Part 19 (1/2)

At last Adam Selden made a move. He changed his position so that his s.p.a.cious 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 pa.s.sed 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 b.u.t.ted 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 canon. 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 canons for Sulphur Spring, but two hours had elapsed before he found it.

It was hidden away in a little wooded canon, 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

s.h.i.+NPLASTER AND CREEDS

White Ann and Poche bore their riders slowly along the backbone of the ridge that upreared itself between Clinker Creek Canon 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 gra.s.sy 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 fas.h.i.+on 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.”