"WAIT!"
For over an hour Oliver Drew was obliged to lie flat at the bottom of
the shallow prospect hole, while Foss remained astride the limb of the
digger pine and Tommy My-Ma kept hidden under the pile of brush.
There was no chance to steal out and crawl away through the chaparral,
for, while Digger's back was always toward him, he could not tell which
way the brush-screened Showut Poche-daka was looking.
At last, though, the man on lookout began to show signs of vast
uneasiness. His position was uncomfortable, and down at the cabin there
was, of course, no movement to arouse his interest and relieve the
tedium of his watch. He squirmed incessantly for a time; and then
apparently he decided that the object of his espionage had left the
ranch, for he thrust his glasses in his shirt front and began monkeying
to the ground.
Oliver's security now was in the hands of chance. If the halfbreed left
his observation post by a route which passed near the prospect hole,
Oliver would be discovered. If he decided to leave the thicket by
crawling downhill, Oliver would be safe from detection.
It was rather a breathless minute that followed, and then he heard the
gunman moving off through the chaparral in the direction of the
canyon--the least difficult route by far. Apparently he had not come
mounted, else he would have retraced his course back to where he would
have left his horse.
Gradually the sounds of his retreat died away. Still there was no
movement in the pile of brush, so far as Oliver's ears were able to
detect. He dared not look up over the edge of the prospect hole that hid
him.
Minutes passed. Quail called coolly from afar. Still not the slightest
sound from the brush pile.
For half an hour longer Oliver lay motionless and silent. Had Tommy
My-Ma slipped out noiselessly and followed Foss? Or was he for some
obscure reason still hiding under the dry manzanita tops? At the end of
this period Oliver decided that the Indian must have gone. Anyway, he
did not purpose to remain in that hole till nightfall.
So he elevated his nose to the land level and peered about cautiously.
Everything remained as he had seen it last. He rose to his feet, left
the hole, and walked boldly to the brush pile.
A swift examination of the ground showed that Tommy My-Ma had left his
place of concealment, perhaps long since. There was a plainly marked
trail through the shattered leaves that led in the same direction taken
by the departing halfbreed.
Oliver studied the brush pile, and found that the facilities for hiding
were as he had deduced. Pine limbs had been laid across the hole like
rafters, and the brush heaped on top of them. Beneath was a space deep
enough for a man to sit erect; and he might thrust his head up into the
brush and peer out in all directions. Loose brush concealed the
entrance, and it had been replaced when the Indian took his leave.
What was the meaning of it all? Foss, of course, had reason to hate him;
but what could he gain by secretly watching him from cover? And why was
the Indian watching Foss in turn? All indications pointed to the belief
that Foss had occupied his observation tree often, and that his shadow
had as frequently trailed him and spied on him from a prearranged hiding
place.
What strange, mysterious intrigue had enveloped his life because of the
unanswered question with which old Peter Drew had struggled for over
thirty years? When would he face the question? Would the answer be Yes
or No? Would his college education prove a safeguard against his reading
the answer wrong, as his poor, unlettered old father had hoped? And
Jessamy! Would she figure in the answer? Somehow he felt that hope and
life and Jessamy hung on whether his answer would be Yes or No. His dead
father's hand seemed to be weaving the warp and woof of his destiny.
Oliver gave up further search for the bees that day. By a circuitous
route he returned to his irrigating of the garden.
June days passed after this, and July days began. The poison oak had
turned from green to brilliant red, and now was dark-green once more.
The air was hot; the grass was sear and yellow; the creek was dry but
for a deep pool abreast the cabin. But Oliver did not worry much now
about the creek, except for the loss of its low, comforting murmur and
the greenness with which it had endowed its banks, because the enlarged
flow from his spring was ample for his needs.
No longer did linnets sit near his cabin window and sing to the
accompaniment of his typewriter keys. Their season of love was over; the
young birds were feathered out and had left their nests. The wild
canaries still were with him, and hovered about the rambling willow over
the spring. Eagles soared aloft in the clear, hot skies. Lizards basked
lazily about the cabin, and blinked up contentedly when he tickled their
sides with a broomstraw, or dangled pre-swatted flies before their
grinning lips.
For a week now he had seen no member of the Poison Oaker Gang. The cows
bearing their brand were all about him, but gave him no trouble, and he
thought it strange that he chanced to meet no one riding to look after
them. He had not been bothered. Whether Digger Foss spent his idle hours
watching him from the branches of his lookout pine he did not know or
care. He had not seen Jessamy since the morning he left Poison Oak
Ranch, and all his worriment and discontent found vent in this.
Why had she not ridden down to him, as of old? Had he offended her in
any way? The thought was unbelievable, for he could recall not the
slightest hint of any misunderstanding.
He brooded and moped over it, and loved her more and more--realized,
because of her absence, just how deeply he desired her. He experienced
all the tortures of first love; and then one day he found his senses.
Then he laughed loud and long, and ran for Poche, and threw the
silver-mounted saddle on his back. She had come to him when he could not
go to her. Now her step-father had invited him to her home, and if he
wished her companionship he must take the male's part and seek it. What
an utter ass he had been indeed!
It was one o'clock when Poche bore him into the cup in the mountains
that cradled Poison Oak Ranch. At once the longed-for sight of her
gladdened his heart once more, for she apparently had seen him coming
and was walking from the house to meet him.
How her sturdy, womanly figure thrilled his soul! Black as night was the
hair that was now coiled loosely on her head, in which a red rose blazed
as when he had seen her last. The confident poise of her head, the warm
tints of that strong column that was her neck, the brave carriage of her
shoulders, her swinging stride, the long black lashes that seemed to be
etched by an Oriental artist--they set his heart to pounding until he
felt faint; the yearning, hopeless void of love tormented him.
And then with his senses awhirl he leaned from the saddle and felt her
warm, soft hand in his, and gazed dizzily into the unsounded depths of
the trout pools shaded by grapevines, to which his fancy had likened her
eyes. His hand shook and his heart leaped, and his soul cried out for
her; and all that he could say was:
"How do you do, Miss Selden!"
He saddled White Ann, and over the hills they rode together.
Commonplaces passed between them until the wilderness enveloped them.
Then as they sat their horses and gazed down a precipitous slope to the
river, she asked:
"Just why have you kept away from us all these weeks?"
He reddened. "I'll tell you frankly," he said: "I was a fool. I was
moping because you had not ridden to see me. You had come so often
before. And I woke up only today. Today for the first time I realized
that, since Old Man Selden has opened his door to me, it is my place to
go to you."
"Of course," she said demurely.
He cleared his throat uncomfortably.
"Some time ago," he told her, "I realized that you sought me out in the
first place for a purpose."
He paused, and the look he cast at her was eager, though guarded
carefully.
"Yes?" she questioned.
"Yes," he went on. "I realized that. And also that you _continued_ to
come because that purpose was not yet fulfilled, and because conditions
made it necessary for you to look me up."
"Yes, I understand--" as he had come to a stop, rather helplessly.
"Well, just that," he floundered. "And then Selden changed his tactics,
and I could go to you. So you--you didn't come to me any more."
"Fairly well elucidated," she laughed, "if repetition makes for
clearness. Well, you understand now--so let's forget it."
"I want you to understand that it wasn't because I didn't wish to come.
It was just thick-headedness."
"So you have said. Yes, I understand."
The gaze of her black eyes was far away--far away over the deep, rugged
canyon, over the hills that climbed shelf after shelf to the mystic
snow-topped mountains, far away into a country that is not of the earth
earthy. Under her drab flannel shirt her full bosom rose and fell with
the regularity of her perfect breathing. Her man's hat lay over her
saddle horn. Like some reigning goddess of the wilderness she sat and
overlooked the domain that was hers unchallenged; and the profile of her
brow, and the long, black, drooping lashes, tore at the heart-strings of
the man until he suffered.
"I can't stand that!" he cried out in his soul; and a pressure of the
reins brought Poche close to White Ann's side. "Jessamy!" said the man
huskily. "Jessamy!"
He could say no more, for his voice failed him, and a haze swam before
his eyes as when he had lost control of himself on the hillside.
"Jessamy!" he managed to cry again; and then, for lack of words, he
spread his arms out toward her.
The black lashes flicked downward once, but she did not turn her face to
him. The colour deepened in her throat and mounted to her cheeks, and
her bosom rose and fell more rapidly.
Then slowly she turned her face to his, and her level gaze searched him,
unafraid. But not for long this time. Down drooped the black lashes till
they seemed to have been drawn with pen and India ink on her smooth
brown cheeks; and they screened a light that caused his heart to bound
with expectation that was half of hope.
Her red lips moved. "Wait!" she whispered.
His arms fell to his sides. "You--you won't hear me!"
"No--not now."
"You know what I'm trying so hard to say. It means so much to me. It's
hard for a man to say the one word which he knows will make him or break
him for all time to come. He'd rather--he'd rather just hope on blindly,
I guess, than to speak when he can't guess how the woman feels.
Must--must I say it--right out, Jessamy?"
"No, my friend, don't say it."
"Is there anything that stands between us?"
"Yes. But don't ask what."
"Then you don't love me!"
Her red lips quivered. "I said for you to wait," she told him softly.
"Why should I wait? For what? I know myself. I'm grown. I know that I--"
"Don't!" she interrupted. "Wait!" And she leaned in the saddle and swung
White Ann away from him.
"Let's ride back home," she said. "You'll stay to supper? The moon will
be bright for your ride home later. I'll make you a cherry pie!"