Kitabı oku: «The Heritage of the Hills», sayfa 13
CHAPTER XXIV
IN THE DEER PATH
The morning following the trip to Lime Rock, Oliver Drew sat at his little home-made desk, his mind not on the work before him. Tilted against the ink bottle stood the long, tough envelope that Jessamy had given him, its black-wax seals still unbroken. He stared at it with unseeing eyes.
After they had left Lime Rock, Jessamy had given him a little more information on the subject which now loomed so big in his life.
She thought, she had said, that for years the Showut Poche-dakas had suspected Old Man Selden of knowing something of their secret. They could not have missed seeing the gophering that the old man had done on the hillside above The Four Pools. She knew positively that the Indians had kept a watchful eye on him, and it could be for no other reason.
The episode concerning Oliver's bayonet wound had come as a complete surprise to her. It seemed now, she said, that Peter Drew had communicated with Chupurosa not long before his death, and after Oliver's return from France, and had told him to be prepared for the coming of his son and how to make sure that he was genuine. She had not known that Peter Drew had been in the Poison Oak Country again, since he left after entrusting her with a hand in guiding Oliver's future.
She told of having overheard Adam Selden and Oliver's conversation that night at Poison Oak Ranch, and of the other eavesdropper who had stolen down from the spring. She was almost sure, she told him, that this man was Digger Foss; but whether or not Foss knew of the treasure she could not determine. Apparently, though, he suspected something of the kind, and had been looking out for his own interests that night.
Yes, it was the bridle and saddle and the gem-mounted conchas that had changed Selden's attitude toward Oliver. The underlying reason for his wishing Oliver off the Old Ivison Place had been the fear that the search for the gems, which he had carried on intermittently for so long, would be interrupted. But to his gang he had pretended that it was sheer deviltry that caused him to contemplate driving the newcomer out.
Then a sight of the gem-mounted conchas of his old partner, and the fact that Oliver was at once taken into brotherhood by the Showut Poche-dakas changed his plans. Oliver knew of the gems and had come to seek them. He either was Dan Smeed's son, or had been taken into Dan Smeed's confidence. Oliver would become Watchman of the Dead. If he did not already know the location of the stones, he soon might learn it from the Indians. His friendship must be cultivated by all means, so that Selden might have the better chance of obtaining what he considered his rightful share of the treasure.
Oliver had then told Jessamy of the prospect holes on the hillside, of Digger Foss's spying on the cabin, of Tommy My-Ma's strange actions, and of the lithia he had found.
"Yes, lithia is an indication of gems," she had told him. "And it would appear that Digger knows of the treasure, after all. Perhaps sometime Selden confided in him in a careless moment, to enlist his aid in the search. They're pretty confidential. Digger was watching your movements, to see if you had any definite idea of the location of the stones or were searching for them blindly. That's it! He knows! But still he's suspicious of Old Man Selden. All of the Poison Oakers are now. They think he's double-crossing them some way, since he made friends with you.
"As for Tommy My-Ma trailing Digger, I'm not surprised. No doubt the Showut Poche-dakas are watching Old Man Selden and his gang as respects their attitude toward the new Watchman of the Dead. If the Poison Oakers had tried actually to molest you, I have an idea they'd have found they'd bitten off a chunk. I think they would have had fifty Showut Poche-dakas on their backs before they had gone very far."
All this passed through Oliver's mind again and again this morning, as he sat there with pipe gone out and idle pencil in his fingers.
What a romance that old father had woven about the life of his son! How skilfully and craftily he had planned so that Oliver would be thrown on his own resources for an answer when he came face to face with the question! How cleverly Jessamy had carried out the part entrusted to her, despite her aversion to intrigues and plottings! Step by step she had led him on till at last the question confronted him, just as it had confronted his father before him.
To gain possession of the gems would be a simple matter. They were on his land somewhere – were his by every right in law. He had but to invoke the protection of the keepers of the peace against the Indians, break the seals of the long envelope, and dig in the place indicated by the map this envelope contained.
But there was one thing which doubtless Peter Drew had not foreseen in his careful planning. He could not have known that his son was to fall desperately in love with the guiding star that he had appointed for him. And Oliver Drew knew in his heart that if he robbed the Indians of these gems, which were to them only a symbol and had no meaning connected with worldly wealth, he would lose the girl. The only thing that stood between Jessamy and him, he now believed, was her uncertainty of what his answer to the question would be. In her staunch heart she respected the belief of the Showut Poche-dakas, and to her the gems as a symbol were as worthy of her reverence as the Sacred Book of the Christians. "I have as much reverence for a bareheaded Indian girl on her knees to the Sun God as for a hooded nun counting her beads," she had said.
Oliver stared at the inside of the cabin door, scarred and carved and full of bullet holes – at JESSAMY, MY SWEETHEART.
Peter Drew could not have foreseen this phase of the situation. In securing the gems Oliver Drew not only would lose his self-respect and make his father's thirty years of sacrifice a mockery, but he would lose the girl he loved.
So Oliver took small credit to himself when he rose from his desk at eleven o'clock, his mind made up.
He placed the letter unopened in his shirt front, and went out and saddled Poche. Then he rode to the backbone and wormed his way along it toward Lime Rock.
Jessamy was there ahead of him, sitting erect on White Ann's back, gazing upon the rugged objects of her daily adoration.
"Well," she said, "you've come," and her level eyes searched him through and through.
"Yes," he replied, riding to her side, "I've come; and my mind's made up."
She raised her dark brows in an attempt to betoken a mild struggle between politeness and indifference; but the hand on her saddle horn trembled, and the red had gone out of her cheeks.
"I must get out of here tomorrow," he said, "and go to Los Angeles. I've just about enough money to take me there and back; but I have the unbounded faith of an amateur in several farm articles now in editors' hands."
She lowered black lashes over her eyes and nodded slowly up and down.
"Exactly," she said. "You must carry out Peter Drew's instructions to the letter."
"But I can tell you what my answer to Dad's lawyers is going to be. I – "
"Don't!" she cried, raising a protesting hand. "Not a word to me. My responsibility ceased when I placed the envelope in your hands. I'm no longer concerned in the matter. That is – " she hesitated.
"Yes, go on."
"Until after you have made your report to the attorneys," she added. "Then, of course, I'll – I'll be sort of curious to know what your answer is."
"Then I'll come straight back to tell you," he promised. "And – Why, what's the matter!"
She had leaned forward suddenly in her saddle, and with wide eyes was looking down the precipice. Then before she could answer there came to Oliver's hearing the sound of a distant shot from the cañon.
Now he saw a puff of white smoke above the willows on the river bank, a thousand feet below them. Then a second, and by and by another ringing report reached them, and the echoes of it went loping from wall to wall of the cañon.
"Merciful heavens!" cried Jessamy. "It's Old Man Selden! He's shot! Look at him reel in his saddle! Oh, horrors!.. There he goes down on the ground!.. But he's not killed! There – he's on his feet and shooting!"
Oliver, with open mouth, was staring down at the tragedy that had suddenly been staged for them in the river bed. Now several puffs of white smoke hung over the trees, and riders rode hither and thither like pigmies on pigmy horses. Now and then a stream of flame spurted horizontally, and at once another answered it. Then up barked the reports, followed by their mocking echoes.
"It's come! It's come!" wailed Jessamy. "Obed Pence, likely as not, has opened fire on Old Man Selden, and the boys are after him. Look – there's Chuck and Bolar and Jay and Winthrop – and, oh, most all of them! It's a general fight. Oh, I knew it would come! I knew it! Obed Pence has been so nasty of late. They were all drunk last night. Poor mother! Oh, what shall we do, Oliver? What can we do? We can't get down to them!"
"And could do nothing if we did," he said tensely.
Down below six-shooters still popped, and the balls of smoke continued to grow in number over the willows. Horsemen dashed madly about, shouting, firing. The two watchers learned later that Obed Pence, supported by Muenster, Allegan, and Buchanan – all drunk for two days on the fiery monkey rum – had lain in wait for Old Man Selden, and Pence had ridden out and confronted him as he rode down the river trail, supposedly alone. But the Selden boys for days had been hovering in the background, to see that their father got a square deal when he and Obed Pence next met. Pence and Adam Selden had drawn simultaneously; but the hammer of the old man's Colt had caught in the fringe of his chaps, and Obed had shot him through the left lung. Knowing their father to be a master gunman, his sons, who had not been close enough to witness the encounter, had jumped to the conclusion that Pence had fired from ambush. They charged in accordingly, and opened fire on Pence, killing him instantly. Then Pence's supporters had ridden forth in turn, and the general gun fight was on.
"I can't sit here and see them murdering one another!" Jessamy sobbed piteously. "They – they all may need killing, but – but I've lived with the old man and the boys, and – and – My mother!" The tears streamed down her cheeks as she made a trumpet of her hands and shouted down the precipice:
"Stop it! Stop it at once, I say!"
Only the echoes of her piercing cry made answer, and she wrung her hands and beat her breast in anguish.
"I'm going for help!" she cried abruptly. "They'll get behind trees pretty soon, and fight from cover. I'll ride to Halfmoon Flat for the constable and a posse to put a stop to this. Can't – can't you ride up the trail and find a way down to them, Oliver? Old Man Selden maybe will listen to you. Oh, maybe you can patch up peace between them!"
"I'll try," said Oliver grimly.
She wheeled White Ann and entered the narrow trail. Oliver followed. Recklessly she moved her mare at her rolling singlefoot along the dangerous trail, and eventually came out on the hillside. At once White Ann leaped forward and sped over the hills, a streak of silver in the noonday sun.
Oliver loped Poche to an obscure deer path that led down to the river, and as swiftly as possible began negotiating it.
He had not progressed twenty yards when the chaparral before him suddenly parted, and Digger Foss confronted him, his wicked Colt held waist-high and levelled.
"Stick 'em up!" he growled. "Be quick!"
Thoroughly surprised, Oliver reined in, and Poche began to dance. Mechanically Oliver raised his hands above his head, then almost regretted that he had not tried to draw. But the picture of Henry Dodd reeling against the legs of Jessamy's mare had been with him since his first day in the Poison Oakers' country. He knew that the halfbreed's aim was sure, and that his heart was a reservoir of venom.
The first shock passed, his composure returned in a measure. There stood the halfbreed, spread-legged in the path. The lids of his Mongolic eyes were lowered, and the beads of jet glittered wickedly from under them. He was drunk as a lord, Oliver knew quite well from the augmented insolence of his cruel lips; but Oliver knew that he might be all the more deadly, and that some drunken gunmen can shoot better than when sober.
"What is this? – a holdup?" he asked, and bit his lip as he noted the tremble in his tones.
"A holdup is right," said Foss. "A holdup, an' a little business matter you and me's got to attend to."
"Well, let's get at it!" Oliver snapped.
"I'm gonta kill you after our business is settled," Foss told him in a matter-of-fact tone.
A cold chill ran along Oliver's spine. Should he make a dive for his gun? Foss had every advantage, but —
Foss was stepping lazily nearer, his eyes intent on the horseman, his six-shooter ready.
"Down there by the river they're fightin' it out all because o' you buttin' into this country, where you ain't wanted." Foss had come to a stop, and was leering up at him. "You've made trouble ever since you come here. Old Man won't get rid o' you, but I'm goin' to today. But first, where's them gems?"
"I can't tell you," said Oliver.
"You're a liar!"
"Thank you. You have the advantage of me, you know. Slip your gun in the holster, and then call me a liar. I'll draw with you. My hands are up – you'll still have the advantage of having your hand closer to your gun butt."
"D'ye think you could draw with me?"
"I know it. And before you. Try it and see!"
Foss studied over this. "Maybe – maybe!" he said. "I never did throw down on a man without givin' 'im a chance. But you got no chance with me, kid. They don't make 'em that can get the drop on Digger Foss!"
"I'll take a chance," said Oliver quietly.
"We'll see about that later. But where's them stones?"
"I don't know, I tell you."
"What did you come up in this country for?"
"On matters that concern me alone."
"No doubt o' that – or so you think. But they're interestin' to me, too. What's in that letter Jess'my handed you at Lime Rock yesterday?"
"Oh, you were sneaking about and saw that, were you! Through your glasses, I suppose. Well, I haven't opened it, and don't know what's in it. If I did I wouldn't tell you. My arms are growing a little tired. Will you holster your gun and give me a chance before my arms play out?"
"I will if you come across with what you know about the gems. You might as well. If I kill you, you won't be worryin' about gems. And if you croak me, why, what if you did tell me? – I'm dead, ain't I?"
"There's sound logic in that," said Oliver grimly. "I'll take you up. Put your gun in its holster and drop your hands to your sides. Then we'll draw, with your gun hand three feet nearer your gun than mine will be. Come! I've got business down below."
The halfbreed's eyes widened in unbelief. "D'ye really mean it, kid? You saw me shoot Henry Dodd – d'ye really wanta draw with me?"
"I do."
"But then you'll be dead, and I won't know nothin' about the gems. Unless that letter tells?"
"Perhaps. You mustn't expect me to take all the chances, you know."
"Does the letter tell?"
"I haven't opened it, I say."
Foss studied in drunken seriousness. "And if you should happen to get me, why – why, where am I at again?" he puzzled.
Oliver laughed outright. "You're an amusing creature," he said. "I don't believe you're half the badman that you imagine you are." He believed nothing of the sort, but his arms were growing desperately weary and he must goad the drunken gunman into immediate action.
"There's just one thing that's the matter with you," he gibed on, ready to descend to any speech that would cut the killer and break his deadly calm. "That's my getting your girl away from you! It's not the gems; it's that that hurts you. Why, say, do you think she'd wipe her feet on you!"
Into the eyes of the halfbreed came a viperish light that almost stilled Oliver's heartbeats. For an instant he feared that he had gone too far, that Foss was about to shoot him down in cold blood.
Foss stood spread-legged in the path, as before, his face twisting with anger, the fingers of his left hand clinching and unclinching themselves. Then Oliver almost ceased to breathe as a silent, dark figure slipped wraithlike from the chaparral and began stealing toward the back of Digger Foss.
"That settles it," said Foss. "I'll kill you for that, gems or no gems! Get ready! If you let down a hand while I'm puttin' up my gun I'll kill you like that!" He snapped the fingers of his left hand.
"I'll stick by my bargain," Oliver assured him, his glance struggling between Foss and that silent figure slinking in his rear.
What should he do? There was murder in the black eyes of the man who stole so stealthily upon the gunman's back. Should he shout to Foss? His sense of fair play cried out that he should. But Foss might misinterpret the meaning of his upraised voice, and fire. Should he —
"Here goes! I'm puttin' up my gun. Get ready, kid! When I – "
There was a leap, a flash of steel in the sunlight, a scream of agonizing pain.
Oliver's gun was out and levelled; but Foss was staggering from side to side, his arms limp before him, his head lopped forward as if he searched for something on the ground. He collapsed and lay there gasping hideously in the path, in a growing pool of blood.
The chaparral opened and closed again; and then only Oliver and the man in his death throes were remaining.
Even as Bolivio had died, so died Digger Foss, in a path in the wilderness, with the knife of a Showut Poche-daka in his back.
CHAPTER XXV
THE ANSWER
Two weeks had passed since the battle of the Poison Oakers. That organization was now no more. Jessamy's efforts to mobilize a posse to stop the fight had proved fruitless. Only the constable and Damon Tamroy rode back with her with first aid packages, for Halfmoon Flat had voiced its indifference in a single sentence – "Let 'em fight it out!" Those whom the constable would have deputized promptly made themselves scarce.
So the Poison Oakers had fought it out, and in so doing appended "Finis" to the annals of their gang. Old Man Selden died two days after the battle. Winthrop was killed outright, and Moffat was seriously wounded, but might recover. Obed Pence was dead; Digger Foss was dead. Jay Muenster was dead. Thus half of their numbers were wiped out, and among them the controlling genius of the gang, Old Man Selden. And without him those remaining, already split into two factions, were as a ship without a rudder.
And all because of Oliver Drew!
Oliver stepped from the train at Halfmoon Flat this afternoon, two weeks after the fight. He had helped Jessamy and her mother through the difficulties arising from the tragedy, had appeared as witness at the inquest, and had then hurried to Los Angeles with his sealed envelope. Now, returning, he caught Poche in a pasture close to the village and saddled him.
It was one o'clock in the afternoon. He had lunched on the diner, so at once he lifted Poche into his mile-devouring lope and headed straight for Poison Oak Ranch.
What changes had taken place since first he galloped along that road, barely four months before! Few with whom he had come in contact were still pursuing the even tenor of their ways, as then. He thought of the fight and of the spectacular death of Digger Foss. At the inquest he had been unable to throw any light on the identity of the halfbreed's murderer. He was an Indian – beyond this Oliver could say no more. The coroner had quizzed him sharply. Whereupon Oliver had asked that official if he himself thought it likely that he could have looked into the muzzle of a Colt revolver in the hands of Digger Foss, and at the same time make sure of the identity of a man stealing up behind him. The coroner had scratched his head. "I reckon I'd 'a' been tol'able int'rested in that gun o' Digger's," was his confession.
And Oliver had told the truth. To this day he does not know who killed the gunman – but he knows that in all probability his own life was saved when it occurred, and that it was a Showut Poche-daka who struck the blow.
At Poison Oak Ranch he found Jessamy awaiting him. He had sent her a wire the day before, telling her he was coming, and the hour he would arrive.
They shook hands soberly, and after a short conversation with Mrs. Selden, Oliver saddled White Ann for Jessamy and they rode away into the hills. They were for the most part silent as their horses jogged along manzanita-bordered trails. Instinctively they avoided Lime Rock and its vicinity, and made toward the north, up over the hog-back hills, now sear and yellow, which climbed in interminable ranks to the snowy peaks. They came to a ledge that overlooked the river, and here they halted while the girl gazed down on scenes that never wearied her.
They dismounted presently and seated themselves on two great grey stones. Jessamy rested her round chin in her hand, and from under long lashes watched the green river winding about its serpentine curves below.
The tragedy of death had left its mark on her face. There was a sober, half-pathetic droop to the red lips. The comradely black eyes were thoughtful. But the self-reliant poise of the sturdy shoulders still was hers, and the sense of strength that she exhaled was not impaired.
Her dress today was not rugged, as was ordinarily the case when she rode into the hills. She wore a black divided skirt, and a low-neck yellow-silk waist, trimmed with black, and a black-silk sailor's neckerchief. To further this effect a yellow rose nestled in her night-black hair. She looked like a gorgeous California oriole, so trim was her figure, so like that bird's were the contrast of colours she displayed. And her voice when she spoke, low and clear and throbbing melodiously, reminded him of the notes of this same sweet songster at nesting time.
Oliver sat looking at the profile of her face, with the wind-whipped hair about it. More fully than ever now he realized that she was everything in life to him. And today – now! – smilingly, unabashed.
"Well, Jessamy," he began, "I have seen Dad's lawyers." She turned her face toward him, but still rested her elbow on her knee, one cheek now cupped by her hand.
"Yes," she said softly. "Tell me all about it."
"And I gave them my answer to the question."
For several moments her level glance searched his face, a little smile on her lips.
"And what is your answer?" she asked.
He rose and moved to the stone on which she sat, seating himself beside her.
"Don't you know what my answer is?" he asked softly.
She continued to look at him fearlessly, smilingly, unabashed.
"I think I know," she said. "But tell me."
"My answer," he said, "is the same that dear old Dad kept repeating for thirty years. I shall not enrich myself by sacrificing the confidence placed in me. I shall remain loyal to my simple trust. I am the Watchman of the Dead."
Her lips quivered and her eyes glowed warmly, and two tears trickled down her cheeks. Oliver took from his shirt the envelope and showed her the black seals, still unbroken. Then on a flat rock before them he made a tiny fire of grass and twigs, and placed the envelope on top of it. Then he lighted a match.
"The funeral pyre of my worldly fortune!" he apostrophized. "The lost mine of Bolivio will be lost indeed when the map has burned."
Together they watched the tiny fire in silence, till the black wax sputtered and dripped down on the stone, and the eager flames crinkled the envelope and its contents and reduced them to ashes.
"And now?" said Oliver.
"And now!" echoed Jessamy.
He slowly placed both arms about her and lifted her, unresisting, to her feet. He drew her close, brushed back her hair, and looked deep into eyes from which tears streamed unrestrained. Then she threw her arms about his shoulders, and, with a glad laugh, half hysterical, she drew his head down and kissed him time and again.
His hour had come. Oliver Drew had captured the star that had led him on and on – his Star of Destiny. Warm were her lips and tremulous – glowing were her eyes for love of him. His pulse leaped madly as she gave herself to him in absolute surrender.
"There's another matter," he said five minutes later, as she lay silent in his arms, with the fragrance of her hair in his nostrils. "Old Danforth, the head of the firm of attorneys that attended to Dad's affairs, looked at me keenly from under shaggy brows when I gave my answer.
"'So it's No, is it, young man?' he said.
"'No it is,' I told him.
"'In that case,' he said, 'you are to come with me.'
"He took me to a bank and opened a safe-deposit box in the vaults. He showed me bonds totalling over a hundred thousand dollars, and cash that represented the interest coupons the firm had been clipping since Dad died.
"'Here's the key,' he told me. 'If your answer had been yes, these bonds, too, would have gone to the church. For then you would have had the gems. Your father didn't mean to leave you penniless. You would have been fairly well off, I imagine, whether your answer had been Yes or No. Your father wanted his question answered by a man of education, and I think he would be pleased at your decision.'"
Jessamy had straightened and twisted in his arms till her face was close to his.
"Peter Drew never hinted at that to me!" she cried. "I – I suppose you'd have nothing but the Old Ivison Place if you answered No. Oh, my romantic Old Peter Drew! God rest his soul! I'm so glad."
"Glad, eh?" He smiled whimsically at her, and she quickly interpreted his thoughts.
"Oh, but, Oliver – you don't understand! It's not that you're wealthy, after all – but now you can give Damon Tamroy just what the cement company would have paid him for Lime Rock!"
"Lime Rock shall be your wedding gift," he laughed.
"Oh, Oliver! And – and when we're – married, you won't take me away from the Poison Oak Country, will you, dear! I'll go anywhere you say – but these hills, and the river, and Lime Rock, and Old Dad Sloan, and – my Hummingbird – and the perfume of the manzanita blossoms in spring – and – oh, I love my country next to you, dear heart! And in my dreams I loved you even before you came riding to me in the silver-mounted saddle of Bolivio, like a knight out of the past. This is my country – and if we must go, I'll pine for it – and maybe die like the Indian bride. I want to stay here, Oliver dear – with you – down on the dear Old Ivison Place!"
Oliver tenderly kissed his Star of Destiny. "I have no other plans," he whispered into her ear. "My place is there… I am the Watchman of the Dead!"
