The Heritage of the Hills Read online

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  THE HERITAGE OF THE HILLS

  BY ARTHUR P. HANKINS

  Author of "THE JUBILEE GIRL," Etc.

  NEW YORK DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 1922

  COPYRIGHT, 1921, 1922 BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC.

  PRINTED IN U. S. A.

  CONTENTS

  I AT HONEYMOON FLAT

  II PETER DREW'S LAST MESSAGE

  III B FOR BOLIVIO

  IV THE FIRST CALLER

  V "AND I'LL HELP YOU!"

  VI ACCORDING TO THE RECORDS

  VII LILAC SPODUMENE

  VIII POISON OAK RANCH

  IX NANCY FIELD'S WINDFALL

  X JESSAMY'S HUMMINGBIRD

  XI CONCERNING SPRINGS AND SHOWUT POCHE-DAKA

  XII THE POISON OAKERS RIDE

  XIII SHINPLASTER AND CREEDS

  XIV HIGH POWER

  XV THE FIRE DANCE

  XVI A GUEST AT THE RANCHO

  XVII THE GIRL IN RED

  XVIII SPIES

  XIX CONTENTIONS

  XX "WAIT!"

  XXI "WHEN WE MEET AGAIN!"

  XXII THE WATCHMAN OF THE DEAD

  XXIII THE QUESTION

  XXIV IN THE DEER PATH

  XXV THE ANSWER

  The Heritage of the Hills

  CHAPTER I

  AT HALFMOON FLAT

  The road wound ever upward through pines and spruce and severalvarieties of oak. Some of the latter were straight, some sprawling, allmassive. Now and then a break in the timber revealed wooded hills beyondgreen pasture lands, and other hills covered with dense growths ofbuckhorn and manzanita. Poison oak grew everywhere, and, at this time ofyear--early spring--was most prolific, most beautiful in its dark richgreen, most poisonous.

  Occasionally the lone horseman crossed a riotous stream, plunging downfrom the snow-topped Sierras in the far distance. Rail fences, for themost part in a tumbledown condition, paralleled the dirt road here andthere.

  At long intervals they passed tall, old-fashioned ranch houses, withtheir accompanying stables, deciduous orchards and still dormantvineyards, wandering turkeys and mud-incrusted pigs. An air of decay andhaphazard ambition pervaded all these evidences of the dwelling placesof men.

  "Well, Poche," remarked Oliver Drew, "it's been a long, hard trip, butwe're getting close to home." The man spoke the word "home" with a touchof bitterness.

  The rangy bay saddler slanted his left ear back at Oliver Drew andquickened his walking-trot.

  "No, no!" laughed Oliver, tightening the reins. "All the more reason weshould take it easy today, old horse. Don't you ever tire?"

  For an hour Poche climbed steadily. Now he topped the summit of theminiature mountain, and Oliver stopped him to gaze down fifteen hundredfeet into the timbered canyon of the American River. Even the cow-ponyseemed enthralled with the grandeur of the scene--the wooded hillsclimbing shelf by shelf to the faraway mist-hung mountains; the greenriver winding its serpentine course far below. Far up the river a golddredger was at work, the low rumble of its machinery carried on the softmorning breeze.

  Half an hour later Poche ambled briskly into the little town of HalfmoonFlat, snuggled away in the pines and spruces, sunflecked, indolent,content. It suited Oliver's mood, this lazy old-fashioned Halfmoon Flat,with its one shady "business" street, its false-front, one-story shopsand stores, redolent still of the glamorous days of '49.

  He drew up before a saloon to inquire after the road he should take outof town to reach his destination. The loungers about the door of theplace all proved to be French- or Spanish-Basque sheep herders; andtheir agglutinative language was as a closed book to the traveler. So hedropped the reins from Poche's neck and entered the dark, low-ceiledbar-room, with its many decorations of dusty deer antlers on fly-speckedwalls.

  All was strangely quiet within. There were no patrons, no bartenderbehind the black, stained bar. He saw this white-aproned personage,however, a fat, wide, sandy-haired man, standing framed by the reardoor, his back toward the front. Through a dirty rear window Oliver sawmen in the back yard--silent, motionless men, with faces intent onsomething of captivating interest, some silent, muscle-tensing event.

  With awakened wonder he walked to the fat bartender's back and lookedout over his shoulder. Strange indeed was the scene that was revealed.

  Perhaps twenty men were in an unfenced portion of the lot behind thesaloon. Some of them had been pitching horseshoes, for two stood withthe iron semicircles still in hand. Every man there gazed with silentintensity at two central figures, who furnished the drama.

  The first, a squat, dark, slit-eyed man of about twenty-five, lazed in abig Western saddle on a lean roan horse. His left spurred heel stoodstraight out at right angles to the direction in which his horse faced.He hung in the saddle by the bend in his right leg, the foot out of thestirrup, the motionless man facing to the right, a leering grin on hisface, half whimsical, half sardonic. That he was a fatalist wasevidenced by every line on his swarthy, hairless face; for he lookedsneering indifference into the wavering muzzle of a Colt .45, in thehand of the other actor in the pantomime. His own Colt lay passiveagainst his hip. His right forearm rested across his thigh, the hand farfrom the butt of the weapon. A cigarette drooped lazily from hisgrinning lips. Yet for all his indifferent calm, there was in hisglittering, Mongolic eyes an eagle watchfulness that bespoke the firesof hatred within him.

  The dismounted man who had the drop on him was of another type. Tall,angular, countrified, he personified the popular conception of aConnecticut yankee. He boiled with silent rage as he stood, with longbody bent forward, threatening the other with his enormous gun. Despitethe present superiority of his position, there was something of pathosin his lean, bronzed face, something of a nature downtrodden, of theworm suddenly turned.

  For seconds that seemed like ages the two statuesque figures confrontedeach other. Men breathed in short inhalations, as if fearful of breakingthe spell. Then the threatened man in the saddle puffed out a cloud ofcigarette smoke, and drawled sarcastically:

  "Well, why don't you shoot, ol'-timer? You got the drop."

  Complete indifference to his fate marked the squat man's tone andattitude. Only those small black eyes, gleaming like points of jet fromunder the lowered Chinamanlike lids, proclaimed that the other hadbetter make a thorough piece of work of this thing that he had started.

  The lank man found his tongue at the sound of the other's voice.

  "Why don't I shoot, you coyote whelp! Why don't I shoot! You know why!Because they's a law in this land, that's why! I oughta kill ye, an'everybody here knows it, but I'd hang for it."

  The man on the roan blew another puff of smoke. "You oughta thought o'that when you threw down on me," he lazily reminded the other. "_You_ain't got no license packin' a gun, pardner."

  The expression that crossed his antagonist's face was one of torture,bafflement. It proved that he knew the mounted man had spoken truth. Hewas no killer. In a fit of rage he had drawn his weapon and got the dropon his enemy, only to shrink from the thought of taking a human life andfrom the consequences of such an act. But he essayed to bluster his wayout of the situation in which his uncontrollable wrath had inveigledhim.

  "I can't shoot ye in cold blood!" he hotly cried. "I'm not the skunkthat you are. I'm too much of a man. I'll let ye go this time. But mindme--if you or any o' your thievin' gang pesters me ag'in, I'll--I'llkill ye!"

  "Better attend to that little business right now, pardner," came thefatalist's
smooth admonition.

  "Don't rile me too far!" fumed the other. "God knows I could kill ye an'never fear for the hereafter. But I'm a law-abidin' man, an'"--thesix-shooter in his hand was wavering--"an' I'm a law-abidin' man," herepeated, floundering. "So this time I'll let ye--"

  A fierce clatter of hoofs interrupted him. Down the street, across theboard sidewalk, into the lot back of the saloon dashed a white horse, ablack-haired girl astride in the saddle. She reined her horse to itshaunches, scattering spectators right and left.

  "Don't lower that gun!" she shrieked. "Shoot! Kill him!"

  Her warning came too late. It may have been, even, that instead of awarning it was a knell. For a loud report sent the echoes gallopingthrough the sleepy little town. The man on the ground, who had halflowered his gun as the girl raced in, threw up both hands, and wentreeling about drunkenly. Another shot rang out. The squat man stilllolled in his saddle, facing to the right. The gun that he had drawn ina flash when the other's indecision had reached a climax was levelledrigidly from his hip, the muzzle slowly following his staggering,twice-wounded enemy.

  In horror the watchers gazed, silent. The stricken man reeled againstthe legs of the girl's horse, strove to clasp them. The animal snortedat the smell of blood and reared. His temporary support removed, the mancollapsed, face downward, on the ground, turned over once, lay still.

  The squat man slowly holstered his gun. Then the first sound to breakthe silence since the shots was his voice as he spoke to the girl.

  "Much obliged, Jess'my," he said; then straightened in his saddle,spurred the roan, and dashed across the sidewalk to disappear around thecorner of the building. A longdrawn, derisive "Hi-yi!" floated back, andthe clatter of the roan's hoofbeats died away.

  The girl had sprung from her mare and was bending over the fallen man.The others crowded about her now, all talking at once. She lifted awhite, tragic face to them, a face so wildly beautiful that, even underthe stress of the moment, Oliver Drew felt that sudden fierce pang ofdesire which the first startled sight of "the one woman" brings to ahealthy, manly man.

  "He's dead! I've killed him!" she cried.

  "No, no, no, Miss Jessamy," protested a hoarse voice quickly. "Youwasn't to blame."

  "O' course not!" chorused a dozen.

  "He'd 'a' lowered that gun," went on her first consoler. "He was backin'out when you come, Miss Jessamy. An' as sure as he'd took his gun offDigger Foss, Digger'd 'a' killed 'im. It was a fool business from thestart, Miss Jessamy."

  "Then why didn't some of you warn this man?" she flamed. "You cowards!Are you afraid of Digger Foss? Oh, I--"

  "Now, looky-here, Miss Jessamy," soothed the spokesman, "bein' afraid o'Digger Foss ain't got anything to do with it. It wasn't our fight. Wehad no call to butt in. Men don't do that in a gun country, MissJessamy--you know that. This fella pulled on Digger, then lost hisnerve. What you told 'im to do, Miss Jessamy, was right. Man ain't gotno call to throw down on another one unless he intends to shoot. Youknow that, Miss Jessamy--you as much as said so."

  For answer the girl burst into tears. She rose, and the silent men stoodback for her. She mounted and rode away without another word, wipingfiercely at her eyes with a handkerchief.

  Four men carried the dead man away. The rest, obviously in need of astimulant, crowded in and up to the black bar. Oliver joined them. Theweird sight that he had witnessed had left him weak and sick at thestomach.

  Silently the fat, blond bartender set out whisky glasses, then lookedhesitatingly at the stranger.

  "Go ahead, Swede," encouraged a big fellow at Oliver's left. "He needsone, too. He saw it."

  The bartender shrugged, thumped a glass toward Oliver, and broke thelaws of the land.

  "What was it all about?" Oliver, encouraged by this confidence, asked ofthe big, goodnatured man who had vouched for him on sight.

  The other looked him over. "This fella Dodd," he said, "startedsomething he couldn't finish--that's all. Dodd's had it in for DiggerFoss and the Selden boys and some more of 'em for a year. Selden wasrunnin' cattle on Dodd's land, and Dodd claimed they cut fences to _get_'em on. I don't know what all was between 'em. There's always bad bloodbetween Old Man Selden and his boys and the rest o' the Poison Oakers,and somebody.

  "Anyway," he went on, "this mornin' Henry Dodd comes in and gets thedrop on Digger Foss, who's thick with the Seldens, and is one o' thePoison Oakers; and then Dodd ain't got the nerve to shoot. You saw whatit cost him. Fill 'em up again, boys."

  "I can't understand that girl," Oliver remarked. "Why, she rode in andtold the man to shoot--to kill."

  "And wasn't she right?"

  "None of the rest of you did it, as she pointed out to you."

  "No--men wouldn't do that, I reckon. But a woman's different. They buttin for what they think's right, regardless. But I look at it like this,pardner: Dodd's a grown man and is packin' a hip gun. Why's he packin'it if he don't mean to use it? Only a kid ought to be excused fromflourishin' iron like he did. He was just lettin' off steam. But hepicked the wrong man to relieve himself on. If he'd 'a' killed Digger,as Miss Jessamy told him to, maybe he'd a hung for it. But he'd a had achance with a jury. Where if he took his gat offen Digger Foss, it wassure death. I knew it; all of us knew it. And I knew he was goin' tolower it after he'd painted pictures in the air with it and thought he'dconvinced all of us he was a bad man, and all that. He'd never pulledthe trigger, and Digger Foss knew it."

  "Then if this Digger Foss knew he was only bluffing, he--why, hepractically shot the man in cold blood!" cried Oliver.

  "Not practically but ab-so-lutely. Digger knew he was within the law, asthey say. While he knew Dodd wouldn't shoot, no prosecutin' attorney can_prove_ that he knew it. Dodd had held a gun on him and threatened tokill 'im. When Digger gets the chance he takes it--makes his lightin'draw and kills Dodd. On the face of it it's self-defence, pure andsimple, and Digger'll be acquitted. He'll be in tonight and give himselfup to the constable. He knows just where he stands."

  Oliver's informant tossed off his liquor.

  "And Miss Jessamy knew all this--see?" he continued. "She savviesgunmen. She ought to, bein' a Selden. At least she calls herself aSelden, but her right name's Lomax. Old Man Selden married a widow, andthis girl's her daughter. Well, she rides in and tells Dodd to shoot.She knew it was his life or Digger's, after he'd made that crack. Butthe poor fool!--Well, you saw what happened. Don't belong about here, doyou, pardner?"

  "I do now," Oliver returned. "I'm just moving in, as it were. I ownforty acres down on Clinker Creek. I came in here to inquire the way,and stumbled onto this tragedy."

  "On Clinker Creek! What forty?"

  "It's called the Old Tabor Ivison Place."

  "Heavens above! You own the Old Tabor Ivison Place?"

  "So the recorder's office says--or ought to."

  For fully ten seconds the big fellow faced Oliver, his blue eyesstudying him carefully, appraisingly.

  "Well, by thunder!" he muttered at last. "Tell me about it, pardner. Myname's Damon Tamroy."

  "Mine is Oliver Drew," said Oliver, offering his hand.

  "Well, I'll be damned!" ejaculated Tamroy in a low voice, his eyes, widewith curiosity, devouring Oliver. "The Old Ivison Place!"

  "You seem surprised."

  "Surprised! Hump! Say--le'me tell you right here, pardner; don't _you_ever pull a gun on any o' the Poison Oakers and act like Henry Dodd did.Maybe it's well you saw what was pulled off today--if you'll onlyremember when you get down there on the Tabor Ivison Place."