two weeks had passed since the battle of the poison oakers. that organization was now no more. jessamy's efforts to mobilize a posse to stop the fight had proved fruitless. only the constable and damon tamroy rode back with her with first aid packages, for halfmoon flat had voiced its indifference in a single sentence—"let 'em fight it out!" those whom the constable would have deputized promptly made themselves scarce.
so the poison oakers had fought it out, and in so doing appended "finis" 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 ship 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 identity 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 identity 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 sturdy 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."
her lips quivered and her eyes glowed warmly, and two tears trickled down her cheeks. oliver took from his shirt the envelope and showed her the black seals, still unbroken. then on a flat rock before them he made a tiny fire of grass and twigs, and placed the envelope on top of it. then he lighted a match.
"the funeral pyre of my worldly fortune!" he apostrophized. "the lost mine of bolivio will be lost indeed when the map has burned."
together they watched the tiny fire in silence, till the black wax sputtered and dripped down on the stone, and the eager flames crinkled the envelope and its contents and reduced them to ashes.
"and now?" said oliver.
"and now!" echoed jessamy.
he slowly placed both arms about her and lifted her, unresisting, to her feet. he drew her close, brushed back her hair, and looked deep into eyes from which tears streamed unrestrained. then she threw her arms about his shoulders, and, with a glad laugh, half hysterical, she drew his head down and kissed him time and again.
his hour had come. oliver drew had captured the star that had led him on and on—his star of destiny. warm were her lips and tremulous—glowing were her eyes for love of him. his pulse leaped madly as she gave herself to him in absolute surrender.
"there's another matter," he said five minutes later, as she lay silent in his arms, with the fragrance of her hair in his nostrils. "old danforth, the head of the firm of attorneys that attended to dad's affairs, looked at me keenly from under shaggy brows when i gave my answer.
"'so it's no, is it, young man?' he said.
"'no it is,' i told him.
"'in that case,' he said, 'you are to come with me.'
"he took me to a bank and opened a safe-deposit box in the vaults. he showed me bonds totalling over a hundred thousand dollars, and cash that represented the interest coupons the firm had been clipping since dad died.
"'here's the key,' he told me. 'if your answer had been yes, these bonds, too, would have gone to the church. for then you would have had the gems. your father didn't mean to leave you penniless. you would have been fairly well off, i imagine, whether your answer had been yes or no. your father wanted his question answered by a man of education, and i think he would be pleased at your decision.'"
jessamy had straightened and twisted in his arms till her face was close to his.
"peter drew never hinted at that to me!" she cried. "i—i suppose you'd have nothing but the old ivison place if you answered no. oh, my romantic old peter drew! god rest his soul! i'm so glad."
"glad, eh?" he smiled whimsically at her, and she quickly interpreted his thoughts.
"oh, but, oliver—you don't understand! it's not that you're wealthy, after all—but now you can give damon tamroy just what the cement company would have paid him for lime rock!"
"lime rock shall be your wedding gift," he laughed.
"oh, oliver! and—and when we're—married, you won't take me away from the poison oak country, will you, dear! i'll go anywhere you say—but these hills, and the river, and lime rock, and old dad sloan, and—my hummingbird—and the perfume of the manzanita blossoms in spring—and—oh, i love my country next to you, dear heart! and in my dreams i loved you even before you came riding to me in the silver-mounted saddle of bolivio, like a knight out of the past. this is my country—and if we must go, i'll pine for it—and maybe die like the indian bride. i want to stay here, oliver dear—with you—down on the dear old ivison place!"
oliver tenderly kissed his star of destiny. "i have no other plans," he whispered into her ear. "my place is there.... i am the watchman of the dead!"
