IN THE DEER PATH
The morning following the trip to Lime Rock, Oliver Drew sat at his
little home-made desk, his mind not on the work before him. Tilted
against the ink bottle stood the long, tough envelope that Jessamy had
given him, its black-wax seals still unbroken. He stared at it with
unseeing eyes.
After they had left Lime Rock, Jessamy had given him a little more
information on the subject which now loomed so big in his life.
She thought, she had said, that for years the Showut Poche-dakas had
suspected Old Man Selden of knowing something of their secret. They
could not have missed seeing the gophering that the old man had done on
the hillside above The Four Pools. She knew positively that the Indians
had kept a watchful eye on him, and it could be for no other reason.
The episode concerning Oliver's bayonet wound had come as a complete
surprise to her. It seemed now, she said, that Peter Drew had
communicated with Chupurosa not long before his death, and after
Oliver's return from France, and had told him to be prepared for the
coming of his son and how to make sure that he was genuine. She had not
known that Peter Drew had been in the Poison Oak Country again, since he
left after entrusting her with a hand in guiding Oliver's future.
She told of having overheard Adam Selden and Oliver's conversation that
night at Poison Oak Ranch, and of the other eavesdropper who had stolen
down from the spring. She was almost sure, she told him, that this man
was Digger Foss; but whether or not Foss knew of the treasure she could
not determine. Apparently, though, he suspected something of the kind,
and had been looking out for his own interests that night.
Yes, it was the bridle and saddle and the gem-mounted _conchas_ that had
changed Selden's attitude toward Oliver. The underlying reason for his
wishing Oliver off the Old Ivison Place had been the fear that the
search for the gems, which he had carried on intermittently for so long,
would be interrupted. But to his gang he had pretended that it was sheer
deviltry that caused him to contemplate driving the newcomer out.
Then a sight of the gem-mounted _conchas_ of his old partner, and the
fact that Oliver was at once taken into brotherhood by the Showut
Poche-dakas changed his plans. Oliver knew of the gems and had come to
seek them. He either was Dan Smeed's son, or had been taken into Dan
Smeed's confidence. Oliver would become Watchman of the Dead. If he did
not already know the location of the stones, he soon might learn it from
the Indians. His friendship must be cultivated by all means, so that
Selden might have the better chance of obtaining what he considered his
rightful share of the treasure.
Oliver had then told Jessamy of the prospect holes on the hillside, of
Digger Foss's spying on the cabin, of Tommy My-Ma's strange actions, and
of the lithia he had found.
"Yes, lithia is an indication of gems," she had told him. "And it would
appear that Digger knows of the treasure, after all. Perhaps sometime
Selden confided in him in a careless moment, to enlist his aid in the
search. They're pretty confidential. Digger was watching your movements,
to see if you had any definite idea of the location of the stones or
were searching for them blindly. That's it! He knows! But still he's
suspicious of Old Man Selden. All of the Poison Oakers are now. They
think he's double-crossing them some way, since he made friends with
you.
"As for Tommy My-Ma trailing Digger, I'm not surprised. No doubt the
Showut Poche-dakas are watching Old Man Selden and his gang as respects
their attitude toward the new Watchman of the Dead. If the Poison Oakers
had tried actually to molest you, I have an idea they'd have found
they'd bitten off a chunk. I think they would have had fifty Showut
Poche-dakas on their backs before they had gone very far."
All this passed through Oliver's mind again and again this morning, as
he sat there with pipe gone out and idle pencil in his fingers.
What a romance that old father had woven about the life of his son! How
skilfully and craftily he had planned so that Oliver would be thrown on
his own resources for an answer when he came face to face with the
question! How cleverly Jessamy had carried out the part entrusted to
her, despite her aversion to intrigues and plottings! Step by step she
had led him on till at last the question confronted him, just as it had
confronted his father before him.
To gain possession of the gems would be a simple matter. They were on
his land somewhere--were his by every right in law. He had but to invoke
the protection of the keepers of the peace against the Indians, break
the seals of the long envelope, and dig in the place indicated by the
map this envelope contained.
But there was one thing which doubtless Peter Drew had not foreseen in
his careful planning. He could not have known that his son was to fall
desperately in love with the guiding star that he had appointed for him.
And Oliver Drew knew in his heart that if he robbed the Indians of these
gems, which were to them only a symbol and had no meaning connected with
worldly wealth, he would lose the girl. The only thing that stood
between Jessamy and him, he now believed, was her uncertainty of what
his answer to the question would be. In her staunch heart she respected
the belief of the Showut Poche-dakas, and to her the gems as a symbol
were as worthy of her reverence as the Sacred Book of the Christians. "I
have as much reverence for a bareheaded Indian girl on her knees to the
Sun God as for a hooded nun counting her beads," she had said.
Oliver stared at the inside of the cabin door, scarred and carved and
full of bullet holes--at JESSAMY, MY SWEETHEART.
Peter Drew could not have foreseen this phase of the situation. In
securing the gems Oliver Drew not only would lose his self-respect and
make his father's thirty years of sacrifice a mockery, but he would lose
the girl he loved.
So Oliver took small credit to himself when he rose from his desk at
eleven o'clock, his mind made up.
He placed the letter unopened in his shirt front, and went out and
saddled Poche. Then he rode to the backbone and wormed his way along it
toward Lime Rock.
Jessamy was there ahead of him, sitting erect on White Ann's back,
gazing upon the rugged objects of her daily adoration.
"Well," she said, "you've come," and her level eyes searched him through
and through.
"Yes," he replied, riding to her side, "I've come; and my mind's made
up."
She raised her dark brows in an attempt to betoken a mild struggle
between politeness and indifference; but the hand on her saddle horn
trembled, and the red had gone out of her cheeks.
"I must get out of here tomorrow," he said, "and go to Los Angeles. I've
just about enough money to take me there and back; but I have the
unbounded faith of an amateur in several farm articles now in editors'
hands."
She lowered black lashes over her eyes and nodded slowly up and down.
"Exactly," she said. "You must carry out Peter Drew's instructions to
the letter."
"But I can tell _you_ what my answer to Dad's lawyers is going to be.
I--"
"Don't!" she cried, raising a protesting hand. "Not a word to me. My
responsibility ceased when I placed the envelope in your hands. I'm no
longer concerned in the matter. That is--" she hesitated.
"Yes, go on."
"Until after you have made your report to the attorneys," she added.
"Then, of course, I'll--I'll be sort of curious to know what your answer
is."
"Then I'll come straight back to tell you," he promised. "And--Why,
what's the matter!"
She had leaned forward suddenly in her saddle, and with wide eyes was
looking down the precipice. Then before she could answer there came to
Oliver's hearing the sound of a distant shot from the canyon.
Now he saw a puff of white smoke above the willows on the river bank, a
thousand feet below them. Then a second, and by and by another ringing
report reached them, and the echoes of it went loping from wall to wall
of the canyon.
"Merciful heavens!" cried Jessamy. "It's Old Man Selden! He's shot! Look
at him reel in his saddle! Oh, horrors!... There he goes down on the
ground!... But he's not killed! There--he's on his feet and shooting!"
Oliver, with open mouth, was staring down at the tragedy that had
suddenly been staged for them in the river bed. Now several puffs of
white smoke hung over the trees, and riders rode hither and thither like
pigmies on pigmy horses. Now and then a stream of flame spurted
horizontally, and at once another answered it. Then up barked the
reports, followed by their mocking echoes.
"It's come! It's come!" wailed Jessamy. "Obed Pence, likely as not, has
opened fire on Old Man Selden, and the boys are after him. Look--there's
Chuck and Bolar and Jay and Winthrop--and, oh, most all of them! It's a
general fight. Oh, I knew it would come! I knew it! Obed Pence has been
so nasty of late. They were all drunk last night. Poor mother! Oh, what
shall we do, Oliver? What can we do? We can't get down to them!"
"And could do nothing if we did," he said tensely.
Down below six-shooters still popped, and the balls of smoke continued
to grow in number over the willows. Horsemen dashed madly about,
shouting, firing. The two watchers learned later that Obed Pence,
supported by Muenster, Allegan, and Buchanan--all drunk for two days on
the fiery monkey rum--had lain in wait for Old Man Selden, and Pence had
ridden out and confronted him as he rode down the river trail,
supposedly alone. But the Selden boys for days had been hovering in the
background, to see that their father got a square deal when he and Obed
Pence next met. Pence and Adam Selden had drawn simultaneously; but the
hammer of the old man's Colt had caught in the fringe of his chaps, and
Obed had shot him through the left lung. Knowing their father to be a
master gunman, his sons, who had not been close enough to witness the
encounter, had jumped to the conclusion that Pence had fired from
ambush. They charged in accordingly, and opened fire on Pence, killing
him instantly. Then Pence's supporters had ridden forth in turn, and the
general gun fight was on.
"I can't sit here and see them murdering one another!" Jessamy sobbed
piteously. "They--they all may need killing, but--but I've lived with
the old man and the boys, and--and--My mother!" The tears streamed down
her cheeks as she made a trumpet of her hands and shouted down the
precipice:
"Stop it! Stop it at once, I say!"
Only the echoes of her piercing cry made answer, and she wrung her hands
and beat her breast in anguish.
"I'm going for help!" she cried abruptly. "They'll get behind trees
pretty soon, and fight from cover. I'll ride to Halfmoon Flat for the
constable and a posse to put a stop to this. Can't--can't you ride up
the trail and find a way down to them, Oliver? Old Man Selden maybe will
listen to you. Oh, maybe you can patch up peace between them!"
"I'll try," said Oliver grimly.
She wheeled White Ann and entered the narrow trail. Oliver followed.
Recklessly she moved her mare at her rolling singlefoot along the
dangerous trail, and eventually came out on the hillside. At once White
Ann leaped forward and sped over the hills, a streak of silver in the
noonday sun.
Oliver loped Poche to an obscure deer path that led down to the river,
and as swiftly as possible began negotiating it.
He had not progressed twenty yards when the chaparral before him
suddenly parted, and Digger Foss confronted him, his wicked Colt held
waist-high and levelled.
"Stick 'em up!" he growled. "Be quick!"
Thoroughly surprised, Oliver reined in, and Poche began to dance.
Mechanically Oliver raised his hands above his head, then almost
regretted that he had not tried to draw. But the picture of Henry Dodd
reeling against the legs of Jessamy's mare had been with him since his
first day in the Poison Oakers' country. He knew that the halfbreed's
aim was sure, and that his heart was a reservoir of venom.
The first shock passed, his composure returned in a measure. There stood
the halfbreed, spread-legged in the path. The lids of his Mongolic eyes
were lowered, and the beads of jet glittered wickedly from under them.
He was drunk as a lord, Oliver knew quite well from the augmented
insolence of his cruel lips; but Oliver knew that he might be all the
more deadly, and that some drunken gunmen can shoot better than when
sober.
"What is this?--a holdup?" he asked, and bit his lip as he noted the
tremble in his tones.
"A holdup is right," said Foss. "A holdup, an' a little business matter
you and me's got to attend to."
"Well, let's get at it!" Oliver snapped.
"I'm gonta kill you after our business is settled," Foss told him in a
matter-of-fact tone.
A cold chill ran along Oliver's spine. Should he make a dive for his
gun? Foss had every advantage, but--
Foss was stepping lazily nearer, his eyes intent on the horseman, his
six-shooter ready.
"Down there by the river they're fightin' it out all because o' you
buttin' into this country, where you ain't wanted." Foss had come to a
stop, and was leering up at him. "You've made trouble ever since you
come here. Old Man won't get rid o' you, but I'm goin' to today. But
first, where's them gems?"
"I can't tell you," said Oliver.
"You're a liar!"
"Thank you. You have the advantage of me, you know. Slip your gun in the
holster, and then call me a liar. I'll draw with you. My hands are
up--you'll still have the advantage of having your hand closer to your
gun butt."
"D'ye think you could draw with me?"
"I know it. And before you. Try it and see!"
Foss studied over this. "Maybe--maybe!" he said. "I never did throw down
on a man without givin' 'im a chance. But you got no chance with me,
kid. They don't make 'em that can get the drop on Digger Foss!"
"I'll take a chance," said Oliver quietly.
"We'll see about that later. But where's them stones?"
"I don't know, I tell you."
"What did you come up in this country for?"
"On matters that concern me alone."
"No doubt o' that--or so you think. But they're interestin' to me, too.
What's in that letter Jess'my handed you at Lime Rock yesterday?"
"Oh, you were sneaking about and saw that, were you! Through your
glasses, I suppose. Well, I haven't opened it, and don't know what's in
it. If I did I wouldn't tell you. My arms are growing a little tired.
Will you holster your gun and give me a chance before my arms play out?"
"I will if you come across with what you know about the gems. You might
as well. If I kill you, you won't be worryin' about gems. And if you
croak me, why, what if you did tell me?--I'm dead, ain't I?"
"There's sound logic in that," said Oliver grimly. "I'll take you up.
Put your gun in its holster and drop your hands to your sides. Then
we'll draw, with your gun hand three feet nearer your gun than mine will
be. Come! I've got business down below."
The halfbreed's eyes widened in unbelief. "D'ye really mean it, kid? You
saw me shoot Henry Dodd--d'ye really wanta draw with me?"
"I do."
"But then you'll be dead, and I won't know nothin' about the gems.
Unless that letter tells?"
"Perhaps. You mustn't expect me to take _all_ the chances, you know."
"Does the letter tell?"
"I haven't opened it, I say."
Foss studied in drunken seriousness. "And if you should happen to get
me, why--why, where am I at again?" he puzzled.
Oliver laughed outright. "You're an amusing creature," he said. "I don't
believe you're half the badman that you imagine you are." He believed
nothing of the sort, but his arms were growing desperately weary and he
must goad the drunken gunman into immediate action.
"There's just one thing that's the matter with you," he gibed on, ready
to descend to any speech that would cut the killer and break his deadly
calm. "That's my getting your girl away from you! It's not the gems;
it's that that hurts you. Why, say, do you think she'd wipe her feet on
you!"
Into the eyes of the halfbreed came a viperish light that almost stilled
Oliver's heartbeats. For an instant he feared that he had gone too far,
that Foss was about to shoot him down in cold blood.
Foss stood spread-legged in the path, as before, his face twisting with
anger, the fingers of his left hand clinching and unclinching
themselves. Then Oliver almost ceased to breathe as a silent, dark
figure slipped wraithlike from the chaparral and began stealing toward
the back of Digger Foss.
"That settles it," said Foss. "I'll kill you for that, gems or no gems!
Get ready! If you let down a hand while I'm puttin' up my gun I'll kill
you like that!" He snapped the fingers of his left hand.
"I'll stick by my bargain," Oliver assured him, his glance struggling
between Foss and that silent figure slinking in his rear.
What should he do? There was murder in the black eyes of the man who
stole so stealthily upon the gunman's back. Should he shout to Foss? His
sense of fair play cried out that he should. But Foss might misinterpret
the meaning of his upraised voice, and fire. Should he--
"Here goes! I'm puttin' up my gun. Get ready, kid! When I--"
There was a leap, a flash of steel in the sunlight, a scream of
agonizing pain.
Oliver's gun was out and levelled; but Foss was staggering from side to
side, his arms limp before him, his head lopped forward as if he
searched for something on the ground. He collapsed and lay there gasping
hideously in the path, in a growing pool of blood.
The chaparral opened and closed again; and then only Oliver and the man
in his death throes were remaining.
Even as Bolivio had died, so died Digger Foss, in a path in the
wilderness, with the knife of a Showut Poche-daka in his back.