THE POISON OAKERS RIDE
A red-headed, red-breasted male linnet sat on the topmost branch of the
old, gnarled liveoak near Oliver's window and tried to burst his throat
to the accompaniment of Oliver's typewriter. When the keys ceased their
clicking the singer finished a bar and waited, till once more the
dicelike rattle encouraged him to another ecstatic burst of melody.
"Well, I like to be accommodating," remarked Oliver, leaning back from
his machine, "but I can't accompany you all day; and it happens that I'm
through right now."
He surveyed the last typewritten sheet of his manuscript on the cleaning
of springs for the enlarging of their flow; but, the article completed,
his mind was no longer engrossed by it.
Other and bigger matters claimed his thoughts, and he sat in the soft
spring air wondering about old Chupurosa Hatchinguish and his strange
behaviour on seeing the gem-mounted _conchas_ stamped with the letter B.
When Oliver had stripped off his shirt in the hut that day the scar that
a German bayonet had left in his side had carefully been examined by the
ancient chief. Oliver fancied there had been a strange new look in his
inscrutable eyes as he silently motioned for him to put on his shirt
again. He had made no comment whatever, though, and said nothing at all
until the young man had finished dressing. Then he had stepped to the
door and opened it, rather impolitely suggesting that his guest's
presence in the hut was no longer necessary. As Oliver passed out he had
spoken:
"When next the moon is full," he said, "the Showut Poche-dakas will
observe the Fiesta de Santa Maria de Refugio, as taught them years ago
by the padres who came from Spain. Then will the Showut Poche-dakas
dance the fire dance, which is according to the laws laid down by the
wise men of their ancestors. Ride here to the Fiesta de Santa Maria de
Refugio on the first night that the moon is full. _Adios, amigo!_"
That was all; and Oliver had passed out into the bright sunlight and
found Jessamy Selden.
The two had talked over the circumstances often since that day, but
neither could throw any light on the matter. But the first night of the
full moon was not far distant now, and Oliver and the girl were awaiting
it impatiently. Oliver felt that at the fiesta he would in some way gain
an inkling of the mysterious question that had puzzled his father for
thirty years, and which eventually had brought his son into this country
to find out whether its answer was Yes or No.
Oliver tilted back his chair and lighted his briar pipe. Out in the
liveoak tree the linnet waited, head on one side, chirping plaintively
occasionally, for the renewed clicking of the typewriter keys. But
Oliver's thoughts were far from his work.
That burning, colourless liquor that had so fiercely fired his brain was
undoubtedly moonshine--and redistilled at that, no doubt. Jessamy had
told him further that she had not so much as unscrewed the cap since old
Adam had given her the flask, at her request, and had had no idea that
the flask had not contained amber-coloured whisky. Was this in reality
the reason why the Poison Oakers wished him to be gone? Had they been
distilling moonshine whisky down at Sulphur Spring to supply the blind
pigs controlled by the prosecuting attorney at the county seat? And had
his inadvertent shutting off of Sulphur Spring's supply of water stopped
their illicit activities? They had known, perhaps, that eventually he
would discover that his own spring had been choked by some one and would
rectify the condition. Whereupon Sulphur Spring would cease to flow and
automatically cut off one of their sources of revenue. Oliver decided to
look for Sulphur Spring at his earliest opportunity.
His brows came together as he recalled the episode on the hill, when
either the fiery raw liquor or the poison from the diamond-back's
fangs--or both--had deprived him of his senses.
He remembered perfectly what he had said--what he had done. He had heard
sometime that a man always tells the truth when he is drunk. But had he
been drunk, or rabid from the hypodermic injections of Showut
Poche-daka? Or, again--both? One thing he knew--that he thrilled yet at
remembrance of those satin lips which he had pressed again and again.
Had he told the truth? Had he said that day what he would not have
revealed for anything--at that time?
His brows contracted more and more, and a grim smile twitched his lips.
His teeth gripped the amber stem of his pipe. Had he told the truth?
He rose suddenly and went through a boyish practice that had clung to
him to the years of his young manhood. He stalked to the cheap
rectangular mirror on the wall and gazed at his wavy reflection in the
flawed glass. Blue eye into blue eye he gazed, and once more asked the
question:
"Did I tell the truth when I said I loved her?"
His eyes answered him. He knew that he had told the truth.
Then if this was true--and he knew it to be true--what of the halfbreed,
Digger Foss? He remembered a gaunt man, stricken to his death, reeling
against the legs of a snorting white mare and clutching at them blindly
for support--remembered the gloating grin of the mounted man, the muzzle
of whose gun followed the movements of his wounded enemy as a cobra's
head sways back and forth to the charmer's music--remembered the cruel
insolence of the Mongolic eyes, mere slits.
He swung about suddenly from the mirror and caught sight of a knothole
in the cabin wall, which so far he had neglected to patch with tin. He
noted it as he swung about and dived at the pillow on his bed. He hurled
the pillow one side, swept up the ivory-handled '45 that lay there,
wheeled, and fired at the knothole. There had been no appreciable pause
between his grasping of the weapon and the trigger pull, yet he saw no
bullet hole in the cabin boards when the smoke had cleared away.
He chuckled grimly. "I might get out my army medals for marksmanship and
pin 'em on my breast for a target," he said.
Then to his vast confusion there came a voice from the front of the
house.
"Ain't committed soothin' syrup, have ye?" it boomed.
There was no mistaking the deep-lunged tones. It was Old Man Selden who
had called to him.
Oliver tossed the gun on the bed and walked through to the front door,
which always stood open these days, inviting the countless little
lizards that his invasion of the place had not disturbed to enter and
make themselves at home.
The gaunt old boss of the Clinker Creek Country stood, with
chap-protected legs wide apart, on Oliver's little porch. His
broad-brimmed black hat was set at an angle on his iron-grey hair, and
his cold blue eyes were piercing and direct, as always. In his hands he
held the reins of his horse's bridle. Back of the grey seven men lounged
in their saddles, grinning at the old man's sally. Digger Foss was not
among the number.
"How d'ye do, Mr. Selden," said Oliver in cordial tones, thrusting forth
a strong brown hand.
Selden did not accept the hand, and made no effort to pretend that he
had not noticed it. Oliver quickly withdrew it, and two little lumps
showed over the hinges of his jaws.
He changed his tone immediately. "Well, what can I do for you
gentlemen?" he inquired brusquely.
"We was ridin' through an' thought we heard a shot," said Selden. "So I
dropped off to see if ye wasn't hurt."
"I beg your pardon," Oliver returned, "but you must have been dismounted
when I fired. This being the case, you already had decided to call on
me. So, once more, how can I be of service to you?"
The grins of the men who rode with Adam Selden disappeared. There was no
mistaking the businesslike hostility of Oliver's attitude.
"Peeved about somethin' this mornin'," one of them drawled to the rider
whose knee pressed his.
Oliver looked straight at Old Man Selden, and to him he spoke.
"I am not peeved about anything," he said. "But when a man comes to my
door, and I come and offer him my hand, and he ignores it, my inference
is that the call isn't a friendly one. So if you have any business to
transact with me, let's get it off our chests."
Oliver noted with a certain amount of satisfaction the quick, surprised
looks that were flashed among the Poison Oakers. Apparently they had met
a tougher customer than they had expected.
All this time the cold blue eyes of Adam Selden had been looking over
the pitted Bourbon nose at Oliver. Selden's tones were unruffled as he
said:
"Thought maybe the poison oak had got too many for ye, an' ye'd shot
yerself."
"I don't care to listen to subtle threats," Oliver returned promptly.
"Poison oak does not trouble me at all--neither the vegetable variety
nor the other variety. I'm never in favour of bandying words. If I have
anything to say I try to say it in the best American-English at my
command. So I'll make no pretence, Mr. Selden, that I have not heard you
don't want me here in the canyon. And I'll add that I am here, on my own
land, and intend to do my best to remain till I see fit to leave."
Selden's craggy brows came down, and the scrutiny that he gave the young
man was not without an element of admiration. No anger showed in his
voice as he said:
"Just so! Just so! I wanted to tell ye that I been down to the
recorder's office and up to see Nancy Fleet, my wife's sister. Seems
that you're right about this prop'ty standin' in your name an' all; but
I thought, so long's we was ridin' along this way, I'd drop off an' have
a word with ye."
"I'm waiting to hear it."
"No use gettin' riled, now, because--"
"If you had accepted my hand you'd not find me adopting the tone that I
have."
"Just so!" Selden drawled. "Well, then, I'll accept her now--if I ain't
too bold."
"You will not," clicked Oliver. "Will you please state your business and
ride on?"
"Friendly cuss, ain't he, Dad?" remarked one of the Selden boys--which
one Oliver did not know.
"You close yer face!" admonished Selden smoothly, in his deep bass.
"Well, Mr. Drew, if ye want to stay here an' starve to death, that's
none o' my concern. And if ye got money to live on comin' from
somewheres else, that's none o' my concern either. But when ye stop the
run o' water from a spring that I'm dependin' on to water my critters in
dry months, it _is_ my concern--an' that's why I dropped off for a word
with ye."
"How do you know I have done that?" Oliver asked.
"Well, 'tain't likely that a spring like Sulphur Spring would go dry the
last o' May. Most o' these springs along here are fed from the same
vein. You move in, and Sulphur Spring goes dry. So that's what I dropped
off to talk to ye about. Just so!"
"I suppose," said Oliver, "that the work I did on my spring has in
reality stopped the flow of Sulphur Spring. But--"
"Ye do? What _makes_ ye suppose so?--if I ain't too bold in askin'."
Oliver's lips straightened. Plainly Selden suspected that Jessamy had
told him of the peculiarity of the canyon springs, and was trying to make
him implicate her. But the old man was not the crafty intriguer he
seemed to fancy himself to be. He already had said too much if he wished
to make Oliver drag the girl's name into the quarrel.
"Why, what you have just told me, added to my knowledge of what I did to
clean out my spring, leads to that supposition," he replied. "But, as I
was about to remark when you interrupted me, I can't see that that is
any concern of mine. That's putting it rather bluntly, perhaps; but I am
entirely within my rights in developing all the water that I can on my
land, regardless of how it may affect land that lies below me."
"Right there's the point," retorted Selden. "I'm a pretty good friend o'
the prosecutin' attorney down at the county seat. He tells me ye can't
take my water away from me like that."
"Then I should say that your legal friend is not very well posted on the
laws governing the development and disposition of water in this state,"
Oliver promptly told him.
"I wrote him," said Selden, "an' I'll show ye the letter if ye'll invite
me in."
For the first time Oliver hesitated. Why did Selden wish to enter the
cabin? Could not the letter be produced and read on the porch? It
flashed through his mind that the old fox wished to get him inside so
that some of his gang might investigate the spring and find out the
volume of the water that was flowing, and what had been done to increase
it. This only added to his belief that the Poison Oakers were
responsible for the wall of stones that had choked the stream. Well, why
not let them find out all that they wished to know in this regard?
"Certainly," he invited. "Come in." And he stood back from the door.
Selden clanked his spur rowels across the threshold. At the same time he
was reaching into his shirtfront for the letter.
Then an odd thing occurred. He was about to take the chair that Oliver
had pushed forward when his blue eyes fell upon the saddle and bridle
which had come to stand for so much in Oliver's life, hanging from a
thong in one corner of the room.
The old Poison Oaker's eyes grew wide, and, as was their way when he was
moved out of his customary brooding mood, his thick nostrils began
dilating. But almost instantly he was his cold, insolent self again.
"I heard some of 'em gassin' about that rig o' yours," he remarked.
"Said she was a hummer all 'round. That it there? Mind if I look her
over?"
"Not at all." Oliver was quick to grasp at any chance that might lead to
the big question and its answer.
Old Man Selden's leather chaps whistled his legs to the corner, where he
stood, long arms at his sides, gazing at the saddle, the bridle, and the
martingales. His deep breathing was the only sound in the room. Outside,
Oliver heard foot-steps, and suspected that the investigation of his
spring was on.
At last Adam Selden made a move. He changed his position so that his
spacious back was turned toward Oliver. Quietly Oliver leaned to one
side in his chair, and he saw the cowman's big hand outstretched toward
the gem-mounted _concha_ on the left-hand side of the bridle--saw thumb
and fingers turn that part of the bridle inside-out.
Again the room was soundless. Then Selden turned from the exhibit, and
Oliver grew tense as he noted the strange pallor that had come on the
old man's face.
"That's a han'some rig," was all he said, as he sank to his chair and
laid a letter on the oilcloth-covered table.
The letter contained the information that its recipient had claimed, and
was signed Elmer Standard. Oliver quickly passed it back, remarking:
"He's entirely wrong, and ought to know it. I have had occasion to look
into the legal aspect of water rights in California quite thoroughly,
and fortunately am better posted than most laymen are on the subject."
But the chief of the Poison Oakers was scarce listening. In his blue
eyes was a faraway look, and that weird grey pallor had not left his
face.
Suddenly he jerked himself from reverie, and, to Oliver's surprise, a
smile crossed his bearded lips.
"Just so! Just so! I judge ye're right, Mr. Drew--I judge ye're right,"
he said almost genially. "Anyway you an' me'd be out-an'-out fools to
fuss over a matter like that. There's plenty water fer the cows, an' I
oughtn't to butted in. But us ol'-timers, ye know, we--Well, I guess we
oughta be shot an' drug out fer the cy-otes to gnaw on. I won't trouble
ye again, Mr. Drew. An' I'll be ridin' now with the boys, I reckon. Ye
might ride up and get acquainted with my wife an' step-daughter--but I
guess ye've already met Jess'my. I've heard her mention ye. Ride up some
day--they'll be glad to see ye."
And Oliver Drew was more at a loss how to act in showing him out than
when he had first faced him on the porch.
The Poison Oakers, with Old Man Selden at their head, rode away up the
canyon. Oliver Drew was throwing the saddle on Poche's back two minutes
after they had vanished in the trees. He mounted and galloped in the
opposite direction, opening the wire "Indian" gate when he reached the
south line of his property.
An hour later he was searching the obscure hills and canyons for Sulphur
Spring, but two hours had elapsed before he found it.
It was hidden away in a little wooded canyon, with high hills all about,
and wild grapevines, buckeyes, and bays almost completely screened it.
While cattle might drink from the overflow that ran down beyond the
heavy growth, they could not have reached the basin which had been
designed to hold the water as it flowed directly from the spring.
Moreover, it was doubtful if, during the hot summer months, the rapid
evaporating would leave any water for cattle in the tiny course below
the bushes.
Oliver parted the foliage and crawled in to the clay basin. Cold water
remained in the bottom of it, but the inflow had ceased entirely.
He bent down and submerged his hand, feeling along the sides of the
basin. Almost at once his fingers closed over the end of a piece of
three-quarter-inch iron pipe.
Then in the pool before his face there came a sudden _chug_, and a
little geyser of water spurted up into his eyes. Oliver drew back
instinctively. His face blanched, and his muscles tightened.
Then from somewhere up in the timbered hills came the crash of a
heavy-calibre rifle.