Part 18 (1/2)

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 marksmans.h.i.+p 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 att.i.tude.

”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 canon. 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--”