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American Agriculturist, February lOi, 1923 
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The Valley of the Gianis-By peter B. kyne 
B ryce laughed. “Pal,” he declared, “if you and I have any brains, they must 
roll around in our skulls like buckshot in a tin pan. Here we’ve been sitting 
for three months, or lying awake nights trying to scheme a way out of our diffi¬ 
culties, when if we’d had any sense we would have solved the problem long ago. 
Listen, now! When Bill Henderson wanted to build the logging railroad which 
he afterward sold to Pennington, and which Pennington is now using as a club, did 
he have the money to build it?” 
“No.” 
“Where did he get it?” 
“I loaned it to him. He only had about eight miles of road to build then, so I 
could afford to accommodate him.” 
“How did he pay you back?” 
“Why, he gave me a ten-year contract for hauling our logs at a dollar and a 
half a thousand feet, and I merely credited his account with the amount of the 
freight-bills he sent me until he’d squared up the loan, principal and interest.” 
“Well, if: Bill Henderson financed himself on that plan, why didn’t we think of 
using, it for financing a road to parallel Penning-ton’s?” 
John Cardigan sat up with a jerk. “By thunder! I never thought of that!” 
“All right, John Cardigan, continue to listen: to the north of that great block 
of timber held by you and Pennington lie the redwood holdings of the Trinidad 
Redwood Timber Company.” 
“Never heard of them before.” 
“Well, timber away in there in back 
of beyond has never been well adver¬ 
tised, because it is regarded as prac¬ 
tically inacessible. By extending his 
logging-road and adding to his rolling- 
stock, Pennington could make it acces¬ 
sible, but he will not. He figures on 
buying it cheap when he gets around 
to it, for the reason that the Trinidad 
Company cannot possibly mill its tim¬ 
ber until a railroad connects its hold¬ 
ings with the outside world.” 
“I wonder why the blamed fools ever 
bought in there, Bryce.” 
“When they bought, it looked like a 
good buy. You will remember that 
some ten years ago a company was in¬ 
corporated with the idea of building a 
railroad from Grant’s Pass, Oregon, on 
the line of the Southern Pacific, down 
the Oregon and California coast to tap 
the redwood belt.” 
“I remember. There was a big 
whoop and hurrah and then the engi¬ 
neers found that the cost of construc¬ 
tion was prohibitive.” 
“Well, before the project died, 
Gregory and his associates believed in 
it. They decided to climb in on the 
ground floor, so they quietly gathered 
together thirty thousand acres of good 
stuff and then sat down to wait for the 
railroad. And they are still waiting. 
Gregory, by the way, is the president 
of the Trinidad Redwood Timber Com¬ 
pany. He’s an Edinburgh man, and 
the fly American promoters got him to 
put up the price of thp timber and then 
mortgaged their interests to him as 
security for the advance. He fore¬ 
closed on their notes five years ago.” 
“And there he is with his useless 
timber!” John Cardigan murmured 
thoughtfully. “The poor Scotch sucker!” 
“He isn’t poor. The purchase of 
that timber didn’t even dent his bai^k- 
roll. But he would like to sell his tim¬ 
ber, and being Scotch, naturally he de¬ 
sires to-sell it at a profit. In order to 
create a market for it, however, he has 
to have an outlet to that market. We 
supply the outlet—with his help; and 
what happens? Why, timber that cost 
him fifty and seventy-five cents per 
thousand feet stumpage—will be worth 
two dollars and fifty cents—perhaps 
more.” 
T he elder Cardigan bent his sightless 
gaze upon his son. “Well, well,” he 
cried impatiently. 
“He loans us the money to build our 
road. We build it—through our tim¬ 
ber and into his. We put up a twenty- 
five-years contract to haul his logs to 
tidewater at a base freight-rate of one 
dollar and fifty cents, with an increase 
of twenty-five cents per thousand every 
five years thereafter, and an option for 
a renewal. We also grant him per¬ 
petual booming-space for his logs in 
the slough which we own. In addition 
we sell him, reasonably, sufficient land 
fronting on tidewater to enable him to 
erect a sawmill, lay out his yards, and 
build a dock out into the deep water. 
“Thus Gregory will have an outlet to 
his market by water; and when the 
railroad to Sequoia builds in from the 
south, it will connect with the road 
which we have built from Sequoia up 
into Township Nine to the north; hence 
Gregory will also have an outlet to his 
market by rail.” 
“Have you talked with Gregory?” 
“Yes. I met him while I was in San 
Francisco. Somebody brought him up 
to a meeting of the Redwood Lumber 
Manufacturers' , Association, and I 
pounced on him like an owl on a 
mouse.” 
John Cardigan’s old hand came grop¬ 
ingly forth and rested affectionately 
upon his boy’s. “What a wonderful 
scheme it would have been a year ago,” 
he murmured sadly. “You forget, my 
son, that we cannot last in business 
long enough to get that road built, even 
though Gregory should agree to finance 
the building. The interest on our 
bonded indebtedness is payable on the 
first-” 
“We can meet it, sir.” 
“Aye, but we can’t meet the fifty 
thousand dollars which we are required 
to pay in on July first of each year 
toward the retirement of our bonds. 
By super-human efforts, we managed 
to meet half of it this year and procure 
an extension of six months on the 
balance due. 
^^rpHAT is Pennington’s way. He 
i plays with us as a cat does with a 
mouse. And now, when we are deeper 
in debt than ever, when the market is 
more sluggish than it has been in fifteen 
years, to hope to meet the interest and 
the next payment taxes my optimism. 
Bryce, it just can't be done. We’d have 
our road about half completed when 
we’d bust; indeed, the minute Penning¬ 
ton suspected we were paralleling his 
line, he’d choke off our wind.” 
But Bryce contradicted him earnestly. 
“It can be done,” he said. “Gregory 
knows our rating in the reports of the 
commercial agencies is a good as it 
ever was, and a man’s never broke till 
somebody finds it out.” 
“What do you mean?” 
“Jf we can start building our road 
and have it half completed before 
Pennington jumps on us, Gregory will 
simply have to come to our aid in self- 
defense. Once he ties up with us, he’s 
committed to the task of seeing us 
through.” 
John Cardigan raised his hand. 
“No,” he said firmly, “I will not allow 
you to do this. That way— that is 
the Pennington method. We will not 
take advantage of this man Gregory’s 
faith. If he joins forces with us, we 
lay our hand on the table and let him 
look.” 
“Then he’ll never join hands with us, 
partner. We’re done.” 
“We’re not done, my son. We have 
one alternative, and I’m going to take 
it. Your mother would have wished 
it so.” 
“You don’t mean-” 
“Yes, I do. I’m going to sell Penning¬ 
ton my Valley of the Giants. It is my 
personal property, and it is not mort¬ 
gaged. Pennington can never foreclose 
on it—and until he. gets it, twenty-five 
hundred acres of virgin timber on 
Squaw Creek are valueless—^nay, a 
source of expense to him. Bryce, he’ll 
pay the price, when he knows I mean 
business.” 
With a gesture he waved aside argu¬ 
ment, “Lead me to the telephone,” he 
^mmanded; and Bryce, recognizing 
his unalterable determination, obeyed. 
His father proceeded' to get the 
Colonel on the wire. “Pennington,” he 
said hoarsely, “this is John Cardigan 
speaking. I’ve decided to sell you that 
quarter-section that blocks your timber 
on Squaw Creek.” 
“Indeed,” the Colonel purred. “I had 
an idea you were going to present it 
to the city for a natural park.” 
“I’ve changed my mind. I’ve de¬ 
cided to sell at your last offer.” 
“I’ve changed my mind, too. I’ve de¬ 
cided not to buy—at my last offer. 
Good-night.” 
Slowly John Cardigan hung the re¬ 
ceiver on the hook, turned and groped 
for his son. “Lead me upstairs, son,” 
he murmured presently. “I’m tired. 
I’m going to bed.” 
W HEN Colonel Seth Pennington 
turned from the telephone and 
faced his niece, Shirley read his tri¬ 
umph in his face. “Old Cardigan has 
capitulated at last,” he cried exultingly. 
“We’ve played a waiting game and I’ve 
won; he just telephoned to say he’d 
accept my last offer for his Valley of 
the Giants.” 
“But you’re not going to buy it. You 
told him so. Uncle Seth.” 
“Of course I’m not going to buy it— 
at my last offer. It’s worth five thou¬ 
sand dollars in the open market, and 
once I offered him fifty thousand for 
it. Now I’ll give him five.” 
“I wonder why he wants to sell,” 
Shirley mused. “From what Bryce 
Cardigan told me once, his father at¬ 
taches a sentimental value to that 
strip of woods.” 
“He’s selling because he’s desperate.” 
Pennington replied gayly. “I’ll say this 
for the old fellow: he’s no bluffer. 
However, since I know his financial 
condition almost to a dollar, I do not 
think it would be good 'business to 
buy his Valley of the Giants now. I’ll 
wait until he has gone busted—and save 
twenty-five or thirty thousand dollars.” 
“I think you’re biting off your nose 
to spite your face. Uncle Seth. The 
Laguna Grande Lumber Company' 
needs that outlet. In dollars and cents, 
•what is it worth to the Company?” 
“If I thought I couldn’t get it from 
Cardigan a few months from now. I’d 
go as high as a hundrq^d thousand for 
it to-night,” he answered cooly. 
“In that event, I advise you to take 
it for fifty thousand. It’s terribly hard 
on old Mr. Cardigan to have to sell it, 
even at that price.” 
“You do not understand these mat¬ 
ters, Shirley. Don’t try. And don’t 
waste your sympathy on that old hum¬ 
bug. He has to dig up fifty thousand 
dollars to pay on his bonded indebted¬ 
ness, and he’s finding it a difficult job. 
He’s just sparring for time, but he’ll 
lose out.” 
A S if to indicate that he considered 
the matter closed, the Colonel drew 
his chair toward the fire, and picked up 
a magazine. Shirley studied the back of 
his head for some time, then got out 
some fancy work. And as she plied 
her needle, a thought gradually took 
form in her head until eventually she 
murmured loud enough for the Colonel 
to hear: 
“I’ll do it.” 
“Do what?” Pennington queried. 
“Something nice for somebody who 
did something nice for me,” she 
answered. 
“That McTavish girl?” he suggested. 
“Poor Moira! Isn’t she swjeet. Uncle 
Seth? I’m going to give her^that black 
suit of mine. I’ve scarcely worn it-” 
“I thought so,” he interrupted with 
an indulgent yawn. “'Well, do what¬ 
ever makes for your happiness, my 
dear. That’s all money is for.” 
About two o’clock the following after¬ 
noon old Judge Moore, of the Superior 
Court of Humboldt County, drifted into 
Bryce Cardigan’s office, sat down unin¬ 
vited, and lifted his long legs to the^ 
top of an adjacent chair. 
“Well, Bryce, my boy,” he began, “a 
little bird tells me your daddy is con¬ 
sidering the sale of Cardigan’s Red¬ 
woods., How about it?” 
Bryce stared at* him a mement ques- 
tioningly. “Yes, Judge,” he replied, 
“we’ll sell, if we get our price.” 
“Well,” his visitor drawled, “I have 
a client who might be persuaded. I’m 
here to talk turkey. What’s your 
price?” 
“Before we^talk price,” Bryce parried, 
“I want you to answer a question.” 
“Let her fly,” said Judge Moore. 
“Are you, directly or indirectly, act¬ 
ing for Colonel Pennington?” 
“That’s none of your, business, young 
man—at least, it would be none of your 
business if I were, directly ot- indirectly, 
acting for that unconvicted thief. To 
the best of my information and belief. 
Colonel Pennington doesn’t figure in 
this deal in any way, shape, or man¬ 
ner; and as you know, I’ve been your 
daddy’s friend for thirty years.” 
B ryce would have staked his honor 
on the Judge’s veracity, but nobody 
knew better than he in what devious 
ways the Colonel worked. 
“Well,” he said, “your query is rather 
sudden. Judge, but still I can name you 
a price. I will state frankly, however, 
that I believe it to be over your head. 
We have several times refused to sell 
to Colonel Pennington for a hundred 
thousand dollars.” 
“Naturally that little dab of timber 
is worth more to Pennington that to 
anybody else. However, my client has 
given me instructions to go as high as 
a hundred thousand if necessary.” 
“What!” 
“I said it. One hundred thousand 
dollars of the present standard weight 
and fineness.” 
Judge Moore’s last statement swept 
away Bryce’s suspicions. He required 
now no further evidence that the client 
could not possibly be Colonel Seth 
Pennington or any one acting for him. 
For a moment Bryce stared stupidly 
at his visitor. Then he recovei’ed 
his wits. 
“Sold!” he almost shouted, and ex¬ 
tended his hand to clinch the bargain. 
The Judge shook it- solemnly. “The 
Lord loveth a quick trader,” he de'- 
clared, and reached into the capacious 
breast pocket of hfs Prince Albert coat. 
“Here’s the deed already made out in 
favor of myself, as trustee.” 
“Client’s a bit modest, I take it,” 
Bryce suggested. 
“Oh, very. Of course I’m only haz¬ 
arding a guess, but that guess is that 
my client can afford the gamble and is 
figuring on giving Pennington a pain. 
In plain English, I believe the Colonel 
is in for a razooing at the hands of 
somebody with a small grouch against 
him.” 
“May the Lord strengthen that some¬ 
body’s arm,” Bryce breathed fervently. 
“If your client can afford to hold out 
long enough, he’ll be able to buy 
Pennington’s Squaw Creek timber at a 
bargain.” 
“My understanding is that such is 
the programme.” 
Bryce reached for the deed, then for 
his hat. “If you’ll be good enough to 
wait here. Judge Moore, I’ll run up to 
(Continued on page 127) 
WHAT HAS HAPPENED IN “THE VALLEY OF THE GIANTS” 
“T’M just naturally stubborn” said Bryce Cardigan cheerfully. 
A He found his father, lumber pioneer, blind and almost penniless. 
He took on old Cardigan’s fight against Colonel Seth Pennington, un¬ 
scrupulous Eastern operator. 
He made friends with Shirley Sumner, the Colonel’s niece, and de¬ 
clared his love during a free-for-all fight in Pennington’s woods. After 
whipping her uncle’s woods-boss for cutting down a tree in the "Valley 
of the Giants, his father’s grove of redwoods, he saved Shirley and the 
Colonel from a run-away train and then calmly told them he expected 
to fight them both for supremacy. 
He fired old McTavish, his father’s drunken woods-boss and installed 
Moira, his beautiful daughter, in the company office. And he is now 
discussing with old Cardigan how he can hide the fact that he is be¬ 
hind the building of the new logging railroad to parallel Pennington’s 
and open up inaccessible timber property. 
