The old man stared at him, and his bearded lips trembled. "Bolivio!" he croaked weirdly. "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 gems 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 ranch up the line--pears and apples and things. Give you some cherries a little later on. Well, so-long. Remember the Poison Oakers!" Oliver galloped 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. CHAPTER IV THE FIRST CALLER Toward noon Poche was carefully feeling his way down the rocky cañon of Clinker Creek, over a forgotten road. Oliver walked, for Poche needs must scramble over huge boulders, fallen pines, and tangles of driftwood. The road followed the course of the creek for the most part, and in many places the creek had broken through and washed great gaps.