The Heritage of the Hills

  CHAPTER X

  JESSAMY'S HUMMINGBIRD

  A steep, tall mountain, heavily wooded, reared itself above the Indianreservation. A creek tumbled over the boulders in the mountainside andraced through the village of huts; and the combined millions of all theirrigation and power companies in the West could not have bought a dropof its water until Uncle Sam's charges had finished with it and set itfree again.

  It was a picturesque spot. Huge liveoaks, centuries old, sprawled overthe cabins. Tiny gardens dotted the sunny land. Horses and dogs wereanything but scarce, and up the mountainside goats and burros browsedoff the chaparral. Wrinkled old squaws washed clothes at the creekside,or pounded last season's acorns into _bellota_--the native dish--inmortars hollowed in solid stone. Some made earthen _ollas_ of red clay;some weaved baskets. Over all hung that weird, indescribable odour whichonly Indians or their much-handled belongings can produce.

  "This is peace," smiled Oliver to Jessamy, as their horses leaped thestream side by side and cantered toward the cluster of dark, squat huts."What do they call this reservation?"

  "It is named after an age-old dweller in our midst whom, since you are aWesterner, you must have often met."

  "Who is that?"

  "Mr. Rattlesnake."

  "Oh, certainly. I've met him on many occasions--mostly to his sorrow, Ifancy. Rattlesnake Reservation, eh?"

  "Well, that would be it in English. But in the Pauba tongue Mr.Rattlesnake becomes Showut Poche-daka."

  "What's that!" Oliver turned quickly in his saddle to find her dark wideeyes fixed on him intently. "Say that again, please."

  "Showut Poche-daka," she repeated slowly.

  "M'm-m! Strikes me as something of a coincidence--a part of that name."

  "Showut is one word," she said, still watching him. "Poche and daka aretwo words hyphenated."

  "And how do the English-speaking people spell the second word, Poche?"he asked.

  "P-o-c-h-e," she spelled distinctly. "Long o, accent on the firstsyllable."

  Oliver reined in. "Stop a second," he ordered crisply. "Why, that's theway my horse's name is spelled. Say, that's funny!"

  "Is your trail growing plainer?"

  He looked at her earnestly. "Look here," he said bluntly. "I distinctlyremember telling you the other day that my horse's name is Poche. Didn'tyou connect it with the name of the reservation at the time?"

  "I did."

  He looked at her in silence. "You did, eh?" he remarked finally. "Idon't even know what my horse's name means. Dad bought him while I wasaway at college. I understood the horse was named that when Dad got holdof him, and that he merely hadn't changed it. Now, I won't say that Dadtold me as much outright, but I gathered that impression somehow. I knewit was an Indian name, but had no idea of the meaning."

  "Literally Poche means bob-tailed--short-tailed. That's why it occurs inthe title of our friend Mr. Rattlesnake. While your Poche-horse is notbob-tailed, his tail is rather heavy and short, you'll admit. Hasnothing of the length and graceful sweep of White Ann's tail, if you'llpardon me."

  "You can't lead me into joshing just now, young lady. Answer this: Whydidn't you tell me, when I told you my _caballo's_ name, that you knewwhat it meant? Most everybody asks me what it means when I tell 'em hisname; but you did not even show surprise over the oddity of it--and Iwondered. And before, when you spoke of this tribe of Indians, youcalled them the Paubas."

  "Certainly I showed no surprise, for I am familiar with the word pocheand have just proved that I know its meaning. And I'm not very clever atsimulating an emotion that I don't feel. I didn't tell you, moreover,because I wanted you to find out for yourself. I thought you'd do sohere. Yes--and I deliberately called these people the Paubas. They _are_Paubas--a branch of the Pauba tribe."

  "I thought you were to help me," he grumbled. "You're adding to themystery, it seems to me."

  "Not at all. I'm showing you the trail. You must follow it yourself.Knowing the country, I see bits here and there that tell me where to goto help you out. Poche's name is one of them. Keep your eyes and earsopen while I'm steering you around."

  "All right," he agreed after a pause. "Lead on!"

  "Then we'll make a call on Chupurosa Hatchinguish," she proposed."Chupurosa means hummingbird, as you doubtless know, since it isSpanish. And if my Chupurosa isn't a bird and also a hummer, I neverhope to see one."

  Oliver's riding outfit created a sensation as the two entered thevillage. Faces appeared in doorways. Squat, dark men, their black-felthats invariably two sizes too large, came from nowhere, it seemed, togaze silently. Dogs barked. Women ceased their simple activities andchattered noisily to one another.

  Jessamy reined in before a black low door presently, and left thesaddle. Oliver followed her. Through a profusion of morning-glories thegirl led the way to the door and knocked.

  From within came a guttural response, and, with a smile at hercompanion, she passed through the entrance.

  It was so dark within that for a little Oliver, coming from the brightsunlight, could see almost nothing. Then the light filtering in throughthe vines that covered the hut grew brighter.

  The floor was of earth, beaten brick-hard by the padding of tough barefeet. In the centre was a fireplace--little more than a circle ofblackened stones--from which the smoke was sucked out through a hole inthe roof, presumably after it had considerately asphyxiated theoccupants of the dwelling. Red earthenware and beautifully woven basketsrepresented the household utensils. There were a few old splint-bottomchairs, a pack-saddle hanging on the wall, a bed of green willow boughsin one corner.

  These simple items he noticed later, and one by one. For the time beinghis interested attention was demanded by the figure that sat humped overthe fire, smoking a black clay pipe.

  Chupurosa Hatchinguish, headman of the Showut Poche-dakas and aprominent figure in the fiestas and yearly councils of the Pauba tribes,was a treasure for anthropologists. Years beyond the ken of most humanbeings had wrought their fabric in his face. It was cross-hatched,tattooed, pitted, knurled, and wrinkled till one was reminded of thesurface of some strange, intricately veined leaf killed and mummified bythe frost. From this crunched-leather frame two little jet-black eyesblazed out with the unquenched fires of youth and all the wisdom in theworld. A black felt hat, set straight on his iron-grey hair and almosttouching ears and eyebrows, faded-blue overalls, and a dingy flannelshirt completed his garb, as he wore nothing on his feet.

  "Hello, my Hummingbird!" Jessamy cried merrily in the Spanish tongue.

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

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

  Much as any other human being would do, he politely inquired after thegirl's health and that of her family. Asked as to his own, he shook hishead 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 wereunnatural, rather tense tones. He saw Jessamy's lips part slightly afterhis name, and that she was watching the old man intently.

  Chupurosa nodded in an exaggerated way, and extended a hand, though thetwo had already gone through the handshake formality. Oliver arose anddid 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 ourcountry long," she informed the old man. "He comes from the southernpart of the state--from San Bernardino County."

  Again the exaggerated nodding on the part of Chupurosa.

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

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

  Chupurosa politely but haltingly repeated it, and grinnedaccommodatingly.

  Jessamy tried again. "Do you know a piece of land down in Clinker CreekCanyon 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 Oliverthat there was the faintest suggestion of dilation of the eye-pupils asthis last bit of information was imparted. Still, it may have meantnothing.

  The Indian crumbled natural-leaf with heel of hand and palm, andrefilled 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 isPoche."

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

  "And you like saddles and bridles, too, I know. You should see SenorDrew'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 rosewith surprising briskness.

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

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

  Then came Chupurosa, tall, dignified as the distant mountain peaks, andthey backed off instantly. At his heels were Oliver and the girl, whosecheeks 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 stoodattentively looking at the left-hand _concha_ with its glistening stone.Then Chupurosa lifted his hands, slipped the chased-silver keeper thatheld the throatlatch in place, and let the throatlatch drop. Both handsgrasped the cheekstrap near the brow-band, and turned this part of thebridle inside out.

  Oliver felt a slight trembling, it was all so weird, so portentous. Healmost knew that the jet eyes were searching for the "B" chiselled intothe silver on the inside of the _concha_, knew positively by the quickdilation 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. Jessamycast a triumphant glance at Oliver as they followed him inside.

  To Oliver's surprise he closed the door after them. Then, though it wasnow so dark inside that Oliver could scarce see at all, Chupurosa stooddirectly 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 leftside, the scar of a wound like a man's eye?"

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

  Up and down went the iron-grey head of the sage. "I have never seen theweapon 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 andslammed it after her.