Grant Jones turning to Roderick said: “Well, what do you think of the Major’s theory?”
“I fear,” said Roderick in a serious tone, “that it is not a theory but an actual condition.”
“Bravo,” said the Major as he arose from his chair and advanced to Roderick, extending his hand. “All truth,” said he, “in time will be uncovered, truth that today is hidden beneath the débris of formalities, ignorance, and superstition.”
“But why, Major,” asked Grant, “are there so many divorces? Do not contracting parties know their own minds? Now it seems impossible to conceive of my ever wanting a divorce from a certain little lady I know,” he added with a pleasant laugh – the care-free, confiding laugh of a boy.
“My dear Jones,” said the Major, “the supposed reasons for divorce are legion – the actual reasons are perhaps few. However it is not for me to say that all the alleged reasons are not potent and sufficient. When we hear two people maligning each other in or out of the court we are prone to believe both are telling the truth. Truth is the underlying foundation of respect, respect begets friendship, and friendship sometimes is followed by the more tender passion we call love. A man meets a woman,” the Major went on, thoughtfully, “whom he knows is not what the world calls virtuous. He may fall in love with her and may marry her and be happy with her. But if a man loves a woman he believes to be virtuous and then finds she is not – it is secretly regarded by him as the unforgivable sin and is doubtless the unspoken and unwritten allegation in many a divorce paper.”
He mused for a moment, then went on: “Sometime there will be a single standard of morals for the sexes, but as yet we are not far enough away from the brutality of our ancestors. Yes, it is infinitely better,” he added, rising from his chair, “that a home should be broken into a thousand fragments through the kindly assistance of a divorce court rather than it should only exist as a family battle ground.” The tone of his voice showed that the talk was at an end, and he bade his visitors a courteous good-night, with the cordial addition: “Come again.”
“It was great,” remarked Roderick, as the young men wended their homeward way. “What a wealth of new thought a fellow can bring away from such a conversation!”
“Just as I told you,” replied Grant “But the Major opens his inmost heart like that only to his chosen friends.”
“Then I’m mighty glad to be enrolled among the number,” said Roderick. “Makes a chap feel rather shy of matrimony though, doesn’t it?”
“Not on your life. True love can never change – can never wrong itself. When you feel that way toward a girl, Warfield, and know that the girl is of the same mind, go and get the license – no possible mistake can be made.”
Grant Jones was thinking of Dorothy Shields, and his face was aglow. To Roderick had come thought of Stella Rain, and he felt depressed. Was there no mistake in his love affair? – this was the uneasy question that was beginning to call for an answer. And yet he had never met a girl whom he would prefer to the dainty, sweet, unselfish, brave little “college widow” of Galesburg.
CHAPTER IX – THE HIDDEN VALLEY
WITHIN a few days of Roderick’s advent into the camp he was duly added to the cowboy list on the ranch of the wealthy cattleman, Mr. Shields, whose property was located a few miles east from the little mining town and near the banks of the Platte River. A commodious and handsome home stood apart from the cattle corral and bunk house lodgings for the cowboy helpers. There were perhaps twenty cowboys in Mr. Shields’ employment. His vast herds of cattle ranged in the adjoining hills and mountain canyons that rimmed the eastern edge of the valley.
Grant Jones had proved his friendship in the strongest sort of an introduction, and was really responsible for Roderick securing a job so quickly. But it was not many days before Roderick discovered that Doro-try Shields was perhaps the principal reason why Grant rode over to the ranch so often, ostensibly to visit him.
During the first month Roderick did not leave the ranch but daily familiarized himself with horse and saddle. He had always been a good rider, but here he learned the difference between a trained steed and an unbroken mustang. Many were his falls and many his bruises, but finally he came to be quite at home on the back of the fiercest bucking broncho.
One Saturday evening he concluded to look up Grant Jones and perhaps have another evening with Major Buell Hampton. So he saddled a pony and started. But at the edge of town he met his friend riding toward the country. They drew rein, and Grant announced, as Roderick had already divined, that he was just starting for the Shields home. They finally agreed to call on Major Buell Hampton for half an hour and then ride out to the ranch together.
As they approached Major Hampton’s place they found him mounting his horse, having made ready for the hills.
“How is this, Major?” asked Grant Jones. “Is it not rather late in the afternoon for you to be starting away with your trusty rifle?”
“Well,” replied the Major, after saluting his callers most cordially, “yes, it is late. But I know where there is a deer lick, and as I am liable to lose my reputation as a hunter if I do not bring in a couple more venisons before long, why I propose to be on the ground with the first streak of daylight tomorrow morning.”
He glanced at the afternoon sun and said: “I think I can reach the deer lick soon after sun-down. I shall remain over night and be ready for the deer when they first begin stirring. They usually frequent the lick I intend visiting.”
The Major seemed impatient to be gone and soon his horse was cantering along carrying him into the hills, while Roderick and Grant were riding leisurely through the lowlands of the valley road toward the Shields ranch.
All through the afternoon Buell Hampton skirted numerous rocky banks and crags and climbed far up into the mountain country, then down abrupt hill-sides only to mount again to still higher elevations. He was following a dim trail with which he showed himself familiar and that led several miles away to Spirit River Falls.
Near these falls was the deer lick. For three consecutive trips the hunter had been unsuccessful. He had witnessed fully a dozen deer disappear along the trail that led down to the river’s bank, but none of them had returned. It was a mystery. He did not understand where the deer could have gone. There was no ford or riffle in the river and the waters were too deep to admit belief of the deer finding a crossing. He wondered what was the solution.
This was the real reason why he had left home late that afternoon, determined, when night came on, to tether his horse in the woods far away from the deer lick, make camp and be ready the following morning for the first appearance of some fine buck as he came to slake his thirst. If he did not get that buck he would at least find the trail – indeed on the present occasion it was less the venison he was after than the solving of the mystery.
Arriving at his destination, the improvised camp was leisurely made and his horse given a generous feed of oats. After this he lighted a fire, and soon a steaming cup of coffee helped him to relish the bread and cold meat with which he had come provided.
After smoking several pipes of tobacco and building a big log fire for the night – for the season was far advanced and there was plenty of snow around – Buell Hampton lay down in his blankets and was soon fast asleep, indifferent to the blinking stars or to the rhythmic stirring of clashing leafless limbs fanned into motion by the night winds.
With the first breaking of dawn the Major was stirring. After refreshing himself with hot coffee and glancing at the cartridges in his rifle, he stole silently along under the overhanging foliage toward the deer lick.
The watcher had hardly taken a position near an old fallen tree when five deer came timidly along the trail, sniffing the air in a half suspicious fashion.
Lifting his rifle to his shoulder the hunter took deliberate aim and fired. A young buck leaped high in the air, wheeled