B FOR BOLIVIO
"Boy," said the kindly Mr. Tamroy, leaning forward toward Oliver Drew,
"those are the queerest last words of a father to his son that I ever
listened to. What on earth you goin' to do?"
Oliver shrugged and spread his hands. "Keep on obeying instructions," he
said. "I've followed them to the letter so far. I'm only a few miles
from my destination, and I've ridden in the silver-mounted saddle on
Poche's back the entire five hundred miles and over. My father was not a
fool. He was of sound mind, I fully believe, when he wrote that message
for me. There's some deep meaning underlying all this. I must simply
stay on the Old Tabor Ivison Place till I know what puzzled old Dad all
those years, and find out whether the answer is Yes or No."
"Heavens above!" muttered Mr. Tamroy. "But how you goin' to live?
What're you goin' to do down in there? Gonta get a job? It's too far
away from everything for you to go and come to a job, Mr. Drew."
"I'll tell you," said Oliver. "At the University I took an agricultural
course. Since my graduation I have written not a few articles and sold
them to leading farm journals. If the Old Tabor Ivison Place is of any
value at all, I want to experiment in raising all sorts of things on a
small scale, and write articles about my results. I'll have a few stands
of bees, and maybe a cow. I'll try all sorts of things, get a
second-hand typewriter, and go to it. I think I can live while I'm
waiting for my father's big question to crop up."
"You can raise a garden all right, I reckon," Oliver's new friend told
him, following him as he rose to continue his journey. "But you got to
irrigate, and there ain't the water in Clinker Creek there used to be.
Folks up near the headwaters use nearly all of it, and in the hot months
what they turn back will all go up in evaporation before it gets down to
you. There's a good spring, though, but it strikes me it don't flow
anything like it did when Old Tabor Ivison lived on the land."
"Is there a house on the place?"
"Only an old cabin. At least there was last time I chased a buck down in
there. And something of a fence, if I remember right. But fifteen years
is a long time--I reckon everything left is next to worthless."
They came to a pause at the edge of the sidewalk beside an aged
villager, who stood leaning on his crooked manzanita cane as he gazed at
Poche and his silver-mounted trappings.
"That's Old Dad Sloan," whispered Damon Tamroy. "He's one o' the last of
the 'Forty-niners. Just hobbles about on his cane, livin' off the
county, and waitin' to die. Never saw him take much interest in anything
before, but that outfit o' yours has caught his eye. Little wonder, by
golly!"
Oliver stepped into the street and lifted the hair-tassled reins of the
famous bridle. He turned to find the watery blue eyes of the patriarch
fixed on him intently. With a trembling left hand the old man brushed
back his long grey hair, then the fingers shakily caressed a grizzled
beard, flaring and wiry as excelsior. A long finger at length pointed to
the horse.
"Where'd you get that outfit, young feller?" came the quavering tones.
Mr. Tamroy winked knowingly at Oliver.
"It was my father's," said Oliver in eager tones.
The 'Forty-niner cupped a hand back of his ear. "Hey?" he shrilled.
Oliver lifted his voice and repeated.
"Yer papy's hey?" He tottered into the street and fingered the heavily
silvered Spanish halfbreed bit, which, Oliver had been told, was very
valuable intrinsically and as a relic. Then the knotty fingers travelled
up an intricately plaited cheekstrap to one of the glittering
silver-bordered _conchas_. The old fellow fumbled for his glasses,
placed them on his nose, and studied the last named conceit with
careful, lengthy scrutiny. "Is that there glass, young feller?" he
croaked at last, pointing to the setting of the _concha_, a lilac-hued
crystal about two inches in diameter.
"I think it is," Oliver shouted.
The old man shook his head. "I can't see well any more," he quavered.
"But this don't look like glass to me."
"I've never had it examined," Oliver told him. "I supposed the settings
of the _conchas_ to be glass or some sort of quartz."
"Quartz?"
"Yes, sir."
The grey head slowly shook back and forth. "Young man," came the piping
tones, "is they a 'B' cut in the metal that holds them stones in place?"
Oliver's eyes widened. "There is," he said. "On the inside of each one."
The old man stared at him, and his bearded lips trembled. "Bolivio!" he
croaked weirdly.
"I don't understand," said Oliver.
"Bolivio made them _conchas_, young feller. Bolivio made that bit.
Bolivio plaited that bridle. Bolivio made them martingales."
"And who is Bolivio?" puzzled the stranger.
"Dead and gone--dead and gone!" crooned the ancient. "That outfit's
maybe a hundred years old, young feller--part of it, 'tleast. And that
ain't glass in there--and it ain't quartz in in there--and there's only
one man ever in this country ever had a bridle like that."
"And who was he?" asked Oliver almost breathlessly.
"Dan Smeed--that's who! Dan Smeed--outlaw, highwayman, squawman! Dan
Smeed--gone these thirty years and more. That's his bridle--that's his
saddle--all made by Bolivio, maybe a hundred years ago. And them stones
in them _conchas_ are gems from the lost mine o' Bolivio. The lost gems
o' Bolivio, young feller!"
Oliver and Tamroy stared into each other's eyes as the old man tottered
back to the sidewalk.
"Tell me more!" cried Oliver, as the ancient began tapping his crooked
cane along the street.
There was no answer.
"He didn't hear," said Tamroy. "We'll get at him again sometime. Maybe
he'll tell what he knows and maybe he won't. He's awful childish--awful
headstrong. For days at a time he won't speak to a soul."
Oliver stood in deep thought, mystified beyond measure, yet thrilled
with the thought that he was nearing the beginning of the trail to the
mysterious question. He roused himself at length.
"Well, I must be getting along," he said. "I'll go right down to Clinker
Creek now, if you'll point the way. I've enough grub behind my saddle
for tonight and tomorrow morning. There's grass for the horse at
present?"
"Oh, yes--horse'll get along all right."
"Then I'll go down and give my property the once-over, and be up
tomorrow to get what I need."
Damon Tamroy showed him the road and shook hands with him. "Ride up and
get acquainted regular someday," he invited. "I got a little ranch up
the line--pears and apples and things. Give you some cherries a little
later on. Well, so-long. Remember the Poison Oakers!"
Oliver galloped away, his flashing equipment the target of all eyes, on
the road that led to the Old Tabor Ivison Place, his brain in a whirl of
excitement.