Part 40 (1/2)

to the annals of their gang. Old Man Selden died two days after the battle. Winthrop was killed outright, and Moffat was seriously wounded, but might recover. Obed Pence was dead; Digger Foss was dead. Jay Muenster was dead. Thus half of their numbers were wiped out, and among them the controlling genius of the gang, Old Man Selden. And without him those remaining, already split into two factions, were as a s.h.i.+p without a rudder.

And all because of Oliver Drew!

Oliver stepped from the train at Halfmoon Flat this afternoon, two weeks after the fight. He had helped Jessamy and her mother through the difficulties arising from the tragedy, had appeared as witness at the inquest, and had then hurried to Los Angeles with his sealed envelope.

Now, returning, he caught Poche in a pasture close to the village and saddled him.

It was one o'clock in the afternoon. He had lunched on the diner, so at once he lifted Poche into his mile-devouring lope and headed straight for Poison Oak Ranch.

What changes had taken place since first he galloped along that road, barely four months before! Few with whom he had come in contact were still pursuing the even tenor of their ways, as then. He thought of the fight and of the spectacular death of Digger Foss. At the inquest he had been unable to throw any light on the ident.i.ty of the halfbreed's murderer. He was an Indian--beyond this Oliver could say no more. The coroner had quizzed him sharply. Whereupon Oliver had asked that official if he himself thought it likely that he could have looked into the muzzle of a Colt revolver in the hands of Digger Foss, and at the same time make sure of the ident.i.ty of a man stealing up behind him. The coroner had scratched his head. ”I reckon I'd 'a' been tol'able int'rested in that gun o' Digger's,” was his confession.

And Oliver had told the truth. To this day he does not know who killed the gunman--but he knows that in all probability his own life was saved when it occurred, and that it was a Showut Poche-daka who struck the blow.

At Poison Oak Ranch he found Jessamy awaiting him. He had sent her a wire the day before, telling her he was coming, and the hour he would arrive.

They shook hands soberly, and after a short conversation with Mrs.

Selden, Oliver saddled White Ann for Jessamy and they rode away into the hills. They were for the most part silent as their horses jogged along manzanita-bordered trails. Instinctively they avoided Lime Rock and its vicinity, and made toward the north, up over the hog-back hills, now sear and yellow, which climbed in interminable ranks to the snowy peaks.

They came to a ledge that overlooked the river, and here they halted while the girl gazed down on scenes that never wearied her.

They dismounted presently and seated themselves on two great grey stones. Jessamy rested her round chin in her hand, and from under long lashes watched the green river winding about its serpentine curves below.

The tragedy of death had left its mark on her face. There was a sober, half-pathetic droop to the red lips. The comradely black eyes were thoughtful. But the self-reliant poise of the st.u.r.dy shoulders still was hers, and the sense of strength that she exhaled was not impaired.

Her dress today was not rugged, as was ordinarily the case when she rode into the hills. She wore a black divided skirt, and a low-neck yellow-silk waist, trimmed with black, and a black-silk sailor's neckerchief. To further this effect a yellow rose nestled in her night-black hair. She looked like a gorgeous California oriole, so trim was her figure, so like that bird's were the contrast of colours she displayed. And her voice when she spoke, low and clear and throbbing melodiously, reminded him of the notes of this same sweet songster at nesting time.

Oliver sat looking at the profile of her face, with the wind-whipped hair about it. More fully than ever now he realized that she was everything in life to him. And today--now!--smilingly, unabashed.

”Well, Jessamy,” he began, ”I have seen Dad's lawyers.” She turned her face toward him, but still rested her elbow on her knee, one cheek now cupped by her hand.

”Yes,” she said softly. ”Tell me all about it.”

”And I gave them my answer to the question.”

For several moments her level glance searched his face, a little smile on her lips.

”And what is your answer?” she asked.

He rose and moved to the stone on which she sat, seating himself beside her.

”Don't you know what my answer is?” he asked softly.

She continued to look at him fearlessly, smilingly, unabashed.

”I think I know,” she said. ”But tell me.”

”My answer,” he said, ”is the same that dear old Dad kept repeating for thirty years. I shall not enrich myself by sacrificing the confidence placed in me. I shall remain loyal to my simple trust. I am the Watchman of the Dead.”