426 
American Agriculturist, May 12,1923 
The Valley of the Giants-sy peter b. Kya. 
A VOICE, deep, resonant, kindly, spoke a few feet away. “Who is it?” 
Shirley, startled, turned swiftly. Seated across the little amphitheatre in a 
lumberjack’s easy-chair fashioned from an old barrel, John Cardigan sat, his 
sightless gaze bent upon her. “Who is it?” he repeated. 
“Shirley Sumner,” she answered. “You do not know me, Mr. Cardigan.” 
“And why did you come here alone?” he queried. 
“I—I wanted to think.” * 
“You mean you wanted to think clearly, my dear. Ah, yes, this is the place for 
thoughts.” He was silent a moment. Then: “You were thinking aloud. Miss 
Shii’ley Summer. And I think you rearranged my roses. Didn’t I have them on 
her grave?” 
“Yes Mr. Cardigan. I was merely making room for some wild flowers I had 
gathered.” 
“Indeed. Then you knew—about her being here.” 
“Yes, sir. When I was a very little girl, I met your son Bryce. He gave me a 
ride on his Indian pony, and we came here. So I remember.” 
“Well, I declare. Ten years ago, eh? You’ve met Bryce since his return to 
Sequoia, I believe. He’s quite a fellow now.” 
“He is indeed.” 
“It was mighty fine of you to bring 
flowers,” he announced presently. “I 
appreciate that. I wish I could see 
you. You must be a dear, thoughtful girl. 
Won’t you sit down and talk to me?” 
“I should be glad to,” she answered, 
and seated herself on the brown carpet 
of redwood twigs close to his chair. 
“I hadn’t been up here .for nearly 
two years until recently. You see I— 
I don’t own the Valley of the Giants 
any more,” he went on. 
“Indeed. To whom have you sold 
it?” 
“I do not know. Miss Sumner. I had 
to sell; I sacrificed my sentiment for 
my boy. However, the new owner has 
been wonderfully kind and thoughtful. 
If that new owner could only un¬ 
derstand how truly grateful I am— 
how profoundly her courtesy touches, 
me-” 
“Her courtesy?” Shirley echoed. 
“Did a woman buy the Giants?” 
He smiled down at her. “Why, cer¬ 
tainly. Who but a woman—and a dear, 
kind, thoughtful woman—would have 
thought to have this chair made and 
brought up here for me?” 
Fell a long silence between them; 
then John Cardigan’s trembling hand 
went groping out toward the girl’s. 
“Why, how stupid of me not to have 
guessed it immediately!” he said. “You 
are the new owner.” 
S HE took his great toil-worn hand. 
“Oh, you must not tell anybody! 
You mustn’t,” she cried. 
. He put his hand on her shoulder as 
she knelt before him. “Good land of 
love, girl, what made you do it?” 
“I knew it hurt you terribly to sell 
your Giants. I understood, also, why 
you were forced to sell; so. I—well, I 
decided the Giants would be safer in 
my possession than in my uncle’s. In 
all probability he would have logged 
this valley.” 
“That does not explain satisfac¬ 
torily, to me, why you took sides with 
a stranger against'your own kin,” John 
Cardigan persisted. 
“Well,” Shirley made answer, glad 
that he could not see the flush of con¬ 
fusion and embarrassment that crim¬ 
soned her cheek, “when I ' came to 
Sequoia last May, your son and I met, 
’quite accidentally. Then we recalled 
having met as children, and presently 
I gathered from his conversation that 
he and his John-partner, as he called 
you, were very dear to each other. And 
later, when Bryce and Moire McTav- 
ish told me about you—how you felt 
your responsibility toward your em¬ 
ployees and the community—well, I 
just couldn’t help a leaning toward 
John-partner and John-partner’s boy, 
because the boy was so fine and true 
to his father’s ideals.’* 
“Ah, he’s a man. He is indeed,” old 
John Cardigan murmured proudly. “I 
dare say you’ll never get to know him 
intimately, but if you should-” 
“I know him intimately,” she cor¬ 
rected him. “He saved my life the day 
the log-train ran away. And that was 
another reason.” 
“Wonderful,” murmured John Cardi¬ 
gan, “wonderful! But still you haven’t 
told me why you paid a hundrgd thou¬ 
sand dollars for the Giants when you 
could have bought them for fifty 
thousand. However, if you do not care 
to tell me, I shall not insist.” 
“I would rather not tell you,” she 
answered. 
A gentle, prescient smile fringed his 
old mouth; he wagged his leonine head 
as if to say “Why should I ask, when 
I know?” Fell again a restful silence. 
Then: 
“Am I allowed one guess. Miss Shir¬ 
ley Sumner?” 
“Yes, but you would never guess the 
reason.” 
“I am a very wise old man. My son 
is proud, manly, independent. He 
needed a hundred thousand dollars; 
you knew it. You wanted to loan 
him some money, but—you couldn’t. 
So you bought my Valley of the Giants 
at a preposterous price and kept your 
action a secret.” And he patted her 
hand gently, as if to silence any denial, 
while far down the skid-road a voice— 
a half-trained baritone—floated faintly 
to them through the forest. 
“What is that?” Shirley cried. 
“That is my son, coming to fetch his 
old daddy home,” replied John Cardi¬ 
gan. “That thing he’s howling is an 
Indian war-song or psean of triumph— 
something his nurse taught him when 
he wore pinafores. If you’ll excuse 
me. Miss Shirley Sumner, I’ll leave you 
now. I generally contrive to meet him 
on the trail.” 
Shirley was tremendously . relieved. 
She did not wish to meet Bryce Cardi¬ 
gan to-day, and she was distinctly 
grateful to John Cardigan for his con¬ 
sideration in sparing her an interview. 
She seated herself in the lumberjack’s 
easy-chair, and chin in hand gave her¬ 
self up to meditation. 
A couple of hundred yards down the 
trail Bryce met his father. “Hello, 
John Cardigan!” he called. “What do 
you mean by skallyhooting through 
these woods without a pilot?” 
“You great overgrown duffer,” his 
father retorted affectionately, “I thought 
you’d never come.” He reached into 
his pocket for a handkerchief, but 
failed to find it and searched through 
another pocket and still another. “By 
gravy, son,” he remarked presently, 
“I do believe I left my silk handker¬ 
chief—the one Moira gave me for my 
last birthday—up yonder. I wouldn’t 
lose that handkerchief for a farm. 
Skip along and find it for me, son. I’ll 
wait for you here. Don’t worry.” 
“I’ll be back in a pig’s whisper,” his 
son replied, and started briskly up the 
trail, while his fath6r smiled his pre¬ 
scient little smile. 
Bryce’s brisk step aroused Shirley 
from her reverie. When she looked up, 
he w'as standing in the centre of the 
little amphitheatre gazing at her. 
“You—you!” she stammei’ed, and 
rose as if to flee. 
“The governor sent me back to look 
for his handkerchief, Shirley,” he ex¬ 
plained. “He didn’t tell me you were 
here. Guess he didn’t hear you.” He 
advanced smilingly toward her. “I’m 
tremendously glad to see you to-day, 
Shirley,” he said, and paused beside 
her. “Fate has been singularly kind to 
me. Indeed, I’ve been pondering all day 
as to just how I was to arrange a pri¬ 
vate little chat with you, without call¬ 
ing at your uncle’s house.” 
“T DON’T feel like chatting to-day,” 
1 . she answered a little drearily—and 
then he noted her wet lashes. Instantly 
he was on one knee beside her; his big 
left arm went around her, and when her 
hands went to her face, he drew them 
gently away. ' 
“I’ve waited too long, sweetheart,” 
he murmured. “Thank God, I can tell 
you at last, I love you, Shirley. I’ve 
loved you from that first day we met at 
the station, and all these months of 
strife and repression have served to 
make me love you the more.” 
He drew her head down on his breast, 
his honest brown eyes gazed earnestly, 
wistfully into hers. “I love you,” he 
whispered. “All that I have—all th^t 
I am—all that I hope to be—I offer to 
you, Shirley Sumner. You are not 
indifferent to me, dear. I know you’re 
not; but tell me—answer me-” 
“Oh, my dear, impulsive, gentle big 
sweetheart,” she whispered—and then 
her arms went around his neck, and 
the fullness of her happiness found 
vent in tears he did not seek to have 
her repress. 
“Oh, my love!” he cried happily, “I 
hadn’t dared dream of such happiness 
until to-day.” 
“Why to-day, Bryce?” she inter¬ 
rupted him. 
He took her adorable little nose in 
his thumb arid forefinger and tweaked 
it gently. “The light began to dawn 
yesterday, my dear little enemy, fol¬ 
lowing an interesting half-hour with 
His Honor the Mayor. Acting upon 
suspicion only, I told Poundstone I was 
prepared to send him to the rock-pile 
if he didn’t behave himself in the mat¬ 
ter of my permanent franchise for the 
N. C. O.—and the oily old invertebrate 
wept and promised me anything if I 
wouldn’t disgrace him. So I promised 
I wouldn’t do anything until the fran¬ 
chise matter should be definitely set¬ 
tled—after which I returned to my 
office, to find awaiting me there the 
right-of-way man for the Northwest¬ 
ern Pacific. It seems the Northwest¬ 
ern Pacific has decided to build up 
from Willits, and all that powwow and 
publicity of Buck Ogilvy’s spurred 
them to action. They figured the C. M. 
& St. P. was back of the N. C. O.” 
“"Why did they think that, dear?” 
“That amazing rascal Buck Ogilvy 
used to be a C. M. & St. P. man; they 
thought they traced an analogy, I dare 
says. At any rate, this right-of-way 
man was mighty anxious to know 
whether or not the N. C. O. had pur¬ 
chased from the Cardigan Redwood 
Lumber Company a site for a terminus 
on tidewater (we control all the deep¬ 
water frontage on the Bay), and when 
I told him the deal had not yet been 
closed, he started to close one with me.” 
“Did you close?” 
“My dear girl, will a duck swim? 
Of course I closed. I sold three quar¬ 
ters of all we had, for three quarters 
of a million dollars, and an hour ago l 
received a wire from my attorney in 
San Francisco informing me that the 
money had been deposited in escrow 
there awaiting formal deed. That 
money puts the Cardigan Redwood 
Lumber Company in the clear—no re¬ 
ceivership for us now, my dear one. 
And I’m going right ahead building of 
the N. C. O.” 
“Bryce,” Shirley declared, “haven’t 
I always told you I’d never permit you 
to build the N. C. O.?” 
“Of course,” he replied, “but surely 
you’re going to withdraw your objec¬ 
tions now.” 
“I am not. You must choose between 
the N. C. 0. and me.” And she met his 
surprised gaze unflinchingly. 
H e stood up and towered above her 
sternly. “I must build it, Shirley. 
I’ve contracted to do it, and I must keep 
faith with Gregory of the Trinidad 
Timber Company.” 
She came closer to him. Suddenly 
the blaze in her violet eyes gave way 
to one of mirth. “Oh, you dear, big 
booby!” she cried. “I was just testing 
you.” And she clung to him, laugh¬ 
ing. “You always beat me down—you 
always win. Bryce, dear, I’m the La¬ 
guna Grande Lumber Company, and I 
repeat for the last time that you shall 
iiot build the N. C. 0.—because I’m 
going to merge with the Cardigan Red¬ 
wood Lumber Company, and then my 
railroad shall be your railroad, and 
we’ll extend it and haul Gregory’s logs 
for him also.” 
“God bless my mildewed soul!” he 
murmured, and drew her to him. 
In the gathering dust they walked 
down the ti'ail. Beside the madrone 
tree John Cardigan waited patiently. 
“Well,” he queried when they joined 
him, “did you find my handkerchief for 
“I didn’t find your handkerchief, 
John Cardigan,” Bryce answered, “but 
I did find what I suspect you sent me 
back for—and that is a perfectly won¬ 
derful daughter-in-law for you.” 
{Continued on page 428) 
