78 
American Agriculturist, January 27,1923 
The V3.11cy of the Gi8.ntS— Peter B. Kyne 
Cardigan son of the blind old pioneer of Sequoia takes up his 
fathei s battle agamst the unscrupulous Colonel Seth Pennington, a newcomer in the redwood 
sacrifices his starting friendship with Shirley Sumner, the Colonel s 
camp to thrash Rondeau, a woods-boss who has felled a tree in the Valley 
ol the Giants, old Cardigan s sacred grove where his wife lies buried, results in a free-for-all- 
must a^waysVeneml'/s /wears they 
N evertheless he took them. Axe in hand, he leaped down to the narrow 
ledge formed by the bumper in front of the caboose—driving his face into the 
iront of the caboose; and he only'grasped the steel rod leading from the brake- 
chains to the wheel on the roof in time to avoid falling half .stunned between the 
front of the caboose and the rear of the logging-truck. The caboose had once been 
a box-car; hence there was no railed front platform to which Bryce might have 
leaped in safety. Clinging perilously on the bumper, he reached with his foot, 
got his toe under the lever on the side, jerked it upward, and threw the pin out 
ot the coupling; then with his free hand he swung the axe and drove the great 
steel jaws of the coupling apart. 
The caboo.se was cut out! But already the deadly curve was in sight; in two 
minutes the lir.st truck would reach it; and the caboose, though cut loose, had to 
he stopped, else with the headway it had gathered, it, too, would follow the logging- 
trucks to glory. ® 
For a moment Bryce clung to the 
brake-rod, weak and dizzy. His chin 
was bruised, skinned, and bloody; his 
nose had been broken, and twin rivulets 
of blood ran from his nostrils. He 
wiped it away, swung his axe, drove 
the blade deep into the bumper and left 
it there with the haft quivering; turn- 
ing, he climbed swiftly up the narrow 
iron ladder beside the brake-rod until 
he reached the roof; then, still on the 
ladder, he reached the brake-wheel and 
drew it promptly but gradually around 
until the wheel-blocks began to bite, 
when he exerted his tremendous 
strength to the utmost and with his 
knees braced against the front of the 
caboose, held the wheel. 
The brake screamed, but the .speed 
of the caboose was not appreciably 
slackened. “It’s had too good a start!” 
Bryce moaned. “The momentum is 
more than I can overcome. Oh, Shirley, 
my love! God help you!” 
He cast a sudden despairing look 
over his shoulder. He was winning, 
after all, for space of six feet now 
yawned between the end of the logging- 
truck and the bumper of the caboose. 
If he could but hold that tremendous 
strain for a quarter of a mile, he might 
get the demon caboose under control! 
Again he dug his knees into the front of 
the car and twisted on the wheel until 
it seemed that his muscles must crack. 
After what seemed an eon of wait¬ 
ing, he ventured another look ahead. 
The rear logging-truck was a hundred 
yards in front of him now, and from 
the wheels of the caboose an odor of 
burning drifted up to him. “I’ve got 
your wheels locked!” he half sobbed. 
“I’ll hold you yet, you brute. Slide! 
That’s it! Slide, and flatten your in¬ 
fernal wheels. Hah! You’re quitting 
—quitting. I’ll have you in control be¬ 
fore we reach the curve. Burn, curse 
you, burn!” 
With a shriek of metal scraping 
metal, the head of the Juggernaut 
ahead took the curve, clung there an 
instant, and was catapulted out into 
space. Logs weighing twenty tons 
were flung about like kindling; one in¬ 
stant, Bryce could see them in the air; 
the next they had disappeared down 
the hillside. A deafening crash, a 
splash, a cloud of dust-— 
W ITH a protesting squeal, the cab¬ 
oose came to the point where the 
logging-train had left the right of way, 
carrying rails and ties with it. The 
wheels on the side nearest the bank slid 
into the dirt first and plowed deep into 
the soil; the caboose came to an abrupt 
stop, trembled and rattled, overtopped 
its centre of gravity, and fell over 
against the cut-bank. 
Bryce, still clinging to the brake, 
was braced for the shock and was not 
flung off. Calmly he descended the 
ladder, recovered the axe from the 
bumper, climbed back to the roof, tip¬ 
toed off the roof to the top of the bank 
and sat calmly down under a man- 
zanita bush to await results. He was 
curious to see how Shirley Sumner 
would behave in an emergency. 
Colonel Pennington was first to 
emerge at the rear of the caboose. He 
ran to the front of the car, looked 
down the track, and swore feelingly. 
Then he darted back to the rear. 
“All clear, my dear,” he called to 
Shirley. “Thank God, the caboose be¬ 
came uncoupled—guess that fool brake- 
man forgot to drop the pin. Come out, 
my dear.” 
Shirley came out, dry-eyed, but white 
and trembling.' The Colonel placed his 
arm around her, and -she hid her face 
on his shoulder. “There, there!” he 
soothed her affectionately. “It’s all 
over, my dear. 
“The train,” she cried in a choking 
voice. “Where is it?” 
“In little pieces—down in Mad 
River.” He laughed happily. “And 
the logs weren’t even'mine! As for 
the trucks, they were a lot of ratty 
antiques and only fit to haul Cardi¬ 
gan’s logs. About a hundred yards of 
roadbed ruined—that’s the extent of 
my loss, for I’d charged off the trucks 
to profit and loss two years ago.” 
“Bryce Cardigan,” she sobbed. “I 
saw him—he was riding a top log on 
the train. He—ah, God help him!” 
The Colonel shook her with sudden 
ferocity. “Young Cardigan,” he cried 
sharply. “Riding the logs? Are vou 
certain?” 
She nodded, and her shoulders shook 
piteously. 
“Then Bryce Cardigan is gone!” 
Pennington’s pronouncement was sol¬ 
emn. “No man could have rolled down 
into Mad River with a trainload of 
logs and survived. The devil himself 
couldn’t.” He heaved a great sigh, 
and added: “Well, that clears the 
atmosphere considerably, although for 
all his faults, I regret, for his father’s 
sake, that this dreadful affair has hap¬ 
pened. Don’t cry, my dear. I know 
it’s terrible, but—there, there, my love. 
Do brace up. Poor devil! For all his 
treatment of me, I wouldn’t have had 
this happen for a million dollars.” 
S HIRLEY burst into wild weeping. 
Bryce’s heart leaped, for he under¬ 
stood the reason for her grief. She had 
sent him away in anger to his death; it 
would be long before Shirley would 
forgive herself. The sight of her dis¬ 
tress now was more than he could bear. 
He coughed slightly, and the alert 
Colonel glanced up at him instantly. 
“Well, I’ll be hanged!” The words 
fell from Pennington’s lips with a 
heartiness that was almost touching. 
“I thought you’d gone with the ti'ain.” 
“Sorry to have disappointed you,” 
Bryce replied blithely, “but I’m just 
naturally stubborn. Too bad about the 
atmosphere you thought cleared a mo¬ 
ment ago! It’s clogged worse than 
ever now.” 
At the sound of Bryce’s voice, Shir¬ 
ley raised her head, whirled and looked 
up at him. He held his handkerchief 
over his gory face that the sight might 
not distress her; he could have whooped 
with delight at the joy that flashed 
through her wet lids. 
“Bryce Cardigan,” she commanded 
sternly, “come down here this instant.” 
“I’m not a pretty sight, Shirley. Bet¬ 
ter let me go about my business.” 
She stamped her foot. “Come here!” 
“Well, since you insist,” he replied, 
and he slid down the bank. 
“How did you get up there—and 
what do you mean by hiding there spy¬ 
ing on me, you—you—oh, yon!” 
“Cuss a little, if it will help you,” he 
suggested. “I had to get out of your 
way—out of your sight—and up there 
was the best place. I was on the roof 
of the caboose when it toppled over, so 
all I had to do was step ashore and 
sit down.” 
“Then why didn’t you stay there?” 
she demanded furiously. 
“You wouldn’t let me,” he answered 
demurely. “And when I saw you weep¬ 
ing because I was supposed to be with 
the angels, I couldn’t help coughing to 
let you know I was still hanging 
around, ornery as a book-agent.” 
“How did you ruin your face, Mr. 
Cardigan?” 
“Tried to take a cast of the front 
end of the csiboose in my classic coun¬ 
tenance—that’s all.” 
“But you were riding the top log on 
the last truck^-” 
“Certainly, but I wasn’t hayseed 
enough to stay there until we struck 
this curve. I knew what was going to 
happen, so I climbed down to the bum- 
j)er of the caboose, uncoupled it from 
the truck, climbed up on the roof, and 
managed to get the old thing under 
control with the hand-brake; then I 
skedaddled up into the brush because I 
knew you were inside, and-By 
the way. Colonel Pennington, here is 
your axe, which I borrowed this after¬ 
noon. Much obliged for its use. The 
last up-train is probably waiting on 
the siding at Freshwater to pass the 
late lamented; consequently a walk 
of about a mile will bring you a means 
of transportation back to Sequoia. As 
for myself, I’m in a hurry, and my 
room is more to be desired than my 
company, so I’ll start now.” 
H e lifted his hat, turned, and walked 
briskly down the ruined track. 
Shirley half opened her lips to call 
him back, thought better of it, and let 
him go. When he was out of sight, it 
dawned on her that he had risked his 
life to save hers. 
“Uncle Seth,” she said soberly, “what 
would have happened to us if Bryce 
Cardigan had not come up here to-day 
to thrash your woods-boss?” 
“We’d both be in Kingdom Come 
now,” he answered truthfully. 
“Under the circumstances, then,” 
Shirley continued, “suppose we all 
agree to forget that anything unusual 
happened to-day-” 
“I bear the young man no ill will, 
Shirley, but before you permit yourself 
to be carried aw^y by the splendor of 
his action, it might be well to remem¬ 
ber that his own precious hide was at 
stake also.” 
“No, he would not,” she insisted, for 
the thought that he had done it for her 
sake was very sweet to her and would 
persist. “Cooped up in the caboose, 
we did not know the train was running 
away until it was too late to jump, 
while Bryce Cardigan, out on the logs, 
must have known it almost imrhedi- 
ately. He would have had time to jump 
before the runaway gathered too much 
headway—and he would have jumped. 
Uncle Seth, for his father’s sake.” 
“Well, he certainly didn’t stay for 
mine, Shirley.” 
She blushed furiously. “Uncle Seth,” 
she pleaded, “let’s be friends with 
Bryce Cardigan; let’s get together and 
agree on an equitable contract for 
freighting his logs over our road.” 
“You are now,” he replied severely, 
“mixing sentiment and business; if you 
persist, the result will be chaos. Cardi¬ 
gan has in a large measure squared 
himself for his ruffianly conduct earlier 
in the day, and I’ll forgive him and 
treat him with courtesy hereafter; but 
I want you to understand, Shirley, that 
does not constitute a license for that 
fellow to crawl up in my lap and be 
petted. He is practically a pauper 
now, and you’ll please me greatly by 
leaving him severely alone.” 
“I’ll not do that,” she answered with 
a quiet finality that caused her uncle to 
favor her with a quick glance. 
He need not have worried, however, 
for Bryce Cardigan had embarked upon 
a war—a war which he meant to fight 
to a finish. 
CHAPTER XVIII 
G eorge sea otter, summoned by 
telephone, came out to Freshwater, 
the station nearest the wre:k, and 
transported his battered young master 
back to Sequoia. Here Bryce sought 
the doctor in the company’s little hos¬ 
pital and had his wrecked nose reor¬ 
ganized and his cuts bandaged. It was 
characteristic that when this detail 
had been attended to, he should go to 
the office and work until the six o’clock 
whistle blew. 
Old Cardigan was waiting for him at 
the gate when he reached home. George 
Sea Otter had already given the old 
man a more or less garbled account of 
the runaway log-train, and Cardigan 
\yas eager to ascertain the details of 
this new disaster. The loss of the logs 
was trifling—perhaps three or four 
thousand dollars; the destruction of 
the rolling-stock was the crowning mis¬ 
fortune. Both Cardigans knew that 
Pennington would eagerly seize upon 
this point to stint his competitor still 
turther on logging-equipment, that 
there would be delays — apparently 
unavoidable—before this lost rolling- 
stock would be replaced. And in the 
interim the Cardigan mill, unable to 
get a sufficient supply of logs to till 
orders in hand, would he forced to 
close down. 
said John Cardigan 
mildly as Bryce unlatched the gate, 
“another bump, eh?” 
“Yes, sir—right on the nose.” 
“I meant another bump to your heri¬ 
tage, my son.” 
“I’m not worrying about my heritage 
at all. I’ve come to a decision: We’re 
going to fight and we’re going down 
fighting. I started the fight this after¬ 
noon. I whaled the wadding out of 
that bucko woods-boss of Penningfon’s. 
Even went so far as to muss the Colo¬ 
nel up a little.” 
“Wow, Bryce! Bully for you! That 
man Rondeau has terrorized our woods¬ 
men for a long time. He’s king of the 
mad-train, you know.” 
Bryce was relieved. His father did 
not know, then, of the act of vandal¬ 
ism in the Valley of the Giants. 
Arm in arm they walked up the 
garden path together. 
J UST as they entered the house, the 
telephone in the hall tinkled, and 
Bryce answered. 
“Mr. Cardigan,” came Shirley Sum¬ 
ner’s voice over the wire. 
“Bryce,” he corrected her. 
She ignored the correction. 
I—I don’t know what to say to 
you,” she faltered. 
“There is no necessity for saying 
anything, Shirley.” 
“But you saved our lives, and at 
least have a right to expect an ac¬ 
knowledgment. I rang up to tell you 
how splendid and heroic your action 
was-” 
‘I had my own life to save, Shirley.” 
“You did not think of that at the 
time.” 
“Well—I didn’t think of your uncle’s, 
®^ther’” he replied without enthusiasm. 
“I’m sure we never can hope to catch 
even with you, Mr. Cardigan.” 
“Don’t try. Your revered relative 
will not; so why should you?” 
“You are making it somewhat hard 
for me to—to—rehabilitate our friend¬ 
ship, Mr. Cardigan. We have just 
passed through a most extraordinary 
day, and I think you ought to do your 
share—and help.” 
“Bless your heart,” he murmured. 
“The very fact that you rang me up at 
all makes me your debtor. Shirley, 
can you stand some plain speaking— 
between friends, I mean?” 
“I think so.” 
u 
W ELL,_ then,” said Bryce, “listen 
to this: I am your uncle’s enemy 
until death do us part. I’m going to 
smash him if I can.” 
“If you do, you smash me,” she 
warned him. 
“Likewise our friendship. I’m sorry, 
, but it’s got to be done if I can 
do it. Shall—shall we say good-bye, 
Shirley?” 
“Yes-s-s!” There was a break in her 
voice. “Good-bye, Mr. Cardigan.” 
“Good-bye! Well,” he murmured 
sotto voce, “there goes another bright 
day-dream.” Unknown to himself, he 
spoke directly into the transmitter, and 
Shirley, clinging half hopefully to the 
receiver at the other end of the wire, 
heard him—caught every inflection of 
