The Heritage of the Hills Part 14

Chupurosa seemed not to be the stoic, "How-Ugh!" sort of Indian with which fiction has made the world familiar. All the tragedy and unsolvable mystery of his race was written in his face, but he could smile and laugh and talk, and seemed to enjoy life hugely.

His leathery face now parted in a grin, and, though he did not rise, he extended a rawhide hand and made his callers welcome. Then he waved them to seats.

Much as any other human being would do, he politely inquired after the girl's health and that of her family. Asked as to his own, he shook his head and made a rheumatic grimace.

"I've brought a friend to see you, Chupurosa," said Jessamy at last, as, for some reason or other, she had not yet exactly introduced Oliver.

Chupurosa looked at the man inquiringly and waited.

"This is Oliver Drew," said the girl in what Oliver thought were unnatural, rather tense tones. He saw Jessamy's lips part slightly after his name, and that she was watching the old man intently.

Chupurosa nodded in an exaggerated way, and extended a hand, though the two had already gone through the handshake formality. Oliver arose and did his part again, then stood a bit awkwardly before their host.

He heard a half-sigh escape the girl. "Senor Drew has not been in our country long," she informed the old man. "He comes from the southern part of the state--from San Bernardino County."

Again the exaggerated nodding on the part of Chupurosa.

Then there was a pause, which the girl at length broke--

"Did you catch the name, Chupurosa? _Oliver Drew_."

Chupurosa politely but haltingly repeated it, and grinned accommodatingly.

Jessamy tried again. "Do you know a piece of land down in Clinker Creek Canon that is called the Old Ivison Place, Chupurosa?"

His nod this time was thoughtful.

"Senor Drew now owns that, and lives there," she added.

Both Jessamy and Oliver were watching him keenly. It seemed to Oliver that there was the faintest suggestion of dilation of the eye-pupils as this last bit of information was imparted. Still, it may have meant nothing.

The Indian crumbled natural-leaf with heel of hand and palm, and refilled his terrible pipe.

"Any friend of yours is welcome to this country and to my hospitality,"

he said.

"Senor Drew rode all the way up here horseback," the girl pushed on.

"You like good horses, Chupurosa. Senor Drew has a fine one. His name is Poche."

For the fraction of a second the match that Oliver had handed Chupurosa stood stationary on its trip to the tobacco in his pipe. Chupurosa nodded in his slow way again, and the match completed its mission and fell between the blackened stones.

"And you like saddles and bridles, too, I know. You should see Senor Drew's equipment, Chupurosa."

Several thoughtful puffs. Then--

"Is it here, Senorita?"

"Yes," said the girl breathlessly. "Will you go out and look at it?"

This time the headman puffed for nearly a minute; then suddenly he rose with surprising briskness.

"I will look at this horse called Poche," he announced, and stalked out ahead of them.

A number of Indians, old and young, had gathered about the horses outside the little gate. They were silent but for a low, seemingly guarded word to one another now and then. Every black eye there was fixed on the gorgeous saddle and bridle of Poche in awe and admiration.

Then came Chupurosa, tall, dignified as the distant mountain peaks, and they backed off instantly. At his heels were Oliver and the girl, whose cheeks now glowed like sunset clouds and whose eyes spoke volumes.

Thrice in absolute silence the headman walked round the horse.

Completing the third trip, he stepped to Poche's head and stood attentively looking at the left-hand _concha_ with its glistening stone.

Then Chupurosa lifted his hands, slipped the chased-silver keeper that held the throatlatch in place, and let the throatlatch drop. Both hands grasped the cheekstrap near the brow-band, and turned this part of the bridle inside out.

Oliver felt a slight trembling, it was all so weird, so portentous. He almost knew that the jet eyes were searching for the "B" chiselled into the silver on the inside of the _concha_, knew positively by the quick dilation of the pupils when they found it.

At once the old man released the bridle and readjusted the throatlatch.

He turned to them then, and silently motioned toward the hut. Jessamy cast a triumphant glance at Oliver as they followed him inside.

To Oliver's surprise he closed the door after them. Then, though it was now so dark inside that Oliver could scarce see at all, Chupurosa stood directly before him and looked him up and down.

He spoke now in the melodious Spanish.

"Senor," he asked, "is there in the middle of your body, on the left side, the scar of a wound like a man's eye?"

Oliver caught his breath. "Yes," he replied. "I brought it back from France. A bayonet wound."

Up and down went the iron-grey head of the sage. "I have never seen the weapon nor the sort of wound it makes," he informed Oliver gravely.

"Take off your shirt."

"Oh, Chupu-_ro_-sa!" screamed Jessamy as she threw open the door and slammed it after her.

CHAPTER XI

CONCERNING SPRINGS AND SHOWUT POCHE-DAKA

It was evident to Oliver Drew that Clinker Creek was lowering fast, as Damon Tamroy had predicted that it would do. He feared that it would go entirely dry just when certain vegetables would need it most. Again, also following Tamroy's prophecy, the flow from his spring proved insufficient to keep all of his plantings alive, even though he had impounded the surplus in a small clay-lined reservoir.

He stood with hands on hips today, frowning at the tinkling stream of water running from the rusty length of pipe into the reservoir.

"There's just one thing to do," he remarked to it, "and that's to see if I can't increase your putter-putter. I want to write an article on making the most of a flow of spring water, anyway; and I guess I'll use you for a foundation."

Whereupon he secured pick and shovel and sledge and set about removing the box he had so carefully set in the ground to hold his domestic water.

When the box was out he enlarged the hole, and, when the water had cleared, studied the flow. It seeped out from a fissure in the bedrock--or what he supposed was the bedrock--and it seemed a difficult matter to "get at it." However, he began digging above the point of egress in the resistant blue clay, and late that afternoon was down to bedrock again.

And now when he had washed off the rock he discovered a strange thing.