The Valley of Arcana E-Book

Arthur Preston Hankins

• Herausgeber: Librorium Editions
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

TRIED outlanders though they were, Dr. Inman Shonto and Andy Jerome were hopelessly lost. Afoot, horseback, and by motor car the pair had covered thousands of square miles of desert and forest land in Southern California. But it was different up here in the mountainous region of the northern part of the state, where they found themselves surrounded by heavy timber vaster than they had dreamed could have been left standing by the ensanguined hand of the lumberman. And, besides, thin fingers of fog were reaching in from the sea, about eighteen miles to the west of them.
For hours they had been following wooded ridges, which here and there offered a view of the seemingly illimitable sweep of redwood forests below them. Spruce, fir, several varieties of oak, and madrones crowned these ridges—trees of a height and girth that they could understand. But down below them towered the monarchs of the vegetable kingdom, straight as the path of righteousness, solemn, aloof—impossible trees—whose height would bring their tops on a level with the clock of the Metropolitan Building, whose boles occupied a space greater than a good-sized living room.
They awed the southerners immeasurably, for this was their first trip into the northern part of their state. They were silent as they hurried on, sliding down steep slopes, clambering up rocky, timbered inclines, always hoping for some familiar object that would show them they were on the campward trail.
Each carried a .25-.35 rifle, for they had left camp early that morning to hunt deer—and both had entertained fond hopes that a wandering bear or a panther might cross their path. The doctor had wounded a big six-pointer close to noon, and following the bloody trail which the cripple left had led the pair astray.

Leseprobe

THE VALLEY OF ARCANA

BYARTHUR PRESTON HANKINS

1923

© 2023 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782383838678

TO THE MEMORY OFMy Father

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

PAGE

I

An Extra Bed

1

II

El Trono de Tolerancia

9

III

The Prospector’s Story

18

IV

A Member of the Clan

26

V

The Conference at Jorny Springs

33

VI

Second Sight

43

VII

Lot’s Wife and Shirttail Henry

54

VIII

Missing

65

IX

A Case for Rejuvenation

74

X

Shirttail Bend

82

XI

The Trail to Mosquito

93

XII

The Land of Queer Delights

101

XIII

At Two in the Cañon

113

XIV

The Long Straw

128

XV

Vagrancy Cañon

136

XVI

The Camp in Vagrancy Cañon

145

XVII

Bear Pass

156

XVIII

In the Palm of the Mountains

169

XIX

Riddles

180

XX

The Interim of Doubts

190

XXI

The Cave of Hypocritical Frogs

201

XXII

Dr. Shonto Rides Alone

211

XXIII

Old Acquaintances

221

XXIV

Mary Chooses a Seat

228

XXV

The Deadly Bull and the Silver Fox

238

XXVI

The Last Tablet

248

XXVII

Adrift on Lost River

260

XXVIII

The Message

270

THE VALLEY OF ARCANA

CHAPTER IAN EXTRA BED

T

RIED outlanders though they were, Dr. Inman Shonto and Andy Jerome were hopelessly lost. Afoot, horseback, and by motor car the pair had covered thousands of square miles of desert and forest land in Southern California. But it was different up here in the mountainous region of the northern part of the state, where they found themselves surrounded by heavy timber vaster than they had dreamed could have been left standing by the ensanguined hand of the lumberman. And, besides, thin fingers of fog were reaching in from the sea, about eighteen miles to the west of them.

For hours they had been following wooded ridges, which here and there offered a view of the seemingly illimitable sweep of redwood forests below them. Spruce, fir, several varieties of oak, and madrones crowned these ridges—trees of a height and girth that they could understand. But down below them towered the monarchs of the vegetable kingdom, straight as the path of righteousness, solemn, aloof—impossible trees—whose height would bring their tops on a level with the clock of the Metropolitan Building, whose boles occupied a space greater than a good-sized living room.

They awed the southerners immeasurably, for this was their first trip into the northern part of their state. They were silent as they hurried on, sliding down steep slopes, clambering up rocky, timbered inclines, always hoping for some familiar object that would show them they were on the campward trail.

Each carried a .25-.35 rifle, for they had left camp early that morning to hunt deer—and both had entertained fond hopes that a wandering bear or a panther might cross their path. The doctor had wounded a big six-pointer close to noon, and following the bloody trail which the cripple left had led the pair astray.

Now night was close at hand, and, for all they knew, they were still many miles from camp. The trail had inveigled them down into the mysteries of the dark forest below them, and there they had lost all sense of direction. With the approach of night they had abandoned the bloody trail and climbed to the ridges once more, in the hope of relocating themselves. But an hour had passed, and they still were lost.

“This is a little serious, Andy,” remarked the doctor. “I’m afraid we haven’t much of an idea as to the vast scope of this forest. Of course we’ll make it back sometime, and I guess we’re old enough hands at the game to take care of ourselves until we do; but meanwhile we’re going to be up against a little inconvenience, to put it mildly.”

“It’s going to be mighty cold to-night,” was the only answer that the younger man vouchsafed.

He was about twenty-four, this companion of the doctor—a good-looking youth with light curly hair and a friendly blue eye. He was of medium height, well knit, wiry. His step was light and his muscles sure, and more than once the older man eyed him admiringly as they hurried on into the coming dusk.

Dr. Inman Shonto was one of those men who command attention wherever they go. He was tall and lean and broad-shouldered, and his outing clothes had been fitted to his remarkable body with precision. He was an ugly man as masculine comeliness goes, but, for all that, women found him intensely interesting. His nose was monstrous, and lightly pitted from bridge to tip. His mouth was big, and the lips were thick, puckered, and firm. His hair was thin and neutral in colour—somewhere between a dark brown and a light. His ears were rather large and a trifle outstanding. His eyes were grey and very intense in their manner of observing others.

It was the strong face of a strong man. One knew instinctively that great will power was this man’s heritage. One believed, after a glance into that homely face, that this man took what he wanted from life, and that his wants were by no means puny. Even in hunting clothes Dr. Inman Shonto was fastidious. And his walk was fastidious, even here in the wilderness. The realization that he and his young companion were lost in the wilds did not serve to ruffle the doctor’s calm exterior. He was nothing if not self-controlled on all occasions.

Despite his homeliness, his smile was engaging as he turned and looked back at Andy after topping a little bald rise toward which the two had been travelling, hoping on its summit to gain a better view of the surrounding country.

“Andy,” he said, “I smell smoke. Sound encouraging?”

The young man reached his side, and the two stood looking in every direction and sniffing speculatively.

“I get it, too, Doctor,” Andy told the other finally. “It seems to be over in that direction.”

Andy pointed west, and the doctor nodded silently.

“There’s a ranch or a camp pretty close,” he decided. “Now let’s locate that smoke definitely and make a bee-line for it. I don’t just fancy a night in this cold, unfriendly forest.”

“Do you know, Dr. Shonto,” said Andy, “that I don’t exactly think of the forest as unfriendly. Time and again, when you and I have been together in the outlands, you’ve thought nature unkind—bleak—unfriendly. Nature never strikes me that way.”

“That’s your inheritance from your Alps-climbing Swiss ancestors, I imagine,” replied the doctor. “But, if you’ll pardon me, Andrew, I’m more interested right now in locating a welcoming curl of blue smoke over the treetops than I am in a discussion of the attitude of Mother Nature toward two of her misplaced atoms. Look over there to the west. (I suppose that’s west.) Don’t you imagine you see a thin stream of smoke going up over there—just above that massive bull pine on the brow of that hill? Confound this infernal fog!”

“Yes, I believe you’re right,” Andy agreed after looking a long time in the direction the doctor had indicated. And after another pause—“Yes, smoke, all right. And if it weren’t for the fog it would spread, and we’d never have seen it. Now what, Doctor?”

Dr. Shonto gave the surrounding country careful study.

“It seems to me,” he decided, “that, if we head straight for that tall fir on the brow of the hill beyond the next one, we ought to see what’s causing the smoke. But we’ve got to go down and up, down and up; and we’ll pass through heavy timber between here and there. We must keep our wits about us and not swerve from a straight line. And that’s hard to do, with the fog rolling in on us. Anyway, it’s up to us to try it. Let’s go!”

With each of them picking his own way, they rattled down steep slopes and came upon tiny creeks, cold, brown from the dye of fallen autumn leaves. They clambered up slopes that seemed far steeper because of the extra strain they put upon their hearts and muscles. Dense growths of chaparral occasionally confronted them and made them make detours, despite their firm resolve to keep to the straight and narrow way. But in half an hour after sighting the thin stream of smoke they came out in an open space on a hillside and saw the tall fir which was their goal.

They crossed to it on level land, to look down a more precipitous slope than they had before encountered. And down there far below them they saw the misty gleam of cabin lights as they struggled with the night and the increasing obstinacy of the fog that marched in from the sea.

“Here’s a sort of trail, Doctor,” announced Andrew Jerome. “And it looks to be leading straight toward those lights. Shall we try it?”

“Sure,” replied the doctor. “By all means. You’re the better mountaineer, Andy—take the lead. We can get a shakedown on the floor of the man who made those lights, I guess, and get set on the right trail to-morrow morning.”

It was dark now, and the insweeping fog added to the density of the surrounding gloom. Far to their left coyotes lifted their mocking, plaintive yodel to the Goddess of Darkness, their patron saint, who shielded their stealthy deviltry from the eyes of men. But the blurred lights beckoned the wanderers downward, and they obeyed the signal, slipping over rounded stones, staggering into prickly bushes, sliding over abrupt ledges.

Andrew Jerome followed the trail by instinct, and Dr. Shonto was glad to follow Andy. The youth’s aptitude in the mountains was ever a source of wonder for the doctor, and often he had told the boy that he attributed it to heredity. For on his mother’s side of the family Andy’s ancestors had been of Alpine Swiss stock, by name Zanini. Dr. Inman Shonto was a firm believer in heredity, anyway, and his young friend’s dexterous mountaineering presented a sound basis for his theorizing.

They came out eventually on level land, heavily timbered with pines. Straight through the pines the trail led them, and soon they were confronted by a set of bars. Beyond the bars the fog-screened lights still invited them, so the doctor lifted his voice and called.

There came no answer from the gloom. No dog rushed around an invisible cabin to challenge them.

“Let’s take a chance, Andy,” said the doctor. “If a pack of hounds leaps out at us, we can retreat as gracefully as possible. We’ve got to get closer to make ourselves heard.”

They crawled between the bars and struck out along a beaten path. Still no outraged canine came catapulting toward them. Still the house remained invisible. Only the smeared lights stared at them through the fog.

Dr. Shonto came to a halt, and Andy stopped beside him.

“In the cabin there!” called Shonto. “Cabin ahoy!”

Several silent moments followed, and then, between the window lights that had lured them there, a new streak of muddy brilliancy grew to a rectangle, and a woman’s figure stood framed by a door.

“Hello!” shouted the doctor. “We’re lost in the woods and hunting shelter for the night. Our camp is far from here, and we can’t find it. Can you help us out? There are two of us—two men! We’ll gladly pay you for your inconvenience.”

They saw the figure of the woman turn. She was speaking with somebody within the cabin, and her profile was toward them. It vanished as she once more turned her face their way.

“Come on in!” came her invitation. “She says she’ll do the best she can for you.”

“She,” muttered the doctor. “I once knew a man that never called his wife anything but ‘she.’ Come on—I smell baking-powder biscuits, or my name’s not Shonto. Here’s the backwoods for you.”

And then, as if to give the lie to his words, he stepped upon a broad stone doorstep and was faced by a radiant girl in a sky-blue evening gown, with precious stones in her dark hair, and gilded, high-heeled slippers on her feet.

“Good evening,” she greeted them easily. “Welcome to El Trono de Tolerancia. There are baking powder biscuits, venison, and chocolate for supper, and we’ve an extra bed.”

CHAPTER IIEL TRONO DE TOLERANCIA

D

R. INMAN SHONTO was not easily moved to a display of surprise, but for at least once in his life he found himself unequal to the occasion.

The girl in the doorway was galvanically pretty. Her features were of that striking, contrasty quality that is the result of an artistic makeup—but she was not made up. She was dark, red-lipped, large-eyed, and her figure brought a quick flush of masculine appreciation in the doctor’s face. Physically, it seemed to him, he had never before seen so gloriously all-right a girl. But the desirable physical characteristics which she displayed were not what had caused the cat to get the physician’s tongue. It was the low-neck, sleeveless gown, the sparkling hair ornaments, the gilded slippers and the creaseless silk stockings—all of which had for their background the coal-oil-lighted interior of a log cabin lost in the wilderness—that had wrecked his customary poise.

Her ringing laugh served in a measure to readjust his scattered wits. She had interpreted the meaning of his surprise.

“It’s my birthday!” was the girlish announcement that followed her fun-provoking laugh. “It’s my birthday—and I’m twenty-two—and my name is Charmian Reemy. Mrs. Charmian Reemy, I suppose it is my duty to inform you. Aren’t you coming in, Dr. Shonto?”

At last the doctor’s hat was in his hand, and Andy Jerome, standing just behind him and equally amazed, removed his too.

Shonto was mumbling something about the unexpected pleasure of meeting a girl in the wilderness who knew his name while Andy followed him inside. The girl hurried on before them and was arranging comfortable thong-bottom chairs before a huge stone fireplace. Skins and bright-coloured Navajo rugs half covered the puncheon floor. Dainty, inexpensive curtains hung at the windows. Deer antlers and enlarged photographs of wildwood scenes broke the solemnity of the dark log walls.

Before the fireplace another woman bent and cooked in a Dutch oven on red coals raked one side from the roaring fire of fir wood.

“This is Mary Temple, my companion, nurse, cook, and adviser in all matters pertaining to my general welfare,” announced the girl. “I love her companionship, appreciate her nursing, rave over her cooking, and ignore her advice entirely. Mary Temple, this is Dr. Inman Shonto, lost in the woods with a friend whom I have not given him time to introduce.”

Once more the bombarded doctor stood by his guns, bowed gravely to middle-aged Mary Temple—who smiled over her lean shoulder but continued to hover her Dutch oven—then turned to Andy.

“Mrs. Reemy, permit me,” he said. “My friend, Andrew Jerome.”

“Mr. Jerome,” laughed the girl, extending her hand, “I am happy to welcome you to my birthday party.” Then, with one of her amazingly swift movements, she swung about to the physician. “And you, Dr. Shonto, are to be the guest of honour—and you are going to tell us all about glands and things like that.”

“It is absolutely impossible,” Dr. Shonto returned gallantly, “that I could have met you and forgotten you, Mrs. Reemy.”

“Very well spoken, Doctor,” she retorted, with a smile that twisted up a trifle at one corner of her mouth. “But I have heard that before. One would expect Dr. Inman Shonto, renowned gland specialist, to say something more original. There—I’m being impolite again! (Beat you to it that time, didn’t I, Mary Temple!) But you are pardoned for a commonplace speech, Doctor. It must have stunned you not a little to come upon a dolled-up flapper out here in the forest. I’ll relieve your mind instantly. We have never met before. But I have read about you for years. And this morning, when I was down at Lovejoy’s for my mail—and incidentally a big piece of venison which I hadn’t expected to be given me—I saw you and Mr. Jerome walking up the road with your guns. I inquired about you, and was told that the eminent Dr. Shonto and his friend Mr. Jerome, of Los Angeles, were in our midst. And, though I saw only your backs this morning, those shoulders of yours, Doctor, are as wide when seen from the front as from the rear. And when I saw them threatening to push to right and left the uprights of my door frame, I thought Samson was about to bring the house down on us two Philistines. For that’s what we are, gentlemen—outlawed Philistines. And this is the house called El Trono de Tolerancia—which in Spanish is equivalent to The Throne of Tolerance. All right, Mary Temple—I see your shoulders quivering! I’ll stop right now and let somebody else get in a word. But since I already know the doctor and his friend—and a great deal about the doctor that he doesn’t suspect—doesn’t it stand to reason that they ought to hear about us before sitting down to my birthday dinner?”

“You oughtn’t to’ve called yourself a flapper,” said the kneeling Mary Temple, showing one fire-crimsoned cheek.

With her ready laughter, which was hearty and whole-souled without a suggestion of boisterousness, Mrs. Charmian Reemy seated herself. Then Andy and Doctor Shonto found seats one on either side of her.

“This is certainly a refreshing experience, Mrs. Reemy,” were the younger man’s first words since acknowledging his introduction to her.

“I’m glad you think so,” she replied. “I dearly love to make life refreshing for folks. For myself as well. I thought it would be refreshing fun to dress to-night, with only Mary Temple and me ’way out here in the woods. It was just a freakish whim of mine. I get ’em frequently. Don’t I, Mary Temple?”

The firelight showed red through one of Mary Temple’s thin ears as she half turned her head, doubtless to administer a reproof, and executed “eyes front” again when she changed her mind.

“I had no idea at the time, though, that two distressed gentlemen were to come to my party and admire me and my table decorations.”

She swept a white arm in the direction of a table at one side of the large room, on which were a spotless cloth, china and silver, and an earth-sweet centerpiece of ferns and California holly berries.

“Now I’ll tell you who I am, so that you will be better able to celebrate properly with me—and then for the glands. I’m dying to learn all about glands. Could you rejuvenate me, Doctor Shonto? Now’s your chance for that pretty birthday speech!”

“I think,” said Shonto, with his grave smile, “that you, Mrs. Reemy, are a far more successful rejuvenator right now than I shall ever be. I’ve sloughed off five years since entering your door.”

“Better! That was extremely well done. And now let’s get down to business:

“I am Charmian Reemy, aged twenty-two to-day. I was born in San Francisco, and live there now. When I was seventeen I was married to Walter J. Reemy, a mining man from Alaska. To be absolutely frank, that marriage was the result of a plot by my father and mother to marry me off to a wealthy man. And I was too young and pliable to put up a decent fight.

“I went to Alaska with my husband, where we lived two years. He was killed in a gambling game, and his will left everything to me. I sold out his Alaska mining property and returned to the United States, where I lived with my parents in San Francisco until both were taken away in the recent flu epidemic.

“Since then I have been alone except for Mary Temple, who was with me in Alaska. She had returned to San Francisco with me after Walter’s death. So when I was left entirely alone again I hunted her up, and she has been my companion and housekeeper ever since.

“When I was little I was what is generally called a misunderstood child. Whether that was true or not I can’t say, but I know that, almost from my earliest remembrance, my home life was unpleasant. My parents were plodders in the footsteps of Tradition. At an early age I showed radical tendencies.

“I am a radical to-day. I am intolerant of all the intolerance of this generation of false prophets. I come up here to forget man’s stupidity. And I call my retreat in the big-timber country The Throne of Tolerance. Wait until to-morrow morning. Then, if you can look from those west windows and be intolerant of anything or anybody, you don’t belong to my clan.

“I make pilgrimage to El Trono de Tolerancia whenever I begin to choke up down in San Francisco. Mary Temple and I live simply up here in the woods until the suffocation passes, then we return to the city—and boredom. I learned to love the outdoors up in Alaska. And sometime I’m going on a great adventure. I’m going to some far-off place where man never before has set his foot. And maybe I shan’t come back.

“That’s about all there is to be told about me. Except that I never intend to marry again. Oh, yes!—and I always call Mary Temple Mary Temple. If I were to call her Mary it would sound disrespectful from one so much younger than she is. If I called her Miss Temple it would sound stiff and throw a wet blanket over our comradeship. And I’m too human, and I hope too genuine, to ape high society and call her Temple. So she’s Mary Temple to me, and everything seems to move smoothly. Now I’m through—positively through. Now tell me about the glands, Doctor Shonto.”

Shonto was smiling in quiet amusement. He could not quite make out this girl. Shonto was very much a radical himself, and he believed that she knew it. But he considered her too young to hold such a pessimistic outlook on life as she had hinted at. That she was ready to worship him because of his reputation as a specialist in gland secretions seemed apparent. The doctor had been fawned upon by many women intellectually inclined, and they had nauseated him immeasurably. He admired Charmian Reemy for her physical charm, her vivacity, and her good-fellowship; but he was experienced and therefore wary.

But he was saved for the present from committing himself by Mary Temple, who had completed her ministrations over the Dutch oven, and had carried the result to the table.

“Dinner’s ready,” she announced unceremoniously.

Whereupon Charmian rose and seated her guests.

Dr. Shonto was not a little puzzled at the behaviour of his friend. Andy Jerome had spoken to Mrs. Reemy but once since their entrance into her home, aside from muttering her name when the doctor had introduced him. It was true that their hostess had done most of the talking herself, but Shonto had managed to get in a word edgewise now and then. While Andy had showed little or no inclination to talk at all.

For the most part he had sat and almost stared at her, as if never before had he seen a beautiful girl in an evening gown. The doctor knew that this was far from the case, and that Andy ordinarily was quick to respond to pretty women. He usually could hold his own with them, too. But it seemed that Charmian Reemy had fairly swept him off his feet. Shonto felt a slight twinge of regret. He found that he himself was rather impressed by this frank, free-spoken girl of the woods and the cities.

Mary Temple occupied the foot of the table, where she sat stiffly and with an austere mien, and attended to the greater part of the serving. They were no more than seated when Charmian Reemy again began begging the gland specialist to initiate her into the mysteries of his witchcraft. But Shonto, seeking an avenue of escape, hit upon a topic that at once changed her thoughts into another, though no less interesting, channel.

“You say, Mrs. Reemy,” he began, “that you are contemplating going off for a big adventure some day. If you haven’t anything definite in mind, I’d like to offer a suggestion. How would you like to make an attempt to explore a lost valley—a forgotten valley—in reality, an undiscovered valley?”

“What?” Her dark eyes were sparkling.

“Just that. Andy and I heard about it the other day. And on the way to this undiscovered valley you may hunt for opals. Of course, a fellow may hunt for opals anywhere he chooses. But in this case he may do so with reasonable hopes of success.”

“Do you mean that, Doctor Shonto?”

“Absolutely. But I have only the story of a couple of prospectors, one of whom has been an old-time opal miner in Australia. They are both intelligent men, and their story rang true.”

“Please let’s hear all about it!” begged Charmian. “An undiscovered valley! How can it be undiscovered when these prospectors know about it? And opals! You’ve lured me away from glands for the present, Doctor. Give us the yarn!”

CHAPTER IIITHE PROSPECTOR’S STORY

“W

ELL,” began Dr. Shonto reflectively, “Andy and I were in our camp on the North Fork of the Lizard, about two and a half miles from Lovejoy’s place. Two men came along with pack burros, bound up into the Catfish Country—if you know where that is.”

Charmian nodded eagerly.

“They stopped, and as lunch was about ready we invited them to eat with us.

“They called themselves Smith Morley and Omar Leach. They are both middle-aged men and seem to have had a great deal of experience at prospecting.

“Well, Andy and I are old-time ramblers ourselves. We spend a great deal of time together in the outlands, mostly just loafing around and enjoying camp life and the scenery. We were able to talk with the pair about many things of interest to both factions. One thing led to another, and finally Smith Morley mentioned that he had hunted for opals with a camel train in Australia. We at once became interested and asked him all about the life. It is vastly entertaining, from his account.

“Then he told us of the California opals, but when Andy asked if he ever found any in this state he grew reticent. Finally, however, when he learned that both of us were men of some means, he told us about certain opal claims that he and his partner had filed on this year, and which they would be obliged to lose because they were financially unable to get into the country and do their assessment work.

“They offered to sell the claims to us, and to take us to them and establish us if we would defray the expenses. Morley showed us one of the handsomest opals I have ever seen. Its fire was simply wonderful—I’d never before seen anything to equal it.

“We weren’t greatly interested, however, until they mentioned the undiscovered valley. While Andy has nothing much to occupy his time, I have my investigations to carry on and a great deal of laboratory work, though I am not practising medicine regularly. Anyway, we didn’t want to go into the opal-mining game. But, as I said, the undiscovered valley enticed us, and we wanted to know all about it.

“The opal claims are on the desert in what is called the Shinbone Country. It is very difficult to get to them, and the soft, deep sand makes automobiles a failure. One must use horses and pack burros, and at best the water supply is dangerously short. However, the undiscovered valley is something like thirty miles beyond the desert, in the mountains, at an elevation of perhaps eight thousand feet.

“From the description they gave us, those who know of its existence say that it is about thirteen miles long by seven or eight miles in width. It is surrounded by high peaks upon which the snow lies for almost the entire year. These peaks are said to be straight up and down, to use Morley’s phrase, and heavily timbered up to the snow-line. The valley is therefore like the crater of an extinct volcano, and many claim that it is just that. To reach the timbered section, one must cross miles and miles of country covered with the densest chaparral. He must either cut his way through it with a knife and an ax or crawl on all fours. This stretch is waterless, and exposed to the sunny side of steep mountains, where the heat beats down unmercifully.

“But assuming that a fellow gets through this chaparral country, he has yet to scale those grim peaks which Morley calls straight up and down. And if he reaches the summit, he then will be obliged to get down into the valley, perhaps several thousand feet in depth.

“The valley was discovered some years ago by a forest ranger. He had climbed to a high peak about sixteen miles distant from it, and assumed that, even then, he was on ground where no man of to-day, at least, had ever stood before. He suffered a great deal on that trip, but determination kept up his courage and he finally reached the goal for which he had set out. And from the summit of that peak he glimpsed the unexplored valley.

“It seems strange that, in this day and age, such a valley could remain unknown. But such seems to be the case. Andy and I have found in our travels over the state that there are vast stretches of forest land where a white man has probably never set his foot. But in almost every case, there was nothing to draw him. This instance is different.

“Fortunately the ranger had a telescope with him, and was able to see a portion of the valley between two of the peaks that surround it. He circulated the report that the valley is wooded, and that a fair-sized river flows down the centre of it. He saw great quantities of meadow land, and on it animals were grazing, but he could not determine what they were. Altogether the valley presented a pleasing outlook, and he made up his mind to explore it.

“He made many trips, alone and with friends, which occupied months. They strove to get at that valley from every angle, and one man lost his life in the attempt. Finally they were obliged to give it up, though they estimated that they had approached to within three miles of their goal. So throughout the Shinbone Country the undiscovered valley is well known to be in existence, but that’s the end of it. The country is thinly populated, of course, and the people who live there mind their own business pretty well and are completely out of touch with the outside world. And thus it transpires that the unexplored valley is not generally known to be in existence.

“One of the most remarkable features concerning it is the river that flows through it. All rivers in this country flow in a general westerly direction, of course, toward the Pacific Ocean. Not so the river that flows through the undiscovered valley. It runs due east, according to the ranger, though that may mean much or nothing at all, for it may change to a westward course farther on.

“But the question is, where does it come out of the valley? All of the rivers and streams in that section are known and named. No one can account for a river without a name, flowing toward the coast on the west side of the range. But farther back in the mountains, estimated at about ten miles from the peaks that surround the undiscovered valley, there is what is known as a lost river. In fact, it is called Lost River.

“The source of Lost River is known. It rises from springs high up in the range, and is fed by other springs as it flows westward and gathers width. Then, about ten miles from the high peaks, it vanishes—is swallowed up by the earth in a mountain meadow. It is not just soaked up by the ground, but plunges into a cave in the side of a hill. And, so far as anybody knows, that is the end of it.

“Of course, it is assumed that this river runs underground from that point and eventually reaches the undiscovered valley, where it rises again and flows serenely across the valley—quite a large stream, it seems—and then vanishes once more. And for the remainder of its course to the sea, it may be any one of the known rivers in the Shinbone Country. It probably would not pop up out of the ground in the lowlands so abruptly as it plunges into the cave in the high altitudes. It may rise again as springs—seep up from the soil in a natural way. Or its waters may separate during their underground journey after leaving the unexplored valley, and they may form two or more streams in the lowlands.

“So that’s about all there is to be said about the undiscovered valley—or perhaps the unexplored valley would be more proper—and the river that loses itself in the ground. Andy and I grew quite excited over it, but when we tried to pump Morley and Leach to find out the location of the Shinbone Country they refused to come across. Shinbone is a local name, it seems, and few besides the people who live there know it as such. We don’t even know what county it is in. Leach and Morley, however, promised to tell us all about it and to take us to it, provided we would interest ourselves in their opal claims. So, as we didn’t care to do that, we let the matter slide.”

Charmian Reemy had forgotten her dinner and was resting her bare elbows on the table, nesting her chin in her hands. Her dark eyes were fixed on Inman Shonto. And Andy’s eyes were fixed on her.

“Where,” she asked in a low voice, “are Morley and Leach now?”

“Still on their way to the Catfish Country, I suppose,” Shonto replied.

“When was it that they were in your camp?”

“Day before yesterday, about noon—wasn’t it, Andy?”

Andy Jerome nodded absently.