THE ANSWER
Two weeks had passed since the battle of the Poison Oakers. That
organization was now no more. Jessamy's efforts to mobilize a posse to
stop the fight had proved fruitless. Only the constable and Damon Tamroy
rode back with her with first aid packages, for Halfmoon Flat had voiced
its indifference in a single sentence--"Let 'em fight it out!" Those
whom the constable would have deputized promptly made themselves scarce.
So the Poison Oakers had fought it out, and in so doing appended "Finis"
to the annals of their gang. Old Man Selden died two days after the
battle. Winthrop was killed outright, and Moffat was seriously wounded,
but might recover. Obed Pence was dead; Digger Foss was dead. Jay
Muenster was dead. Thus half of their numbers were wiped out, and among
them the controlling genius of the gang, Old Man Selden. And without him
those remaining, already split into two factions, were as a ship without
a rudder.
And all because of Oliver Drew!
Oliver stepped from the train at Halfmoon Flat this afternoon, two weeks
after the fight. He had helped Jessamy and her mother through the
difficulties arising from the tragedy, had appeared as witness at the
inquest, and had then hurried to Los Angeles with his sealed envelope.
Now, returning, he caught Poche in a pasture close to the village and
saddled him.
It was one o'clock in the afternoon. He had lunched on the diner, so at
once he lifted Poche into his mile-devouring lope and headed straight
for Poison Oak Ranch.
What changes had taken place since first he galloped along that road,
barely four months before! Few with whom he had come in contact were
still pursuing the even tenor of their ways, as then. He thought of the
fight and of the spectacular death of Digger Foss. At the inquest he had
been unable to throw any light on the identity of the halfbreed's
murderer. He was an Indian--beyond this Oliver could say no more. The
coroner had quizzed him sharply. Whereupon Oliver had asked that
official if he himself thought it likely that he could have looked into
the muzzle of a Colt revolver in the hands of Digger Foss, and at the
same time make sure of the identity of a man stealing up behind him. The
coroner had scratched his head. "I reckon I'd 'a' been tol'able
int'rested in that gun o' Digger's," was his confession.
And Oliver had told the truth. To this day he does not know who killed
the gunman--but he knows that in all probability his own life was saved
when it occurred, and that it was a Showut Poche-daka who struck the
blow.
At Poison Oak Ranch he found Jessamy awaiting him. He had sent her a
wire the day before, telling her he was coming, and the hour he would
arrive.
They shook hands soberly, and after a short conversation with Mrs.
Selden, Oliver saddled White Ann for Jessamy and they rode away into the
hills. They were for the most part silent as their horses jogged along
manzanita-bordered trails. Instinctively they avoided Lime Rock and its
vicinity, and made toward the north, up over the hog-back hills, now
sear and yellow, which climbed in interminable ranks to the snowy peaks.
They came to a ledge that overlooked the river, and here they halted
while the girl gazed down on scenes that never wearied her.
They dismounted presently and seated themselves on two great grey
stones. Jessamy rested her round chin in her hand, and from under long
lashes watched the green river winding about its serpentine curves
below.
The tragedy of death had left its mark on her face. There was a sober,
half-pathetic droop to the red lips. The comradely black eyes were
thoughtful. But the self-reliant poise of the sturdy shoulders still was
hers, and the sense of strength that she exhaled was not impaired.
Her dress today was not rugged, as was ordinarily the case when she rode
into the hills. She wore a black divided skirt, and a low-neck
yellow-silk waist, trimmed with black, and a black-silk sailor's
neckerchief. To further this effect a yellow rose nestled in her
night-black hair. She looked like a gorgeous California oriole, so trim
was her figure, so like that bird's were the contrast of colours she
displayed. And her voice when she spoke, low and clear and throbbing
melodiously, reminded him of the notes of this same sweet songster at
nesting time.
Oliver sat looking at the profile of her face, with the wind-whipped
hair about it. More fully than ever now he realized that she was
everything in life to him. And today--now!--smilingly, unabashed.
"Well, Jessamy," he began, "I have seen Dad's lawyers." She turned her
face toward him, but still rested her elbow on her knee, one cheek now
cupped by her hand.
"Yes," she said softly. "Tell me all about it."
"And I gave them my answer to the question."
For several moments her level glance searched his face, a little smile
on her lips.
"And what is your answer?" she asked.
He rose and moved to the stone on which she sat, seating himself beside
her.
"Don't you know what my answer is?" he asked softly.
She continued to look at him fearlessly, smilingly, unabashed.
"I think I know," she said. "But tell me."
"My answer," he said, "is the same that dear old Dad kept repeating for
thirty years. I shall not enrich myself by sacrificing the confidence
placed in me. I shall remain loyal to my simple trust. I am the Watchman
of the Dead."
Her lips quivered and her eyes glowed warmly, and two tears trickled
down her cheeks. Oliver took from his shirt the envelope and showed her
the black seals, still unbroken. Then on a flat rock before them he made
a tiny fire of grass and twigs, and placed the envelope on top of it.
Then he lighted a match.
"The funeral pyre of my worldly fortune!" he apostrophized. "The lost
mine of Bolivio will be lost indeed when the map has burned."
Together they watched the tiny fire in silence, till the black wax
sputtered and dripped down on the stone, and the eager flames crinkled
the envelope and its contents and reduced them to ashes.
"And now?" said Oliver.
"And now!" echoed Jessamy.
He slowly placed both arms about her and lifted her, unresisting, to her
feet. He drew her close, brushed back her hair, and looked deep into
eyes from which tears streamed unrestrained. Then she threw her arms
about his shoulders, and, with a glad laugh, half hysterical, she drew
his head down and kissed him time and again.
His hour had come. Oliver Drew had captured the star that had led him on
and on--his Star of Destiny. Warm were her lips and tremulous--glowing
were her eyes for love of him. His pulse leaped madly as she gave
herself to him in absolute surrender.
"There's another matter," he said five minutes later, as she lay silent
in his arms, with the fragrance of her hair in his nostrils. "Old
Danforth, the head of the firm of attorneys that attended to Dad's
affairs, looked at me keenly from under shaggy brows when I gave my
answer.
"'So it's No, is it, young man?' he said.
"'No it is,' I told him.
"'In that case,' he said, 'you are to come with me.'
"He took me to a bank and opened a safe-deposit box in the vaults. He
showed me bonds totalling over a hundred thousand dollars, and cash that
represented the interest coupons the firm had been clipping since Dad
died.
"'Here's the key,' he told me. 'If your answer had been yes, these
bonds, too, would have gone to the church. For then you would have had
the gems. Your father didn't mean to leave you penniless. You would have
been fairly well off, I imagine, whether your answer had been Yes or No.
Your father wanted his question answered by a man of education, and I
think he would be pleased at your decision.'"
Jessamy had straightened and twisted in his arms till her face was close
to his.
"Peter Drew never hinted at that to me!" she cried. "I--I suppose you'd
have nothing but the Old Ivison Place if you answered No. Oh, my
romantic Old Peter Drew! God rest his soul! I'm so glad."
"Glad, eh?" He smiled whimsically at her, and she quickly interpreted
his thoughts.
"Oh, but, Oliver--you don't understand! It's not that you're wealthy,
after all--but now you can give Damon Tamroy just what the cement
company would have paid him for Lime Rock!"
"Lime Rock shall be your wedding gift," he laughed.
"Oh, Oliver! And--and when we're--married, you won't take me away from
the Poison Oak Country, will you, dear! I'll go anywhere you say--but
these hills, and the river, and Lime Rock, and Old Dad Sloan, and--my
Hummingbird--and the perfume of the manzanita blossoms in
spring--and--oh, I love my country next to you, dear heart! And in my
dreams I loved you even before you came riding to me in the
silver-mounted saddle of Bolivio, like a knight out of the past. This is
my country--and if we must go, I'll pine for it--and maybe die like the
Indian bride. I want to stay here, Oliver dear--with you--down on the
dear Old Ivison Place!"
Oliver tenderly kissed his Star of Destiny. "I have no other plans," he
whispered into her ear. "My place is there.... I am the Watchman of the
Dead!"
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's The Heritage of the Hills, by Arthur P. Hankins