JESSAMY'S HUMMINGBIRD
A steep, tall mountain, heavily wooded, reared itself above the Indian
reservation. A creek tumbled over the boulders in the mountainside and
raced through the village of huts; and the combined millions of all the
irrigation and power companies in the West could not have bought a drop
of its water until Uncle Sam's charges had finished with it and set it
free again.
It was a picturesque spot. Huge liveoaks, centuries old, sprawled over
the cabins. Tiny gardens dotted the sunny land. Horses and dogs were
anything but scarce, and up the mountainside goats and burros browsed
off the chaparral. Wrinkled old squaws washed clothes at the creekside,
or pounded last season's acorns into _bellota_--the native dish--in
mortars hollowed in solid stone. Some made earthen _ollas_ of red clay;
some weaved baskets. Over all hung that weird, indescribable odour which
only Indians or their much-handled belongings can produce.
"This is peace," smiled Oliver to Jessamy, as their horses leaped the
stream side by side and cantered toward the cluster of dark, squat huts.
"What do they call this reservation?"
"It is named after an age-old dweller in our midst whom, since you are a
Westerner, you must have often met."
"Who is that?"
"Mr. Rattlesnake."
"Oh, certainly. I've met him on many occasions--mostly to his sorrow, I
fancy. Rattlesnake Reservation, eh?"
"Well, that would be it in English. But in the Pauba tongue Mr.
Rattlesnake becomes Showut Poche-daka."
"What's that!" Oliver turned quickly in his saddle to find her dark wide
eyes fixed on him intently. "Say that again, please."
"Showut Poche-daka," she repeated slowly.
"M'm-m! Strikes me as something of a coincidence--a part of that name."
"Showut is one word," she said, still watching him. "Poche and daka are
two words hyphenated."
"And how do the English-speaking people spell the second word, Poche?"
he asked.
"P-o-c-h-e," she spelled distinctly. "Long o, accent on the first
syllable."
Oliver reined in. "Stop a second," he ordered crisply. "Why, that's the
way my horse's name is spelled. Say, that's funny!"
"Is your trail growing plainer?"
He looked at her earnestly. "Look here," he said bluntly. "I distinctly
remember telling you the other day that my horse's name is Poche. Didn't
you connect it with the name of the reservation at the time?"
"I did."
He looked at her in silence. "You did, eh?" he remarked finally. "I
don't even know what my horse's name means. Dad bought him while I was
away at college. I understood the horse was named that when Dad got hold
of him, and that he merely hadn't changed it. Now, I won't say that Dad
told me as much outright, but I gathered that impression somehow. I knew
it was an Indian name, but had no idea of the meaning."
"Literally Poche means bob-tailed--short-tailed. That's why it occurs in
the title of our friend Mr. Rattlesnake. While your Poche-horse is not
bob-tailed, his tail is rather heavy and short, you'll admit. Has
nothing of the length and graceful sweep of White Ann's tail, if you'll
pardon me."
"You can't lead me into joshing just now, young lady. Answer this: Why
didn't you tell me, when I told you my _caballo's_ name, that you knew
what it meant? Most everybody asks me what it means when I tell 'em his
name; but you did not even show surprise over the oddity of it--and I
wondered. And before, when you spoke of this tribe of Indians, you
called them the Paubas."
"Certainly I showed no surprise, for I am familiar with the word poche
and have just proved that I know its meaning. And I'm not very clever at
simulating an emotion that I don't feel. I didn't tell you, moreover,
because I wanted you to find out for yourself. I thought you'd do so
here. Yes--and I deliberately called these people the Paubas. They _are_
Paubas--a branch of the Pauba tribe."
"I thought you were to help me," he grumbled. "You're adding to the
mystery, it seems to me."
"Not at all. I'm showing you the trail. You must follow it yourself.
Knowing the country, I see bits here and there that tell me where to go
to help you out. Poche's name is one of them. Keep your eyes and ears
open while I'm steering you around."
"All right," he agreed after a pause. "Lead on!"
"Then we'll make a call on Chupurosa Hatchinguish," she proposed.
"Chupurosa means hummingbird, as you doubtless know, since it is
Spanish. And if my Chupurosa isn't a bird and also a hummer, I never
hope to see one."
Oliver's riding outfit created a sensation as the two entered the
village. Faces appeared in doorways. Squat, dark men, their black-felt
hats invariably two sizes too large, came from nowhere, it seemed, to
gaze silently. Dogs barked. Women ceased their simple activities and
chattered noisily to one another.
Jessamy reined in before a black low door presently, and left the
saddle. Oliver followed her. Through a profusion of morning-glories the
girl led the way to the door and knocked.
From within came a guttural response, and, with a smile at her
companion, she passed through the entrance.
It was so dark within that for a little Oliver, coming from the bright
sunlight, could see almost nothing. Then the light filtering in through
the vines that covered the hut grew brighter.
The floor was of earth, beaten brick-hard by the padding of tough bare
feet. In the centre was a fireplace--little more than a circle of
blackened stones--from which the smoke was sucked out through a hole in
the roof, presumably after it had considerately asphyxiated the
occupants of the dwelling. Red earthenware and beautifully woven baskets
represented the household utensils. There were a few old splint-bottom
chairs, a pack-saddle hanging on the wall, a bed of green willow boughs
in one corner.
These simple items he noticed later, and one by one. For the time being
his interested attention was demanded by the figure that sat humped over
the fire, smoking a black clay pipe.
Chupurosa Hatchinguish, headman of the Showut Poche-dakas and a
prominent figure in the fiestas and yearly councils of the Pauba tribes,
was a treasure for anthropologists. Years beyond the ken of most human
beings had wrought their fabric in his face. It was cross-hatched,
tattooed, pitted, knurled, and wrinkled till one was reminded of the
surface of some strange, intricately veined leaf killed and mummified by
the frost. From this crunched-leather frame two little jet-black eyes
blazed out with the unquenched fires of youth and all the wisdom in the
world. A black felt hat, set straight on his iron-grey hair and almost
touching ears and eyebrows, faded-blue overalls, and a dingy flannel
shirt completed his garb, as he wore nothing on his feet.
"Hello, my Hummingbird!" Jessamy cried merrily in the Spanish tongue.
Chupurosa seemed not to be the stoic, "How-Ugh!" sort of Indian with
which fiction has made the world familiar. All the tragedy and
unsolvable mystery of his race was written in his face, but he could
smile and laugh and talk, and seemed to enjoy life hugely.
His leathery face now parted in a grin, and, though he did not rise, he
extended a rawhide hand and made his callers welcome. Then he waved them
to seats.
Much as any other human being would do, he politely inquired after the
girl's health and that of her family. Asked as to his own, he shook his
head and made a rheumatic grimace.
"I've brought a friend to see you, Chupurosa," said Jessamy at last, as,
for some reason or other, she had not yet exactly introduced Oliver.
Chupurosa looked at the man inquiringly and waited.
"This is Oliver Drew," said the girl in what Oliver thought were
unnatural, rather tense tones. He saw Jessamy's lips part slightly after
his name, and that she was watching the old man intently.
Chupurosa nodded in an exaggerated way, and extended a hand, though the
two had already gone through the handshake formality. Oliver arose and
did his part again, then stood a bit awkwardly before their host.
He heard a half-sigh escape the girl. "Senor Drew has not been in our
country long," she informed the old man. "He comes from the southern
part of the state--from San Bernardino County."
Again the exaggerated nodding on the part of Chupurosa.
Then there was a pause, which the girl at length broke--
"Did you catch the name, Chupurosa? _Oliver Drew_."
Chupurosa politely but haltingly repeated it, and grinned
accommodatingly.
Jessamy tried again. "Do you know a piece of land down in Clinker Creek
Canyon that is called the Old Ivison Place, Chupurosa?"
His nod this time was thoughtful.
"Senor Drew now owns that, and lives there," she added.
Both Jessamy and Oliver were watching him keenly. It seemed to Oliver
that there was the faintest suggestion of dilation of the eye-pupils as
this last bit of information was imparted. Still, it may have meant
nothing.
The Indian crumbled natural-leaf with heel of hand and palm, and
refilled his terrible pipe.
"Any friend of yours is welcome to this country and to my hospitality,"
he said.
"Senor Drew rode all the way up here horseback," the girl pushed on.
"You like good horses, Chupurosa. Senor Drew has a fine one. His name is
Poche."
For the fraction of a second the match that Oliver had handed Chupurosa
stood stationary on its trip to the tobacco in his pipe. Chupurosa
nodded in his slow way again, and the match completed its mission and
fell between the blackened stones.
"And you like saddles and bridles, too, I know. You should see Senor
Drew's equipment, Chupurosa."
Several thoughtful puffs. Then--
"Is it here, Senorita?"
"Yes," said the girl breathlessly. "Will you go out and look at it?"
This time the headman puffed for nearly a minute; then suddenly he rose
with surprising briskness.
"I will look at this horse called Poche," he announced, and stalked out
ahead of them.
A number of Indians, old and young, had gathered about the horses
outside the little gate. They were silent but for a low, seemingly
guarded word to one another now and then. Every black eye there was
fixed on the gorgeous saddle and bridle of Poche in awe and admiration.
Then came Chupurosa, tall, dignified as the distant mountain peaks, and
they backed off instantly. At his heels were Oliver and the girl, whose
cheeks now glowed like sunset clouds and whose eyes spoke volumes.
Thrice in absolute silence the headman walked round the horse.
Completing the third trip, he stepped to Poche's head and stood
attentively looking at the left-hand _concha_ with its glistening stone.
Then Chupurosa lifted his hands, slipped the chased-silver keeper that
held the throatlatch in place, and let the throatlatch drop. Both hands
grasped the cheekstrap near the brow-band, and turned this part of the
bridle inside out.
Oliver felt a slight trembling, it was all so weird, so portentous. He
almost knew that the jet eyes were searching for the "B" chiselled into
the silver on the inside of the _concha_, knew positively by the quick
dilation of the pupils when they found it.
At once the old man released the bridle and readjusted the throatlatch.
He turned to them then, and silently motioned toward the hut. Jessamy
cast a triumphant glance at Oliver as they followed him inside.
To Oliver's surprise he closed the door after them. Then, though it was
now so dark inside that Oliver could scarce see at all, Chupurosa stood
directly before him and looked him up and down.
He spoke now in the melodious Spanish.
"Senor," he asked, "is there in the middle of your body, on the left
side, the scar of a wound like a man's eye?"
Oliver caught his breath. "Yes," he replied. "I brought it back from
France. A bayonet wound."
Up and down went the iron-grey head of the sage. "I have never seen the
weapon nor the sort of wound it makes," he informed Oliver gravely.
"Take off your shirt."
"Oh, Chupu-_ro_-sa!" screamed Jessamy as she threw open the door and
slammed it after her.