CHAPTER IV
The succeeding years of Bryce Cardigan's life, until he completedhis high-school studies and went East to Princeton, were those of theordinary youth in a small and somewhat primitive country town. He madefrequent trips to San Francisco with his father, taking passage on thesteamer that made bi-weekly trips between Sequoia and the metropolis--asThe Sequoia Sentinel always referred to San Francisco. He was an expertfisherman, and the best shot with rifle or shot-gun in the county; hedelighted in sports and, greatly to the secret delight of his fathershowed a profound interest in the latter's business.
Throughout the happy years of Bryce's boyhood his father continued toenlarge and improve his sawmill, to build more schooners, and to acquiremore redwood timber. Lands, the purchase of which by Cardigan a decadebefore had caused his neighbours to impugn his judgment, now developedstrategical importance. As a result those lands necessary to consolidatehis own holdings came to him at his own price, while his adverseholdings that blocked the logging operations of his competitors wentfrom him--also at his own price. In fact, all well-laid plans maturedsatisfactorily with the exception of one, and since it has a verydefinite bearing on the story, the necessity for explaining it isparamount.
Contiguous to Cardigan's logging operations to the east and north ofSequoia, and comparatively close in, lay a block of two thousand acresof splendid timber, the natural, feasible, and inexpensive outlet forwhich, when it should be logged, was the Valley of the Giants. Forthirty years John Cardigan had played a waiting game with the owner ofthat timber, for the latter was as fully obsessed with the belief thathe was going to sell it to John Cardigan at a dollar and a half perthousand feet stumpage as Cardigan was certain he was going to buy itfor a dollar a thousand--when he should be ready to do so and not onesecond sooner. He calculated, as did the owner of the timber, that thetime to do business would be a year or two before the last of Cardigan'stimber in that section should be gone.
Eventually the time for acquiring more timber arrived. John Cardigan,meeting his neighbour on the street, accosted him thus:
"Look here, Bill: isn't it time we got together on that timber of yours?You know you've been holding it to block me and force me to buy at yourfigure."
"That's why I bought it," the other admitted smilingly. "Then, before Irealized my position, you checkmated me with that quarter-section in thevalley, and we've been deadlocked ever since."
"I'll give you a dollar a thousand stumpage for your timber, Bill."
"I want a dollar and a half."
"A dollar is my absolute limit."
"Then I'll keep my timber."
"And I'll keep my money. When I finish logging in my present holdings,I'm going to pull out of that country and log twenty miles southof Sequoia. I have ten thousand acres in the San Hedrin watershed.Remember, Bill, the man who buys your timber will have to log it throughmy land--and I'm not going to log that quarter-section in the valley.Hence there will be no outlet for your timber in back."
"Not going to log it? Why, what are you going to do with it?"
"I'm just going to let it stay there until I die. When my will is filedfor probate, your curiosity will be satisfied--but not until then."
The other laughed. "John," he declared, "you just haven't got thecourage to pull out when your timber adjoining mine is gone, andmove twenty miles south to the San Hedrin watershed. That will be tooexpensive a move, and you'll only be biting off your nose to spite yourface. Come through with a dollar and a half, John."
"I never bluff, Bill. Remember, if I pull out for the San Hedrin, I'llnot abandon my logging-camps there to come back and log your timber.One expensive move is enough for me. Better take a dollar, Bill. It's agood, fair price, as the market on redwood timber is now, and you'll bemaking an even hundred per cent, on your investment. Remember, Bill, ifI don't buy your timber, you'll never log it yourself and neither willanybody else. You'll be stuck with it for the next forty years--andtaxes aren't getting any lower. Besides, there's a good deal of pine andfir in there, and you know what a forest fire will do to that."
"I'll hang on a little longer, I think."
"I think so, too," John Cardigan replied. And that night, as was hiswont, even though he realized that it was not possible for Bryce to gaina profound understanding of the business problems to which he was heir,John Cardigan discussed the Squaw Creek timber with his son, relating tohim the details of his conversation with the owner.
"I suppose he thinks you're bluffing," Bryce commented.
"I'm not, Bryce. I never bluff--that is, I never permit a bluff of mineto be called, and don't you ever do it, either. Remember that, boy. Anytime you deliver a verdict, be sure you're in such a position you won'thave to reverse yourself. I'm going to finish logging in that districtthis fall, so if I'm to keep the mill running, I'll have to establish mycamps on the San Hedrin watershed right away."
Bryce pondered. "But isn't it cheaper to give him his price on SquawCreek timber than go logging in the San Hedrin and have to build twentymiles of logging railroad to get your logs to the mill?"
"It would be, son, if I HAD to build the railroad. Fortunately, I donot. I'll just shoot the logs down the hillside to the San Hedrin Riverand drive them down the stream to a log-boom on tidewater."
"But there isn't enough water in the San Hedrin to float a redwood log,Dad. I've fished there, and I know."
"Quite true--in the summer and fall. But when the winter freshets comeon and the snow begins to melt in the spring up in the Yola Bolas, wherethe San Hedrin has its source, we'll have plenty of water for drivingthe river. Once we get the logs down to tide-water, we'll raft them andtow them up to the mill. So you see, Bryce, we won't be bothered withthe expense of maintaining a logging railroad, as at present."
Bryce looked at his father admiringly. "I guess Dan Keyes is right,Dad," he said. "Dan says you're crazy--like a fox. Now I know why you'vebeen picking up claims in the San Hedrin watershed."
"No, you don't, Bryce. I've never told you, but I'll tell you now thereal reason. Humboldt County has no rail connection with the outsideworld, so we are forced to ship our lumber by water. But some day arailroad will be built in from the south--from San Francisco; and whenit comes, the only route for it to travel is through our timber in theSan Hedrin Valley. I've accumulated that ten thousand acres for you,my son, for the railroad will never be built in my day. It may come inyours, but I have grown weary waiting for it, and now that my hand isforced, I'm going to start logging there. It doesn't matter, son. Youwill still be logging there fifty years from now. And when the railroadpeople come to you for a right of way, my boy, give it to them. Don'tcharge them a cent. It has always been my policy to encourage thedevelopment of this county, and I want you to be a forward-looking,public-spirited citizen. That's why I'm sending you East to college.You've been born and raised in this town, and you must see more of theworld. You mustn't be narrow or provincial, because I'm saving up foryou, my son, a great many responsibilities, and I want to educate you tomeet them bravely and sensibly."
He paused, regarding the boy gravely and tenderly. "Bryce, lad," he saidpresently, "do you ever wonder why I work so hard and barely manage tospare the time to go camping with you in vacation time?"
"Why don't you take it easy, Dad? You do work awfully hard, and I havewondered about it."
"I have to work hard, my son, because I started something a long timeago, when work was fun. And now I can't let go. I employ too many peoplewho are dependent on me for their bread and butter. When they plan amarriage or the building of a home or the purchase of a cottage organ,they have to figure me in on the proposition. I didn't have a name forthe part I played in these people's lives until the other night when Iwas helping you with your algebra. I'm the unknown quantity."
"Oh, no," Bryce protested. "You're the known quantity."
Cardigan smiled. "Well, maybe I am," he admitted. "I've always tried tobe. And if I have succeeded, then you're the unknown quantity, Bryce,because some day
you'll have to take my place; they will have to dependupon you when I am gone. Listen to me, son. You're only a boy, and youcan't understand everything I tell you now, but I want you to rememberwhat I tell you, and some day understanding will come to you. Youmustn't fail the people who work for you--who are dependent upon yourstrength and brains and enterprises to furnish them with an opportunityfor life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. When you are the bossof Cardigan's mill, you must keep the wheels turning; you must nevershut down the mill or the logging-camps in dull times just to avoid aloss you can stand better than your employees."
His hard, trembling old hand closed over the boy's. "I want you to be abrave and honourable man," he concluded.
True to his word, when John Cardigan finished his logging in his old,original holdings adjacent to Sequoia and Bill Henderson's Squaw Creektimber, he quietly moved south with his Squaw Creek woods-gang andjoined the crew already getting out logs in the San Hedrin watershed.Not until then did Bill Henderson realize that John Cardigan had calledhis bluff--whereat he cursed himself for a fool and a poor judge ofhuman nature. He had tried a hold-up game and had failed; a dollar athousand feet stumpage was a fair price; for years he had needed themoney; and now, when it was too late, he realized his error. Luck waswith Henderson, however; for shortly thereafter there came again toSequoia one Colonel Seth Pennington, a millionaire white-pine operatorfrom Michigan. The Colonel's Michigan lands had been logged off, andsince he had had one taste of cheap timber, having seen fifty-centstumpage go to five dollars, the Colonel, like Oliver Twist, desiredsome more of the same. On his previous visit to Sequoia he had seenhis chance awaiting him in the gradually decreasing market for redwoodlumber and the corresponding increase of melancholia in the redwoodoperators; hence he had returned to Michigan, closed out his businessinterests there, and returned to Sequoia on the alert for an investmentin redwood timber. From a chair-warmer on the porch of the HotelSequoia, the Colonel had heard the tale of how stiff-necked oldJohn Cardigan had called the bluff of equally stiff-necked old BillHenderson; so for the next few weeks the Colonel, under pretense ofgoing hunting or fishing on Squaw Creek, managed to make a fairlyaccurate cursory cruise of the Henderson timber--following which hepurchased it from the delighted Bill for a dollar and a quarter perthousand feet stumpage and paid for it with a certified check. With hischeck in his hand, Henderson queried:
"Colonel, how do you purpose logging that timber?"
The Colonel smiled. "Oh, I don't intend to log it. When I log timber,it has to be more accessible. I'm just going to hold on and outgame yourformer prospect, John Cardigan. He needs that timber; he has to haveit--and one of these days he'll pay me two dollars for it."
Bill Henderson raised an admonitory finger and shook it under theColonel's nose. "Hear me, stranger," he warned. "When you know JohnCardigan as well as I do, you'll change your tune. He doesn't bluff."
"He doesn't?" The Colonel laughed derisively. "Why, that move of hisover to the San Hedrin was the most monumental bluff ever pulled off inthis country."
"All right, sir. You wait and see."
"I've seen already. I know."
"How do you know?"
"Well, for one thing, Henderson, I noticed Cardigan has carefully housedhis rolling-stock--and he hasn't scrapped his five miles of loggingrailroad and three miles of spurs."
Old Bill Henderson chewed his quid of tobacco reflectively and spat ata crack in the sidewalk. "No," he replied, "I'll admit he ain't startedscrappin' it yet, but I happen to know he's sold the rollin'-stock an'rails to the Freshwater Lumber Company, so I reckon they'll be scrappin'that railroad for him before long."
The Colonel was visibly moved. "If your information is authentic," hesaid slowly, "I suppose I'll have to build a mill on tidewater and logthe timber."
"'Twon't pay you to do that at the present price of redwood lumber."
"I'm in no hurry. I can wait for better times."
"Well, when better times arrive, you'll find that John Cardigan owns theonly water-front property on this side of the bay where the water's deepenough to let a ship lie at low tide and load in safety."
"There is deep water across the bay and plenty of water-front propertyfor sale. I'll find a mill-site there and tow my logs across."
"But you've got to dump 'em in the water on this side. Everything northof Cardigan's mill is tide-flat; he owns all the deep-water frontagefor a mile south of Sequoia, and after that come more tide-flats. Ifyou dump your logs on these tide-flats, they'll bog down in the mud, andthere isn't water enough at high tide to float 'em off or let a tug goin an' snake 'em off."
"You're a discouraging sort of person," the Colonel declared irritably."I suppose you'll tell me now that I can't log my timber withoutpermission from Cardigan."
Old Bill spat at another crack; his faded blue eyes twinkledmischievously. "No, that's where you've got the bulge on John, Colonel.You can build a logging railroad from the southern fringe of your timbernorth and up a ten per cent. grade on the far side of the Squaw Creekwatershed, then west three miles around a spur of low hills, and thensouth eleven miles through the level country along the bay shore. If youwant to reduce your Squaw Creek grade to say two per cent., figure onten additional miles of railroad and a couple extra locomotives. Youunderstand, of course, Colonel, that no Locomotive can haul a longtrainload of redwood logs up a long, crooked, two per cent. grade. Youhave to have an extry in back to push."
"Nonsense! I'll build my road from Squaw Creek gulch south through thatvalley where those whopping big trees grow. That's the natural outletfor the timber. See here:" [graphic]
Colonel Pennington took from his pocket the rough sketch-map of theregion which we have reproduced herewith and pointed to the spotnumbered "11."
"But that valley ain't logged yet," explained Henderson.
"Don't worry. Cardigan will sell that valley to me--also a right ofway down his old railroad grade and through his logged-over lands totidewater."
"Bet you a chaw o' tobacco he won't. Those big trees in that valleyain't goin' to be cut for no railroad right o' way. That valley's JohnCardigan's private park; his wife's buried up there. Why, Colonel,that's the biggest grove of the biggest sequoia sempervirens in theworld, an' many's the time I've heard John say he'd almost as lief cutoff his right hand as fell one o' his giants, as he calls 'em. I tellyou, Colonel, John Cardigan's mighty peculiar about them big trees. Anytime he can get a day off he goes up an' looks 'em over."
"But, my very dear sir," the Colonel protested, "if the man will notlisten to reason, the courts will make him. I can condemn a right ofway, you know."
"We-ll," said old Bill, wagging his head sagely, "mebbe you can, an'then again mebbe you can't. It took me a long time to figger out justwhere I stood, but mebbe you're quicker at figgers than I am. Anyhow,Colonel, good luck to you, whichever way the cat jumps."
This illuminating conversation had one effect on Colonel SethPennington. It decided him to make haste slowly; so without takingthe trouble to make the acquaintance of John Cardigan, he returned toDetroit, there to await the next move in this gigantic game of chess.
The Valley of the Giants Page 4