The Valley of the Giants (Once Upon a Time in California). Peter B. Kyne

the baggage-smasher with a gracious smile, the Highest Living Authority approached George Sea Otter, noting, the while, further evidence that this car was a public conveyance, for the young man who had been her fellow-passenger was heading toward the automobile also. She heard him say:

      “Hello, George, you radiant red rascal! I'm mighty glad to see you, boy. Shake!”

      They shook, George Sea Otter's dark eyes and white teeth flashing pleasurably. Bryce tossed his bag into the tonneau; the half-breed opened the front door; and the young master had his foot on the running-board and was about to enter the car when a soft voice spoke at his elbow:

      “Driver, this is the stage for Sequoia, is it not?”

      George Sea Otter could scarcely credit his auditory nerves. “This car?” he demanded bluntly, “this—the Sequoia stage! Take a look, lady. This here's a Napier imported English automobile. It's a private car and belongs to my boss here.”

      “I'm so sorry I slandered your car,” she replied demurely. “I observed the pennant on the wind-shield, and I thought—”

      Bryce Cardigan turned and lifted his hat.

      “Quite naturally, you thought it was the Sequoia stage,” he said to her. He turned a smoldering glance upon George Sea Otter. “George,” he declared ominously, but with a sly wink that drew the sting from his words, “if you're anxious to hold down your job the next time a lady speaks to you and asks you a simple question, you answer yes or no and refrain from sarcastic remarks. Don't let your enthusiasm for this car run away with you.” He faced the girl again. “Was it your intention to go out to Sequoia on the next trip of the stage?”

      She nodded.

      “That means you will have to wait here three days until the stage returns from Sequoia,” Bryce replied.

      “I realized, of course, that we would arrive here too late to connect with the stage if it maintained the customary schedule for its departure,” she explained, “but it didn't occur to me that the stage-driver wouldn't wait until our train arrived. I had an idea his schedule was rather elastic.”

      “Stage-drivers have no imagination, to speak of,” Bryce assured her. To himself he remarked: “She's used to having people wait on her.”

      A shade of annoyance passed over the classic features of the Highest Living Authority. “Oh, dear,” she complained, “how fearfully awkward! Now I shall have to take the next train to San Francisco and book passage on the steamer to Sequoia—and Marcelle is such a poor sailor. Oh, dear!”

      Bryce had an inspiration and hastened to reveal it.

      “We are about to start for Sequoia now, although the lateness of our start will compel us to put up tonight at the rest-house on the south fork of Trinity River and continue the journey in the morning. However, this rest-house is eminently respectable and the food and accommodations are extraordinarily good for mountains; so, if an invitation to occupy the tonneau of my car will not be construed as an impertinence, coming as it does from a total stranger, you are at liberty to regard this car as to all intents and purposes the public conveyance which so scandalously declined to wait for you this morning.”

      She looked at him searchingly for a brief instant: then with a peculiarly winning smile and a graceful inclination of her head she thanked him and accepted his hospitality—thus:

      “Why, certainly not! You are very kind, and I shall be eternally grateful.”

      “Thank you for that vote of confidence. It makes me feel that I have your permission to introduce myself. My name is Bryce Cardigan, and I live in Sequoia when I'm at home.”

      “Of Cardigan's Redwoods?” she questioned. He nodded. “I've heard of you, I think,” she continued. “I am Shirley Sumner.”

      “You do not live in Sequoia.”

      “No, but I'm going to hereafter. I was there about ten years ago.”

      He grinned and thrust out a great hand which she surveyed gravely for a minute before inserting hers in it. “I wonder,” he said, “if it is to be my duty to give you a ride every time you come to Sequoia? The last time you were there you wheedled me into giving you a ride on my pony, an animal known as Midget. Do you, by any chance, recall that incident?”

      She looked up at him wonderingly. “Why—why you're the boy with the beautiful auburn hair,” she declared. He lifted his hat and revealed his thick thatch in all its glory. “I'm not so sensitive about it now,” he explained. “When we first met, reference to my hair was apt to rile me.” He shook her little hand with cordial good-nature. “What a pity it wasn't possible for us to renew acquaintance on the train, Miss Sumner!”

      “Better late than never, Mr. Cardigan, considering the predicament in which you found me. What became of Midget?”

      “Midget, I regret to state, made a little pig of herself one day and died of acute indigestion. She ate half a sack of carrots, and knowing full well that she was eating forbidden fruit, she bolted them, and for her failure to Fletcherize—but speaking of Fletcherizing, did you dine aboard the train?”

      She nodded. “So did I, Miss Sumner; hence I take it that you are quite ready to start.”

      “Quite, Mr. Cardigan.”

      “Then we'll drift. George, suppose you pile Miss Sumner's hand-baggage in the tonneau and then pile in there yourself and keep Marcelle company. I'll drive; and you can sit up in front with me, Miss Sumner, snug behind the wind-shield where you'll not be blown about.”

      “I'm sure this is going to be a far pleasanter journey than the stage could possibly have afforded,” she said graciously as Bryce slipped in beside her and took the wheel.

      “You are very kind to share the pleasure with me, Miss Sumner.” He went through his gears, and the car glided away on its journey. “By the way,” he said suddenly as he turned west toward the distant blue mountains of Trinity County, “how did you happen to connect me with Cardigan's redwoods?”

      “I've heard my uncle, Colonel Seth Pennington, speak of them.”

      “Colonel Seth Pennington means nothing in my young life. I never heard of him before; so I dare say he's a newcomer in our country. I've been away six years,” he added in explanation.

      “We're from Michigan. Uncle was formerly in the lumber business there, but he's logged out now.”

      “I see. So he came West, I suppose, and bought a lot of redwood timber cheap from some old croaker who never could see any future to the redwood lumber industry. Personally, I don't think he could have made a better investment. I hope I shall have the pleasure of making his acquaintance when I deliver you to him. Perhaps you may be a neighbour of mine. Hope so.”

      At this juncture George Sea Otter, who had been an interested listener to the conversation, essayed a grunt from the rear seat. Instantly, to Shirley Sumner's vast surprise, her host grunted also; whereupon George Sea Otter broke into a series of grunts and guttural exclamations which evidently appeared quite intelligible to her host, for he slowed down to five miles an hour and cocked one ear to the rear; apparently he was profoundly interested in whatever information his henchman had to impart. When George Sea Otter finished his harangue, Bryce nodded and once more gave his attention to tossing the miles behind him.

      “What language was that?” Shirley Sumner inquired, consumed with curiosity.

      “Digger Indian,” he replied. “George's mother was my nurse, and he and I grew up together. So I can't very well help speaking the language of the tribe.”

      They chattered volubly on many subjects for the first twenty miles; then the road narrowed and commenced to climb steadily, and thereafter Bryce gave all of his attention to the car, for a deviation of a foot from the wheel-rut on the outside of the road would have sent them hurtling over the grade into the deep-timbered canons below. Their course led through a rugged wilderness, widely diversified and transcendently beautiful, and the girl was