then there was feasting and racing and dancing and much ado. dice clicked; cards sputtered; the pawn passed in the ancient peon game. there was a barbecued steer, athletic contests, and competitions in markmanship. the fiesta de santa maria de refugio was to continue throughout the entire period of the full moon, and there must be diversion for every day and every night.
oliver drew awoke the next day after the fire dance in the ramada which had been assigned to him. he felt as if he had been passed through a stamp mill, so sore were his muscles and so burned and blistered were feet and legs. he had been carried to his bed of green willow boughs directly after the dance, where he had slept until nearly nightfall. then he had been awakened and given food. after eating he fell asleep once more, and slept all night, his head in the silver-mounted saddle that bolivio had made.
he dragged himself from the shakedown and went and sat at an opening in the booth. the ramada of the california indian is merely an arbourlike structure built of newly cut limbs of trees, their still unwithered leaves serving to screen the occupants from outside eyes.
the birds were singing. up the steep mountainside back of the reservation the goats and burros of the showut poche-dakas browsed contentedly on buckthorn and manzanita bushes. there was the smell of flowers in the drowsy air, mingling strangely with that indescribable odour that permeates an indian village.
it was noticeably quiet outside. doubtless the indians were enjoying an early-morning siesta after some grilling orgy of the night before. oliver groaned with the movements necessary to searching his pockets for cigarette materials. his groan was mimicked by a familiar voice in the doorway.
jessamy selden entered.
"i've been listening for a sound from you," she chirruped. "my, how you slept! all in?"
"pretty nearly," he said.
she came and sat beside him on a box.
"are you badly burned?"
"oh, no. i guess your courtplaster helped some. but i'm terribly sore. and, worst of all, i feel like an utter ass!"
"why, how so?"
he snorted indignantly. "i went nutty," he laughed shortly. "i have lost the supreme contempt which i have always had for people who go batty in any sort of fanatical demonstration, like that last night. i've seen supposedly intelligent white folks go absolutely wild at religious camp meetings in the south, and i always marvelled at their loss of control. now i guess i understand. hour after hour of what i went through the other night, with the chanting and wailing and the constant rattle of those confounded cherry stones, and the terrible heat, and men and women giving out all about me, and the perpetual thud-thud of bare feet—ugh! i wouldn't go through it again for ten thousand dollars."
"i thought it best not to warn you of the severity of it beforehand," she announced complacently. "very few white men have ever danced the fire dance, and only one or two have held out to the end. of course failure to do so signifies that the powers working against the affiliation are too strong to be overcome. these men who failed, then, did not become brothers of the showut poche-dakas."
"lucky devils!"
"here, here!" she cried. "don't talk that way. you're glad, aren't you?"
"i'm tickled half to death."
"is it possible that you do not take this seriously, mr. drew?"
"look here," he said: "why didn't you tell me more of what i might expect at this fool performance?"
"i was afraid you might look at the matter much as you're looking at it now," she answered. "i knew you'd go through with it, though, if you once got started. i knew it to be a terrible ordeal, but i was confident that you would win."
"i thank you, i'm sure. win what, though? the reputation of being a half-baked simpleton?"
"do you imagine that the white people who saw you are ridiculing you?"
"aren't they?"
"absolutely nothing of the sort! you're the hero of the hour. people about here always attend the fiestas, and you'll be surprised to note the seriousness and lack of levity that they show in regard to the rites and ceremonies of the showut poche-dakas. it's an inheritance from the old days, i suppose, when the few white men who were here found it decidedly to their advantage to be friendly with the indians. they glory in your grit, and everybody is talking about you. you should have heard old man selden. 'there's a regular man,' he loudly informed every one after the dance. and folks about here listen to what old man selden says, for one reason or another."
"but it was such an asinine proceeding!"
"was it? i thought you respected the other fellow's beliefs and religious practices."
"was that a religious dance?"
"decidedly. all of their dances are religious at bottom. you were trying to overcome the evil spirit, represented by the fire, that stood between you and your union with the showut poche-dakas. you are one of the few who have weathered this ordeal and won. and now you're a recognized member of the tribe."
"and is that an enviable distinction?"
"what do you think about that?"
oliver was silent a time. "tell the truth," he said at last, "i've been thinking more of my sore muscles and scorched legs, and of the ridiculous figure i supposed i had cut the other night. i suppose, though, that when a hundred or more fellow creatures unanimously admit a rank outsider to the plane of brotherhood, one would be shallow minded indeed to look upon it too lightly."
"exactly. just what i wanted to hear you say. and the more simple natured and trusting they are, the more it devolves upon you to treat their brotherhood with respect and reverence. you are now brother to the showut poche-dakas; and you'll be a wiser man before you're older by many days. in this little village you have always a refuge, no matter what the world outside may do to you. nothing that you could do against your own race can make you an utter outcast, for here are your brothers, always eager to shelter you. if you owned a cow and lost it, a word from you would send fifty mounted men scouring the hills till the cow had been found and restored to you. will the people of your own race do that? if the forest was burning throughout the country, rest assured your property would be made safe before your brothers turned their efforts to protecting the homes of other white men. is it trivial, my friend?"
"no," said oliver shortly.
"you have been greatly honoured," she concluded. "you are the first white man on record who has been adopted by the showut poche-dakas without first marrying an indian girl. and even then they must win out in the fire dance. if they fail, their brides must go away with them, ostracized from their people for ever."
"how many white men have been honoured with membership?" he asked.
"very few. old dad sloan was over and saw the dance. he always attends fiestas if some one will give him a ride. he said after the dance that he knew of only three white men before you who had won brotherhood, though he had seen a dozen or more try for it."
"did he mention any names?"
"yes," she said. "he mentioned old man selden, for one."
"does he belong to the tribe?" cried oliver.
"no, he fell down in the fire dance. he had married an indian woman, and after the dance he took his bride away with him. she died six months afterward—pining for her people, it was supposed."
"and who else did he speak about?"
"you remember the name of dan smeed, of course."
"'outlaw, highwayman, squawman,'" quoted oliver, trying to imitate the old '49er's quavery tones.
"yes," she said. "he conquered the fire and was admitted to full brotherhood."
"and got gems for his bridle conchas," oliver added.
jessamy nodded. "and in some mysterious manner paved the way for you to become adopted thirty years later."
he turned and looked her directly in the eyes. "was dan smeed my father?" he asked abruptly.
her eyes did not evade his, but a slow flush mounted to her cheeks.
"i think we may safely assume that that is the case," she told him softly.
oliver stared at the beaten ground under his feet. "outlaw—highwayman—squawman!" he muttered.
quickly she rose and laid a hand on his shoulder. "don't! don't!" she pleaded sympathetically. "don't think of that! wait!"
"wait? wait for what?"
"wait till the showut poche-dakas have taken you into full confidence. wait for my hummingbird to speak."
oliver said nothing.
she waited a little, then resumed her seat and said:
"and the next man that old dad sloan mentioned as having tried the fire dance was—guess who?"
"the mysterious bolivio."
she nodded vigorously, both eyes closed.
"he succeeded?"
"he did."
"and the third man to succeed before me?"
"i forget the name. it is of no consequence so far as our mystery is concerned."
"your mystery, you mean," he laughed. "i'm beginning to believe you know all about it—all about me, about my father and his young-manhood days."
"oh, no!" she quickly protested.
"but you know more than i do. and you see fit to make mystery of it to my confusion."
"silly! i'm doing nothing of the sort. i've positively told you all i can."
"be careful, now! can, will, or may?"
"don't pin me down. you know i'm a feeble dissembler."
"you've told me all you may, then," he said with conviction.
"have it that way if you choose. how about some breakfast?—and then your triumphal entry into the festivities?"
"i hate to show myself—actually."
"pooh! i'm disappointed in you. come on—i've ordered breakfast for us in the restaurant booth. red-hot chili dishes and bellota. it should be ready by now."
the showut poche-dakas, at least, paid very little attention to oliver as he limped from the ramada at jessamy's side. but he was congratulated by white men on every hand, among them mr. damon tamroy, the first friend he had made in the country.
"i wish you could 'a' heard what old dad sloan had to say after the dance," was tamroy's greeting. "the dance got the old man started, and he opened up a little. selden wasn't about at the time, and dad said that once, years ago, selden married a squaw and made a try at the fire dance. there was two dances that night, old dad said. selden's partner, too, married an indian girl, and both of 'em danced. selden's partner won out, and was made a member o' the tribe; but selden fell down."
"did you get this partner's name?" asked oliver.
"le's see—what was the name dad said?"
"smeed?" asked oliver.
"that's it. dave smeed. no—dan smeed. this smeed lived with the tribe afterwards, it seems, but selden and his girl beat it, accordin' to the rules, and—"
"sh!" warned oliver. "here comes old man selden now."
the old monarch of the hills strode straight up to them, rowels whirring, chaps whistling.
"howdy, mr. drew—howdy!" he boomed. "howdy, tamroy." he extended a horny hand to each.
"some dance, as they say—some dance," he went on admiringly, and there was almost a smile on his stern features. "the boys was bettin' on how it would come out. the odds was ag'in ye, mr. drew. but i told 'em ye'd hold out. i been through the mill myself. might as well own up, since everybody knows it now—and that i danced to a fare-you-well, but fell down hard. when ye gonta' pull yer freight, mr. drew?"
"i thought of riding home today," said oliver.
"i was just talkin' to jess'my," selden continued. "her and me concluded this here'd be a good time to invite ye over to get acquainted. can't ye ride to poison oak ranch with us just as well as ye can ride on home?" he tried to grin, but the effort seemed to cause pain.
toward them oliver saw jessamy walking. he always had admired her long, confident stride, and he watched her throughout the brief space allowed him by courtesy to study his answer to her step-father. then he caught her eye. she began nodding vigorously.
"i should have watered my garden before coming to the fiesta," he told the old man. "i'm afraid it will suffer if i don't get back to it directly. but—"
"oh, she'll stand it another day. folks irrigate too much, anyway. ride home with us today and stay all night."
"i thank you, i'm sure," said oliver.
"yes, do come, mr. drew," put in jessamy as she reached the group.
"just so!" added selden.
and so it was arranged.
the four stood in conversation. over the girl's shoulder oliver now saw digger foss and two of the men who had ridden with selden the day he called at the cabin. they were staring at their chief and jessamy. a glowering look was on the face of at least one of them, and that one was the halfbreed, digger foss.
he stood with feet planted far apart, his fists on his hips—squat, his bullet head juked forward aggressively, his mongolic black eyes glittering. a sneer curled his lips. he nodded now and then as one or the other of his companions spoke to him, but he did not reply and did not remove his steadfast glance from the group of which oliver made one.
"they's a hoss race comin' off in a little," selden was saying. "we'll stay for that, then throw on the saddles and cut the dust for the rancho."
here foss, with a shrug of his wide, strong shoulders, turned away and disappeared in the crowd, his companions following at his heels.
presently selden and tamroy left jessamy and oliver together.
"what's the idea?" oliver asked her.
"it's quite apparent that he wants to be friendly with you," she pointed out.
"it's just as well, of course," said he. "but i can't fathom it. and at least one of the poison oakers doesn't approve. i just saw digger foss glowering at us from behind old man selden's back."
jessamy elevated her dark eyebrows. "no, he wouldn't approve," she declared. "that's merely because of me, i guess. well, we can't help that. it's your part to play up to old man selden and find out what is the cause of his sudden change of heart toward you."
"it's my riding outfit," he averred. "that, and the fact that i've danced the fire dance. i'm gradually picking up a thread here and there. by the way, you neglected to tell me this morning, when we were on the subject, that dan smeed's partner was none other than old man selden."
she glanced at him quickly. "i see that mr. damon tamroy is in character today. he does love to talk, doesn't he?"
"you knew it, then?"
she hesitated. "yes—old dad sloan let it out last night," she admitted. "i think he would have told me as much the day you and i called on him if he hadn't thought it might hurt my feelings. i don't think it was his forgetfulness that made him trip over the subject that day."
"but if he mentioned it in your presence after the fire dance, he must have forgotten that you are vitally interested."
her long black lashes hid her eyes for an instant. "that's true," she admitted.
oliver smiled grimly to himself. a lover would have small excuse for distrusting this girl, he thought, for deception was not in her. a little later he left her and sought out damon tamroy again.
"just a question," he began: "you know i'm seeking information of a peculiar character in this country; so don't think me impertinent. you said that old man selden wasn't about when dad sloan spoke of him as having been the partner of dan smeed."
tamroy nodded. "he'd gone to bed in one o' the ramadas," he said.
"did jessamy selden overhear old dad sloan when he told that?"
"no, she wasn't there either," replied tamroy. "i reckon she'd gone to bed too."
"thank you," oliver returned.
he knew now that jessamy selden had merely been repeating some one else's version of dad sloan's disclosures. he knew that she had been aware all along that dan smeed, his father, had been the partner of adam selden. had she known it, though, the day she questioned the patriarch? it had seemed that she was trying her utmost to make him mention the name of dan smeed's partner. perhaps she had felt safe in the belief that, out of consideration for her feelings, dad sloan would not couple her step-father's name with that of a "highwayman, outlaw, and squawman" who, he had said, was a "bad egg."
oliver was beginning to believe that jessamy selden at that very moment knew the question that had puzzled peter drew for thirty years, and what the answer to it should be. he believed that jessamy had known just who he was, and why he had come into the clinker creek country, the day she rode down to make his acquaintance. it seemed that she had considered it a part of her life's work to seek him out. later, she had worried a little for fear he might think her bold in riding to his cabin as she had done.
she had not been seeking his companionship because she liked him, then. there was some ulterior motive that was governing her actions. in him personally, perhaps, she had no interest whatever. there was some secret connected with old man selden, and it dated back to the days when selden and oliver drew's father were partners, and had both married indian girls. jessamy had stumbled on this, and when oliver came she had known the reason that brought him, and had made haste to ally herself with him in order to carry out whatever she had in mind. it was this that had kept her in such close touch with him—not friendship for oliver himself.
oliver brooded. the thought hurt him. the damage had been done. he had learned all this too late. he loved her now, and wanted her more than he wanted anything else in life. she knew he loved her. she must know that he was not the sort to tell her what he had told her if he had not meant it, and to grasp her in his arms and kiss her, even under the strange condition in which the scene had occurred. not a word had passed between them regarding that episode since he had blushingly apologized for his behaviour. she had taken it quite serenely, as she seemed to take most things in life, and had displayed no confusion when next they met.
"you look so funny," she remarked when he at last sought her out after the pony race. "is anything the matter?"
"nothing at all," he told her. "i'm going for our caballos now. selden and the boys are saddling up. i suppose we'll all ride together."
a little later he shook the withered hand of chupurosa hatchinguish and bade him good-bye in spanish. the chief of the showut poche-dakas called him brother, and patted his back in a fatherly manner as he followed him to the door of his hovel. but he made no mention of a future meeting, and said nothing more than "brother" to indicate that a new relation existed between them.
oliver led poche and white ann to jessamy, and they swung into the saddles and galloped to where old man selden, hurlock, and bolar were awaiting them in the dusty road.
hours later the little party of five rode over the baldpate hill, then in single-file formation descended by the steep trail to the bed of the american river. a half-hour afterward they entered the cup in the mountainside, and oliver drew looked for the first time upon the headquarters of the poison oakers.
the girl, selden, and oliver left their saddles at the door, and the boys rode on and led their horses to the corrals. oliver was conducted into the immense main room of the old log house, where he was presented by the girl to her mother.
the afternoon was nearly gone, and the two women at once began preparing supper, while old man selden and his guest sat and smoked near a window flooded with the reflection of the sunset glow on fleecy clouds above the cañon.
selden's talk was of cows and grazing conditions and allied topics. oliver drew, half listening and putting in a stray comment now and then, watched jessamy in a rôle which was new to him.
she had put on a spotless red-checkered gingham dress that fitted perfectly, and revealed slim, rounded, womanly outlines which are the heritage of strength and perfect health. her black hair was coiled loosely on top of her head, and a large red rose looked as if nature had designed it to splash its vivid colour against that ebony background. with long, sure strides this girl of the mountains moved silently about from the great glossy range to the work table, washing crisp lettuce, deftly beheading snappy radishes, her slim fingers now white with dough and flour, or stirring with a large spoon in some steaming utensil over the fire. an extra fine dinner was in progress of preparation in honour of the seldens' guest; yet the girl worked serenely and swiftly, with not a false move, not a flutter of excitement, never gathering so much as a spot on her crisp, stiff dress, always sure of herself, master of her diversified tasks. was this the girl that an hour before he had seen so gracefully astride in a fifty-pound california saddle, her slim legs covered by scarred, fringed chaps, her black hair streaming to the bottom of her saddle skirts in two long, thick braids? there was a desperate tugging at the heart-strings of oliver drew. he knew now that if he failed to win this girl it were better for him had he not been born. and again and again she had sought him out for some obscure reason in no way connected with a desire for his companionship. he thought again of the episode on the hill after the rattlesnake bite, and he grew sick at heart at remembrance of the feel of those soft, firm lips.
when they arose from the bounteous meal selden said to his guest:
"it's still light outdoors. wanta look over the ranch a bit?"
they two strolled out to the stables and talked horses and saddles. they looked perfunctorily over the green young fruit in the orchard, and selden showed oliver the new pipe line which now carried spring water into all three of the living houses. they killed time till late twilight, and as one by one the stars came out the old man led the way to a prostrate pine at the edge of a fern patch. on it they seated themselves.
"they was little matter i wanted to talk to you about," said selden half apologetically. "le's have a smoke and see if we can't come to an understandin'. just so! just so!"
