58 
The Valley of the 
I 
American Agriculturist, January 20,^923 
Giants —By Peter B. Kyne 
B R^CE CARDIGAN, single-handed, almost bankrupt, his blind father, once king of the redwood 
country, now hopelessly di.scouraged, faces the unscrupulous Colonel Seth Pennington in a 
struggle for supremacy. The Valley of the Giants, where Bryce's mother lies buried, has been 
despoiled for a fine tree : Bryce avenges it by a fight with Rondeau, the Colonel's woods-boss, but 
Pennington, infuriated, set .a crew of twenty upon him. 
Shirley Sumner, the Colonel's niece, impetuously calls after Bryce to warn him, thereby break¬ 
ing her vow, ' I'll never speak to you again.” Bryce escapes the ambtish and reaches his own 
woods where he looks for McTavish, the old boss, now usually drunk. Moira McTavish seeks to 
protect her father. 
S O delightful a picture did Moira McTavish make that Bryce forgot all his 
troubles. “By the gods, Moira,” he declared earnestly, “you’re a peach! When I 
sa-vv you last, you -were awk-ward and leggy, like a colt. And now you’re the most 
ravishing young lady in seventeen counties. By jingo, Moira, you’re a stunner and 
no mistake. Are you married?” 
She shook her head, blushing Measurably at his unpolished but sincere compliments. 
“What? Not married. WKy, what can be the matter with the eligible young 
fellows hereabouts ? ” 
“There aren’t any eligible young fellows hereabouts, Mr. Bryce. And I’ve lived 
in these woods all my life.” 
“That’s why you haven’t been discovered.” 
“And I don’t intend to marry a lumberjack and continue to live in these woods,” 
she went on, as if she found pleasure in announcing her rebellion. Despite her de¬ 
fiance, however, there was a note of resignation in her voice. 
“You don’t know a thing about it, Moira. Some bright day your Prince Charm¬ 
ing will come by, riding the log-train.” 
“How do you know Mr. Bryce?” 
He laughed. “I read about it in a book.” 
“Are you lonel.v, Moira ? ” 
She nodded. 
“Poor Moira!” he murmured absently. 
The thought that he so readily un¬ 
derstood touched her; a glint of tears 
was in her sad eyes. He saw them 
and placed his arm fraternally around 
her shoulders. “Tut-tut, Moira! Don’t 
cry,” he soothed# her. “I understand 
perfectly, and of course we’ll have to 
do something about it. You’re too fine 
for this.” With a sweep of his hand 
he indicated the camp. “Sit down on 
the steps, Moira, and we’ll talk it over. 
I really called to see your father, but 
I guess I don’t want -to see him after 
all—if he’s sick.” 
She looked at him bravely. “I didn’t 
know you at first, Mr. Bryce. I fibbed. 
Father isn’t sick. He’s drunk.” 
“I thought so when I saw the load¬ 
ing-crew taking it easy at the log¬ 
landing. I’m terribly sorry.” 
“I loathe it—and I cannot leave it,” 
she burst out vehemently. “I’m chained 
to my degradation. I dream dreams, 
and they’ll never come true. I—I— 
oh, Mr. Bryce, I’m so unhappy.” 
“So am I,” he retorted. “We all get 
our dose of it, you know, and just at 
present I’m having an fxt'-"a helping, it 
seems. I’m sorry a’'out vour father. 
He’s been with us a long fine, and my 
father told me the other ni'^-ht that he 
has discharged Mac fourteen times 
during the past ten years, but to date 
he hasn’t been able to make it stick. 
For all his sixty years, Moira, your 
confounded parent can still manhandle 
any man on the pay-roll, and as fast as 
Dad put in a new woods-boss old Mac 
drove him off the job.” 
“I know,” said Moira wearily. “No¬ 
body wants to be Cardigan’s woods- 
boss and have to fight my father to 
hold his job. I realize what a nuisance 
he has become.” 
B ryce chuckled. “I asked Father 
why he didn’t stand pat and let Mac 
work for nothing. My father was 
under no obligation to pay him. Dad 
might have starved your father out, 
but the trouble was that old Mac would 
promise reform and end up by borrow¬ 
ing a couple of hundred dollars, and 
then Dad had to hire him to get it 
back! Of course the matter simmers 
down to this: Dad is so fond of your 
father that he just hasn’t got the moral 
courage, and now the job is up to me. 
Moira, I’m not going to beat about the 
bush with you. They tell me your 
father is a hopeless inebriate.” 
“I’m afraid he is, Mr. Bryce.” 
“How long has he been drinking to 
excess?” 
“About ten years, I think. Of course, 
he would always take a few drinks with 
the men around pay-day, but after 
Mother died, he began taking his drinks 
between. Then he took to going down 
to Sequoia on Saturday nights and 
coming back on the mad-train, the 
maddest of the lot. I suppose he was 
lonely, too. He didn’t get real bad, 
however, till about two years ago.” 
“Just about the time my father’s 
eyes began to fail and he ceased com¬ 
ing to jack Mac up? So he let the 
.brakes go and started to coast, and 
now he’s reached the bottom! I couldn’t 
get him on the telephone to-day or yes¬ 
terday. I suppose he was down in 
Areata, liquoring up.” 
She nodded miserably. 
“Well, we have to get logs to the 
mill, and we can’t get them with old 
John Barleycorn for a woods-boss, 
Moira. So we’re going to change 
woods-bosses, and the new one will not 
be driven off the job, because I’m going 
to stay up here a couple of weeks and 
break him in myself. By the way, is 
Mac ugly in his cups?” 
“Thank God, no,” she answered fer¬ 
vently. “Drunk or sober, he has never 
said an unkind word to me.” 
“But how do you manage to get 
money to clothe yourself? Sinclair tells 
me Mac needs every cent of his two 
hundred and fifty dollars a month to 
enjoy himself.” 
“I used to steal from him,” the girl 
admitted. “Then I grew ashamed, and 
for the past six months I’ve been earn¬ 
ing my own living. Mr. Sinclair gave 
me a job waiting on table in the camp 
dining room. You see, I couldn’t leave 
my father. He had to have somebody 
to'take care of him.” 
“Sinclair is a fuzzy old fool,” Bryce 
declared with emphasis. “The idea of 
our woods-boss’s daughter slinging hash 
to lumberjacks. Poor Moira!” 
H e took one of her hands in his, noting 
the callous spots on the plump 
palm, the thick finger-joints that hint¬ 
ed so of toil. “Do you remember when 
I was a boy, Moira, how I used to come 
up to the logging-camps to hunt and 
fish? I always lived with the McTav- 
ishes then. ^ Poor Moira! Why, we’re 
old pals, and I’ll be shot if I’m going to 
see you suffer.” 
She glanced at him shyly, with beam¬ 
ing eyes. “You haven’t changed a bit, 
Mr. Bryce.” 
“Let’s talk about you, Moira. You 
went to school in Sequoia, didn’t you?” 
“Yes I was ,graduated from the high 
school there. I used to ride the log- 
trains into town and back again.” 
“Good news! Listen, Moira. I’m 
going to fire your father, as I’ve said. 
I really ought to pension him, but I’ll 
be hanged if we can afford pensions 
any more—particularly to keep a man 
in booze; so the best our old woods- 
boss gets from me is this , shanty, and 
a perpetual meal-ticket for our camp 
dining room while the Cardigans re¬ 
main in business.” 
“Perhaps,” she suggested sadly, 
“you had better talk the matter over 
with him.” 
“No, I’d rather not. I’m fond of 
your father, Moira. He was a man 
when I saw him last—such a man as 
these woods will never see again—and 
I don’t want to see him again until he’s 
cold sober. I’ll write him a letter. As 
for you, Moira, you’re fired, too. I’ll 
not have you waiting on table—not by 
a jugful! You’re to come down to 
Sequoia and go to work in our office. 
We can use you on the books, helping 
Sinclair. I’ll pay you a hundred dol¬ 
lars a month, Moira. Can you get . 
along on that?” 
Her hard hand closed over his tight¬ 
ly, but she did not speak. 
“All right, Moira. It’s a go, then. 
Hills and timber—timber and hills — 
and I’m going to set you free. Per¬ 
haps in Sequoia you’ll find your Prince 
Charming. There, there, girl, don’t 
• cry. We Cardigans had twenty-five 
years of faithful service from Donald 
McTavish before he commenced slip¬ 
ping; after all, we owe him something, 
I think.” 
She drew his hand suddenly to her 
lips and kissed it; but her heart was 
too full for mere words. 
“Fiddle-de-dee, Moira! Buck up,” 
he protested, pleased, but embarrassed 
withal. “If you’ll just cease shedding 
the scalding and listen to me. I’ll tell 
you what I’ll do. I’ll advance you two 
months’ salary for—well, you’ll need a 
lot of clothes and things in Sequoia 
that you don’t need here. Poor old 
Mac! I’m sorry I can’t bear with him, 
but we simply have to have the logs, 
you know.” 
H e rose, stooped, and pinched her ear; 
for had he not known her since 
childhood, and had they not gathered 
huckleberries together in the long ago? 
She was sister to him—just another 
one of his problems—and nothing 
more. “Report on the job as soon as 
possible, Moira,” he called to her from 
the gate. Then the gate banged be¬ 
hind him, and with a smile and a de¬ 
bonair wave of his hand, he was strid¬ 
ing down the little camp street where 
the dogs and the children played in the 
dust. 
After a while Moira walked to the 
gate and leaning upon it, looked down 
the street toward the log-landing where 
Bryce was ragging the laggard crew 
into something like their old-time 
speed. Presently the locomotive backed 
in and coupled to the log train, and 
when she saw Bryce leap aboard, seat 
himself on a top log in such a position 
that he could not fail to see her at the 
gate, she waved to him. He threw 
her a careless kiss, and the train 
pulled out. 
When Moira lifted her Madonna 
glance to the frieze of timber on the 
skyline, there was a new glory in her 
eyes; for over that hill Prince Charm¬ 
ing had come to her, and life was all 
crimson and gold! 
When the train loaded with Cardi¬ 
gan logs stopped at the log-landing in 
Pennington’s camp, the locomotive un¬ 
coupled and backed in on the siding for 
the purpose of kicking the caboose, in 
which Shirley and Colonel Pennington 
had ridden to the woods, out onto the 
main line again—where, owing to a 
slight downhill grade, the caboose, 
controlled by the brakeman, could coas-t 
gently forward and be hooked on to the 
end of the log-train for the return 
journey. • 
Throughout the afternoon Shirley, 
following the battle royal, had sat dis¬ 
mally in the caboose. She was prey to 
many conflicting emotions; but had to 
a great extent recovered her customary 
poise—and was busily speculating on 
the rapidity with which she could leave 
Sequoia and forget she had ever met 
Bryce Cardigan—when the log-train 
rumbled into the landing and the last 
of the long string of trucks came to a 
stop directly opposite the caboose. 
S HIRLEY happened to be looking 
through the grimy window at that 
moment. On the top log, the object of 
her speculations was seated, apparently 
quite oblivious of the fact that'he was 
back in the haunt of his enemies, al¬ 
though knowledge that the double- 
bitted axe he had so unceremoniously 
borrowed was driven deep into the log 
beside him, probably had much to do 
with Bryce’s air of indifference. He 
was sitting with his elbows on his 
knees, his chin in his cupped hands, the 
while he stared moodily at his feet. 
Shirley suspected she knew what he 
was thinking; he was less than six feet 
from her, and a morbid fascination 
moved her to remain at the window and 
watch the play of emotions over his 
strong, stern face. She told herself 
that should he show the slightest dis¬ 
position to raise his head she would 
dodge away in time to escape his 
scrutiny. 
She reckon^ without the engine. 
With a smart bump it struck the ca¬ 
boose and shunted it briskly up the 
siding; at the impact Bryce raised his 
troubled glance just in time to see 
Shirley yielding to the shock, sway into 
full view at the window. 
With difficulty he suppressed a grin. 
“I’ll bet my soul she was peeking at 
me,” he soliloquized. “Confound the 
luck! Another meeting this afternoon 
would be embarrassing.” Tactfully he 
resumed his study of his feet, not even 
looking up when the caboose, after 
gaining the main track, slid gently 
down the slight grade and was coupled 
to the rear dogging-truck. Out of the 
tail of his eye he caught a glimpse of 
Colonel Pennington passing alon’gside 
the log-train and entering the caboose; 
he heard the engineer shout to the 
brakeman—who had ridden down from 
the head of the train to unlock the sid¬ 
ing switch and couple the caboose—to 
hurry up, lock the switch, and get back 
aboard the engine. 
“Can’.t* get this danged key to turn 
in the lock,” the brakeman shouted 
presently. “Lock’s rusty, and some¬ 
thing’s gone bust inside.” 
Minutes passed. Bryce’s abstraction 
became real, for he had many matters 
to occupy his busy brain. Present!^ he 
was subconsciously aware that * the 
train was moving gently forward; al¬ 
most immediately, it seemed to him, the 
long string of trucks had gathered 
their customary speed; and then sud¬ 
denly it dawned upon Bryce that the 
train had started without a single jerk 
—and that it was was gathering head¬ 
way rapidly. 
H e looked ahead—and his hair grew 
creepy at the roots. There was no 
locomotive attached to the train! It was 
running away down a two per -cent 
grade, and because of the tremendous 
weight of the train, was gathering 
momentum at a fearful rate. 
The reason for the runaway dawned 
on Bryce instantly. The road was, 
like most private logging-roads, neg¬ 
lected a$ to roadbed and rolling-stock; 
also it was undermanned, and the 
brakeman, who also acted as switch¬ 
man, had failed to set the hand-brakes 
on the leading truck after the engineer 
had locked the air-brakes. As a result, 
during the five or six minutes required 
to “spot in” the caboose, and an extra 
minute or t'^Vo lost while the brakeman 
struggled with the lock on the switch, 
the air had leaked away through the 
worn valves and rubber tubing, and the 
brakes had been released—so that the 
train, without warning, had quietly and 
almost noiselessly slid out of the log¬ 
landing and started on its mad career'. 
Before the engineer could beat it to the 
other switch with the locomotive, run 
out oil the main track, let the runaway 
gradually catch up with him and hold 
it—no matter how or what happened 
to him or his engine—the first log,ging- 
truck had cleared the switch and 
blocked pursuit. There was nothing 
to do now save watch the wild runaway 
and pray, for of all the mad runaways 
in a mad world, a loaded logging-train 
is by far the wor^. 
For an instant, Bryce Cardigan was 
tempted to jump and take his chance 
on a few broken bones, before the trai i 
could reach a greater speed. His nevt 
impulse was to run forward and set ti.e 
hand-brake on the leading truck, bu' 
a glance showed him that even w't’.i 
the train standing still he could not 
hope to leap from truck to truck and 
land on the round, freshly peeled srr- 
face of the logs without slipping. And 
to slip now meant swift and horri’ le 
death. 
Then he remembered. In -the w Idly 
rolling caboose Shirley Summer rode 
with her uncle, while less than > two 
miles ahead, the track sw,ung in a 
sharp curve high up the hillside above 
Mad River. Bryce knew the leading 
truck would never take that curve at 
high speed, but would shoot off at a 
tangent into the canon, carrying trucks, 
logs, and caboose with it. 
“The caboose must be cut out of this 
runaway,” Bryce soliloquized, “and it 
must be cut out in a hurry. Here goes 
nothing in particular, and may God be 
good to my dear old man.” 
He jerked his axe out of the log, 
drove it deep into the top log toward 
iContimied on page 59) 
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