"I don't know that I understand that."
"Well," drawled Selden, "they ain't any such thing as a Poison Oaker Gang. That there's all hot air. It's true that Obed Pence and Jay Muenster and Buchanan and Allegan and Foss run what cows they got with ourn, and they're pretty good friends o' my boys an' me. But as fer us bein' a gang—why, they's nothin' to it. Nothin' to it a-tall! Just because we use a poison-oak leaf for our brand—why, that's what got 'em to callin' us the Poison Oakers. And when anything mean is done in this country, why, they gotta hang it onto somebody—and as a lot of 'em don't like me and my friends, why, they hang it onto us and call us the Poison Oakers. Now that there ain't right and just, is it, Mr. Drew?"
"When you put it that way," Oliver evaded, "I should say that it is not."
"No, sir, it ain't—not a-tall! An' I'm glad ye understand and ain't got no hard feelin's."
There was another long pause. Fragrant tobacco smoke floated to Jessamy's nostrils.
"If I ain't too bold in askin', Mr. Drew—what was ol' Damon Tamroy fillin' yer ear with about me today?"
"He was telling me how Old Dad Sloan had spoken of your having once danced the fire dance."
"Uh-huh! Just so! Some o' my friends overheard Old Dad spoutin' about it after I'd hit the feathers. Well, I don't reckon I care any. It's nothin' to try to hide. Was that all Tamroy had to say?"
Jessamy could imagine on Oliver Drew's lips the grave, half-whimsical smile that she had seen twitching them so often. She waited eagerly for his reply.
"I think that the subject you mention is all that he talked to me about," it came at last.