Produced by Darleen Dove, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
THE HERITAGE OF THE HILLS
BY ARTHUR P. HANKINS
Author of "THE JUBILEE GIRL," Etc.
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1922
COPYRIGHT, 1921, 1922
BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC.
PRINTED IN U. S. A.
CONTENTS
I AT HONEYMOON FLAT
II PETER DREW'S LAST MESSAGE
III B FOR BOLIVIO
IV THE FIRST CALLER
V "AND I'LL HELP YOU!"
VI ACCORDING TO THE RECORDS
VII LILAC SPODUMENE
VIII POISON OAK RANCH
IX NANCY FIELD'S WINDFALL
X JESSAMY'S HUMMINGBIRD
XI CONCERNING SPRINGS AND SHOWUT POCHE-DAKA
XII THE POISON OAKERS RIDE
XIII SHINPLASTER AND CREEDS
XIV HIGH POWER
XV THE FIRE DANCE
XVI A GUEST AT THE RANCHO
XVII THE GIRL IN RED
XVIII SPIES
XIX CONTENTIONS
XX "WAIT!"
XXI "WHEN WE MEET AGAIN!"
XXII THE WATCHMAN OF THE DEAD
XXIII THE QUESTION
XXIV IN THE DEER PATH
XXV THE ANSWER
The Heritage of the Hills
CHAPTER I
AT HALFMOON FLAT
The road wound ever upward through pines and spruce and several
varieties of oak. Some of the latter were straight, some sprawling, all
massive. Now and then a break in the timber revealed wooded hills beyond
green pasture lands, and other hills covered with dense growths of
buckhorn and manzanita. Poison oak grew everywhere, and, at this time of
year--early spring--was most prolific, most beautiful in its dark rich
green, most poisonous.
Occasionally the lone horseman crossed a riotous stream, plunging down
from the snow-topped Sierras in the far distance. Rail fences, for the
most part in a tumbledown condition, paralleled the dirt road here and
there.
At long intervals they passed tall, old-fashioned ranch houses, with
their accompanying stables, deciduous orchards and still dormant
vineyards, wandering turkeys and mud-incrusted pigs. An air of decay and
haphazard ambition pervaded all these evidences of the dwelling places
of men.
"Well, Poche," remarked Oliver Drew, "it's been a long, hard trip, but
we're getting close to home." The man spoke the word "home" with a touch
of bitterness.
The rangy bay saddler slanted his left ear back at Oliver Drew and
quickened his walking-trot.
"No, no!" laughed Oliver, tightening the reins. "All the more reason we
should take it easy today, old horse. Don't you ever tire?"
For an hour Poche climbed steadily. Now he topped the summit of the
miniature mountain, and Oliver stopped him to gaze down fifteen hundred
feet into the timbered canyon of the American River. Even the cow-pony
seemed enthralled with the grandeur of the scene--the wooded hills
climbing shelf by shelf to the faraway mist-hung mountains; the green
river winding its serpentine course far below. Far up the river a gold
dredger was at work, the low rumble of its machinery carried on the soft
morning breeze.
Half an hour later Poche ambled briskly into the little town of Halfmoon
Flat, snuggled away in the pines and spruces, sunflecked, indolent,
content. It suited Oliver's mood, this lazy old-fashioned Halfmoon Flat,
with its one shady "business" street, its false-front, one-story shops
and stores, redolent still of the glamorous days of '49.
He drew up before a saloon to inquire after the road he should take out
of town to reach his destination. The loungers about the door of the
place all proved to be French- or Spanish-Basque sheep herders; and
their agglutinative language was as a closed book to the traveler. So he
dropped the reins from Poche's neck and entered the dark, low-ceiled
bar-room, with its many decorations of dusty deer antlers on fly-specked
walls.
All was strangely quiet within. There were no patrons, no bartender
behind the black, stained bar. He saw this white-aproned personage,
however, a fat, wide, sandy-haired man, standing framed by the rear
door, his back toward the front. Through a dirty rear window Oliver saw
men in the back yard--silent, motionless men, with faces intent on
something of captivating interest, some silent, muscle-tensing event.
With awakened wonder he walked to the fat bartender's back and looked
out over his shoulder. Strange indeed was the scene that was revealed.
Perhaps twenty men were in an unfenced portion of the lot behind the
saloon. Some of them had been pitching horseshoes, for two stood with
the iron semicircles still in hand. Every man there gazed with silent
intensity at two central figures, who furnished the drama.
The first, a squat, dark, slit-eyed man of about twenty-five, lazed in a
big Western saddle on a lean roan horse. His left spurred heel stood
straight out at right angles to the direction in which his horse faced.
He hung in the saddle by the bend in his right leg, the foot out of the
stirrup, the motionless man facing to the right, a leering grin on his
face, half whimsical, half sardonic. That he was a fatalist was
evidenced by every line on his swarthy, hairless face; for he looked
sneering indifference into the wavering muzzle of a Colt .45, in the
hand of the other actor in the pantomime. His own Colt lay passive
against his hip. His right forearm rested across his thigh, the hand far
from the butt of the weapon. A cigarette drooped lazily from his
grinning lips. Yet for all his indifferent calm, there was in his
glittering, Mongolic eyes an eagle watchfulness that bespoke the fires
of hatred within him.
The dismounted man who had the drop on him was of another type. Tall,
angular, countrified, he personified the popular conception of a
Connecticut yankee. He boiled with silent rage as he stood, with long
body bent forward, threatening the other with his enormous gun. Despite
the present superiority of his position, there was something of pathos
in his lean, bronzed face, something of a nature downtrodden, of the
worm suddenly turned.
For seconds that seemed like ages the two statuesque figures confronted
each other. Men breathed in short inhalations, as if fearful of breaking
the spell. Then the threatened man in the saddle puffed out a cloud of
cigarette smoke, and drawled sarcastically:
"Well, why don't you shoot, ol'-timer? You got the drop."
Complete indifference to his fate marked the squat man's tone and
attitude. Only those small black eyes, gleaming like points of jet from
under the lowered Chinamanlike lids, proclaimed that the other had
better make a thorough piece of work of this thing that he had started.
The lank man found his tongue at the sound of the other's voice.
"Why don't I shoot, you coyote whelp! Why don't I shoot! You know why!
Because they's a law in this land, that's why! I oughta kill ye, an'
everybody here knows it, but I'd hang for it."
The man on the roan blew another puff of smoke. "You oughta thought o'
that when you threw down on me," he lazily reminded the other. "_You_
ain't got no license packin' a gun, pardner."
The expression that crossed his antagonist's face was one of torture,
bafflement. It proved that he knew the mounted man had spoken truth. He
was no killer. In a fit of rage he had drawn his weapon and got the drop
on his enemy, only to shrink from the thought of taking a human life and
from the consequences of such an act. But he essayed to bluster his way
out of the situation in which his uncontrollable wrath had inveigled
him.
"I can't shoot ye in cold blood!" he hotly cried. "I'm not the skunk
that you are. I'm too much of a man. I'll let ye go this time. But mind
me--if you or any o' your thievin' gang pesters me ag'in, I'll--I'll
kill ye!"
"Better attend to that little business right now, pardner," came the
fatalist's smooth admonition.
"Don't rile me too far!" fumed the other. "God knows I could kill ye an'
never fear for the hereafter. But I'm a law-abidin' man, an'"--the
six-shooter in his hand was wavering--"an' I'm a law-abidin' man," he
repeated, floundering. "So this time I'll let ye--"
A fierce clatter of hoofs interrupted him. Down the street, across the
board sidewalk, into the lot back of the saloon dashed a white horse, a
black-haired girl astride in the saddle. She reined her horse to its
haunches, scattering spectators right and left.
"Don't lower that gun!" she shrieked. "Shoot! Kill him!"
Her warning came too late. It may have been, even, that instead of a
warning it was a knell. For a loud report sent the echoes galloping
through the sleepy little town. The man on the ground, who had half
lowered his gun as the girl raced in, threw up both hands, and went
reeling about drunkenly. Another shot rang out. The squat man still
lolled in his saddle, facing to the right. The gun that he had drawn in
a flash when the other's indecision had reached a climax was levelled
rigidly from his hip, the muzzle slowly following his staggering,
twice-wounded enemy.
In horror the watchers gazed, silent. The stricken man reeled against
the legs of the girl's horse, strove to clasp them. The animal snorted
at the smell of blood and reared. His temporary support removed, the man
collapsed, face downward, on the ground, turned over once, lay still.
The squat man slowly holstered his gun. Then the first sound to break
the silence since the shots was his voice as he spoke to the girl.
"Much obliged, Jess'my," he said; then straightened in his saddle,
spurred the roan, and dashed across the sidewalk to disappear around the
corner of the building. A longdrawn, derisive "Hi-yi!" floated back, and
the clatter of the roan's hoofbeats died away.
The girl had sprung from her mare and was bending over the fallen man.
The others crowded about her now, all talking at once. She lifted a
white, tragic face to them, a face so wildly beautiful that, even under
the stress of the moment, Oliver Drew felt that sudden fierce pang of
desire which the first startled sight of "the one woman" brings to a
healthy, manly man.
"He's dead! I've killed him!" she cried.
"No, no, no, Miss Jessamy," protested a hoarse voice quickly. "You
wasn't to blame."
"O' course not!" chorused a dozen.
"He'd 'a' lowered that gun," went on her first consoler. "He was backin'
out when you come, Miss Jessamy. An' as sure as he'd took his gun off
Digger Foss, Digger'd 'a' killed 'im. It was a fool business from the
start, Miss Jessamy."
"Then why didn't some of you warn this man?" she flamed. "You cowards!
Are you afraid of Digger Foss? Oh, I--"
"Now, looky-here, Miss Jessamy," soothed the spokesman, "bein' afraid o'
Digger Foss ain't got anything to do with it. It wasn't our fight. We
had no call to butt in. Men don't do that in a gun country, Miss
Jessamy--you know that. This fella pulled on Digger, then lost his
nerve. What you told 'im to do, Miss Jessamy, was right. Man ain't got
no call to throw down on another one unless he intends to shoot. You
know that, Miss Jessamy--you as much as said so."
For answer the girl burst into tears. She rose, and the silent men stood
back for her. She mounted and rode away without another word, wiping
fiercely at her eyes with a handkerchief.
Four men carried the dead man away. The rest, obviously in need of a
stimulant, crowded in and up to the black bar. Oliver joined them. The
weird sight that he had witnessed had left him weak and sick at the
stomach.
Silently the fat, blond bartender set out whisky glasses, then looked
hesitatingly at the stranger.
"Go ahead, Swede," encouraged a big fellow at Oliver's left. "He needs
one, too. He saw it."
The bartender shrugged, thumped a glass toward Oliver, and broke the
laws of the land.
"What was it all about?" Oliver, encouraged by this confidence, asked of
the big, goodnatured man who had vouched for him on sight.
The other looked him over. "This fella Dodd," he said, "started
something he couldn't finish--that's all. Dodd's had it in for Digger
Foss and the Selden boys and some more of 'em for a year. Selden was
runnin' cattle on Dodd's land, and Dodd claimed they cut fences to _get_
'em on. I don't know what all was between 'em. There's always bad blood
between Old Man Selden and his boys and the rest o' the Poison Oakers,
and somebody.
"Anyway," he went on, "this mornin' Henry Dodd comes in and gets the
drop on Digger Foss, who's thick with the Seldens, and is one o' the
Poison Oakers; and then Dodd ain't got the nerve to shoot. You saw what
it cost him. Fill 'em up again, boys."
"I can't understand that girl," Oliver remarked. "Why, she rode in and
told the man to shoot--to kill."
"And wasn't she right?"
"None of the rest of you did it, as she pointed out to you."
"No--men wouldn't do that, I reckon. But a woman's different. They butt
in for what they think's right, regardless. But I look at it like this,
pardner: Dodd's a grown man and is packin' a hip gun. Why's he packin'
it if he don't mean to use it? Only a kid ought to be excused from
flourishin' iron like he did. He was just lettin' off steam. But he
picked the wrong man to relieve himself on. If he'd 'a' killed Digger,
as Miss Jessamy told him to, maybe he'd a hung for it. But he'd a had a
chance with a jury. Where if he took his gat offen Digger Foss, it was
sure death. I knew it; all of us knew it. And I knew he was goin' to
lower it after he'd painted pictures in the air with it and thought he'd
convinced all of us he was a bad man, and all that. He'd never pulled
the trigger, and Digger Foss knew it."
"Then if this Digger Foss knew he was only bluffing, he--why, he
practically shot the man in cold blood!" cried Oliver.
"Not practically but ab-so-lutely. Digger knew he was within the law, as
they say. While he knew Dodd wouldn't shoot, no prosecutin' attorney can
_prove_ that he knew it. Dodd had held a gun on him and threatened to
kill 'im. When Digger gets the chance he takes it--makes his lightin'
draw and kills Dodd. On the face of it it's self-defence, pure and
simple, and Digger'll be acquitted. He'll be in tonight and give himself
up to the constable. He knows just where he stands."
Oliver's informant tossed off his liquor.
"And Miss Jessamy knew all this--see?" he continued. "She savvies
gunmen. She ought to, bein' a Selden. At least she calls herself a
Selden, but her right name's Lomax. Old Man Selden married a widow, and
this girl's her daughter. Well, she rides in and tells Dodd to shoot.
She knew it was his life or Digger's, after he'd made that crack. But
the poor fool!--Well, you saw what happened. Don't belong about here, do
you, pardner?"
"I do now," Oliver returned. "I'm just moving in, as it were. I own
forty acres down on Clinker Creek. I came in here to inquire the way,
and stumbled onto this tragedy."
"On Clinker Creek! What forty?"
"It's called the Old Tabor Ivison Place."
"Heavens above! You own the Old Tabor Ivison Place?"
"So the recorder's office says--or ought to."
For fully ten seconds the big fellow faced Oliver, his blue eyes
studying him carefully, appraisingly.
"Well, by thunder!" he muttered at last. "Tell me about it, pardner. My
name's Damon Tamroy."
"Mine is Oliver Drew," said Oliver, offering his hand.
"Well, I'll be damned!" ejaculated Tamroy in a low voice, his eyes, wide
with curiosity, devouring Oliver. "The Old Ivison Place!"
"You seem surprised."
"Surprised! Hump! Say--le'me tell you right here, pardner; don't _you_
ever pull a gun on any o' the Poison Oakers and act like Henry Dodd did.
Maybe it's well you saw what was pulled off today--if you'll only
remember when you get down there on the Tabor Ivison Place."