Part 6 (1/2)

Those who followed him were younger men, plainly _vaqueros_. They lolled in their saddles, and smoked and bantered. But Oliver's eyes were alone for the stalwart figure in the lead, who neither spoke nor smiled nor paid any attention to his band, but rode on grimly as if heading an expedition into dangerous and unknown lands.

Undoubtedly this was Old Man Selden and his four sons, together with other members of the Poison Oakers Gang. They had left the cows to themselves and were making their way homeward after the drive. Oliver's first impulse was to hide behind a tree and watch, for he felt that he should forego no chance of a strategic advantage. Then he decided that it was not for him to begin manoeuvring, and stood boldly in full view, wondering whether the riders would pa.s.s without observing him.

They did not. He heard a sharp word or two from some follower of the old man, and for the first time the leader showed signs of knowing that he was not riding alone. He slued about in his saddle. A hand pointed in Oliver's direction. The old man reined in his grey horse and looked toward Oliver and the bee tree. The other hors.e.m.e.n drew up around him.

There was a short consultation, then all of them leaned to the right in their saddles and galloped over the uneven land.

They reined in close to the lone man, and a dusty, sweaty, hard-looking clan they were. Keen, curious eyes studied him, and there was no mistaking the insolent and bullying att.i.tude of their owners.

A quick glance Oliver gave the five, then his interest settled on their leader.

Adam Selden was a powerful man. His nose was of the Bourbon type, large and deeply pitted. His eyes were blue and strong and dominating.

”Howdy?” boomed a deep ba.s.s voice.

Oliver smiled. ”How do you do?” he replied.

Then silence fell, while old Adam Selden sat rolling a quid of tobacco in his mouth and studying the stranger with inscrutable cold blue eyes.

”I've found a bee tree,” said Oliver when the tensity grew almost unbearable. ”I was just figuring on the best way to hive the little rascals.”

Selden slowly nodded his great head up and down with exasperating exaggeration.

”Stranger about here, ain't ye?” he asked.

”Well, I've been here over a month,” Oliver answered. ”I own the Old Tabor Ivison Place, down there in the valley. My name is Oliver Drew, and I guess you're Mr. Selden.”

Another long pause, then--

”Yes, I'm Selden. Them's my cows ye see down there moseyin' up the river bottom and over the hills. I been runnin' cows in here summers for a good many years. Just so!”

”I see,” said Oliver, not knowing what else to say.

”Three o' these men are my boys,” Selden drawled on. ”The rest are friends o' ours. Has anybody told ye about the poison oak that grows 'round here?”

”I'm familiar with it,” Oliver told him.

”Ain't scared o' poison oak, then?”

”Not at all. I'm immune.”

”It's a pesterin' plant. You'll chafe under it and chafe under it, and think it's gone; then here she comes back again, redder and lumpier and itchier than ever.”

”I'm quite familiar with its persistence,” Oliver gravely stated.

”And still ye ain't afraid o' poison oak?”

”Not in the least.”

The gang was grinning, but the chief of the

Poison Oakers maintained a straight face.