“Yes,” he affirmed, “Leroy, the negro squawman.  I remember the time he carried you and me on his back to Alliance, the night the Indians burned the ranch.  Father stayed behind and fought.”

“But he couldn’t save the grist mill.  It was a serious setback to him.”

“Just the same he nailed four Indians.”

In Polly’s eyes now appeared the flash and sparkle.

“An Indian-fighter!” she cried.  “Tell me about him.”

“Tell her about Travers Ferry,” Tom said.

“That’s a ferry on the Klamath River on the way to Orleans Bar and Siskiyou.  There was great packing into the diggings in those days, and, among other things, father had made a location there.  There was rich bench farming land, too.  He built a suspension bridge—­wove the cables on the spot with sailors and materials freighted in from the coast.  It cost him twenty thousand dollars.  The first day it was open, eight hundred mules crossed at a dollar a head, to say nothing of the toll for foot and horse.  That night the river rose.  The bridge was one hundred and forty feet above low water mark.  Yet the freshet rose higher than that, and swept the bridge away.  He’d have made a fortune there otherwise.”

“That wasn’t it at all,” Tom blurted out impatiently.  “It was at Travers Ferry that father and old Jacob Vance were caught by a war party of Mad River Indians.  Old Jacob was killed right outside the door of the log cabin.  Father dragged the body inside and stood the Indians off for a week.  Father was some shot.  He buried Jacob under the cabin floor.”

“I still run the ferry,” Frederick went on, “though there isn’t so much travel as in the old days.  I freight by wagon-road to the Reservation, and then mule-back on up the Klamath and clear in to the forks of Little Salmon.  I have twelve stores on that chain now, a stage-line to the Reservation, and a hotel there.  Quite a tourist trade is beginning to pick up.”

And the girl, with curious brooding eyes, looked from brother to brother as they so differently voiced themselves and life.

“Ay, he was some man, father was,” Tom murmured.

There was a drowsy note in his speech that drew a quick glance of anxiety from her.  The machine had turned into the cemetery, and now halted before a substantial vault on the crest of the hill.

“I thought you’d like to see it,” Frederick was saying.  “I built that mausoleum myself, most of it with my own hands.  Mother wanted it.  The estate was dreadfully encumbered.  The best bid I could get out of the contractors was eleven thousand.  I did it myself for a little over eight.”

“Must have worked nights,” Tom murmured admiringly and more sleepily than before.

“I did, Tom, I did.  Many a night by lantern-light.  I was so busy.  I was reconstructing the water works then—­the artesian wells had failed—­and mother’s eyes were troubling her.  You remember—­cataract—­I wrote you.  She was too weak to travel, and I brought the specialists up from San Francisco.  Oh, my hands were full.  I was just winding up the disastrous affairs of the steamer line father had established to San Francisco, and I was keeping up the interest on mortgages to the tune of one hundred and eighty thousand dollars.”