The valley of Arcana

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.

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.