smith, the shaggy, mouse-coloured burro, lifted his voice in that sobbing wail of welcome which has caused his kind to be designated as desert canaries, as oliver rode into the pasture. smith's was a gregarious soul. to be left entirely alone was torture. his ears were twelve inches long, and the protuberances over his eyes were so craggy that oliver had hesitated between the names of smith and william cullen bryant. on the whole, though, "smith" had seemed more companionable.
oliver loosed poche to console the lonesome heart of smith and went at the irrigating of his garden. when a stream of water was trickling along every hoed furrow he put on heavy hobnailed laced-boots and went into the hills in search of his third bee tree.
it seems illogical to set down that one could live for nearly two months on forty acres of land without having explored every square foot of it. but oliver had not trod upon at least two thirds of his property. locked chaparral presents many difficulties. farmers detest it, and artists go wild over it. but farmers are obliged to sprawl flat and crawl through it occasionally, while artists sit on their stools at a distance from it that brings out all the alluring browns and yellows and greens and olives of which it is capable under the magic of the changing sunlight.
oliver had seen bees darting like arrows from the flowers in the creekbed in a westerly direction, up over the thickest of the chaparral. up there somewhere was another colony of winged misers and their hoarded wealth of honey. honey was bringing a good price just then, and a merchant at halfmoon flat would buy it. so now the beeman climbed the hill and crawled into the chaparral in the direction the insects had flown.
scattered here and there through the dense thicket were pines and spruce and black oak. in one of these trees the bees must have their home; and his task of finding it was not entirely a haphazard quest. when he crawled to an opening in the bushes he would climb into the crotch of one of them and locate the nearest tree. then, flattening himself once more, he would crawl to this tree and look for a hollow for the bees. finding none, he would locate another tree and crawl to it.
thus wearisomely engaged he crawled into a depression three feet deep in the earth beneath him. this allowed him to sit erect for the first time in minutes, and he availed himself of the chance, industriously mopping his brow.
now, oliver drew was not a miner, but he was a son of the outdoor west and knew at once that he was seated in an ancient prospect hole. about the excavation were piled the dirt and stones that had been shovelled out.
he speculated over it. for all he knew, it might date back to the fascinating days of '49. a great forest of pines might have stood here then. or maybe the pines had been burned away, and a forest of gigantic oaks had followed the conifers, to rear themselves majestically above the pigmies that delved, oftimes impotently, for the glittering yellow treasure at their roots. or, again, the prospect hole might have been dug years later, after the oaks had disappeared and the chaparral had claimed the land. there was no way of telling, for every decade or so forest fires swept the country almost clean, and some new growth superseded the old in nature's endless cycle.
fifty feet farther on he plopped into a second prospect hole, and a little beyond that he found a third.
he noted now that in all cases no chaparral grew up through the muck that had been thrown out. this would seem to signify that the work had been done in recent years, while the bushes that now claimed the land still grew there. he found a fourth hole soon, and near it were manzanita stumps, the tops of which had been cut off with an ax.
this settled it. while the soil might show evidences of the work of man for an interminable length of time, the roots of the lopped-off manzanitas would rot in a decade, perhaps, and freezing weather would loosen the stumps from their moorings. but this wood was still sound. the prospecting had been done not many years before. and who had been prospecting thus on patented land?
when he had wormed his way to the crest of a hill he had passed about twenty of these shallow holes. now, at the top, the earth had been literally gophered. the workings here looked newer still; and presently he came upon evidence that proved work had been done not longer than a year before, for dry leaves still clung to the tops of manzanita bushes that had been chopped off and pitched to one side.
it has been stated that he was not a miner. still, having been born and raised in a mining country, he knew something of the geological formations in which gold ordinarily is found. he was in a gold producing country now, yet the specimens that he picked up near the prospect holes proved that only a rank tenderfoot would have searched so persistently in this locality.
he picked up a bit of white substance and gave it study. it resembled lithia. the water of his spring contained a trace of lithium salts, according to the analysis furnished him by the state agricultural college, to which he had mailed a sample. he pocketed the specimen for future reference.
as he sat on the edge of this hole, with his feet in it, he heard a rustling in the bushes close at hand. at first he thought it might be caused by a jackrabbit; but soon it became certain that some heavier, larger body was making its way slowly through the chaparral.
a coyote? a bobcat? a deer?
he carried no gun today, and the swift thought of a mountain lion was a bit unpleasant.
he quickly slid from his seat and stretched himself on the ground in the shallow excavation. oliver was an ardent student of nature, and he liked nothing better than secretly to watch some wild thing as it moved about it its customary routine, unconscious of the gaze of human eyes. once he had hidden in wild grapevines and watched a skunk searching for bugs along a creekbed, until suddenly the moist bank crumbled beneath him, and he fell, and—but what followed is what might be called an unsavory story.
the crackling, scraping sounds drew nearer, but whatever was making them was not moving directly toward him. they ceased abruptly, and then he knew that the man or animal had reached the open space in the brush in which the prospect holes were situated.
as the noises were not continued, he began raising himself slowly, until he was able to look over the edge of the hole.
it was not a browsing deer nor a hunting coyote upon which he gazed. a squat, dark man, with chaps and spurs and stetson, was making his way across the open space to the continuation of the chaparral beyond it. his eyes were mere slits, black, mongolic.
he was digger foss, the half-white, right-hand man of adam selden.
the progress of the gunman was not stealthy, for undoubtedly he considered himself particularly safe from observation up here in the wilderness of chaparral. he slouched bow-leggedly across the break in the thicket, and dropped to hands and knees when he reached the edge of it. he disappeared in the chaparral.
the general direction that he was pursuing was straight toward oliver's cabin. oliver lay quite still and listened to the renewed sounds of his progress through the prickly bushes.
then once more they stopped suddenly. oliver knew that in the short space of time elapsed digger foss could not have crawled beyond the reach of his hearing. he had paused again.
for perhaps five minutes he listened, but could hear no further sounds. then from not far distant there came the familiar clatter of a dry pine cone in the manzanita tops.
a moment more and oliver was smiling grimly. for foss had suddenly appeared above the tops of the chaparral. he was climbing a giant digger pine, which only a short time before oliver had investigated as the possible home of the bees he was striving to find. there in plain sight the halfbreed was climbing like a bear from limb to limb, keeping the trunk of the tree between his chunky body and the cabin in the valley.
presently he settled astride a horizontal bough on oliver's side, his back toward the watcher. he adjusted himself as comfortably as possible, and then there appeared in his hands a pair of binoculars. leaning around the tree trunk, screened by the digger pine's long, smoke-coloured needles, he focused the glasses on the cabin down below.
it looked to oliver drew as if this were not the first time that the gunman had perched himself up there to watch proceedings in the cañon. there had been no hesitancy in his selection of a tree which stood in such a position that other trees would not obstruct his view from its branches, no studying over which limb he might occupy to the best advantage.
vaguely oliver wondered how many times he had laboured and moved about down below, with the keen, black, chinese eyes fixed on him. it was not a comfortable feeling, by any means.
now, though, his thoughts were taken up by the problem of getting away unobserved by the spyglass man. digger foss was not a hundred feet from where oliver lay and watched him. if he should turn for an instant he would see oliver there, flat on his face in the excavation, for the halfbreed's perch was twenty feet above the tops of the chaparral.
oliver had decided to make a try at crawling on up the hill as noiselessly as possible, when new and far slighter sounds came to his ears. so slight they were indeed that, if he had not been close to the earth, he might not have detected them at all.
but no bird or small animal could be responsible for them, for they were continuous and dragging. once again he hugged the ground while he watched and waited.
the sounds came on—sounds that seemed to be the result of some one's dragging something carefully over the shattered leaves on the ground. and presently there hove into view another human being.
he was an indian—a showut poche-daka. oliver remembered his swarthy face, his inscrutable eyes. he had been pointed out to him at the fiesta by jessamy as the champion trailer of all the paubas, of which the showut poche-daka tribe was a sort of branch. often, jessamy had said, this indian, who was known by the odd and laughable name of tommy my-ma, had been employed by the sheriff of the county in tracking down escaped prisoners or fleeing transgressors against the law.
he wore no hat. he was barefooted. his only covering seemed to be a pair of faded-blue overalls and a colourless flannel shirt. neither did he carry any weapon, so far as oliver could see.
his progress was now soundless as he came from the chaparral, flat on his belly, wriggling along like a lizard with surprising speed. his black, glittering eyes were unquestionably fixed with rapt intentness on the man aloft in the digger pine; and by reason of this alone he did not see oliver drew.
his movements commenced to be extraordinary. he wriggled himself speedily over the unlittered earth and made no sound. there was a pile of dry brush at one edge of the clearing, the tops of the bushes that had been cut off to facilitate the sinking of the prospect holes. toward this tommy my-ma glided; and when he reached it he passed out of sight on the other side.
then suddenly he reappeared again. instantly he lowered his head to the ground at the edge of the pile of brush; then swiftly the head and shoulders disappeared, the trunk and legs following. for a second oliver saw the bare brown feet, then they too went out of sight.
oliver understood the disappearing act of tommy my-ma, he thought. the pile of brush covered another of the prospect holes, and into the hole the showut poche-daka had snaked himself. it seemed that he too had sought a hiding place often frequented. in there he perhaps could sit erect and, screened by the pile of brush, would be entirely hidden, while he himself could watch the spy in the branches of the digger pine. for that he was in turn spying on the man who was watching oliver's cabin oliver did not for a moment doubt.
but why? that was another matter!
he was quite aware of his own unprotected position; and with tommy my-ma now hidden in the brush scarce fifty feet away from him, he dared not get out of his hole and try to crawl away.
the situation struck him as ridiculous in the extreme. foss trying to spy on him; tommy my-ma spying on foss—the object of all this intrigue, oliver himself, spying on both of them!
and how long must it continue?
the only sounds now were the soft moaning of the wind through the needles of the pines, and from afar, occasionally, the clear, cool call of a valley quail: "cut that out! cut that out!" the sun was hot on the resinous needles of the pines, and the smell of them filled the air.
