CHAPTER VII
LILAC SPODUMENE
Once more Oliver Drew rode out of Clinker Creek Canyon to find JessamySelden, straight and strong and dependable looking, waiting for him inher saddle. On this occasion he joined her by appointment.
She looked especially fresh and contrasty today. Her black hair and eyesand her red lips and olive skin, with the red of perfect health sosubtly blended into the tan, always made her beauty rather startling.This morning she had plaited her hair in two long, heavy braids thathung to the bottom of her saddle skirts on either side.
Oliver's gaze at her was one of frank admiration.
"How do you do it?" he laughed.
"Do what?"
"Make yourself so spectacular and--er--outstanding, without leaving anytraces of art?"
"Am I spectacular?"
"Rather. Different, anyway--to use a badly overworked expression. Butwhat puzzles me is what makes you look like that. You seem perfectlynormal, and nothing could be plainer than the clothes you wear. You'renot beautiful, and you're too big both physically and mentally to bepretty. But I'll bet my hat you're the most popular young woman in thissection!"
She regarded him soberly. "Are you through?" she asked.
"I've exhausted my stock of descriptive words, anyway," he told her.
"Then we'd better be riding," she said.
He swung Poche to the side of White Ann, and they moved off along theroad, knee and knee.
"You're not offended?" he asked.
She threw back her head and laughed till Oliver thought of meadow larks,and robins calling before a shower.
"Offended! You must think me some sort of freak. Who ever heard of awoman being offended when a man admires her? I like it immensely, Mr.Oliver Drew. And if you can beat that for square shooting, there's notruth in me. But if you'll analyse my 'difference' you'll find it's onlybecause I'm big and strong and healthy, and try always to shoot straightfrom the shoulder and look folks straight in the eye. That's all. Let'slet 'em out!"
They broke into a smart gallop, and continued it up and downpine-toothed hills till they clattered into Halfmoon Flat.
Curious eyes met them, old men stopped in their tracks and leaned ontheir canes to watch, and folks came to windows and doors as they lopedthrough the village.
"'Whispering tongues can poison truth,'" Jessamy quoted as they turned acorner and cantered up a hill toward a grove of pines on the outskirtsof the town. "It seems odd that Adam Selden has not mentioned you to me.Surely some one has seen us together who would tell some one else whowould tell Old Man Selden all about it. But not a cheep from him asyet."
"Have you any bosom friends in the Clinker Creek district?" he asked,not altogether irrelevantly.
"No, none at all. But I'm friends with everybody, though I have nothingin common with any one. I don't consider myself superior to the nativeshere about, but, just the same, they don't interest me. I'm speaking ofthe women. I like most of the men. I guess I'm what they call a man'swoman. I can't sit and talk about clothes and dances, and gossip, andwhat one did on one's vacation last summer. It all bores me stiff, so Idon't pretend it doesn't. Men, now--they can talk about horses andsaddles and cows and cutting wood and prizefights and poker games andelection--"
"And women and Fords," he interrupted.
She laughed and led the way into a little trail that snaked on up thehill between lilacs and buckeye trees to a little cabin half-hidden inthe foliage.
They dismounted at the door and loosed their horses. Jessamy tappedvigorously on the panels. Again and again--and then there was heard ashuffling, unsteady step inside, and a cane thumped hollowly. Presentlythe door opened, and Old Dad Sloan bleared out at them from behind hisflaring, mattress-stuffing hair and whiskers.
"How do you do, Mr. Sloan!" cried Jessamy almost at the top of hervoice.
A veined hand shook its way to form a cup behind the ancient's ear.
"Hey?" he squealed.
Jessamy filled her sturdy lungs with air and tried again.
"I say--How do you do!" The effort left her neck red but for a blueoutstanding artery.
"Oh!" exclaimed Dad Sloan, with a look of relief. "Why, howdy?"
Jessamy ascended a step to the door, took him by both shoulders, andplaced her satin lips close to the ear that he inclined her way.
"We've come to make you a call," she announced. "I want you to meet afriend of mine; and we want to ask you some questions."
The grey head nodded slowly up and down, more to indicate that its ownerheard and understood than to signify acquiescence. But he tottered backand held the door wide open; and Jessamy and Oliver went into the cabin.
Dad Sloan managed to live all alone in this sequestered little nook byreason of the county's generosity. He was old and feeble, and at timesirritatingly childish and petulant. Jessamy Selden often brought himcakes, fried chicken, and the like; and, provided he was in the rightmood, he would be more likely to be confidential with her than withanybody else in the country.
But the girl's task was difficult. The old man shook hands listlesslywith Oliver at her bidding, but seemed entirely to have forgotten theirprevious meeting. They sat in the uncomfortable straight-backed,thong-bottom chairs while Jessamy shrieked the conversation into thedesired channel. The old eyes gathered a more intelligent look as shespoke of the lost mine of Bolivio.
Pieced together, the fragments that fell from the bearded lips of OldDad Sloan made some such narrative as follows:
Bolivio had been a Portuguese or a Spaniard, or some "black furriner,"who had been in the country in the memorable days of '49 and afterward.His knowledge of some tongue based on the Latin had made it easy for himto communicate with the Pauba Indians that inhabited the country, assome of them had learned Spanish from the Franciscan Fathers down at thecoast. Bolivio mingled with the tribe, and finally became a squawman.
One day he appeared at the Clinker Creek bar and exhibited a beautifulstone. A gold miner who was present had once followed mining in SouthAfrica, and knew something of diamonds. He examined Bolivio's stone, andgave it such simple tests as were at his command, then advised the ownerto send it to New York to find out if it was possessed of value.
It required months in those days to communicate with the Atlanticseaboard. Bolivio's stone was started on its long journey around theHorn. He hinted that there were more of the stones where he had foundthis one, and created the impression that his Indian brethren had showedthem to him.
More they could not get out of him. Nor did anybody try very hard tolearn his secret, for no one imagined the find of much intrinsic value.
Bolivio was a saddler, and was skilled in the art of the silversmith.Gold dust was plentiful in the country in that day, and the foreignerfound ready buyers for his masterpieces in leather and precious metals.The finest equestrian outfit that he made was finally acquired from theIndians by Dan Smeed, a miner who afterward turned highwayman, marriedan Indian girl, became an outlaw, and finally disappeared altogether. Inthe _conchas_ with which the plaited bridle was adorned Bolivio had settwo large stones from his secret store, which he himself had crudelypolished.
One day, a month or more before word came from New York regarding thestone, Bolivio was found dead in the forest. A knife had been plungedinto his heart. The secret of the brilliant stones had died with him.
Then came the answer. The stone was said to be spodumene, of a very highclass, and had a a lilac tint theretofore unknown. It was the finest ofits kind ever to have been reported as found in the United States. Thefinder was offered a thousand dollars for the sample sent; one hundreddollars a pound was offered for all stones that would grade up to thesample.
But Bolivio was dead, and no one knew from whence the stone had come.
Efforts were made, of course, to find the source of this wealth. TheIndians were tried time and again, but not one word would they speakregarding the matter. The new quest was finally dropped; for those werethe days of gold, gold, gold, and so fren
zied were men and women to findit that other precious minerals were cast aside as worthless. None hadtime to seek for stones worth a hundred dollars a pound, with gold worthmore than twice as much. So the lost mine of Bolivio became only amemory.
Years later this same stone was discovered six hundred miles farthersouth. It is now on the market as kunzite, and a cut stone of one karatin weight sells for fifty dollars and more. The San Diego Countydiscovery was supposed to mark the introduction of the stone in theUnited States, for the lost mine of Bolivio was all but forgotten.
Old Dad Sloan thumped out at Jessamy's request and once again criticallyexamined Oliver's saddle and bridle and the brilliants in the _conchas_.
"It's the same fine outfit Bolivio made, and that afterwards belonged toDan Smeed, outlaw, highwayman, and squawman," he pronounced. "They neverwas another outfit like it in this country."
"Tell us more about Dan Smeed!" screamed the girl.
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 saddleand bridle Bolivio ever made. Bolivio's squaw kep' it after Bolivio wasknifed. And by and by along come this Dan Smeed and his partner to thiscountry. And when Dan Smeed married into the tribe he got the saddle andbridle and martingales somehow. That was later--years later. Bolivio'sbeen 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 fromside to side. "I recollect clear as day what happened sixty to seventyyear 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 thedays o' forty-nine to seventy, I'd recollect it."
"You mentioned Dan Smeed's partner," prompted Jessamy. "Can you recallhis name?"
"Yes, Dan Smeed had a partner," mused Dad Sloan. "Bad egg, Dan Smeed.Squawman, highwayman, outlaw. Disappeared with his fine saddle andbridle 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 thanOld Dad Sloan. Chupurosa's face is a pattern in crinkled leather. Whenwe go to see Aunt Nancy Fleet we'll visit the Indian village. And thatwill be--when?"
"Tomorrow, if you say so," Oliver replied. "I meant to irrigate mygarden 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, getthem 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 againstOld Man Selden?"
"Let him scent!" said Jessamy. "I'm dying to see Selden's face when hereads that letter."
They parted at the headwaters of Clinker Creek, with the understandingthat she would meet him in the county road next morning for the ride toher aunt's and the Indian reservation.
The Heritage of the Hills Page 7