Willis Emerson - My Pardner and I

The breaking of a twig in some vast forest, or the dull echo of a miner’s pick in a rugged mountain canyon, alike suggest the solitude of Nature. The unwritten history of mining prospectors who search for yellow gold, or the advance guards of our civilization in the rich valleys of the West, are replete-with interest and dramatic incident. The “boom” town builder also plays a most conspicuous part in this unwritten drama.

There are no frayed-out remnants of a former greatness to be found on the frontier. A man sells for his intrinsic worth – no more, no less. Conditions that made men great in former generations are here active. and develop manhood in its highest form.

There is hardly a cross-road hamlet without its hotel, and usually a “Dick Ballard” presides. “Brainy men.” such as composed the Waterville Town Company, may be found wherever a new town is building, while a “Rufus Grim” is usually the autocrat of the mining camp.

The old “Colonel” represents a class of sturdy miners whose untiring labor occasionally gives to the world the golden keys of some fabulously rich discovery; while the greater number dedicate their lives to a fruitless search for hidden treasures, and finally die of disappointment and a broken heart.

“Louise,” in her unswerving devotion to her father, is a specimen of superior womanhood whose duplicate may be found in many a ranchman’s home throughout the nestling valleys of our y re at West.

Sometimes I imagine I was with “J. Arthur Boast” in his hiding place when he wrote that last letter and saw the spectral ghost that ever kept him company. The retribution perhaps was just, yet my sympathy lingers around the old prospect shaft.

Many of my readers will doubtless desire to express their criticism of GRAY ROCKS. Nothing will afford me more pleasure than to receive just criticisms, for it will at least enable me to escape similar errors in other stories that I am now engaged in writing.

Sincerely,

ELM REST, August 20, 1894.

No. 1363 Central Park Boulevard, Chicago.

VANCE GILDER had an ambition. It was to be a great journalist.

The sunshine that gleamed in at his western windows disclosed most luxurious apartments – indicating refinement and culture. The bric-a-brac; the leathern walls stamped with gilt; the frieze of palm-leaves; the chandelier; the richly carved book-case, filled with tawny-covered volumes; the upright piano, and a guitar which stood sentinel-like in a retired corner; together with India rugs and tiger skins on the floor before an open grate, half hidden by a large Japanese fan – bespoke wealth as well as refined taste.

Seated at an open escritoire with writing materials before him, on the evening of a June day, was Vance Gilder.

He was not more than twenty-five, of medium height, dark brown hair, soft and wavy as the silk of Indian corn, large brown eyes, a clear complexion, an aquiline nose, and a rather heavy, dark moustache, which in part hid a well-formed mouth.

Before him lay numerous packages of papers, but they were not claiming his attention. He was perusing a billet-doux written in a lady’s hand.

There was a refinement and gentleness in his face, while his dress and surroundings indicated a serious elegance, rich but unaffected.

“Who can she be?” was the exclamation that escaped him as he again read the letter which he held in his hand.

Tossing it down, he walked back and forth across the room with measured strides.

Stopping before the mantel, he lighted a cigar. “Louise Bonifield,” he ejaculated, between puffs of smoke, which he blew away in rings toward the ceiling, “where have I met her?

Where have I seen that name?”

Walking back to the escritoire, he took up the letter and read aloud:

Murray Hill Hotel, June 18.

Kind Sir:

Father and I arrived in the city last night. He wishes me to call on you at three o’clock this afternoon; business of special importance to himself.

Respectfully,

LOUISE BONIFIELD.

To Vance Gilder, Esq.

“No,” he said aloud, “I do not remember Miss Louise Bonifield. It is doubtless very stupid of me, and all that, but if ever I even heard the name before, it certainly has passed from my memory. She says three o’clock,” and glancing at the French time-piece which helped to make up the furniture of his room, he saw it was preparing to strike the hour of three.

Scarcely had the sound of the mellow cathedral bell died away, when the door-bell clanged out like a harsh echo of the clock’s last stroke.

The servant brought in a card bearing the name of “Louise Bonifield,” and received instructions to admit the visitor at once.

The rustling of skirts was soon heard in the hallway.

With the deportment of a queen, she accepted the proffered chair and raised to Vance’s face a pair of laughing blue eyes that might be dangerous. The parting of her rosy lips displayed her ivory teeth to advantage, while her evident embarrassment tinged with pink her beautiful cheeks.

“I called,” she stammered, “to see Mr. Vance Gilder.”

“At your service,” he replied, bowing low.

“But really, sir, are you Mr. Gilder?”

“I believe,” he replied, “that I enjoy the doubtful honor of that appellation.”

The half-hesitation of the visitor as she stood in the open door might have suggested momentary confusion, but reassurance seemed to assert itself as she complied with the melodious invitation of Vance Gilder to enter and be seated.

This vision of loveliness that entered the bachelor apartments of Vance Gilder might have been eighteen years old, but certainly no more. In stature she was of medium height, rather slender, and sustained herself "It must be,” she faltered, with increasing embarrassment, “all a mistake.”

Vance Gilder, with all his boasted matter-of-fact principles, was wonderfully interested in his fair visitor. She evidently was a stranger in the city, or a skilled actress. In referring to her afterwards, he spoke of her as a “dream of loveliness.”

He was too chivalrous to permit his visitor’s embarrassment to increase if he could help it and quickly assured her that it was not a very serious mistake, and asked in what way he could serve her, at the same time saying he regretted exceedingly that he did not answer the description of the Vance Gilder for whom she was seeking.

“The Mr. Gilder for whom I am looking,” said his fair visitor, “is a much older gentleman than you. He visited father some three years ago, at Gold Bluff, Idaho, and owns an interest in Gray Rocks, my father’s mine. My father is very anxious to meet Mr. Gilder; in fact, we have come all the way from Idaho expressly for that purpose. He would have called in person, but was taken ill last evening – so ill, indeed, that we found it necessary to summon a physician. We are stopping at the Murray Hill Hotel. I fear my father will be greatly disappointed.”

A shade of sadness stole over the usually buoyant face of Vance Gilder.

“I think I understand,” said he. “I bear the name of my father, who, after spending several months in the mining districts of Idaho, went to California, where he remained over a year, endeavoring to regain his health. He returned home a little less than two years ago and died within two months after his arrival.

“As his living representative, and in honor of his memory,” said he, with feeling, “if there is any way in which he could have served you or your father, had he lived, I will volunteer, to the extent of my ability, to act in his stead.”