CHAPTER XI
CONCERNING SPRINGS AND SHOWUT POCHE-DAKA
It was evident to Oliver Drew that Clinker Creek was lowering fast, as Damon Tamroy had predicted that it would do. He feared that it would go entirely dry just when certain vegetables would need it most. Again, also following Tamroy's prophecy, the flow from his spring proved insufficient to keep all of his plantings alive, even though he had impounded the surplus in a small clay-lined reservoir.
He stood with hands on hips today, frowning at the tinkling stream of water running from the rusty length of pipe into the reservoir.
"There's just one thing to do," he remarked to it, "and that's to see if I can't increase your putter-putter. I want to write an article on making the most of a flow of spring water, anyway; and I guess I'll use you for a foundation."
Whereupon he secured pick and shovel and sledge and set about removing the box he had so carefully set in the ground to hold his domestic water.
When the box was out he enlarged the hole, and, when the water had cleared, studied the flow. It seeped out from a fissure in the bedrock – or what he supposed was the bedrock – and it seemed a difficult matter to "get at it." However, he began digging above the point of egress in the resistant blue clay, and late that afternoon was down to bedrock again.
And now when he had washed off the rock he discovered a strange thing. This was that the supposed bedrock was not bedrock at all, but a wall of large stones built by the hand of man. Through a crevice in this wall the water seeped, and when he had gouged out the puttylike blue clay the flow increased fivefold.
He sat down and puzzled over it, expecting the flow to return to normal after some tiny unseen reservoir had been drained of its surplus. But it did not lessen, and had not lessened when night came.
At midnight, thinking about it in bed and unable to sleep, he arose, lighted a lantern, and went down to the spring. The water was flowing just the same as when he had left it.
He was not surprised to find the work of human hands in and about his spring, but this wall of stones was highly irregular. It appeared that, instead of having been built to conserve the water, it was designed to dam up the flow entirely. The old flow was merely seepage through the wall.
He was at it again early next morning, and soon had torn down the wall entirely and thrown out the stones. At least five times as much water was running still. He recalled that Damon Tamroy had said the spring had given more water in Tabor Ivison's day than now.
There was but one answer to the puzzle. For some strange reason somebody since Tabor Ivison's day had seen fit to try to stop the flow from the spring altogether. But who would go to such pains to do this, and hide the results of his work, as these had been hidden? And, above all, why?
It is useless to deny that Oliver Drew at once thought of the Poison Oakers. But what excuse could they produce for such an act? Surely, with the creek dry and the American River several miles away, they would encourage the flow of water everywhere in the Clinker Creek Country for their cattle to drink.
It was beyond him then and he gave it up. He laid more pipe and covered it all to the land level again, and viewed with satisfaction the increased supply of water for the dry summer months to come. And it was not until a week later that Jessamy Selden unconsciously gave him an answer to the question.
He was scrambling up the hill to the west of the cabin that day to another bee tree that he had discovered, when he heard her shrill shouting down below. He turned and saw her and the white mare before the cabin, and the girl was looking about for him.
He returned her shout, and stood on a blackened stump in the chaparral, waving his hat above the foliage.
"I get you!" she shrilled at last. "Stay there! I'm coming up!"
Fifteen minutes later, panting, now on hands and knees, now crawling flat, she drew near to him. A bird can go through California "locked" chaparral if it will be content to hop from twig to twig, but the ponderous human animal must emulate Nebuchadnezzar if he or she would penetrate its mysteries.
"What a delightful route you chose for your morning crawl," she puffed, as at last she lay gasping at the foot of the stump on which he sat and laughed at her.
Oliver lighted a cigarette and inhaled indolently as he watched her lying there with heaving breast, her arms thrown wide. She did everything as naturally as does a child. She wore fringed leather chaps today, and remarked, when she sat up and dusted the trash from her hair, that she was glad she had done so since he had made her come crawling to his feet.
"And that reminds me of something that I've decided to ask you," she added. "Has it occurred to you that I am throwing myself at you?" She looked straight into his face as she put the naïve question to him.
"Why do you ask that?" he countered, eyes on the tip of his cigarette.
"I'll tell you why when you've answered."
"Then of course not."
"I suppose I am a bit crude," she mused. "At least it must look that way to the natives here-about. I was fairly confident, though, that you wouldn't think me unmaidenly. I sought you out deliberately. I was lonely and wanted a friend. I had heard that you were a University man. You told Mr. Tamroy, you know. It's perfectly proper deliberately to try and make a friend of a person, isn't it? – if you think both of you may be benefited. And does it make a great deal of difference if the subject chances to be of the other sex?"
"I'm more than satisfied, so far as I come in on the deal," Oliver assured her.
"I thank you, sir. And now I've been accused to my face of throwing myself at you – which expression means a lot and which you doubtless fully understand."
"Who is your accuser?"
"The author of 'Jessamy, My Sweetheart.'"
"Digger Foss, eh?"
She closed both eyes tightly and bobbed her head up and down several times, then opened her eyes. "He's a free man again – tried and acquitted."
"No!"
"Didn't I tell you how it would be?"
He puffed his cigarette meditatively. "Doesn't it strike you as strange that you and I were not subpoenaed as witnesses?"
"I've been expecting that from you. No, sir – it doesn't. Digger's counsel didn't want you and me as witnesses."
"But the prosecuting attorney."
"He didn't want us either."
"Then there's corruption."
"If I could think of a worse word than corruption I'd correct you, so I'll let that stand. Digger Foss is Old Man Selden's right hand; and Old Man Selden is Pythias to the prosecuting attorney of this man's county."
Oliver's eyes widened.
"Elmer Standard is the gentleman in question. What connection there can be between him and Adam Selden is too many for me; but Selden goes to see him whenever he rides to the county seat. Only the right witnesses were allowed to take the stand, you may be confident. I knew the halfbreed's acquittal was a foregone conclusion before the smoke from his gat had cleared."
Both were silent for a time, then she said: "Elmer Standard runs things down at the county seat. I've heard that he allows open gambling, and that he personally finances three saloons and several gaming places."
"But there are no saloons now."
"Indeed!" she said with mock innocence. "I didn't know. I never have frequented them, so you'll overlook my ignorance. Anyway, Digger Foss is as free as the day he was born; and Henry Dodd, the man he murdered, lies in the little cemetery in the pines near Halfmoon Flat. But there's another piece of news: Adam Selden has – "
"Pardon my interrupting you," he put in, "but you haven't finished with Digger Foss."
"Oh, that! Well, I met him on the trail between Clinker Creek and the American yesterday. He accused me of being untrue to him while he was in jail."
"Yes?"
"I admitted my guilt. Never having had the slightest inclination to be true to him, I told him, it naturally followed that I was untrue to him – and wasn't it a glorious day? How on earth the boy ever got the idea that he has the right to consider me in the light that he does is beyond me. I don't scold him, and I don't send him packing – nor do I give him the least encouragement. I simply treat him civilly when he approaches me on a commonplace matter, and ignore him when he tries to get funny. And he's probably so dense that all this encourages him. How can he be so stupid! I haven't been superior enough with him – but I hate to be superior, even to a halfbreed. And he's quarter Chinaman. Heavens, what am I coming to!"
"How did the meeting end?" queried Oliver.
"Well, we both went a little further this time than ever before. He attempted to kiss me, and I attempted to cut his face open with my quirt. Both of us missed by about six inches, I'm thankful to say. And the grand climax took the form of a dire threat against you. By the way, I've never seen you pack a gun, Mr. Drew."
He shrugged. "I used to down on the cow ranch in San Bernardino County, but I think I grew up over in France."
"You have one, of course."
"Yes – a 'forty-five."
"Can you handle a gun fairly well?"
"I know which end to look into to see if it's loaded."
"Can you spin a dollar in air with your left hand, draw, and hit it before it strikes the ground?"
"Aw, let's be sensible!" he cried. "I'm after another colony of bees. Come on up and look at 'em."
"Sit still," she ordered. "Can you do what I asked about?"
"I don't know – I've never tried."
"Digger Foss can," she claimed.
"Well, that's shooting."
"It is. I'd strap that gun on if I were you and practice up a bit."
"Cartridges are too high-priced," he laughed. "What's the rest of the news?"
"The store up at Cliffbert, about fourteen miles from here and off the railroad, was broken into three days ago and robbed of cutlery, revolvers, and other things to the tune of several hundred dollars."
"M'm-m! Do they have any idea who did it?"
"Oh, yes. The Poison Oakers."
"They know it?"
"Of course – everybody knows it. But it can't be proved. It's nothing new."
"I didn't know the gang ever went to such a limit."
"Humph!" she sniffed significantly. "And the next piece of news is that Sulphur Spring has gone dry for the first time in many years. And here it's only May!"
"Where is Sulphur Spring?"
"About a mile below your south line, in this cañon. I heard Old Man Selden complaining about it last night, and thought I'd ride around that way this morning. It's as he said – entirely dry, so far as new water running into the basin is concerned."
"Well," said Oliver, "my piece of news is just the opposite of that. My spring is running a stream five times as large as heretofore – "
She straightened. "What caused that?" she demanded quickly.
He explained in detail.
"So!" she murmured. "So! I understand. Listen: I have heard the menfolks at the ranch say that all these cañon springs are connected. That is, they all are outbreaks from one large vein that follows the cañon. If you shut off one, then, you may increase the flow of the next one below it. And if you open one up and increase its output, the next below it may go entirely dry. The flow from yours has been cut off in time gone by to increase the flow of Sulphur Spring. And now that you've taken away the obstruction, your spring gets all the water, while Sulphur Spring gets none."
"I believe you're right," asserted Oliver. "And do you think it might have been the Poison Oakers who closed my spring to increase the flow down there?"
"Undoubtedly."
"But why? They were running cows on my land, too, before I came. Wouldn't it be handier to have a good flow of water in both places?"
"No doubt of that," she answered. "And I can't enlighten you, I'm sorry to say. All I know is that Old Man Selden is hopping mad – angrier than the situation seems to call for, as springs are by no means scarce in Clinker Cañon."
Jessamy's disclosures had ended now, so they scrambled on up the hill toward the bee tree.
The colony had settled in a dead hollow white-oak. The tree had been broken off close to the ground by high winds after the colony had taken up residence therein. The hole by which they made entrance to the hollow trunk, however, was left uppermost after the fall, and apparently the little zealots had not been seriously disturbed.
Anyway, here they were still winging their way to and from the prostrate tree, the sentries keeping watch at the entrance to their increasing store of honey.
Oliver had found the tree two weeks before, purely by accident. At that time the hole at which the workers entered had been unobstructed. Now, though, tall weeds had grown up about the tree, making a screen before the hole and preventing the nectar-laden insects from entering readily.
"This won't do at-all-at-all," he said to Jessamy, as she took her seat on a limb of the bee tree. "There must be nothing to obstruct them in entering, for sometimes they drop with their loads when they have difficulty in winging directly in, and can't get up again."
"Uh-huh," she concurred.
She had unlaid one of her black braids and was replaiting it again after the havoc wrought by the prickly bushes.
Oliver lighted his bee-smoker and sent several soft puffs into the hole to quiet the bees. Then without gloves or veil, which the experienced beeman seldom uses, he laid hold of the tall weeds and began uprooting them. Thus engaged, he kneeled down and reached under the tree trunk to get at the roots of certain obstinate plants; and in that instant he felt a sharp sting in the fleshy part of his wrist.
"Ouch! Holy Moses!" he croaked. "I didn't expect to find a bee under there!"
"Get stung?"
"Did I! Mother of Mike! I've been stung many times, but that lady must have been the grandmother of – Why, I'm getting sick – dizzy! – "
He came to a pause, swayed on his knees, and closed his eyes. Then came that heart-chilling sound which, once heard, will never be forgotten, and will ever bring cold terror to mankind – the rattlebone whir-r-r-r-r of the diamond-back rattlesnake.
Oliver caught himself, licked dry lips, and was gazing in horror at two bleeding, jagged incisions in his wrist. The girl, with a scream of comprehension, darted toward him. He balanced himself and smiled grimly as she grabbed his arm with shaking hands.
"Got me," he said, "the son-of-a-gun! And I'd have stuck my hand right back for another dose if he hadn't rattled."
Jessamy grabbed him by both shoulders and tried to force him to the ground.
"Sit down and keep quiet!" she ordered, sternly, her nerves now firm and steady, her face white and determined. "No, not that way!"
She grasped him under the arms and with the strength of a young Amazon slued him about as if he had been a sack of flour.
Deftly she bound his handkerchief about his arm, drawing it taut with all her strength. Something found its way into his left hand.
"Drink that!" she commanded. "All of it. Pour it down!"
Then her lips sought the flaming wound; and she clamped her white teeth in his flesh and began sucking out the poison.
At intervals she raised her head for breath and to spit out the deadly fluid.
"Drink!" she would urge then. "And don't worry. Not a chance in the world of your being any the worse after I get through with you."
Oliver obeyed her without question, taking great swallows from the flask of fiery liquor and closing his eyes after each. His senses swam and he felt weak and delirious, though he could not tell whether this last was because of the poison or the liquor he had consumed.
At last Jessamy leaned back and fumbled in a pocket of her chaps. She produced a tiny round box, from which she took a bottle of dry permanganate of potash and a small lancet. With the keen instrument she hacked a deep x in his arm, just over the wound. Then she wet the red powder with saliva and worked a paste into the cuts with the lancet.
This done, she sat back and regarded her patient complacently.
"Just take it easy," she counselled. "And, whatever you do, don't worry. You won't know you were bitten in an hour. Sip that whisky now and then. It won't kill the poison, as some folks seem to believe, but it will make you light-hearted and you'll forget to worry. That's the part it plays in a case like this. Now if I can trust you to keep quiet and serene, I'll seek revenge."
He nodded weakly.
She arose, and presently again came that sickening whir-r-r-r-r-r miscalled a rattle, followed immediately by a vicious thud-thud-thud.
"There, you horrid creature!" he heard in a low, triumphant tone. "You thought I was afraid of you, did you? Bring total collapse on all your fictitious traditions and bite before you rattle, will you! Requiescat in pace, Mr. Showut Poche-daka!"
Half an hour afterward Oliver Drew was on his feet, but he staggered drunkenly. To this day he is not just sure whether he was intoxicated or raving from the effects of the snakebite. Anyway, as Jessamy took hold of him to steady him, his reason left him, and he swept her into his arms and kissed her lips time and again, though she struggled valiantly to free herself.
Ultimately she ducked under his arms and sprang away from him backward, her face crimson, her bosom heaving.
"Sit down again!" she ordered chokingly. "Shame on you, to take advantage of me like that!"
"Won't sit down!" he babbled, reaching about for her blindly. "I love you an' I'm gonta have you!"
"You're out of your head! Sit down again! Please, now." Her tone changed to a soothing note. "You're – I'm afraid you're drunk."
He was groping for her, staggering toward a threatening outcropping of rock. With a rapid leap she closed in on him unexpectedly, heaved desperately to the right and left, and threw him flat on his back. Then she scrambled on top of his knees as he strove to rise again.
"Now, looky-here, mister," she warned, "you've gone just about far enough! In a second I'll get that bee-smoker and put you out of business. Please – please, now, be good!"
He seemed partially stunned by the fall, for he lay now without a move, eyes closed, his mind wandering dreamily. And thus he lay for half an hour longer, when he suddenly raised his head and looked at her, still propped up on his knees, with eyes that were sane.
"Golly!" he breathed.
"Golly is right," she agreed drolly. "Were you drunk or crazy?"
"Both, I guess. I'm – mighty sorry." His face was red as fire.
"Do you wish to get up?"
"If you please."
He stood on his feet. He was still weak and pale and dizzy.
"Heavens! That liquor!" he panted. "What is it? Where did you get it?"
"At home. Old Adam gave me the flask over a year ago. It's only whisky. I always carry a flask for just such an emergency as this. And I never go a step out of the house in the summer without my snakebite kit. Nobody ought to in the West."
He shook his head. "That's not whisky," he said. "I'm not exactly a stranger to the taste of whisky. That's brimstone!"
"I was told it was whisky," she replied. "I know nothing about whisky. I've never even tasted it."
He held the flask to the sun, but it was leather-covered and no light shone through. He unscrewed the metal cap and poured some of the liquor into it.
It was colourless as water.
"Moonshine!" he cried. "And I know now why the flow from my spring was cut off. A still calls for running water!"
"You may be right," she said without excitement. "You will remember that I told you there is another reason besides Selden's covetousness of your grass land why you are wanted out of the Clinker Creek Country."
CHAPTER XII
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 cañon. 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!"