The Valley of the Giants (Once Upon a Time in California). Peter B. Kyne

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      When Bryce was six years old, his father sent him to the public school in Sequoia with the children of his loggers and mill-hands, thus laying the foundation for a democratic education all too infrequent with the sons of men rated as millionaires. At night old Cardigan (for so men had now commenced to designate him!) would hear his boy's lessons, taking the while an immeasurable delight in watching the lad's mind develop. As a pupil Bryce was not meteoric; he had his father's patient, unexcitable nature; and, like the old man, he possessed the glorious gift of imagination. Never mediocre, he was never especially brilliant, but was seemingly content to maintain a steady, dependable average in all things. He had his mother's dark auburn hair, brown eyes, and fair white skin, and quite early in life he gave promise of being as large and powerful 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, and ponies he was a source of envy to his fellows. After his tenth year his father placed him on the mill pay-roll, and on payday he was wont to line up with the mill-crew to receive his modest stipend of ten dollars for carrying in kindling to the cook in the mill kitchen each day after school.

      This otherwise needless arrangement was old Cardigan's way of teaching his boy financial responsibility. All that he possessed he had worked for, and he wanted his son to grow up with the business to realize that he was a part of it with definite duties connected with it developing upon him—duties which he must never shirk if he was to retain the rich redwood heritage his father had been so eagerly storing up for him.

      When Bryce Cardigan was about fourteen years old there occurred an important event in his life. In a commendable effort to increase his income he had laid out a small vegetable garden in the rear of his father's house, and here on a Saturday morning, while down on his knees weeding carrots, he chanced to look up and discovered a young lady gazing 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 this superior damsel, saw his opportunity to silence her. “Cat's fur for kitten breeches,” he retorted—without any evidence of originality, we must confess. Whereat she stung him to the heart with a sweet smile and promptly 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 anticipation of being informed that little girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice. Realizing that he had begun something which might not terminate with credit to himself, he hung his head and for the space of several minutes gave all his attention to his crop. And presently the visitor 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 bad enough, but to be reminded of his crowning misfortune was adding insult to injury. He rose and cautiously approached the fence with the intention of pinching the impudent stranger, suddenly and surreptitiously, and sending her away weeping. As his hand crept between the palings on its wicked mission, the little miss looked at him in friendly 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're staying at the hotel, and there's nobody to play with. My uncle's name is Pennington. So's my aunt's. He's out here buying timber, and we live in 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 matters geographical inclined him to end the argument. “Well, maybe you're right,” he admitted grudgingly. “Anyhow, what difference does it make?”

      She did not answer. Evidently she was desirous of avoiding an argument if possible. Her gaze wandered past Bryce to where his Indian pony stood with 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 a horse that weighs nine hundred pounds. Midget only weighs five hundred.” He considered her a moment while she gazed in awe upon this man with two horses. “Can you ride a pony?” he asked, for no reason that he was aware of.

      She sighed, shaking her head resignedly. “We haven't any room to keep a pony at our house in Detroit,” she explained, and added hopefully: “But I'd love to ride on Midget. I suppose I could learn to ride if somebody taught me how.”

      He looked at her again. At that period of his existence he was inclined to regard girls as a necessary evil. For some immutable reason they existed, and perforce must be borne with, and it was his hope that he would get through life and see as little as possible of the exasperating sex. Nevertheless, as Bryce surveyed this winsome miss through the palings, he was sensible of a sneaking desire to find favour in her eyes—also equally sensible of the fact that the path to that desirable end lay between himself and Midget. He swelled with the importance of one who knows he controls a delicate situation. “Well, I suppose if you want a ride I'll have to give it to you,” he grumbled, “although I'm mighty 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 he restrain an impulse to dash wildly into the stable and saddle Midget in furious haste. Instead he walked to the barn slowly and with extreme dignity. When he reappeared, he was leading Midget, a little silverpoint runt of a Klamath Indian pony, and Moses, a sturdy pinto cayuse from the cattle ranges over in Trinity County. “I'll have to ride with you,” he announced. “Can't let a tenderfoot like you go out alone on Midget.”

      All aflutter with delightful anticipation, the young lady climbed up on the gate and scrambled into the saddle when Bryce swung the pony broadside to the gate. Then he adjusted the stirrups to fit her, passed a hair rope from Midget's little hackamore СКАЧАТЬ