"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 cañon 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 cañon. 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 cañons for Sulphur Spring, but two hours had elapsed before he found it.
It was hidden away in a little wooded cañon, 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.
CHAPTER XIII
SHINPLASTER AND CREEDS
White Ann and Poche bore their riders slowly along the backbone of the ridge that upreared itself between Clinker Creek Cañon and the American. Occasionally they came upon groups of red and roan and spotted longhorn steers, each branded with the insignia of the Poison Oakers. Once a deer crashed away through thick chaparral. Young jackrabbits went leaping over the grassy knolls at their approach. Down the timbered hillsides grey squirrels scolded in lofty pines and spruces. Next day would mark the beginning of the full-moon period for the month of June.
Jessamy Selden was in a thoughtful mood this morning. Her hat lay over her saddle horn. Her black hair now was parted from forehead to the nape of her neck, and twisted into two huge rosettes, one over each ear, after the constant fashion of the Indian girls. So far Oliver Drew had not discovered that he disliked any of the many ways in which she did her hair.
"What are your views on religion?" was her sudden and unexpected question.
"So we're going to be heavy this morning, eh?"
"Oh, no – not particularly. There's usually a smattering of method in my madness. You haven't answered."
"Seems to me you've given me a pretty big contract all in one question. If you could narrow down a bit – be more specific – "
"Well, then, do you believe in that?" She raised her arm sharply and pointed down the precipitous slopes to the green American rushing pell-mell down its rugged cañon.
They had just come in sight of the gold dredger, whose great shovels were tearing down the banks, leaving a long serpentine line of débris behind the craft in the middle of the river.
"That dredge?" he asked. "What's it to do with religion?"
"To me it personifies the greed of all mankind," she replied. "It makes me wild to think that a great, lumbering, manmade toy should come up that river and destroy its natural beauty for the sake of the tiny particles of gold in the earth and rocks. Ugh! I detest the sight of the thing. The gold they get will buy diamond necklaces for fat, foolish old women, and not a stone among them can compare with the dewdrop flashing there in that filaree blossom! It will buy silk gowns, and any spider can weave a fabric with which they can't begin to compete. It will build tall skyscrapers, and which of them will be as imposing as one of these majestic oaks which that machine may uproot? Bah, I hate the sight of the thing!"
"Gold also buys food and simple clothing," he reminded her.
"I suppose so," she sighed. "We've gotten to a point where gold is necessary. But, oh, how unnecessary it is, after all, if we were only as God intended us to be! I detest anything utilitarian. I hate orchards because they supplant the trees and chaparral that Nature has planted. I hate the irrigating systems, because the dams and reservoirs that they demand ruin rugged cañons and valleys. I hate railroads, because their hideous old trains go screeching through God's peaceful solitudes. I hate automobiles, because they bring irreverent unbelievers into God's chapels."
"But they also take cramped-up city folks out into the country," he said. "And all of them are not irreverent."
"Oh, yes – I know. I'm selfish there. And I'm not at all practical. But I do hate 'em!"
"And what do you like in life?" he asked amusedly.
"Well, I have no particular objection to horned toads, for one thing," she laughed. "But I'm only halfway approaching my subject. Do you like missionaries?"
"I think I've never eaten any," he told her gravely.
But she would not laugh. "I don't like 'em," she claimed. "I don't believe in the practice of sending apostles into other countries to force – if necessary – the believers in other religions to trample under foot their ancient teachings, and espouse ours. All peoples, it seems to me, believe in a creator. That's enough. Let 'em alone in their various creeds and doctrines and methods of expressing their faith and devotion. Are you with me there?"
"I think so. Only extreme bigotry and egotism can be responsible for the zeal that sends a believer in one faith to the believers in another to try and bend them to his way of thinking."
"I respect all religions – all beliefs," she said. "But those who go preaching into other lands can have no respect at all for the other fellow's faith. And that's not Christlike in the first place."
He knew that she had something on her mind that she would in good time disclose, but he wondered not a little at her trend of thought this morning.
"The Showut Poche-dakas are deeply religious," she declared suddenly. "Long years ago they inhabited the coast country, but were gradually pushed back up here. Down there, though, they came under the influence of the old Spanish padres; and today their religion is a mixture of Catholicism and ancient tribal teachings. They are sincere and devout. I have as much reverence for a bareheaded Indian girl on her knees to the Sun God as I have for a hooded nun counting her beads. They believe in a supreme being; that's enough for me. You'll be interested at the fiesta tomorrow night. I rode up there the other day. Everything is in readiness. The ramadas are all built, and the dance floor is up, and Indians are drifting in from other reservations a hundred miles away."
"Will you ride up with me tomorrow afternoon?" he asked.
"Yes, I think so – that is, since I heard what Old Man Selden had to say about you the day after he called. I'll tell you about that later. Yes, all the whites attend the fiestas. The California Indian is crude and not very picturesque, compared with other Indians, but the fiestas are fascinating. Especially the dances. They defy interpretation; but they're interesting, even if they don't show a great deal of imagination. By the way, I bought you a present at Halfmoon Flat the other day."
She unbuttoned the flap on a pocket of her chaparejos, and handed him a small parcel wrapped in sky-blue paper.
"Am I to open it now or wait till Christmas?" he asked.
"Now," she said.
The paper contained a half-dozen small bottles of liquid courtplaster.
"Oh, I'm perfectly sane!" she laughed in her ringing tones as he turned a blank face to her.
"Tomorrow," she went on, "you are to smear yourself with that liquid courtplaster, from the soles of your feet to your knees. When one coat dries, apply another; and continue doing so until the supply is exhausted."
She threw back her head and her whole-souled laughter awoke the echoes.
"It's merely a crazy idea of mine," she explained. "I had a bottle of the stuff and was reading the printed directions that came with it. It seems to be good for anything, from gluing the straps of a décolletté ballgown to a woman's shoulders to the protection of stenographer's fingers and harvesters' hands at husking time. It's almost invisible when it has dried on one's skin; and I thought it might be of benefit to you in the fire dance."
"Say," he said, "you're in up to your neck, while I've barely got my feet wet. Come across!"
"Well, I'm not positive," she told him, "but I'm strongly of the opinion that you're going to dance the fire dance at the Fiesta de Santa Maria de Refugio tomorrow night."
"I? I dance the fire dance? Oh, no, Miss – you have the wrong number. I don't dance the fire dance at all."
"I think you will tomorrow night, and I thought that liquid courtplaster might help protect your feet and legs. I put some on my second finger and let it dry, then put my finger on the cookstove."
"Yes?"
"Well, I took it off again. But, honestly, the finger that had none on at all felt a little hotter, I imagined. I'm sure it did, and I only had two coats on. I know you'll be glad you tried it, and the Indians will never know it's there."
"I'm getting just a bit interested," he remarked.
"Well," she said, "after what passed between you and Chupurosa Hatchinguish that day, I'm almost positive that tomorrow night you are to be extended the honour of becoming a member of the tribe. And I know the fire dance is a ceremony connected with admitting an outsider to membership. White men who have married Indian women are about the only ones that are ever made tribal brothers by the Showut Poche-dakas; so in your case it is a distinct honour.
"I have seen this fire dance. While a white person cannot accurately interpret its significance, it seems that the fire is emblematical of all the forces which naturally would be pitted against you in your endeavour to ally yourself with the Showut Poche-dakas.
"For instance, there's your white skin and your love for your own people, the difference in the life you have led as compared with theirs, what you have been taught – and, oh, everything that might be against the alliance. All this, I say, is represented by the fire. And in the fire dance, my dear friend, you must stamp out these objections with your bare feet if you would become brother to the Showut Poche-dakas."
"With my bare feet? Stamp out these objections?"
"Yes – as represented by the fire."
"You mean I must stamp out a fire with my bare feet? Actually?"
"Actually – literally – honest-to-goodnessly!"
"Good night!" cried Oliver. "I'll cleave to my kith and kin."
"And never learn the question that puzzled your idealistic father for thirty years? Nor whether the correct answer is Yes or No?"
"But, heavens, I don't put out a fire that way!"
"It's not so dreadful as it sounds," she consoled. "You join the tribe, and you all go marching and stamping about a big bonfire for hours and hours and hours, till the fire is conveniently low. Then the one who is to be admitted to brotherhood and a chosen member of the tribe – the champion fire-dancer, in short – jump on what is left of the fire and stamp it out. Of course there are objections to you from the view-point of the Showut Poche-dakas, and they must be overcome by a representative of them. If the fire proves too much for your bare feet the objections are too strong to be overcome, and you never will be an honourary Showut Poche-daka. But if the two of you conquer the fire with your bare feet the ceremony is over, and you're It. And when the other Indians see that you two Indians" – her eyes twinkled – "are getting the better of the fire, they'll jump in and help you."
"A very entertaining ceremony – for the grandstand," was Oliver's dry opinion.
"Of course the Indian's feet are tough as leather, and they have it on you there. Hence this liquid courtplaster. It's worth a trial. Honestly, I held my finger on the stove – oh, ever so long! A full second, I'd say."
Back went her glorious head, and her teeth flashed in the sunlight as, drunk with the wine of youth and health, she sent her rollicking laughter out over the hills and cañons.
"I'll be there watching and rooting for you," she assured him at last. "I can do so openly now – since you've won the heart of Adam Selden. What do you think? He told me to invite you over sometime! But all this doesn't fit in quite logically with the ivory-handled Colt I see on your hip today for the first time. Explain both, please."
"Well," he said, "Selden seemed ready to cut my throat till he examined Poche's bridle and saw the B on the back of a concha."
"Ah!" she breathed, drawing in her lips.
"And then he grew nice as pie – and that's all there is to that."
"And the six?"
"Well, I buckled it on this morning, thinking I might practice up a bit, as you advised."
"So far so good. Now amend it and tell the truth."
"I went down to Sulphur Spring after the Poison Oakers left me, and as I was examining the water a bullet plunked into it from the hills and I got my eyebrows wet. As I don't like to have anybody but myself wet my eyebrows, I'm totin' a six. And I rather like the weight of it against my leg again. It reminds me!"
"Who shot at you?"
He shrugged.
"At you, do you think? – or into the water to frighten you?"
"Whoever fired could not see me, but knew I was in the bushes about the spring. Took a rather long chance, if he merely wished to give me a touch of highlife, don't you think?"
"I wonder if the bullet is still in the basin."
"I never thought of that. I ducked for cover at once, of course, and, as nobody showed up, rode back home."
She lifted White Ann to her hind legs and spun her about in her tracks. "We'll ride to Sulphur Spring and look for that bullet," she announced.
"And be ambushed," he added, as Poche followed White Ann's lead.
CHAPTER XIV
HIGH POWER
Jessamy and Oliver had wheeled their horses with such unexpected suddenness that the man who was trailing them was caught off his guard. He stood plainly revealed for a moment in the open; then he found his wits and plunged indiscriminately into the shielding chaparral.
"Oh-ho!" cried Jessamy in a low tone. "The plot thickens! Did you see him?"
"I'm going after him," declared her companion.
"Stop!" she commanded, as he lifted Poche for a leap toward the skulker's vanishing point.
He reined in quickly. "Why?"
"What good will come of it? Why try to nose him out? We may be ahead in the end if we play the game as they do. We have more chance of finding out what they're up to by leaving them alone, I'd say."
"Play the game, eh?" he repeated. "So there's a game being played. I didn't just know. Thought all that's afoot was the big idea of chasing me over the hills and far away. And from Selden's latest attitude, it looks as if that had been abandoned. Game, eh?"
"That's what I'd call it. Quite evidently the man was spying on us."
"Did you recognize him?"
"I can't make sure."
"But you think you know him," he said with conviction.
"Yes. I imagined it was Digger Foss. But he got to cover pretty quickly."
"His horse can't be far away. Maybe we can locate him somewhere along the back trail. I'd know that rawboned roan."
"So should I. Let's send 'em along a little faster."
They had by this time reached the opening in the chaparral into which their shadow had dodged. By common consent they passed it without looking to right or left.
"He may imagine we didn't see him," whispered Jessamy. "I hope he does."
There was an open stretch ahead of them, and across it they galloped, the girl piercing the thickets on the right in search of a saddle horse, Oliver sweeping the slopes that descended to the river. But neither saw a horse, and in the trail were no hoofprints not made by their own mounts.
"He has been afoot from the start," decided Jessamy. "I wish I knew whether or not it was Digger Foss."
They wound their way down to Sulphur Spring presently, and came to a halt in the ravine below it.
"Now," said Oliver, "who knows but that my sniper is not hidden up there in the hills?"
"I'll look for that bullet," she purposed, and swung out of her saddle.
"Oh, no you won't!" His foot touched the ground with hers.
"Yes – listen! No one would shoot at me. But they might take another crack at you, even with me along to witness it. If they were hidden and could get away unseen, you know. But they'd not shoot at me."
"How do you know?"
"Well, I'm one of them – after a fashion. They all like me – and at least one of them wants to gather me to his manly breast and fly with me."
"But things are different since I came. You've taken sides with me. If any one looks for that slug, I'm the one that'll do it."
He started toward the spring.
"Stop!" she ordered, and grasped his shirt-sleeves. "Listen here: I'd bet a dollar against a saddle string that that was Digger Foss we saw up on the ridge."
"Well?"
"He's afoot. He can't have had time to get down here and guard Sulphur Spring."
"All right. Well?"
"And I know positively that Adam Selden and the boys are up north today after a bunch of drifters. So none of them can be here. That eliminates six of the Poison Oakers. There would be left only Obed Pence, Ed Buchanan, Chuck Allegan, and Jay Muenster – all privates, next to outsiders. None of them would shoot at me, and – " She came to a full stop and eyed him speculatively. "And I'm going to look for that bullet," she finished limpingly.
Oliver looked her over thoughtfully. "I can't say that I get what you're driving at at all," he observed. "But it seems to me that you're trying to convey that, with the Seldens and Digger Foss eliminated, there is no danger."
She closed her eyes and gave him several vigorous, exaggerated nods.
"But aren't all of the Poison Oakers concerned in my speedy removal from this country?"
"Well – yes" – hesitatingly. "That's right. But the four will not molest me. I know. Please let's not argue about what I know is right!"
His lips twitched amusedly. "But one of the four might take a pot-shot at me. Is that it?"
Again the series of nods, eyes closed. "You see," she said, "only the Seldens and Digger Foss accuse me of being on your side. So if any one of the other four were to see me go to the spring he'd think I was merely after water, or something. But if you were to go, why – why, it might be different."
Saying which she unexpectedly darted away from him up the ravine, left the shelter of the trees, and walked boldly to the spring.
She parted the bushes and disappeared from sight.
Oliver stole quickly to the edge of the cover and hid behind a tree, his Colt unholstered and hanging in his hand. His eyes scoured the timbered hills on both sides of the spring, but not a movement did he see.
He puzzled over Jessamy's speech as he watched for evidences of a hostile demonstration.
"It smacks of a counter-plot," he mused. "All of the Poison Oakers want me out of here, but only the Seldens and the halfbreed are aware that Jessamy is friendly with me. But these four must know it – everybody in the country does by now. It would look as if Old Man Selden and his chosen five are the only ones who suspect her of having an interest in me beyond pure friendship, then. That's it! She said there was another reason other than the grazing matter why Old Man Selden wants me away. And that can't be moonshining, after all; for if Pense and the others are likely to shoot me at the spring, they're in on that. But now apparently Selden wants to appear friendly. I can't get it! Jessamy's not playing just fair with me. She's keeping something back. She's too honest and straightforward to be a good dissembler; she's bungling all the way."
She was returning swiftly down the ravine before he had reached the end of his conclusions. She held up something between dripping fingers as she entered the concealment of the trees.
"It's perfect still," she announced. "I thought it wouldn't be flattened or bent, since it struck the water."
Oliver took the small, soft-pointed, steel-banded projectile from her hands and studied it.
"M'm-m!" he muttered. "What's this? Looks no larger than a twenty-two."
She nodded. "So I'd say. A twenty-two high-power – wicked little pill."
"And which of the Poison Oakers packs a twenty-two high-power rifle? Do you know?"
"It happens that I do. I've taken the pains to acquaint myself with the various guns of the Poison Oakers. Most of them use twenty-five-thirty-fives. Old Man Selden, Bolar, and Jay Muenster use thirty-thirties. There's one twenty-two high-power Savage in the gang, and it's a new one. They say it's a devilish weapon."
"Who owns it?"
"Digger Foss."
"Then it was Foss who shot?"
"Yes – and it's he who was following us today. You see, Digger lives closer to this part of the country than any of the rest. He'd be the only one likely to come in afoot."
"Do you think he tried to lay me out?"
She looked off through the trees, and her face was troubled. "I'm afraid he did," she replied in a strained, hushed key. "Had you been in sight, we might determine that he had shot at the water before your face to put the fear of the Poison Oakers into your heart. But he couldn't see you, in there hidden by the dense growth. It was a fifty-fifty chance whether he got you or not. If he'd merely wished to bully you, he'd never taken the chance of killing you by firing into the growth."
"I guess that's right," he said. "And now what's to be done? I'll never be able to forget the picture of Henry Dodd clutching at White Ann's legs for support in his death struggle. The situation is graver than I thought. I expected to be bullied and tormented; but I didn't expect a deliberate attempt on my life."
With an impetuous movement she threw her bare forearm horizontally against a tree trunk, and hid her eyes against it.
"Oh, I wish you hadn't come!" she half sobbed. "But you had to – you had to! And now you can't leave because that would be running away. And you're as good as dead if this side-winder gets the right chance at you. What can we do!"
Oliver was silent in the face of her distress. What could he do indeed! All the chances were against him, with his enemies ready and willing to take any unfair advantage, while his manliness would not let him stoop to the use of such tactics. They probably would avoid an out-and-out quarrel, where the chances would be even for a quick draw and quick trigger work. They would ambush him, as the halfbreed had attempted to do. He believed now that only the density of the growth about Sulphur Spring had stood between him and death, for Digger Foss was accounted an expert shot.
He gently pulled Jessamy Selden from the tree.
"There, there!" he soothed. "Let's not borrow trouble. They haven't got me yet. Let's ride on. And I think you'd better give me a little more of your confidence. I feel that you're keeping me in the dark about some phases of the deal."
She mounted in silence, and they turned up Clinker Creek toward Oliver's cabin.
"I'd never make a successful vamp, even if I were beautiful," she smiled at last. "I can't hide things. I give myself away. I'm always bungling. But I can play poker, just the same!" she added triumphantly.
"Don't try to hide things, then," he pleaded. "Tell me all that's troubling you."
She shook her head. "That's the greatest difficulty," she complained. "I shouldn't have let you know that I have a secret, but I bungled and let it out. And I must keep it. But just the same, I'm with you heart and soul. I'm on your side from start to finish, and I want you to believe it."
"I do," he said simply.
As they reached the cabin he asked: "Did you feel the end of the pipe under the water in the spring?"
She nodded. Then with the promise to meet him next morning for their ride to the fiesta, she moved her mare slowly up the cañon and disappeared in the trees.