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

CHAPTER I. At Honeymoon Flat
CHAPTER II. Peter Drew's Last Message
CHAPTER III. B For Bolivio
CHAPTER IV. The First Caller
CHAPTER V. "And I'll Help You!"
CHAPTER VI. According to the Records
CHAPTER VII. Lilac Spodumene
CHAPTER VIII. Poison Oak Ranch
CHAPTER IX. Nancy Field's Windfall
CHAPTER X. Jessamy's Hummingbird
CHAPTER XI. Concerning Springs and Showut Poche-Daka
CHAPTER XII. The Poison Oakers Ride
CHAPTER XIII. Shinplaster and Creeds
CHAPTER XIV. High Power
CHAPTER XV. The Fire Dance
CHAPTER XVI. A Guest at the Rancho
CHAPTER XVII. The Girl in Red
CHAPTER XVIII. Spies
CHAPTER XIX. Contentions
CHAPTER XX. "Wait!"
CHAPTER XXI. "When We Meet Again!"
CHAPTER XXII. The Watchman of the Dead
CHAPTER XXIII. The Question
CHAPTER XXIV. In the Deer Path
CHAPTER XXV. The Answer

The Heritage of the Hills

CHAPTER I

AT HALFMOON FLAT

The road wound ever upward through pines and spruce and several varieties of oak. Some of the latter were straight, some sprawling, all massive. Now and then a break in the timber revealed wooded hills beyond green pasture lands, and other hills covered with dense growths of buckhorn and manzanita. Poison oak grew everywhere, and, at this time of year—early spring—was most prolific, most beautiful in its dark rich green, most poisonous.

Occasionally the lone horseman crossed a riotous stream, plunging down from the snow-topped Sierras in the far distance. Rail fences, for the most part in a tumbledown condition, paralleled the dirt road here and there.

At long intervals they passed tall, old-fashioned ranch houses, with their accompanying stables, deciduous orchards and still dormant vineyards, wandering turkeys and mud-incrusted pigs. An air of decay and haphazard ambition pervaded all these evidences of the dwelling places of men.

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

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

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

For an hour Poche climbed steadily. Now he topped the summit of the miniature mountain, and Oliver stopped him to gaze down fifteen hundred feet into the timbered cañon of the American River. Even the cow-pony seemed enthralled with the grandeur of the scene—the wooded hills climbing shelf by shelf to the faraway mist-hung mountains; the green river winding its serpentine course far below. Far up the river a gold dredger was at work, the low rumble of its machinery carried on the soft morning breeze.

Half an hour later Poche ambled briskly into the little town of Halfmoon Flat, snuggled away in the pines and spruces, sunflecked, indolent, content. It suited Oliver's mood, this lazy