Two weeks had passed since the battle of the Poison Oakers. That organization was now no more. Jessamy's efforts to mobilize a posse to stop the fight had proved fruitless. Only the constable and Damon Tamroy rode back with her with first aid packages, for Halfmoon Flat had voiced its indifference in a single sentence--"Let 'em fight it out!" Those whom the constable would have deputized promptly made themselves scarce. So the Poison Oakers had fought it out, and in so doing appended "Finis" to the annals of their gang. Old Man Selden died two days after the battle. Winthrop was killed outright, and Moffat was seriously wounded, but might recover. Obed Pence was dead; Digger Foss was dead. Jay Muenster was dead. Thus half of their numbers were wiped out, and among them the controlling genius of the gang, Old Man Selden. And without him those remaining, already split into two factions, were as a ship without a rudder. And all because of Oliver Drew! Oliver stepped from the train at Halfmoon Flat this afternoon, two weeks after the fight. He had helped Jessamy and her mother through the difficulties arising from the tragedy, had appeared as witness at the inquest, and had then hurried to Los Angeles with his sealed envelope. Now, returning, he caught Poche in a pasture close to the village and saddled him. It was one o'clock in the afternoon. He had lunched on the diner, so at once he lifted Poche into his mile-devouring lope and headed straight for Poison Oak Ranch. What changes had taken place since first he galloped along that road, barely four months before! Few with whom he had come in contact were still pursuing the even tenor of their ways, as then. He thought of the fight and of the spectacular death of Digger Foss. At the inquest he had been unable to throw any light on the identity of the halfbreed's murderer. He was an Indian--beyond this Oliver could say no more. The coroner had quizzed him sharply. Whereupon Oliver had asked that official if he himself thought it likely that he could have looked into the muzzle of a Colt revolver in the hands of Digger Foss, and at the same time make sure of the identity of a man stealing up behind him. The coroner had scratched his head. "I reckon I'd 'a' been tol'able int'rested in that gun o' Digger's," was his confession. And Oliver had told the truth. To this day he does not know who killed the gunman--but he knows that in all probability his own life was saved when it occurred, and that it was a Showut Poche-daka who struck the blow. At Poison Oak Ranch he found Jessamy awaiting him. He had sent her a wire the day before, telling her he was coming, and the hour he would arrive.