The She Boss | Page 4

or curse me remains to be seen."
Hiram made no reply--he did not even look up.
"So be down to Wharton Bixler's by stage time to-morrow, Hiram, an'
be ready to take th' stage to Brown's Corner. I'll go with ye that far, an'

ye c'n deed me th' prop'ty before a notary, so's I won't be obliged to
foreclose. Then I'll come back an' pay yer bill at Bixler's, an' ye'll have
one hundred dollars to take ye down to Frisco. Will ye be at th' store at
half past nine?"
A wait, then a short nod.
Uncle Sebastian half turned, paused, cleared his throat, and for the first
time lost his high-handed control of the situation.
"Hiram," he said in a lower tone, "I reckon I'm a fool, but I hope ye
ain't holdin' anything agin' me. So help me, boy, I believe I'm doin' ye a
turn. Do--d'ye believe it or not?"
"Wait'll to-morrow, Uncle Sebastian," came Hiram's pleading voice.
"Le'me think it over all to-night. You've plumb knocked the props from
under me."
Without another word, Uncle Sebastian climbed up the bank and strode
off through the huckleberries.
CHAPTER II
OUT OF THE WOODS
For over an hour Hiram Hooker lay perfectly still at the creekside. His
wide-open eyes stared dreamily into the water. His mind was stunned
by the present situation. Feverishly and against his will his thoughts
went hurrying back over the years which had led up to this momentous
climax.
A woman moved frequently across the picture--a bent, tired,
work-warped woman--his mother. The pitiable leanness of the life of
Hiram's mother had been appalling. One word stood for the tenor of her
days from sun to sun--nothing. She had never seen a piano or a
typewriter, or even a washing machine. Silent, unmurmuring, she had
given her life for nothing and gone.

Swiftly came in the picture the likeness of Hiram's father--tall,
bewhiskered, strong as an ox, soft-voiced, and easy-going. Nothing but
kindness had emanated from the father to his wife and child. Foster
Hooker, too, had slaved his life away for nothing. The rocky land had
claimed him and held him down. They had had enough to eat and to
keep them warm--beyond that, nothing. Now he lay with Hiram's
mother between the big bull pines on Wild-cat Hill.
There was in Hiram's thoughts no bitterness against his parents. They
had been always kind and had given their best to him. The rocky land
had held them chained. It offered sustenance, and of the big progressing
world beyond they had lived afraid. In the early days they had buried
themselves in the big woods to make their fortune. But the fortune was
not there, and old age crept on. Old age told them that the world outside
had passed beyond them, and they were afraid.
After all, had they given Hiram nothing? In his bitter moments he had
thought so, but to-day his thoughts were mellowed. He was on the eve
of leaving everything that held memories of them. Had they not given
him of themselves a love for the grandeur of these woods which
touched no other soul, save Uncle Sebastian's, perhaps, in all the valley?
Hiram saw more in a redwood tree than the natives did; saw the beauty
of contrast in the open spots in the forest, where the others saw only
grazing ground for cattle; saw wonders in the rioting streams without a
thought of miners' inches. His father had taught him the love of books,
but there had been so few to love. He had taught him to think. Hiram
was weird, queer, a "leetle cracked" to the others of Bear Valley. Uncle
Sebastian alone had understood him--had sympathized with him and
helped him.
Now, though, it was over. He was leaving forever. One hundred dollars!
He had never possessed so much in his twenty-six starved years! An
exultation seized him which beat throbbingly in his temples and fired
his soul with recklessness. He was bound out into the Great Unknown,
where the promises of his dreams would be fulfilled. He would do great
things, live great adventures, then come back to scoff at them!
He sprang to his feet, collected the backless magazines, and climbed

the bank. With long strides he hurried along the bark road which
wound round the contour of the hills. An hour later he was trotting
down a manzanita slope to his cabin, nestled in the cup of the hills,
surrounded by the whispering firs.
Just within he paused and looked about as if seeing the sordidness of
his home for the first time. All the way up the hill the exultation of
impending departure had thrilled him. It thrilled him still, and a new
feeling of contempt of what he saw came over him.