Part 9 (1/2)
The patriarch shook his head. ”Bad egg; bad egg!” he said sonorously.
”He married a squaw, and that's how come it he got the grandest saddle and bridle Bolivio ever made. Bolivio's squaw kep' it after Bolivio was knifed. And by and by along come this Dan Smeed and his partner to this country. And when Dan Smeed married into the tribe he got the saddle and bridle and martingales somehow. That was later--years later. Bolivio's been dead over seventy year.”
”Have you ever heard the name Peter Drew?” Oliver asked him.
But the old eyes remained blank, and the grey head shook slowly from side to side. ”I recollect clear as day what happened sixty to seventy year ago, but I can't recollect what I did last week or where I went,”
Dad Sloan said pathetically. ”If I'd ever heard o' Peter Drew in the days o' forty-nine to seventy, I'd recollect it.”
”You mentioned Dan Smeed's partner,” prompted Jessamy. ”Can you recall his name?”
”Yes, Dan Smeed had a partner,” mused Dad Sloan. ”Bad egg, Dan Smeed.
Squawman, highwayman, outlaw. Disappeared with his fine saddle and bridle and martingales and the stones from the lost mine o' Bolivio.”
”But his partner's name?” the girl persisted.
The old mind seemed to be wandering once more. ”Bad eggs--both of 'em.
Bad eggs,” was the only answer she could get.
”Well, we're progressing slowly,” Jessamy observed as they rode away.
”Our next step must be to visit the Indians. I know a number of them.
Filipe Maquaquish, for instance, and Chupurosa are as old or older than Old Dad Sloan. Chupurosa's face is a pattern in crinkled leather. When we go to see Aunt Nancy Fleet we'll visit the Indian village. And that will be--when?”
”Tomorrow, if you say so,” Oliver replied. ”I meant to irrigate my garden tomorrow, but it can wait a day.”
”By the way,” she asked, ”have you written that letter to Mr. Selden, telling him what we found out down at the county seat?”
”I have it in my pocket,” he told her.
”Give it to me,” she ordered. ”I'll hand it in at the post office, get them to stamp the postmark on it, and take it home with me when I go.”
”Will you dare do that? Won't the post-master scent a conspiracy against Old Man Selden?”
”Let him scent!” said Jessamy. ”I'm dying to see Selden's face when he reads that letter.”
They parted at the headwaters of Clinker Creek, with the understanding that she would meet him in the county road next morning for the ride to her aunt's and the Indian reservation.
CHAPTER VIII
POISON OAK RANCH
The trail that meandered down Clinker Creek Canon extended at right angles to the one that led to the Selden ranch. The latter climbed a baldpate hill; then, winding its narrow way through dense locked chaparral higher than horse and rider, dipped down precipitously into the deep canon of the American River.
Jessamy waved good-bye to her new friend at the parting of the ways and lifted White Ann into her long lope to the summit of the denuded hill.
For a little, as they crossed the topmost part of it, the deep, rugged scar that marked the course of the river was visible. Ragged and rocky and covered with trees and chaparral, the canonside slanted down dizzily for over fifteen hundred feet. At the bottom the deep green river rushed pell-mell to the lower levels. A moment and the view was lost to the girl, as White Ann entered the thick chaparral and started the swift descent.
At last they reached the bottom, forded the swirling stream, and began clambering up a trail as steep as the first on the other side. Soon the river was lost to view again, for once more the trail had been cut through a seemingly impenetrable chaparral of buckthorn, manzanita and scrub oak. Around and about tributary canons they wound their way, and at last reached the end of the steep climb. For a quarter of a mile now the trail followed the backbone of a ridge, then entered a canon that eventually spread out into a pine-bordered plateau on the mountainside.
Just ahead lay Poison Oak Ranch. Beyond, the deep, dark forest extended in miles numbered by hundreds to the snow-mantled peaks of the Sierra Nevada range.