14 
American Agriculturist, January 6, 
The Valley of the Giants-sy 
W HEN Bryce Cardigan, son of a pioneer in the redwoods country, comes home to Sequoia from 
college, he finds his father, now almost blind, engaged in- a struggle against an aggressive 
newcomer, Colonei Pennington. Bryce, who has started a friendship with the Colonel s niece, 
Shirley Sumner, vows to rescue his father’s business and especially to preserve the Valey ot 
the Giants, a magnificent grove where his mother is buried, and which, because it blocks the 
Colonel’s holdings, is menaced by the new operator. 
On his first visit to the Valley of the Giants, he discovers that the noblest tree has been 
wantonly cut down for the burl, and that in falling, it has destroyed his mother’s grave. An 
envelope with the name of .lules Rondeau proves that Pennington’s woods-boss was the vandal. 
At Shirley’s invitation Bryce has dinner with her and the Colonel, and conveys to the latter 
that he knows who stole the burl. 
DID not expect you to agree to my request. I am not quite that optimistic, 
J. Bryce replied. 
“Then why did you ask me?” . . ,, 
“I thought that possibly you might have a reasonable counter-proposition. 
“I haven’t thought of any.” . 
“I suppose if I agreed to sell you that quarter-section of timber in the little 
valley over yonder” (he pointed to the east) ‘*and the natural outlet for your 
Pquaw Creek timber, you’d quickly think of one,” Bryce suggested pointedly. 
“No, I am not in the market for that Valley of the Giants, as your idealistic 
father calls it. Once I would have purchased it for double its value, but at present 
I am not interested.” 
“Nevertheless it would be an advantage for you to possess it. 
“My dear boy, that is an advantage I expect to enjoy before I acquire many 
more gray hairs. But I do not expect to pay for it.” 
“You figure you’ve got us winging, eh?” Bryce was smiling pleasantly. 
“I am making no admissions,” Pennington responded, “—nor any hauling con¬ 
tracts for my neighbor’s logs,” he added. 
“You may change your mind.” 
“‘Never.” 
“I suppose I’ll have to abandon logging in Township Nine and go back to the 
San Hedrin,” Bryce sighed resignedly. 
“If you do, you’ll go broke. You can’t afford it. You’re on the verge of in¬ 
solvency this minute.” ■ j.- n 
suppose, since you decline to haul our logs, after the expiration of our present 
contract, and in view of the fact that we are not financially able to build our 
own logging railroad, that the wisest course my father and I could pursue would 
be to sell our timber in Township Nine to you.” 
“I had a notion the situation woul^ 
begin to dawn upon you.” The Colonel 
was smiling now. “I’ll give you a 
dollar a thousand feet stumpage for it.” 
“On whose cruise?” 
“Oh, my own cruisers will esti¬ 
mate it.” 
“I’m afraid I can’t accept that offer. 
We paid a dollar and a half for it, and 
if we sold it to you at a dollar, the sale 
would not bring sufficient money to 
take up our bonded indebtedness; we’d 
only have the San Hedrin timber and 
the Valley of the Giants left, and 
since we cannot log either of these 
at present, naturally we’d be out of 
business*^ ^ 
“That’s the way I figured it, my boy.” 
“Well—we’re not going out of busi¬ 
ness.” 
“Pardon me for disagreeing with 
you. I think you are.” 
“Not much! We can’t afford it.” 
T he Colonel smiled benignantly. 
“My dear boy, listen to me. Your 
father is the only human being who 
has ever succeeded in making a perfect 
monkey of me. When I wanted to 
purchase a right of way through his 
absurd Valley of the Giants to log 
my Squaw Creek timber, he refused. 
And to add insult to injury, he spouted 
a lot of rot about his big trees, how 
much they meant to him, and the utter 
artistic horror of running a logging- 
train through the grove—particularly 
since he planned to bequeath it to 
Sequoia as a public park. 
“My boy, that was the first bad 
break your father made. His second 
break was his refusal to sell me a mill 
site. He had been shrewd enough to 
hog all the water-front real estate and 
hold onto it. I remember he called 
himself a progressive citizen, and when 
I asked him why he was blocking the 
wheels of progress, he replied that the 
railroad would build in from the south 
some day, but that when it did, its 
builders would have to be assured of 
terminial facilities on Humbolt Bay. 
‘By holding intact the spot where rail 
and water are bound to meet,’ he told 
me, ‘I insure the terminal on tidewater 
which the railroad must _ have before 
consenting to build. But if I sell it to 
Tom, Dick, and Harry, they will be 
certain to gouge the railroad when the 
latter tries to buy it from them.^ They 
may scare the railroad away.’ ” 
“Naturally!” Bryce replied. “The 
average human being is a hog, and 
merciless when he has the upper hand. 
My father, on the contrary, has always 
planned for the future. The country 
needed rail connection with the outside 
world, and moreover his San Hedrin 
timber isn’t worth a hoot until that 
feeder to a trans-continental road shall 
be built to tap it.” 
“But he sold Bill Henderson the pull 
site on tidewater that he refused to 
sell me, and later I had to pay Hender¬ 
son’s heirs a whooping price for it.” 
“But he needed Henderson then. 
They had a deal on together. You 
must remember. Colonel, that while 
Bill Henderson held that Squaw Creek 
timber he later sold you, my father 
would never sell him a mill site. Can’t 
you see the sporting point of view in¬ 
volved? My father and Bill Henderson 
were good-natured rivals; for thirty 
years they had tried to outgame each 
other on that Squaw Creek timber. 
They were perfectly frank about it 
with each other and held no grudges. 
Of course, after you bought Hender¬ 
son out, you foolishly took over his job 
of trying to outgame my father. That’s 
why you' bought Henderson out, isn’t 
it? You had a vision of my father’s 
paying you a nice profit on your invest¬ 
ment, but he fooled you, and now you’re 
peeved and won’t play.” 
Bryce hitched his chair farther 
toward the Colonel. “Why shouldn’t 
my dad be nice to Bill Henderson after 
the feud ended?” he continued. “They 
could play the game together then, and 
they did. Colonel, why can’t you be as 
sporty as Henderson and my father?” 
“I will not renew your logging con¬ 
tract. That is final,_ young man. No 
man can ride me with spurs and get 
away with it.” 
“Oh, I knew that yesterday.” 
“Then why have you called on me 
to-day, taking up my time on a dead 
issue?” 
“I wanted to give you one final 
chance to repent. I know your plan. 
You have it in your power to smash the 
Cardigan Redwood Lumber Company, 
acquire it at fifty per cent of its value, 
and merge its assets with your Laguna 
Grande Lumber Company. In order to 
achieve your ambitions, you are willing 
to ruin a competitor: you decline to 
play the game like a thoroughbred.” 
PLAY the game of business accord- 
1 ing to the rules of the game; I do 
nothing illegal, sir.” 
“And nothing generous or chival¬ 
rous.” 
“Young man, remember, you are not 
in a position to ask favors.” 
“Then I suppose we’ll have to go 
down fighting?” 
“I do not anticipate much of a fight. 
“You’ll get as much as I can give 
you.” ’ 
“I’m not at all apprehensive.” 
“And I’ll begin by running your 
woods-boss out of the country.” 
“Ah-h!” 
“You know why, of course—those 
burl panels in your dining room. Ron¬ 
deau felled a tree in our Valley of the 
Giants to get that burl for you. Colo¬ 
nel Pennington.” 
Pennington flushed. “I defy you to 
prove that,” he almost shouted. 
“Very well. I’ll make Rondeau con¬ 
fess; perhaps he’ll even tell me who 
sent him after the burl. At any rate, 
I know Rondeau is guilty, and you, as 
his employer and the beneficiary of his 
crime, must accept the odium.” 
The Colonel’s face went white. “I 
do not admit anything except that you 
appear to have lost your head, young 
man. However, for the sake of argu¬ 
ment: granting that Rondeau felled 
that tree, he did it under the apprehen¬ 
sion that your Valley of the Giants is 
a part of my Squaw Creek timber 
adjoining.” 
“I do not believe that. There was 
malice in the act—brutality even; for 
my mother’s grave identified the land 
as ours, and Rondeau felled the tree on 
her tombstone.” 
“If that is so, and Rondeau felled 
that tree—I do not believe he did—I 
am sincerely sorry, Cardigan. Name 
your price and I will pay you for the 
“You can’t pay for that tree,” Bryce 
burst forth. “No pitiful human being 
can pay in dollars and cents for the 
wanton destruction of God’s handi¬ 
work. You wanted that burl, and 
when my father was blind and could 
no longer make his Sunday pilgrimage 
up to that grove, your woods-boss went 
up and stole that which you knew you 
could not buy.” 
“That will be about all from you, 
young man. Get out of my office. And 
by the way, forget that you have met 
my niece.” 
“It’s your office—so I’ll get out. 
As for your second command”— 
he snapped his fingers in Pennington’s 
face—“fooey!” 
When --Bryce had gone, the Colonel 
hurriedly called his logging-camp on 
the telephone and asked for Jules Ron¬ 
deau, only to be informed that Rondeau 
was up in the green timber and could 
not be gotten to the telephone in less 
than two hours. 
“Do not send for him, then,” Pen¬ 
nington commanded. “I’m coming up 
on the eleven-fifteen train and will 
talk to him when he comes in for his 
lunch.” 
Just as the Colonel was leaving to 
board the logging-train bound empty 
for the woods, Shirley Sumner made 
her appearance in his office. 
“Uncle Seth,” she complained, I’m 
lonesome. The bookkeeper tells me 
you’re going up to the logging-camp. 
May I go with you?” 
■ “By all means. Usually I ride in the 
cab with the engineer and fireman; but 
if you’re coming. I’ll have them hook 
on the caboose. Step lively, my dear, 
or they’ll be holding the train for us 
and upsetting our schedule.” 
CHAPTER XV 
B y virtue of their logging-contract 
with Pennington, the Cardigans and 
their employees were transported free 
over P'enningi:on’s logging railroad; 
hence, when Bryce Cardigan resolved 
to wait upon Jules Rondeau in the mat¬ 
ter of that murdered Giant, he chose 
the most direct route, and as the long 
string of empty trucks came crawling 
off the Laguna Grande Lumber Com¬ 
pany’s log-dump, he swung over the 
side, quite ignorant of the fact that 
Shirley and her precious relative were 
riding in the little caboose in the rear. 
At twelve-ten the train slid in on the 
log landing of the Laguna Grande 
Lumber Company’s main camp, and 
Bryce dropped off and approached the 
engineer of the little donkey-engine 
used for loading the logs. “Where’s 
Rondeau?” he asked. 
The engineer pointed to a huge, 
swarthy man approaching across the 
clearing. “That’s him,” he replied. 
And without further ado, Bryce strode 
to meet his man. 
“Are you Jules Rondeau?” he de¬ 
manded as he came up to the woods- 
boss. The latter nodded. “I’m Bryce 
Cardigan,” his interrogator announced, 
“and I’m here to thrash you for chop¬ 
ping that big redwood tree over in that 
little valley where my mother is 
buried.” 
“Oh!” Rondeau smiled. “Wiz pleas¬ 
ure, M’sieur.” And without a mo¬ 
ment’s hesitation he rushed. Bryce 
backed away from him warily, and 
they circled. 
Peter B. Kyne 
“When I get through with you. 
Rondeau,” Bryce said distinctly, “It’ll 
take a good man to lead you to your 
meals. This country isn’t big enough 
for both of us, and you’ve got to 
go first.” 
Bryce stepped in, feinted for Ron¬ 
deau’s jaw with his right, and when 
the woods-boss quickly covered, ripped 
a sizzling left into the latter’s midriff. 
Rondeau grunted and dropped his 
guard, with the result that Bryce’s 
great fists played a devil’s tatto on his 
countenance before he could crouch and 
cover. 
“This is a tough one,” thought 
Bryce. His blows had not, apparently, 
had the slightest effect on the woods- 
boss. Crouched low and with his arms 
wrapped around his head. Rondeau still 
came on unfalteringly. 
Already word that the woods-boss 
was battling with a stranger had been 
shouted into the camp dining room, apd 
the entire crew, came pouring forth 
to view the contest. Out of the tail of 
his eye Bryce saw them coming, but 
he was not apprehensive, for he knew 
the code of the woodsmn: “Let every 
man roll his own hoop.” It would be 
a fight to a finish, for no man would 
interefere; striking, kicking, gouging, 
biting, or choking would not be looked 
upon as unsportsmanlike; and as 
Bryce backed cautiously away from the 
huge and powerful man before him, he 
realized that Jules Rondeau was, as his 
father had stated, “top dog among the 
lumberjacks.” 
R ondeau, it was apparent, wanted 
a rough-and-tumble fight and kept 
rushing, hoping to clinch; if he could 
but get his great hands on Bryce, he 
would wrestle him down and finish the 
fight in jig-time. But a rough-and- 
turnble was exactly what Bryce was 
striving to avoid; hence when Rondeau 
rushed, Bryce side-stepped and peppered 
the woodsman’s ribs. But the woods- 
crew, which by now was ringed around 
them, began to voice disapproval of this 
style of battle. 
“Clinch with him, dancing-master,” 
a voice roared. 
“Tie into him. Rondeau,” another 
shouted. 
“It’s a fair match,” cried another. 
The red one was looking for a fight, 
an’ he ought to get it; but these fancy 
fights don’t suit me. Flop him, 
stranger, flop him.” 
A fourth jeered. “He’s a foot-racer, 
not a fighter.” 
Suddenly two powerful hands were 
placed between Bryce’s shoulders, and 
he was propelled violently forward 
until he collided with Roudeau. With 
a bellow of triumph, the woods-boss’s 
gorilla-like arms were around Bryce, 
swinging him until he faced the man 
who had forced him into that terrible 
grip. This was no less a personage 
than Colonel Seth Pennington, and it 
was obvious he had taken charge of 
what he considered the obsequies. 
“Stand back, you men, and give them 
room,” he shouted. “Rondeau will take 
care of him now. I’ll discharge the 
man that interferes.” 
With a heave and a grunt Rondeau 
lifted his antagonist, and the pair went 
crashing to the earth together, Bryce 
underneath. And then something hap¬ 
pened. With a bowl of pain. Rondeau 
rolled over on his back and lay clasp¬ 
ing his left .wrist in his right hand, 
while Bryce scrambled to his feet. 
“The good old wrist-lock does the 
trick,” he announced; and stooping, he 
grasped the woods-boss by the collar 
with his left hand, lifted him, and 
struck him a terrible blow with his 
right. But for the arm that upheld 
him. Rondeau would have fallen. Jerk¬ 
ing the fellow toward him, Bryce passed 
him arm around Rondeau’s neck, hold¬ 
ing the latter’s head as in a vise with 
the crook of his elbow. And then the 
batteries started. When it was fin¬ 
ished, Bryce let his man go, and Ron¬ 
deau, bloody, sobbing, and semi-con¬ 
scious, sprawled on the ground. 
Bryce bent over him. “Now,” he 
roared, “who felled that tree in Cardi¬ 
gan’s Redwoods?” 
“I did, M’sieur.” The words were a 
whisper. 
“Did Colonel Pennington suggest u 
to you?” 
