he had forgotten theincident; in six months he had forgotten Shirley Sumner.
The Valley of the Giants Page 3