The Heritage of the Hills
Page 3
CHAPTER III
B FOR BOLIVIO
"Boy," said the kindly Mr. Tamroy, leaning forward toward Oliver Drew,"those are the queerest last words of a father to his son that I everlistened to. What on earth you goin' to do?"
Oliver shrugged and spread his hands. "Keep on obeying instructions," hesaid. "I've followed them to the letter so far. I'm only a few milesfrom my destination, and I've ridden in the silver-mounted saddle onPoche's back the entire five hundred miles and over. My father was not afool. He was of sound mind, I fully believe, when he wrote that messagefor me. There's some deep meaning underlying all this. I must simplystay on the Old Tabor Ivison Place till I know what puzzled old Dad allthose years, and find out whether the answer is Yes or No."
"Heavens above!" muttered Mr. Tamroy. "But how you goin' to live?What're you goin' to do down in there? Gonta get a job? It's too faraway from everything for you to go and come to a job, Mr. Drew."
"I'll tell you," said Oliver. "At the University I took an agriculturalcourse. Since my graduation I have written not a few articles and soldthem to leading farm journals. If the Old Tabor Ivison Place is of anyvalue at all, I want to experiment in raising all sorts of things on asmall scale, and write articles about my results. I'll have a few standsof bees, and maybe a cow. I'll try all sorts of things, get asecond-hand typewriter, and go to it. I think I can live while I'mwaiting for my father's big question to crop up."
"You can raise a garden all right, I reckon," Oliver's new friend toldhim, following him as he rose to continue his journey. "But you got toirrigate, and there ain't the water in Clinker Creek there used to be.Folks up near the headwaters use nearly all of it, and in the hot monthswhat they turn back will all go up in evaporation before it gets down toyou. There's a good spring, though, but it strikes me it don't flowanything like it did when Old Tabor Ivison lived on the land."
"Is there a house on the place?"
"Only an old cabin. At least there was last time I chased a buck down inthere. And something of a fence, if I remember right. But fifteen yearsis a long time--I reckon everything left is next to worthless."
They came to a pause at the edge of the sidewalk beside an agedvillager, who stood leaning on his crooked manzanita cane as he gazed atPoche and his silver-mounted trappings.
"That's Old Dad Sloan," whispered Damon Tamroy. "He's one o' the last ofthe 'Forty-niners. Just hobbles about on his cane, livin' off thecounty, and waitin' to die. Never saw him take much interest in anythingbefore, but that outfit o' yours has caught his eye. Little wonder, bygolly!"
Oliver stepped into the street and lifted the hair-tassled reins of thefamous bridle. He turned to find the watery blue eyes of the patriarchfixed on him intently. With a trembling left hand the old man brushedback his long grey hair, then the fingers shakily caressed a grizzledbeard, flaring and wiry as excelsior. A long finger at length pointed tothe horse.
"Where'd you get that outfit, young feller?" came the quavering tones.
Mr. Tamroy winked knowingly at Oliver.
"It was my father's," said Oliver in eager tones.
The 'Forty-niner cupped a hand back of his ear. "Hey?" he shrilled.
Oliver lifted his voice and repeated.
"Yer papy's hey?" He tottered into the street and fingered the heavilysilvered Spanish halfbreed bit, which, Oliver had been told, was veryvaluable intrinsically and as a relic. Then the knotty fingers travelledup an intricately plaited cheekstrap to one of the glitteringsilver-bordered _conchas_. The old fellow fumbled for his glasses,placed them on his nose, and studied the last named conceit withcareful, lengthy scrutiny. "Is that there glass, young feller?" hecroaked at last, pointing to the setting of the _concha_, a lilac-huedcrystal about two inches in diameter.
"I think it is," Oliver shouted.
The old man shook his head. "I can't see well any more," he quavered."But this don't look like glass to me."
"I've never had it examined," Oliver told him. "I supposed the settingsof the _conchas_ to be glass or some sort of quartz."
"Quartz?"
"Yes, sir."
The grey head slowly shook back and forth. "Young man," came the pipingtones, "is they a 'B' cut in the metal that holds them stones in place?"
Oliver's eyes widened. "There is," he said. "On the inside of each one."
The old man stared at him, and his bearded lips trembled. "Bolivio!" hecroaked weirdly.
"I don't understand," said Oliver.
"Bolivio made them _conchas_, young feller. Bolivio made that bit.Bolivio plaited that bridle. Bolivio made them martingales."
"And who is Bolivio?" puzzled the stranger.
"Dead and gone--dead and gone!" crooned the ancient. "That outfit'smaybe a hundred years old, young feller--part of it, 'tleast. And thatain't glass in there--and it ain't quartz in in there--and there's onlyone man ever in this country ever had a bridle like that."
"And who was he?" asked Oliver almost breathlessly.
"Dan Smeed--that's who! Dan Smeed--outlaw, highwayman, squawman! DanSmeed--gone these thirty years and more. That's his bridle--that's hissaddle--all made by Bolivio, maybe a hundred years ago. And them stonesin them _conchas_ are gems from the lost mine o' Bolivio. The lost gemso' Bolivio, young feller!"
Oliver and Tamroy stared into each other's eyes as the old man totteredback to the sidewalk.
"Tell me more!" cried Oliver, as the ancient began tapping his crookedcane along the street.
There was no answer.
"He didn't hear," said Tamroy. "We'll get at him again sometime. Maybehe'll tell what he knows and maybe he won't. He's awful childish--awfulheadstrong. For days at a time he won't speak to a soul."
Oliver stood in deep thought, mystified beyond measure, yet thrilledwith the thought that he was nearing the beginning of the trail to themysterious question. He roused himself at length.
"Well, I must be getting along," he said. "I'll go right down to ClinkerCreek now, if you'll point the way. I've enough grub behind my saddlefor tonight and tomorrow morning. There's grass for the horse atpresent?"
"Oh, yes--horse'll get along all right."
"Then I'll go down and give my property the once-over, and be uptomorrow to get what I need."
Damon Tamroy showed him the road and shook hands with him. "Ride up andget acquainted regular someday," he invited. "I got a little ranch upthe line--pears and apples and things. Give you some cherries a littlelater on. Well, so-long. Remember the Poison Oakers!"
Oliver galloped away, his flashing equipment the target of all eyes, onthe road that led to the Old Tabor Ivison Place, his brain in a whirl ofexcitement.