"Boy," said the kindly1 Mr. Tamroy, leaning forward toward Oliver Drew, "those are the queerest last words of a father to his son that I ever listened to. What on earth you goin' to do?"
Oliver shrugged2 and spread his hands. "Keep on obeying instructions," he said. "I've followed them to the letter so far. I'm only a few miles from my destination, and I've ridden in the silver-mounted saddle on Poche's back the entire five hundred miles and over. My father was not a fool. He was of sound mind, I fully3 believe, when he wrote that message for me. There's some deep meaning underlying4 all this. I must simply stay on the Old Tabor Ivison Place till I know what puzzled old Dad all those years, and find out whether the answer is Yes or No."
"Heavens above!" muttered Mr. Tamroy. "But how you goin' to live? What're you goin' to do down in there? Gonta get a job? It's too far away from everything for you to go and come to a job, Mr. Drew."
"I'll tell you," said Oliver. "At the University I took an agricultural course. Since my graduation I have written not a few articles and sold them to leading farm journals. If the Old Tabor Ivison Place is of any value at all, I want to experiment in raising all sorts of things on a small scale, and write articles about my results. I'll have a few stands of bees, and maybe a cow. I'll try all sorts of things, get a second-hand5 typewriter, and go to it. I think I can live while I'm waiting for my father's big question to crop up."
"You can raise a garden all right, I reckon," Oliver's new friend told him, following him as he rose to continue his journey. "But you got to irrigate6, and there ain't the water in Clinker Creek7 there used to be. Folks up near the headwaters use nearly all of it, and in the hot months what they turn back will all go up in evaporation8 before it gets down to you. There's a good spring, though, but it strikes me it don't flow anything like it did when Old Tabor Ivison lived on the land."
"Is there a house on the place?"
"Only an old cabin. At least there was last time I chased a buck9 down in there. And something of a fence, if I remember right. But fifteen years is a long time—I reckon everything left is next to worthless."
They came to a pause at the edge of the sidewalk beside an aged10 villager, who stood leaning on his crooked11 manzanita cane12 as he gazed at Poche and his silver-mounted trappings.
"That's Old Dad Sloan," whispered Damon Tamroy. "He's one o' the last of the 'Forty-niners. Just hobbles about on his cane, livin' off the county, and waitin' to die. Never saw him take much interest in anything before, but that outfit13 o' yours has caught his eye. Little wonder, by golly!"
Oliver stepped into the street and lifted the hair-tassled reins14 of the famous bridle15. He turned to find the watery16 blue eyes of the patriarch fixed17 on him intently. With a trembling left hand the old man brushed back his long grey hair, then the fingers shakily caressed18 a grizzled beard, flaring19 and wiry as excelsior. A long finger at length pointed20 to the horse.
"Where'd you get that outfit, young feller?" came the quavering tones.
"It was my father's," said Oliver in eager tones.
Oliver lifted his voice and repeated.
"Yer papy's hey?" He tottered23 into the street and fingered the heavily silvered Spanish halfbreed bit, which, Oliver had been told, was very valuable intrinsically and as a relic24. Then the knotty25 fingers travelled up an intricately plaited cheekstrap to one of the glittering silver-bordered conchas. The old fellow fumbled26 for his glasses, placed them on his nose, and studied the last named conceit27 with careful, lengthy28 scrutiny29. "Is that there glass, young feller?" he croaked30 at last, pointing to the setting of the concha, a lilac-hued crystal about two inches in diameter.
"I think it is," Oliver shouted.
The old man shook his head. "I can't see well any more," he quavered. "But this don't look like glass to me."
"I've never had it examined," Oliver told him. "I supposed the settings of the conchas to be glass or some sort of quartz31."
"Quartz?"
"Yes, sir."
The grey head slowly shook back and forth32. "Young man," came the piping tones, "is they a 'B' cut in the metal that holds them stones in place?"
Oliver's eyes widened. "There is," he said. "On the inside of each one."
"I don't understand," said Oliver.
"Bolivio made them conchas, young feller. Bolivio made that bit. Bolivio plaited that bridle. Bolivio made them martingales."
"And who is Bolivio?" puzzled the stranger.
"Dead and gone—dead and gone!" crooned the ancient. "That outfit's maybe a hundred years old, young feller—part of it, 'tleast. And that ain't glass in there—and it ain't quartz in in there—and there's only one man ever in this country ever had a bridle like that."
"And who was he?" asked Oliver almost breathlessly.
"Dan Smeed—that's who! Dan Smeed—outlaw, highwayman, squawman! Dan Smeed—gone these thirty years and more. That's his bridle—that's his saddle—all made by Bolivio, maybe a hundred years ago. And them stones in them conchas are gems34 from the lost mine o' Bolivio. The lost gems o' Bolivio, young feller!"
Oliver and Tamroy stared into each other's eyes as the old man tottered back to the sidewalk.
"Tell me more!" cried Oliver, as the ancient began tapping his crooked cane along the street.
There was no answer.
"He didn't hear," said Tamroy. "We'll get at him again sometime. Maybe he'll tell what he knows and maybe he won't. He's awful childish—awful headstrong. For days at a time he won't speak to a soul."
Oliver stood in deep thought, mystified beyond measure, yet thrilled with the thought that he was nearing the beginning of the trail to the mysterious question. He roused himself at length.
"Well, I must be getting along," he said. "I'll go right down to Clinker Creek now, if you'll point the way. I've enough grub behind my saddle for tonight and tomorrow morning. There's grass for the horse at present?"
"Oh, yes—horse'll get along all right."
"Then I'll go down and give my property the once-over, and be up tomorrow to get what I need."
Damon Tamroy showed him the road and shook hands with him. "Ride up and get acquainted regular someday," he invited. "I got a little ranch35 up the line—pears and apples and things. Give you some cherries a little later on. Well, so-long. Remember the Poison Oakers!"
Oliver galloped36 away, his flashing equipment the target of all eyes, on the road that led to the Old Tabor Ivison Place, his brain in a whirl of excitement.
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1
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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irrigate
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| vt.灌溉，修水利，冲洗伤口，使潮湿 | |
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creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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evaporation
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| n.蒸发，消失 | |
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9
buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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15
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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16
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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18
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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19
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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21
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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22
shrilled
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| （声音）尖锐的，刺耳的，高频率的( shrill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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23
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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24
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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knotty
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| adj.有结的，多节的，多瘤的，棘手的 | |
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26
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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27
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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28
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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29
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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30
croaked
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的过去式和过去分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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31
quartz
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| n.石英 | |
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32
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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33
weirdly
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| 古怪地 | |
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34
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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35
ranch
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| n.大牧场，大农场 | |
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36
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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