Part 1 out of 6
To The Last Man
by Zane Grey
It was inevitable that in my efforts to write romantic history of the
great West I should at length come to the story of a feud. For long
I have steered clear of this rock. But at last I have reached it and
must go over it, driven by my desire to chronicle the stirring events
of pioneer days.
Even to-day it is not possible to travel into the remote corners of
the West without seeing the lives of people still affected by a
fighting past. How can the truth be told about the pioneering of
the West if the struggle, the fight, the blood be left out? It cannot
be done. How can a novel be stirring and thrilling, as were those
times, unless it be full of sensation? My long labors have been
devoted to making stories resemble the times they depict. I have
loved the West for its vastness, its contrast, its beauty and color
and life, for its wildness and violence, and for the fact that I
have seen how it developed great men and women who died unknown
In this materialistic age, this hard, practical, swift, greedy age
of realism, it seems there is no place for writers of romance, no
place for romance itself. For many years all the events leading up
to the great war were realistic, and the war itself was horribly
realistic, and the aftermath is likewise. Romance is only another
name for idealism; and I contend that life without ideals is not
worth living. Never in the history of the world were ideals needed
so terribly as now. Walter Scott wrote romance; so did Victor Hugo;
and likewise Kipling, Hawthorne, Stevenson. It was Stevenson,
particularly, who wielded a bludgeon against the realists. People
live for the dream in their hearts. And I have yet to know anyone
who has not some secret dream, some hope, however dim, some storied
wall to look at in the dusk, some painted window leading to the soul.
How strange indeed to find that the realists have ideals and dreams!
To read them one would think their lives held nothing significant.
But they love, they hope, they dream, they sacrifice, they struggle
on with that dream in their hearts just the same as others. We all
are dreamers, if not in the heavy-lidded wasting of time, then in the
meaning of life that makes us work on.
It was Wordsworth who wrote, "The world is too much with us"; and if
I could give the secret of my ambition as a novelist in a few words
it would be contained in that quotation. My inspiration to write has
always come from nature. Character and action are subordinated to
setting. In all that I have done I have tried to make people see how
the world is too much with them. Getting and spending they lay waste
their powers, with never a breath of the free and wonderful life of
So I come back to the main point of this foreword, in which I am
trying to tell why and how I came to write the story of a feud
notorious in Arizona as the Pleasant Valley War.
Some years ago Mr. Harry Adams, a cattleman of Vermajo Park, New Mexico,
told me he had been in the Tonto Basin of Arizona and thought I might
find interesting material there concerning this Pleasant Valley War.
His version of the war between cattlemen and sheepmen certainly
determined me to look over the ground. My old guide, Al Doyle of
Flagstaff, had led me over half of Arizona, but never down into that
wonderful wild and rugged basin between the Mogollon Mesa and the
Mazatzal Mountains. Doyle had long lived on the frontier and his
version of the Pleasant Valley War differed markedly from that of
Mr. Adams. I asked other old timers about it, and their remarks
further excited my curiosity.
Once down there, Doyle and I found the wildest, most rugged, roughest,
and most remarkable country either of us had visited; and the few
inhabitants were like the country. I went in ostensibly to hunt bear
and lion and turkey, but what I really was hunting for was the story
of that Pleasant Valley War. I engaged the services of a bear hunter
who had three strapping sons as reserved and strange and aloof as he was.
No wheel tracks of any kind had ever come within miles of their cabin.
I spent two wonderful months hunting game and reveling in the beauty
and grandeur of that Rim Rock country, but I came out knowing no more
about the Pleasant Valley War. These Texans and their few neighbors,
likewise from Texas, did not talk. But all I saw and felt only inspired
me the more. This trip was in the fall of 1918.
The next year I went again with the best horses, outfit, and men the
Doyles could provide. And this time I did not ask any questions.
But I rode horses--some of them too wild for me--and packed a rifle
many a hundred miles, riding sometimes thirty and forty miles a day,
and I climbed in and out of the deep canyons, desperately staying at
the heels of one of those long-legged Texans. I learned the life of
those backwoodsmen, but I did not get the story of the Pleasant
Valley War. I had, however, won the friendship of that hardy people.
In 1920 I went back with a still larger outfit, equipped to stay as
long as I liked. And this time, without my asking it, different
natives of the Tonto came to tell me about the Pleasant Valley War.
No two of them agreed on anything concerning it, except that only one
of the active participants survived the fighting. Whence comes my
title, TO THE LAST MAN. Thus I was swamped in a mass of material
out of which I could only flounder to my own conclusion. Some of
the stories told me are singularly tempting to a novelist. But,
though I believe them myself, I cannot risk their improbability
to those who have no idea of the wildness of wild men at a wild
time. There really was a terrible and bloody feud, perhaps the
most deadly and least known in all the annals of the West. I saw
the ground, the cabins, the graves, all so darkly suggestive of
what must have happened.
I never learned the truth of the cause of the Pleasant Valley War,
or if I did hear it I had no means of recognizing it. All the given
causes were plausible and convincing. Strange to state, there is
still secrecy and reticence all over the Tonto Basin as to the facts
of this feud. Many descendents of those killed are living there now.
But no one likes to talk about it. Assuredly many of the incidents
told me really occurred, as, for example, the terrible one of the
two women, in the face of relentless enemies, saving the bodies of
their dead husbands from being devoured by wild hogs. Suffice it to
say that this romance is true to my conception of the war, and I base
it upon the setting I learned to know and love so well, upon the
strange passions of primitive people, and upon my instinctive reaction
to the facts and rumors that I gathered.
At the end of a dry, uphill ride over barren country Jean Isbel
unpacked to camp at the edge of the cedars where a little rocky
canyon green with willow and cottonwood, promised water and grass.
His animals were tired, especially the pack mule that had carried a
heavy load; and with slow heave of relief they knelt and rolled in
the dust. Jean experienced something of relief himself as he threw
off his chaps. He had not been used to hot, dusty, glaring days on
the barren lands. Stretching his long length beside a tiny rill of
clear water that tinkled over the red stones, he drank thirstily.
The water was cool, but it had an acrid taste--an alkali bite that
he did not like. Not since he had left Oregon had he tasted clear,
sweet, cold water; and he missed it just as he longed for the stately
shady forests he had loved. This wild, endless Arizona land bade
fair to earn his hatred.
By the time he had leisurely completed his tasks twilight had fallen
and coyotes had begun their barking. Jean listened to the yelps and
to the moan of the cool wind in the cedars with a sense of satisfaction
that these lonely sounds were familiar. This cedar wood burned into a
pretty fire and the smell of its smoke was newly pleasant.
"Reckon maybe I'll learn to like Arizona," he mused, half aloud.
"But I've a hankerin' for waterfalls an' dark-green forests.
Must be the Indian in me. . . . Anyway, dad needs me bad, an'
I reckon I'm here for keeps."
Jean threw some cedar branches on the fire, in the light of which he
opened his father's letter, hoping by repeated reading to grasp more
of its strange portent. It had been two months in reaching him,
coming by traveler, by stage and train, and then by boat, and finally
by stage again. Written in lead pencil on a leaf torn from an old
ledger, it would have been hard to read even if the writing had been
"Dad's writin' was always bad, but I never saw it so shaky," said Jean,
GRASS VALLY, ARIZONA.
Son Jean,--Come home. Here is your home and here your needed.
When we left Oregon we all reckoned you would not be long behind.
But its years now. I am growing old, son, and you was always my
steadiest boy. Not that you ever was so dam steady. Only your
wildness seemed more for the woods. You take after mother, and
your brothers Bill and Guy take after me. That is the red and
white of it. Your part Indian, Jean, and that Indian I reckon
I am going to need bad. I am rich in cattle and horses. And my
range here is the best I ever seen. Lately we have been losing
stock. But that is not all nor so bad. Sheepmen have moved into
the Tonto and are grazing down on Grass Vally. Cattlemen and
sheepmen can never bide in this country. We have bad times ahead.
Reckon I have more reasons to worry and need you, but you must wait
to hear that by word of mouth. Whatever your doing, chuck it and
rustle for Grass Vally so to make here by spring. I am asking you
to take pains to pack in some guns and a lot of shells. And hide
them in your outfit. If you meet anyone when your coming down into
the Tonto, listen more than you talk. And last, son, dont let
anything keep you in Oregon. Reckon you have a sweetheart, and
if so fetch her along. With love from your dad,
Jean pondered over this letter. judged by memory of his father, who
had always been self-sufficient, it had been a surprise and somewhat
of a shock. Weeks of travel and reflection had not helped him to
grasp the meaning between the lines.
"Yes, dad's growin' old," mused Jean, feeling a warmth and a sadness
stir in him. "He must be 'way over sixty. But he never looked old.
. . . So he's rich now an' losin' stock, an' goin' to be sheeped off
his range. Dad could stand a lot of rustlin', but not much from
The softness that stirred in Jean merged into a cold, thoughtful
earnestness which had followed every perusal of his father's letter.
A dark, full current seemed flowing in his veins, and at times he
felt it swell and heat. It troubled him, making him conscious of a
deeper, stronger self, opposed to his careless, free, and dreamy
nature. No ties had bound him in Oregon, except love for the great,
still forests and the thundering rivers; and this love came from his
softer side. It had cost him a wrench to leave. And all the way by
ship down the coast to San Diego and across the Sierra Madres by stage,
and so on to this last overland travel by horseback, he had felt a
retreating of the self that was tranquil and happy and a dominating
of this unknown somber self, with its menacing possibilities. Yet
despite a nameless regret and a loyalty to Oregon, when he lay in his
blankets he had to confess a keen interest in his adventurous future,
a keen enjoyment of this stark, wild Arizona. It appeared to be a
different sky stretching in dark, star-spangled dome over him--closer,
vaster, bluer. The strong fragrance of sage and cedar floated over
him with the camp-fire smoke, and all seemed drowsily to subdue his
At dawn he rolled out of his blankets and, pulling on his boots,
began the day with a zest for the work that must bring closer his
calling future. White, crackling frost and cold, nipping air were
the same keen spurs to action that he had known in the uplands of
Oregon, yet they were not wholly the same. He sensed an exhilaration
similar to the effect of a strong, sweet wine. His horse and mule had
fared well during the night, having been much refreshed by the grass
and water of the little canyon. Jean mounted and rode into the cedars
with gladness that at last he had put the endless leagues of barren
land behind him.
The trail he followed appeared to be seldom traveled. It led,
according to the meager information obtainable at the last settlement,
directly to what was called the Rim, and from there Grass Valley could
be seen down in the Basin. The ascent of the ground was so gradual
that only in long, open stretches could it be seen. But the nature
of the vegetation showed Jean how he was climbing. Scant, low, scraggy
cedars gave place to more numerous, darker, greener, bushier ones,
and these to high, full-foliaged, green-berried trees. Sage and grass
in the open flats grew more luxuriously. Then came the pinyons, and
presently among them the checker-barked junipers. Jean hailed the
first pine tree with a hearty slap on the brown, rugged bark. It was
a small dwarf pine struggling to live. The next one was larger, and
after that came several, and beyond them pines stood up everywhere
above the lower trees. Odor of pine needles mingled with the other
dry smells that made the wind pleasant to Jean. In an hour from the
first line of pines he had ridden beyond the cedars and pinyons into
a slowly thickening and deepening forest. Underbrush appeared scarce
except in ravines, and the ground in open patches held a bleached grass.
Jean's eye roved for sight of squirrels, birds, deer, or any moving
creature. It appeared to be a dry, uninhabited forest. About midday
Jean halted at a pond of surface water, evidently melted snow, and
gave his animals a drink. He saw a few old deer tracks in the mud
and several huge bird tracks new to him which he concluded must have
been made by wild turkeys.
The trail divided at this pond. Jean had no idea which branch he
ought to take. "Reckon it doesn't matter," he muttered, as he was
about to remount. His horse was standing with ears up, looking back
along the trail. Then Jean heard a clip-clop of trotting hoofs,
and presently espied a horseman.
Jean made a pretense of tightening his saddle girths while he peered
over his horse at the approaching rider. All men in this country were
going to be of exceeding interest to Jean Isbel. This man at a distance
rode and looked like all the Arizonians Jean had seen, he had a superb
seat in the saddle, and he was long and lean. He wore a huge black
sombrero and a soiled red scarf. His vest was open and he was without
The rider came trotting up and halted several paces from Jean
"Hullo, stranger! " he said, gruffly.
"Howdy yourself!" replied Jean. He felt an instinctive importance
in the meeting with the man. Never had sharper eyes flashed over
Jean and his outfit. He had a dust-colored, sun-burned face, long,
lean, and hard, a huge sandy mustache that hid his mouth, and eyes
of piercing light intensity. Not very much hard Western experience
had passed by this man, yet he was not old, measured by years.
When he dismounted Jean saw he was tall, even for an Arizonian.
"Seen your tracks back a ways," he said, as he slipped the bit to let
his horse drink. "Where bound?"
"Reckon I'm lost, all right," replied Jean. "New country for me."
"Shore. I seen thet from your tracks an' your last camp. Wal, where
was you headin' for before you got lost?"
The query was deliberately cool, with a dry, crisp ring. Jean felt
the lack of friendliness or kindliness in it.
"Grass Valley. My name's Isbel," he replied, shortly.
The rider attended to his drinking horse and presently rebridled him;
then with long swing of leg he appeared to step into the saddle.
"Shore I knowed you was Jean Isbel," he said. "Everybody in the Tonto
has heerd old Gass Isbel sent fer his boy."
"Well then, why did you ask?" inquired Jean, bluntly.
"Reckon I wanted to see what you'd say."
"So? All right. But I'm not carin' very much for what YOU say."
Their glances locked steadily then and each measured the other by
the intangible conflict of spirit.
"Shore thet's natural," replied the rider. His speech was slow,
and the motions of his long, brown hands, as he took a cigarette
from his vest, kept time with his words. "But seein' you're one
of the Isbels, I'll hev my say whether you want it or not. My name's
Colter an' I'm one of the sheepmen Gass Isbel's riled with."
"Colter. Glad to meet you," replied Jean. "An' I reckon who riled
my father is goin' to rile me."
"Shore. If thet wasn't so you'd not be an Isbel," returned Colter,
with a grim little laugh. "It's easy to see you ain't run into any
Tonto Basin fellers yet. Wal, I'm goin' to tell you thet your old
man gabbed like a woman down at Greaves's store. Bragged aboot you
an' how you could fight an' how you could shoot an' how you could
track a hoss or a man! Bragged how you'd chase every sheep herder
back up on the Rim. . . . I'm tellin' you because we want you to git
our stand right. We're goin' to run sheep down in Grass Valley."
"Ahuh! Well, who's we?" queried Jean, curtly.
"What-at? . . . We--I mean the sheepmen rangin' this Rim from
Black Butte to the Apache country."
"Colter, I'm a stranger in Arizona," said Jean, slowly. I know little
about ranchers or sheepmen. It's true my father sent for me. It's
true, I dare say, that he bragged, for he was given to bluster an' blow.
An' he's old now. I can't help it if he bragged about me. But if he
has, an' if he's justified in his stand against you sheepmen, Im goin'
to do my best to live up to his brag. "
"I get your hunch. Shore we understand each other, an' thet's a
powerful help. You take my hunch to your old man," replied Colter,
as he turned his horse away toward the left. "Thet trail leadin'
south is yours. When you come to the Rim you'll see a bare spot down
in the Basin. Thet 'll be Grass Valley."
He rode away out of sight into the woods. Jean leaned against his
horse and pondered. It seemed difficult to be just to this Colter,
not because of his claims, but because of a subtle hostility that
emanated from him. Colter had the hard face, the masked intent,
the turn of speech that Jean had come to associate with dishonest men.
Even if Jean had not been prejudiced, if he had known nothing of his
father's trouble with these sheepmen, and if Colter had met him only
to exchange glances and greetings, still Jean would never have had a
favorable impression. Colter grated upon him, roused an antagonism
"Heigho!" sighed the young man, "Good-by to huntin' an' fishing'!
Dad's given me a man's job."
With that he mounted his horse and started the pack mule into the
right-hand trail. Walking and trotting, he traveled all afternoon,
toward sunset getting into heavy forest of pine. More than one snow
bank showed white through the green, sheltered on the north slopes of
shady ravines. And it was upon entering this zone of richer, deeper
forestland that Jean sloughed off his gloomy forebodings. These stately
pines were not the giant firs of Oregon, but any lover of the woods
could be happy under them. Higher still he climbed until the forest
spread before and around him like a level park, with thicketed ravines
here and there on each side. And presently that deceitful level led
to a higher bench upon which the pines towered, and were matched by
beautiful trees he took for spruce. Heavily barked, with regular
spreading branches, these conifers rose in symmetrical shape to spear
the sky with silver plumes. A graceful gray-green moss, waved like
veils from the branches. The air was not so dry and it was colder,
with a scent and touch of snow. Jean made camp at the first likely site,
taking the precaution to unroll his bed some little distance from his
fire. Under the softly moaning pines he felt comfortable, having lost
the sense of an immeasurable open space falling away from all around him.
The gobbling of wild turkeys awakened Jean, "Chuga-lug, chug-a-lug,
chug-a-lug-chug." There was not a great difference between the gobble
of a wild turkey and that of a tame one. Jean got up, and taking his
rifle went out into the gray obscurity of dawn to try to locate the
turkeys. But it was too dark, and finally when daylight came they
appeared to be gone. The mule had strayed, and, what with finding
it and cooking breakfast and packing, Jean did not make a very early
start. On this last lap of his long journey he had slowed down.
He was weary of hurrying; the change from weeks in the glaring sun
and dust-laden wind to this sweet coot darkly green and brown forest
was very welcome; he wanted to linger along the shaded trail. This
day he made sure would see him reach the Rim. By and by he lost the
trail. It had just worn out from lack of use. Every now and then
Jean would cross an old trail, and as he penetrated deeper into the
forest every damp or dusty spot showed tracks of turkey, deer, and
bear. The amount of bear sign surprised him. Presently his keen
nostrils were assailed by a smell of sheep, and soon he rode into
a broad sheep, trail. From the tracks Jean calculated that the
sheep had passed there the day before.
An unreasonable antipathy seemed born in him. To be sure he had been
prepared to dislike sheep, and that was why he was unreasonable. But
on the other hand this band of sheep had left a broad bare swath,
weedless, grassless, flowerless, in their wake. Where sheep grazed
they destroyed. That was what Jean had against them.
An hour later he rode to the crest of a long parklike slope, where
new green grass was sprouting and flowers peeped everywhere. The
pines appeared far apart; gnarled oak trees showed rugged and gray
against the green wall of woods. A white strip of snow gleamed like
a moving stream away down in the woods.
Jean heard the musical tinkle of bells and the baa-baa of sheep and
the faint, sweet bleating of lambs. As he road toward these sounds
a dog ran out from an oak thicket and barked at him. Next Jean smelled
a camp fire and soon he caught sight of a curling blue column of smoke,
and then a small peaked tent. Beyond the clump of oaks Jean encountered
a Mexican lad carrying a carbine. The boy had a swarthy, pleasant face,
and to Jean's greeting he replied, "BUENAS DIAS." Jean understood
little Spanish, and about all he gathered by his simple queries was
that the lad was not alone--and that it was "lambing time."
This latter circumstance grew noisily manifest. The forest seemed
shrilly full of incessant baas and plaintive bleats. All about the
camp, on the slope, in the glades, and everywhere, were sheep. A few
were grazing; many were lying down; most of them were ewes suckling
white fleecy little lambs that staggered on their feet. Everywhere
Jean saw tiny lambs just born. Their pin-pointed bleats pierced the
heavier baa-baa of their mothers.
Jean dismounted and led his horse down toward the camp, where he
rather expected to see another and older Mexican, from whom he might
get information. The lad walked with him. Down this way the plaintive
uproar made by the sheep was not so loud.
"Hello there!" called Jean, cheerfully, as he approached the tent.
No answer was forthcoming. Dropping his bridle, he went on, rather
slowly, looking for some one to appear. Then a voice from one side
A girl stepped out from beside a pine. She carried a rifle. Her
face flashed richly brown, but she was not Mexican. This fact, and
the sudden conviction that she had been watching him, somewhat
"Beg pardon--miss," he floundered. "Didn't expect, to see a--girl.
. . . I'm sort of lost--lookin' for the Rim--an' thought I'd find a
sheep herder who'd show me. I can't savvy this boy's lingo."
While he spoke it seemed to him an intentness of expression, a strain
relaxed from her face. A faint suggestion of hostility likewise
disappeared. Jean was not even sure that he had caught it, but there
had been something that now was gone.
"Shore I'll be glad to show y'u," she said.
"Thanks, miss. Reckon I can breathe easy now," he replied,
"It's a long ride from San Diego. Hot an' dusty! I'm pretty tired.
An' maybe this woods isn't good medicine to achin' eyes!"
"San Diego! Y'u're from the coast?"
Jean had doffed his sombrero at sight of her and he still held it,
rather deferentially, perhaps. It seemed to attract her attention.
"Put on y'ur hat, stranger. . . . Shore I can't recollect when any
man bared his haid to me. "She uttered a little laugh in which
surprise and frankness mingled with a tint of bitterness.
Jean sat down with his back to a pine, and, laying the sombrero by
his side, he looked full at her, conscious of a singular eagerness,
as if he wanted to verify by close scrutiny a first hasty impression.
If there had been an instinct in his meeting with Colter, there was
more in this. The girl half sat, half leaned against a log, with the
shiny little carbine across her knees. She had a level, curious gaze
upon him, and Jean had never met one just like it. Her eyes were
rather a wide oval in shape, clear and steady, with shadows of thought
in their amber-brown depths. They seemed to look through Jean, and
his gaze dropped first. Then it was he saw her ragged homespun skirt
and a few inches of brown, bare ankles, strong and round, and crude
worn-out moccasins that failed to hide the shapeliness, of her feet.
Suddenly she drew back her stockingless ankles and ill-shod little feet.
When Jean lifted his gaze again he found her face half averted and a
stain of red in the gold tan of her cheek. That touch of embarrassment
somehow removed her from this strong, raw, wild woodland setting. It
changed her poise. It detracted from the curious, unabashed, almost
bold, look that he had encountered in her eyes.
"Reckon you're from Texas," said Jean, presently.
"Shore am," she drawled. She had a lazy Southern voice, pleasant
to hear. "How'd y'u-all guess that?"
"Anybody can tell a Texan. Where I came from there were a good many
pioneers an' ranchers from the old Lone Star state. I've worked for
several. An', come to think of it, I'd rather hear a Texas girl talk
"Did y'u know many Texas girls?" she inquired, turning again to face him.
"Reckon I did--quite a good many."
"Did y'u go with them?"
"Go with them? Reckon you mean keep company. Why, yes, I guess I
did--a little," laughed Jean. "Sometimes on a Sunday or a dance once
in a blue moon, an' occasionally a ride. "
"Shore that accounts," said the girl, wistfully.
"For what? " asked Jean.
"Y'ur bein' a gentleman," she replied, with force. Oh, I've not
forgotten. I had friends when we lived in Texas. . . . Three years
ago. Shore it seems longer. Three miserable years in this damned
Then she bit her lip, evidently to keep back further unwitting
utterance to a total stranger. And it was that biting of her lip
that drew Jean's attention to her mouth. It held beauty of curve
and fullness and color that could not hide a certain sadness and
bitterness. Then the whole flashing brown face changed for Jean.
He saw that it was young, full of passion and restraint, possessing
a power which grew on him. This, with her shame and pathos and the
fact that she craved respect, gave a leap to Jean's interest.
"Well, I reckon you flatter me," he said, hoping to put her at her
ease again. "I'm only a rough hunter an' fisherman-woodchopper an'
horse tracker. Never had all the school I needed--nor near enough
company of nice girls like you."
"Am I nice?" she asked, quickly.
"You sure are," he replied, smiling.
"In these rags," she demanded, with a sudden flash of passion that
thrilled him. "Look at the holes." She showed rips and worn-out
places in the sleeves of her buckskin blouse, through which gleamed
a round, brown arm. "I sew when I have anythin' to sew with. . . .
Look at my skirt--a dirty rag. An' I have only one other to my name.
. . . Look!" Again a color tinged her cheeks, most becoming, and
giving the lie to her action. But shame could not check her violence
now. A dammed-up resentment seemed to have broken out in flood. She
lifted the ragged skirt almost to her knees. "No stockings! No Shoes!
. . . How can a girl be nice when she has no clean, decent woman's
clothes to wear?"
"How--how can a girl. . ." began Jean. "See here, miss, I'm beggin'
your pardon for--sort of stirrin' you to forget yourself a little.
Reckon I understand. You don't meet many strangers an' I sort of
hit you wrong--makin' you feel too much--an' talk too much. Who an'
what you are is none of my business. But we met. . . . An' I reckon
somethin' has happened--perhaps more to me than to you. . . . Now let
me put you straight about clothes an' women. Reckon I know most women
love nice things to wear an' think because clothes make them look pretty
that they're nicer or better. But they're wrong. You're wrong. Maybe
it 'd be too much for a girl like you to be happy without clothes. But
you can be--you axe just as nice, an'--an' fine--an', for all you know,
a good deal more appealin' to some men."
"Stranger, y'u shore must excuse my temper an' the show I made of
myself," replied the girl, with composure. "That, to say the least,
was not nice. An' I don't want anyone thinkin' better of me than I
deserve. My mother died in Texas, an' I've lived out heah in this
wild country--a girl alone among rough men. Meetin' y'u to-day makes
me see what a hard lot they are--an' what it's done to me."
Jean smothered his curiosity and tried to put out of his mind a growing
sense that he pitied her, liked her.
"Are you a sheep herder?" he asked.
" Shore I am now an' then. My father lives back heah in a canyon.
He's a sheepman. Lately there's been herders shot at. Just now we're
short an' I have to fill in. But I like shepherdin' an' I love the
woods, and the Rim Rock an' all the Tonto. If they were all, I'd
shore be happy."
"Herders shot at!" exclaimed Jean, thoughtfully. "By whom?
An' what for?"
"Trouble brewin' between the cattlemen down in the Basin an' the
sheepmen up on the Rim. Dad says there'll shore be hell to pay.
I tell him I hope the cattlemen chase him back to Texas."
"Then-- Are you on the ranchers' side? " queried Jean, trying to
pretend casual interest.
"No. I'll always be on my father's side," she replied, with spirit.
"But I'm bound to admit I think the cattlemen have the fair side of
"Because there's grass everywhere. I see no sense in a sheepman goin'
out of his way to surround a cattleman an' sheep off his range. That
started the row. Lord knows how it'll end. For most all of them heah
are from Texas."
"So I was told," replied Jean. "An' I heard' most all these Texans
got run out of Texas. Any truth in that?"
"Shore I reckon there is," she replied, seriously. "But, stranger,
it might not be healthy for y'u to, say that anywhere. My dad, for
one, was not run out of Texas. Shore I never can see why he came heah.
He's accumulated stock, but he's not rich nor so well off as he was
"Are you goin' to stay here always?" queried Jean, suddenly.
"If I do so it 'll be in my grave, " she answered, darkly. "But what's
the use of thinkin'? People stay places until they drift away. Y'u can
never tell. . . . Well, stranger, this talk is keepin' y'u."
She seemed moody now, and a note of detachment crept into her voice.
Jean rose at once and went for his horse. If this girl did not desire
to talk further he certainly had no wish to annoy her. His mule had
strayed off among the bleating sheep. Jean drove it back and then led
his horse up to where the girl stood. She appeared taller and, though
not of robust build, she was vigorous and lithe, with something about
her that fitted the place. Jean was loath to bid her good-by.
"Which way is the Rim? " he asked, turning to his saddle girths.
"South," she replied, pointing. "It's only a mile or so. I'll walk
down with y'u. . . . Suppose y'u're on the way to Grass Valley?"
"Yes; I've relatives there," he returned. He dreaded her next
question, which he suspected would concern his name. But she did
not ask. Taking up her rifle she turned away. Jean strode ahead
to her side. "Reckon if you walk I won't ride."
So he found himself beside a girl with the free step of a Mountaineer.
Her bare, brown head came up nearly to his shoulder. It was a small,
pretty head, graceful, well held, and the thick hair on it was a shiny,
soft brown. She wore it in a braid, rather untidily and tangled, he
thought, and it was tied with a string of buckskin. Altogether her
apparel proclaimed poverty.
Jean let the conversation languish for a little. He wanted to think
what to say presently, and then he felt a rather vague pleasure in
stalking beside her. Her profile was straight cut and exquisite in
line. From this side view the soft curve of lips could not be seen.
She made several attempts to start conversation, all of which Jean
ignored, manifestly to her growing constraint. Presently Jean,
having decided what he wanted to say, suddenly began: "I like this
adventure. Do you?"
"Adventure! Meetin' me in the woods?" And she laughed the laugh
of youth. "Shore you must be hard up for adventure, stranger."
"Do you like it?" he persisted, and his eyes searched the
"I might like it," she answered, frankly, "if--if my temper had not
made a fool of me. I never meet anyone I care to talk to. Why should
it not be pleasant to run across some one new--some one strange in
this heah wild country? "
"We are as we are," said Jean, simply. "I didn't think you made a
fool of yourself. If I thought so, would I want to see you again?"
"Do y'u?" The brown face flashed on him with surprise, with a light
he took for gladness. And because he wanted to appear calm and friendly,
not too eager, he had to deny himself the thrill of meeting those
"Sure I do. Reckon I'm overbold on such short acquaintance. But I
might not have another chance to tell you, so please don't hold it
This declaration over, Jean felt relief and something of exultation.
He had been afraid he might not have the courage to make it. She
walked on as before, only with her head bowed a little and her eyes
downcast. No color but the gold-brown tan and the blue tracery of
veins showed in her cheeks. He noticed then a slight swelling quiver
of her throat; and he became alive to its graceful contour, and to how
full and pulsating it was, how nobly it set into the curve of her
shoulder. Here in her quivering throat was the weakness of her,
the evidence of her sex, the womanliness that belied the mountaineer
stride and the grasp of strong brown hands on a rifle. It had an
effect on Jean totally inexplicable to him, both in the strange warmth
that stole over him and in the utterance he could not hold back.
"Girl, we're strangers, but what of that? We've met, an' I tell you
it means somethin' to me. I've known girls for months an' never felt
this way. I don't know who you are an' I don't care. You betrayed a
good deal to me. You're not happy. You're lonely. An' if I didn't
want to see you again for my own sake I would for yours. Some things
you said I'll not forget soon. I've got a sister, an' I know you have
no brother. An' I reckon . . ."
At this juncture Jean in his earnestness and quite without thought
grasped her hand. The contact checked the flow of his speech and
suddenly made him aghast at his temerity. But the girl did not make
any effort to withdraw it. So Jean, inhaling a deep breath and trying
to see through his bewilderment, held on bravely. He imagined he felt
a faint, warm, returning pressure. She was young, she was friendless,
she was human. By this hand in his Jean felt more than ever the
loneliness of her. Then, just as he was about to speak again,
she pulled her hand free.
"Heah's the Rim," she said, in her quaint Southern drawl.
"An' there's Y'ur Tonto Basin."
Jean had been intent only upon the girl. He had kept step beside her
without taking note of what was ahead of him. At her words he looked
up expectantly, to be struck mute.
He felt a sheer force, a downward drawing of an immense abyss beneath him.
As he looked afar he saw a black basin of timbered country, the darkest
and wildest he had ever gazed upon, a hundred miles of blue distance
across to an unflung mountain range, hazy purple against the sky.
It seemed to be a stupendous gulf surrounded on three sides by bold,
undulating lines of peaks, and on his side by a wall so high that he
felt lifted aloft on the run of the sky.
Southeast y'u see the Sierra Anchas," said the girl pointing. "That
notch in the range is the pass where sheep are driven to Phoenix an'
Maricopa. Those big rough mountains to the south are the Mazatzals.
Round to the west is the Four Peaks Range. An' y'u're standin' on
Jean could not see at first just what the Rim was, but by shifting
his gaze westward he grasped this remarkable phenomenon of nature.
For leagues and leagues a colossal red and yellow wall, a rampart,
a mountain-faced cliff, seemed to zigzag westward. Grand and bold
were the promontories reaching out over the void. They ran toward
the westering sun. Sweeping and impressive were the long lines
slanting away from them, sloping darkly spotted down to merge into
the black timber. Jean had never seen such a wild and rugged
manifestation of nature's depths and upheavals. He was held mute.
"Stranger, look down," said the girl.
Jean's sight was educated to judge heights and depths and distances.
This wall upon which he stood sheered precipitously down, so far that
it made him dizzy to look, and then the craggy broken cliffs merged
into red-slided, cedar-greened slopes running down and down into
gorges choked with forests, and from which soared up a roar of rushing
waters. Slope after slope, ridge beyond ridge, canyon merging into
canyon--so the tremendous bowl sunk away to its black, deceiving depths,
a wilderness across which travel seemed impossible.
"Wonderful!" exclaimed Jean.
"Indeed it is!" murmured the girl. "Shore that is Arizona. I reckon
I love THIS. The heights an' depths--the awfulness of its wilderness!"
"An' you want to leave it?"
"Yes an' no. I don't deny the peace that comes to me heah. But not
often do I see the Basin, an' for that matter, one doesn't live on
"Child, even once in a while--this sight would cure any misery, if you
only see. I'm glad I came. I'm glad you showed it to me first."
She too seemed under the spell of a vastness and loneliness and beauty
and grandeur that could not but strike the heart.
Jean took her hand again. "Girl, say you will meet me here," he said,
his voice ringing deep in his ears.
"Shore I will," she replied, softly, and turned to him. It seemed
then that Jean saw her face for the first time. She was beautiful
as he had never known beauty. Limned against that scene, she gave
it life--wild, sweet, young life--the poignant meaning of which
haunted yet eluded him. But she belonged there. Her eyes were
again searching his, as if. for some lost part of herself, unrealized,
never known before. Wondering, wistful, hopeful, glad-they were eyes
that seemed surprised, to reveal part of her soul.
Then her red lips parted. Their tremulous movement was a magnet to Jean.
An invisible and mighty force pulled him down to kiss them. Whatever
the spell had been, that rude, unconscious action broke it.
He jerked away, as if he expected to be struck. "Girl--I--I"--he gasped
in amaze and sudden-dawning contrition--" I kissed you--but I swear it
wasn't intentional--I never thought. . . ."
The anger that Jean anticipated failed to materialize. He stood,
breathing hard, with a hand held out in unconscious appeal. By the
same magic, perhaps, that had transfigured her a moment past, she was
now invested again by the older character.
"Shore I reckon my callin' y'u a gentleman was a little previous,"
she said, with a rather dry bitterness. "But, stranger, yu're sudden."
"You're not insulted?" asked Jean, hurriedly.
"Oh, I've been kissed before. Shore men are all alike."
"They're not," he replied, hotly, with a subtle rush of disillusion,
a dulling of enchantment. "Don't you class me with other men who've
kissed you. I wasn't myself when I did it an' I'd have gone on my
knees to ask your forgiveness. . . . But now I wouldn't--an' I wouldn't
kiss you again, either--even if you--you wanted it."
Jean read in her strange gaze what seemed to him a vague doubt,
as if she was questioning him.
"Miss, I take that back," added Jean, shortly. "I'm sorry. I didn't
mean to be rude. It was a mean trick for me to kiss you. A girl alone
in the woods who's gone out of her way to be kind to me! I don't know
why I forgot my manners. An' I ask your pardon."
She looked away then, and presently pointed far out and down
into the Basin.
"There's Grass Valley. That long gray spot in the black. It's about
fifteen miles. Ride along the Rim that way till y'u cross a trail.
Shore y'u can't miss it. Then go down."
"I'm much obliged to you," replied Jean, reluctantly accepting what
he regarded as his dismissal. Turning his horse, he put his foot in
the stirrup, then, hesitating, he looked across the saddle at the girl.
Her abstraction, as she gazed away over the purple depths suggested
loneliness and wistfulness. She was not thinking of that scene spread
so wondrously before her. It struck Jean she might be pondering a
subtle change in his feeling and attitude, something he was conscious
of, yet could not define.
"Reckon this is good-by," he said, with hesitation.
"ADIOS, SENOR," she replied, facing him again. She lifted the little
carbine to the hollow of her elbow and, half turning, appeared ready
"Adios means good-by? " he queried.
"Yes, good-by till to-morrow or good-by forever. Take it as y'u like."
"Then you'll meet me here day after to-morrow?" How eagerly he spoke,
on impulse, without a consideration of the intangible thing that had
"Did I say I wouldn't? "
"No. But I reckoned you'd not care to after--" he replied,
breaking off in some confusion.
"Shore I'll be glad to meet y'u. Day after to-morrow about
mid-afternoon. Right heah. Fetch all the news from Grass Valley."
"All right. Thanks. That'll be--fine," replied Jean, and as he spoke
he experienced a buoyant thrill, a pleasant lightness of enthusiasm,
such as always stirred boyishly in him at a prospect of adventure.
Before it passed he wondered at it and felt unsure of himself.
He needed to think.
"Stranger shore I'm not recollectin' that y'u told me who y'u are,"
"No, reckon I didn't tell," he returned. "What difference does that
make? I said I didn't care who or what you are. Can't you feel the
same about me? "
"Shore--I felt that way," she replied, somewhat non-plussed, with the
level brown gaze steadily on his face. But now y'u make me think."
"Let's meet without knowin' any more about each other than we do now."
"Shore. I'd like that. In this big wild Arizona a girl--an' I reckon
a man--feels so insignificant. What's a name, anyhow? Still, people
an' things have to be distinguished. I'll call y'u 'Stranger' an' be
satisfied--if y'u say it's fair for y'u not to tell who y'u are."
"Fair! No, it's not," declared Jean, forced to confession. "My name's
"ISBEL!" she exclaimed, with a violent start. "Shore y'u can't be
son of old Gass Isbel. . . . I've seen both his sons."
"He has three," replied Jean, with relief, now the secret was out.
"I'm the youngest. I'm twenty-four. Never been out of Oregon till
now. On my way--"
The brown color slowly faded out of her face, leaving her quite pale,
with eyes that began to blaze. The suppleness of her seemed to stiffen.
"My name's Ellen Jorth," she burst out, passionately. Does it mean
anythin' to y'u?"
"Never heard it in my life," protested Jean. "Sure I reckoned you
belonged to the sheep raisers who 're on the outs with my father.
That's why I had to tell you I'm Jean Isbel. . . . Ellen Jorth.
It's strange an' pretty. . . . Reckon I can be just as good a--a
friend to you--"
"No Isbel, can ever be a friend to me," she said, with bitter coldness.
Stripped of her ease and her soft wistfulness, she stood before him one
instant, entirely another girl, a hostile enemy. Then she wheeled and
strode off into the woods.
Jean, in amaze, in consternation, watched her swiftly draw away with
her lithe, free step, wanting to follow her, wanting to call to her;
but the resentment roused by her suddenly avowed hostility held him
mute in his tracks. He watched her disappear, and when the brown-and
-green wall of forest swallowed the slender gray form he fought against
the insistent desire to follow her, and fought in vain.
But Ellen Jorth's moccasined feet did not leave a distinguishable
trail on the springy pine needle covering of the ground, and Jean
could not find any trace of her.
A little futile searching to and fro cooled his impulse and called
pride to his rescue. Returning to his horse, he mounted, rode out
behind the pack mule to start it along, and soon felt the relief of
decision and action. Clumps of small pines grew thickly in spots
on the Rim, making it necessary for him to skirt them; at which
times he lost sight of the purple basin. Every time he came back
to an opening through which he could see the wild ruggedness and
colors and distances, his appreciation of their nature grew on him.
Arizona from Yuma to the Little Colorado had been to him an endless
waste of wind-scoured, sun-blasted barrenness. This black-forested
rock-rimmed land of untrodden ways was a world that in itself would
satisfy him. Some instinct in Jean called for a lonely, wild land,
into the fastnesses of which he could roam at will and be the other
strange self that he had always yearned to be but had never been.
Every few moments there intruded into his flowing consciousness
the flashing face of Ellen Jorth, the way she had looked at him,
the things she had said. "Reckon I was a fool," he soliloquized,
with an acute sense of humiliation. "She never saw how much in
earnest I was." And Jean began to remember the circumstances with
a vividness that disturbed and perplexed him.
The accident of running across such a girl in that lonely place might
be out of the ordinary--but it had happened. Surprise had made him dull.
The charm of her appearance, the appeal of her manner, must have drawn
him at the very first, but he had not recognized that. Only at her
words, "Oh, I've been kissed before," had his feelings been checked
in their heedless progress. And the utterance of them had made a
difference he now sought to analyze. Some personality in him, some
voice, some idea had begun to defend her even before he was conscious
that he had arraigned her before the bar of his judgment. Such defense
seemed clamoring in him now and he forced himself to listen. He wanted,
in his hurt pride, to justify his amazing surrender to a sweet and
He realized now that at first glance he should have recognized in her
look, her poise, her voice the quality he called thoroughbred. Ragged
and stained apparel did not prove her of a common sort. Jean had known
a number of fine and wholesome girls of good family; and he remembered
his sister. This Ellen Jorth was that kind of a girl irrespective of
her present environment. Jean championed her loyally, even after he
had gratified his selfish pride.
It was then--contending with an intangible and stealing glamour,
unreal and fanciful, like the dream of a forbidden enchantment--that
Jean arrived at the part in the little woodland drama where he had
kissed Ellen Jorth and had been unrebuked. Why had she not resented
his action? Dispelled was the illusion he had been dreamily and nobly
constructing. "Oh, I've been kissed before!" The shock to him now
exceeded his first dismay. Half bitterly she had spoken, and wholly
scornful of herself, or of him, or of all men. For she had said all
men were alike. Jean chafed under the smart of that, a taunt every
decent man hated. Naturally every happy and healthy young man would
want to kiss such red, sweet lips. But if those lips had been for
others--never for him! Jean reflected that not since childish games
had he kissed a girl--until this brown-faced Ellen Jorth came his way.
He wondered at it. Moreover, he wondered at the significance he placed
upon it. After all, was it not merely an accident? Why should he
remember? Why should he ponder? What was the faint, deep, growing
thrill that accompanied some of his thoughts?
Riding along with busy mind, Jean almost crossed a well-beaten trail,
leading through a pine thicket and down over the Rim. Jean's pack
mule led the way without being driven. And when Jean reached the
edge of the bluff one look down was enough to fetch him off his horse.
That trail was steep, narrow, clogged with stones, and as full of
sharp corners as a crosscut saw. Once on the descent with a packed
mule and a spirited horse, Jean had no time for mind wanderings and
very little for occasional glimpses out over the cedar tops to the
vast blue hollow asleep under a westering sun.
The stones rattled, the dust rose, the cedar twigs snapped, the little
avalanches of red earth slid down, the iron-shod hoofs rang on the rocks.
This slope had been narrow at the apex in the Rim where the trail led
down a crack, and it widened in fan shape as Jean descended. He
zigzagged down a thousand feet before the slope benched into dividing
ridges. Here the cedars and junipers failed and pines once more hid
the sun. Deep ravines were black with brush. From somewhere rose a
roar of running water, most pleasant to Jean's ears. Fresh deer and
bear tracks covered old ones made in the trail.
Those timbered ridges were but billows of that tremendous slope that
now sheered above Jean, ending in a magnificent yellow wall of rock,
greened in niches, stained by weather rust, carved and cracked and
caverned. As Jean descended farther the hum of bees made melody,
the roar of rapid water and the murmur of a rising breeze filled
him with the content of the wild. Sheepmen like Colter and wild
girls like Ellen Jorth and all that seemed promising or menacing
in his father's letter could never change the Indian in Jean. So
he thought. Hard upon that conclusion rushed another--one which
troubled with its stinging revelation. Surely these influences
he had defied were just the ones to bring out in him the Indian
he had sensed but had never known. The eventful day had brought
new and bitter food for Jean to reflect upon.
The trail landed him in the bowlder-strewn bed of a wide canyon,
where the huge trees stretched a canopy of foliage which denied the
sunlight, and where a beautiful brook rushed and foamed. Here at last
Jean tasted water that rivaled his Oregon springs. "Ah," he cried,
"that sure is good!" Dark and shaded and ferny and mossy was this
streamway; and everywhere were tracks of game, from the giant spread
of a grizzly bear to the tiny, birdlike imprints of a squirrel. Jean
heard familiar sounds of deer crackling the dead twigs; and the chatter
of squirrels was incessant. This fragrant, cool retreat under the Rim
brought back to him the dim recesses of Oregon forests. After all,
Jean felt that he would not miss anything that he had loved in the
Cascades. But what was the vague sense of all not being well with
him--the essence of a faint regret--the insistence of a hovering
shadow? And then flashed again, etched more vividly by the repetition
in memory, a picture of eyes, of lips--of something he had to forget.
Wild and broken as this rolling Basin floor had appeared from the Rim,
the reality of traveling over it made that first impression a deceit
of distance. Down here all was on a big, rough, broken scale. Jean
did not find even a few rods of level ground. Bowlders as huge as
houses obstructed the stream bed; spruce trees eight feet thick tried
to lord it over the brawny pines; the ravine was a veritable canyon
from which occasional glimpses through the foliage showed the Rim
as a lofty red-tipped mountain peak.
Jean's pack mule became frightened at scent of a bear or lion and ran
off down the rough trail, imperiling Jean's outfit. It was not an
easy task to head him off nor, when that was accomplished, to keep
him to a trot. But his fright and succeeding skittishness at least
made for fast traveling. Jean calculated that he covered ten miles
under the Rim before the character of ground and forest began to change.
The trail had turned southeast. Instead of gorge after gorge,
red-walled and choked with forest, there began to be rolling ridges,
some high; others were knolls; and a thick cedar growth made up for
a falling off of pine. The spruce had long disappeared. Juniper
thickets gave way more and more to the beautiful manzanita; and soon
on the south slopes appeared cactus and a scrubby live oak. But for
the well-broken trail, Jean would have fared ill through this tough
Jean espied several deer, and again a coyote, and what he took to be
a small herd of wild horses. No more turkey tracks showed in the dusty
patches. He crossed a number of tiny brooklets, and at length came to
a place where the trail ended or merged in a rough road that showed
evidence of considerable travel. Horses, sheep, and cattle had passed
along there that day. This road turned southward, and Jean began to
have pleasurable expectations.
The road, like the trail, led down grade, but no longer at such steep
angles, and was bordered by cedar and pinyon, jack-pine and juniper,
mescal and manzanita. Quite sharply, going around a ridge, the road
led Jean's eye down to a small open flat of marshy, or at least grassy,
ground. This green oasis in the wilderness of red and timbered ridges
marked another change in the character of the Basin. Beyond that the
country began to spread out and roll gracefully, its dark-green forest
interspersed with grassy parks, until Jean headed into a long, wide
gray-green valley surrounded by black-fringed hills. His pulses
quickened here. He saw cattle dotting the expanse, and here and
there along the edge log cabins and corrals.
As a village, Grass Valley could not boast of much, apparently, in the
way of population. Cabins and houses were widely scattered, as if the
inhabitants did not care to encroach upon one another. But the one
store, built of stone, and stamped also with the characteristic
isolation, seemed to Jean to be a rather remarkable edifice. Not
exactly like a fort did it strike him, but if it had not been designed
for defense it certainly gave that impression, especially from the long,
low side with its dark eye-like windows about the height of a man's
shoulder. Some rather fine horses were tied to a hitching rail.
Otherwise dust and dirt and age and long use stamped this Grass Valley
store and its immediate environment.
Jean threw his bridle, and, getting down, mounted the low porch and
stepped into the wide open door. A face, gray against the background
of gloom inside, passed out of sight just as Jean entered. He knew he
had been seen. In front of the long, rather low-ceiled store were four
men, all absorbed, apparently, in a game of checkers. Two were playing
and two were looking on. One of these, a gaunt-faced man past middle
age, casually looked up as Jean entered. But the moment of that casual
glance afforded Jean time enough to meet eyes he instinctively distrusted.
They masked their penetration. They seemed neither curious nor friendly.
They saw him as if he had been merely thin air.
"Good evenin'," said Jean.
After what appeared to Jean a lapse of time sufficient to impress him
with a possible deafness of these men, the gaunt-faced one said,
"Howdy, Isbel! "
The tone was impersonal, dry, easy, cool, laconic, and yet it could
not have been more pregnant with meaning. Jean's sharp sensibilities
absorbed much. None of the slouch-sombreroed, long-mustached Texans
--for so Jean at once classed them--had ever seen Jean, but they knew
him and knew that he was expected in Grass Valley. All but the one
who had spoken happened to have their faces in shadow under the
wide-brimmed black hats. Motley-garbed, gun-belted, dusty-booted,
they gave Jean the same impression of latent force that he had
encountered in Colter.
"Will somebody please tell me where to find my father, Gaston Isbel?"
inquired Jean, with as civil a tongue as he could command.
Nobody paid the slightest attention. It was the same as if Jean had
not spoken. Waiting, half amused, half irritated, Jean shot a rapid
glance around the store. The place had felt bare; and Jean, peering
back through gloomy space, saw that it did not contain much. Dry goods
and sacks littered a long rude counter; long rough shelves divided
their length into stacks of canned foods and empty sections; a low
shelf back of the counter held a generous burden of cartridge boxes,
and next to it stood a rack of rifles. On the counter lay open cases
of plug tobacco, the odor of which was second in strength only to that
Jean's swift-roving eye reverted to the men, three of whom were
absorbed in the greasy checkerboard. The fourth man was the one
who had spoken and he now deigned to look at Jean. Not much flesh
was there stretched over his bony, powerful physiognomy. He stroked
a lean chin with a big mobile hand that suggested more of bridle
holding than familiarity with a bucksaw and plow handle. It was
a lazy hand. The man looked lazy. If he spoke at all it would be
with lazy speech. yet Jean had not encountered many men to whom he
would have accorded more potency to stir in him the instinct of
"Shore," drawled this gaunt-faced Texan, "old Gass lives aboot a mile
down heah. "With slow sweep of the big hand he indicated a general
direction to the south; then, appearing to forget his questioner,
he turned his attention to the game.
Jean muttered his thanks and, striding out, he mounted again, and
drove the pack mule down the road. "Reckon I've ran into the wrong
folds to-day," he said. "If I remember dad right he was a man to make
an' keep friends. Somehow I'll bet there's goin' to be hell." Beyond
the store were some rather pretty and comfortable homes, little ranch
houses back in the coves of the hills. The road turned west and Jean
saw his first sunset in the Tonto Basin. It was a pageant of purple
clouds with silver edges, and background of deep rich gold. Presently
Jean met a lad driving a cow. "Hello, Johnny!" he said, genially, and
with a double purpose. "My name's Jean Isbel. By Golly! I'm lost in
Grass Valley. Will you tell me where my dad lives?"
"Yep. Keep right on, an' y'u cain't miss him," replied the lad, with
a bright smile. "He's lookin' fer y'u."
"How do you know, boy?" queried Jean, warmed by that smile.
"Aw, I know. It's all over the valley thet y'u'd ride in ter-day.
Shore I wus the one thet tole yer dad an' he give me a dollar."
"Was he glad to hear it?" asked Jean, with a queer sensation in
"Wal, he plumb was."
"An' who told you I was goin' to ride in to-day?"
"I heerd it at the store," replied the lad, with an air of confidence.
"Some sheepmen was talkin' to Greaves. He's the storekeeper. I was
settin' outside, but I heerd. A Mexican come down off the Rim ter-day
an' he fetched the news." Here the lad looked furtively around, then
whispered. "An' thet greaser was sent by somebody. I never heerd no
more, but them sheepmen looked pretty plumb sour. An' one of them,
comin' out, give me a kick, darn him. It shore is the luckedest day
fer us cowmen."
"How's that, Johnny?"
"Wal, that's shore a big fight comin' to Grass Valley. My dad says
so an' he rides fer yer dad. An' if it comes now y'u'll be heah."
"Ahuh!" laughed Jean. "An' what then, boy?"
The lad turned bright eyes upward. "Aw, now, yu'all cain't come thet
on me. Ain't y'u an Injun, Jean Isbel? Ain't y'u a hoss tracker thet
rustlers cain't fool? Ain't y'u a plumb dead shot? Ain't y'u wuss'ern
a grizzly bear in a rough-an'-tumble? . . . Now ain't y'u, shore?"
Jean bade the flattering lad a rather sober good day and rode on
his way. Manifestly a reputation somewhat difficult to live up to
had preceded his entry into Grass Valley.
Jean's first sight of his future home thrilled him through. It was
a big, low, rambling log structure standing well out from a wooded
knoll at the edge of the valley. Corrals and barns and sheds lay
off at the back. To the fore stretched broad pastures where numberless
cattle and horses grazed. At sunset the scene was one of rich color.
Prosperity and abundance and peace seemed attendant upon that ranch;
lusty voices of burros braying and cows bawling seemed welcoming Jean.
A hound bayed. The first cool touch of wind fanned Jean's cheek and
brought a fragrance of wood smoke and frying ham.
Horses in the Pasture romped to the fence and whistled at these
newcomers. Jean espied a white-faced black horse that gladdened
his sight. "Hello, Whiteface! I'll sure straddle you," called Jean.
Then up the gentle slope he saw the tall figure of his father--the
same as he had seen him thousands of times, bareheaded, shirt sleeved,
striding with long step. Jean waved and called to him.
"Hi, You Prodigal!" came the answer. Yes, the voice of his father--
and Jean's boyhood memories flashed. He hurried his horse those last
few rods. No--dad was not the same. His hair shone gray.
"Here I am, dad," called Jean, and then he was dismounting. A deep,
quiet emotion settled over him, stilling the hurry, the eagerness,
the pang in his breast.
"Son, I shore am glad to see you," said his father, and wrung his hand.
"Wal, wal, the size of you! Shore you've grown, any how you favor
Jean felt in the iron clasp of hand, in the uplifting of the handsome
head, in the strong, fine light of piercing eyes that there was no
difference in the spirit of his father. But the old smile could not
hide lines and shades strange to Jean.
"Dad, I'm as glad as you," replied Jean, heartily. "It seems long
we've been parted, now I see you. Are You well, dad, an' all right?"
"Not complainin', son. I can ride all day same as ever," he said.
"Come. Never mind your hosses. They'll be looked after.
Come meet the folks. . . . Wal, wal, you got heah at last."
On the porch of the house a group awaited Jean's coming, rather
silently, he thought. Wide-eyed children were there, very shy and
watchful. The dark face of his sister corresponded with the image
of her in his memory. She appeared taller, more womanly, as she
embraced him. "Oh, Jean, Jean, I'm glad you've come!" she cried,
and pressed him close. Jean felt in her a woman's anxiety for the
present as well as affection for the past. He remembered his aunt
Mary, though he had not seen her for years. His half brothers,
Bill and Guy, had changed but little except perhaps to grow lean
and rangy. Bill resembled his father, though his aspect was jocular
rather than serious. Guy was smaller, wiry, and hard as rock, with
snapping eyes in a brown, still face, and he had the bow-legs of a
cattleman. Both had married in Arizona. Bill's wife, Kate, was a
stout, comely little woman, mother of three of the children. The
other wife was young, a strapping girl, red headed and freckled, with
wonderful lines of pain and strength in her face. Jean remembered,
as he looked at her, that some one had written him about the tragedy
in her life. When she was only a child the Apaches had murdered all
her family. Then next to greet Jean were the little children, all shy,
yet all manifestly impressed by the occasion. A warmth and intimacy
of forgotten home emotions flooded over Jean. Sweet it was to get
home to these relatives who loved him and welcomed him with quiet
gladness. But there seemed more. Jean was quick to see the shadow
in the eyes of the women in that household and to sense a strange
reliance which his presence brought.
"Son, this heah Tonto is a land of milk an' honey," said his father,
as Jean gazed spellbound at the bounteous supper.
Jean certainly performed gastronomic feats on this occasion, to the
delight of Aunt Mary and the wonder of the children. "Oh, he's
starv-ved to death," whispered one of the little boys to his sister.
They had begun to warm to this stranger uncle. Jean had no chance
to talk, even had he been able to, for the meal-time showed a relaxation
of restraint and they all tried to tell him things at once. In the
bright lamplight his father looked easier and happier as he beamed
After supper the men went into an adjoining room that appeared most
comfortable and attractive. It was long, and the width of the house,
with a huge stone fireplace, low ceiling of hewn timbers and walls of
the same, small windows with inside shutters of wood, and home-made
table and chairs and rugs.
"Wal, Jean, do you recollect them shootin'-irons?" inquired the rancher,
pointing above the fireplace. Two guns hung on the spreading deer
antlers there. One was a musket Jean's father had used in the war
of the rebellion and the other was a long, heavy, muzzle-loading
flintlock Kentucky, rifle with which Jean had learned to shoot.
"Reckon I do, dad," replied Jean, and with reverent hands and a rush
of memory he took the old gun down.
"Jean, you shore handle thet old arm some clumsy," said Guy Isbel,
dryly. And Bill added a remark to the effect that perhaps Jean had
been leading a luxurious and tame life back there in Oregon, and then
added, "But I reckon he's packin' that six-shooter like a Texan."
"Say, I fetched a gun or two along with me," replied Jean, jocularly.
"Reckon I near broke my poor mule's back with the load of shells an'
guns. Dad, what was the idea askin' me to pack out an arsenal?"
"Son, shore all shootin' arms an' such are at a premium in the Tonto,"
replied his father. "An' I was givin' you a hunch to come loaded."
His cool, drawling voice seemed to put a damper upon the pleasantries.
Right there Jean sensed the charged atmosphere. His brothers were
bursting with utterance about to break forth, and his father suddenly
wore a look that recalled to Jean critical times of days long past.
But the entrance of the children and the women folk put an end to
confidences. Evidently the youngsters were laboring under subdued
excitement. They preceded their mother, the smallest boy in the lead.
For him this must have been both a dreadful and a wonderful experience,
for he seemed to be pushed forward by his sister and brother and
mother, and driven by yearnings of his own. "There now, Lee. Say,
'Uncle Jean, what did you fetch us?' The lad hesitated for a shy,
frightened look at Jean, and then, gaining something from his scrutiny
of his uncle, he toddled forward and bravely delivered the question
of tremendous importance.
"What did I fetch you, hey?" cried Jean, in delight, as he took the
lad up on his knee. "Wouldn't you like to know? I didn't forget, Lee.
I remembered you all. Oh! the job I had packin' your bundle of presents.
. . . Now, Lee, make a guess."
"I dess you fetched a dun," replied Lee.
"A dun!--I'll bet you mean a gun," laughed Jean. "Well, you four-year-old
Texas gunman! Make another guess."
That appeared too momentous and entrancing for the other two youngsters,
and, adding their shrill and joyous voices to Lee's, they besieged Jean.
"Dad, where's my pack? " cried Jean. "These young Apaches are after
"Reckon the boys fetched it onto the porch," replied the rancher.
Guy Isbel opened the door and went out. "By golly! heah's three
packs," he called. "Which one do you want, Jean?"
"It's a long, heavy bundle, all tied up," replied Jean.
Guy came staggering in under a burden that brought a whoop from
the youngsters and bright gleams to the eyes of the women. Jean
lost nothing of this. How glad he was that he had tarried in
San Francisco because of a mental picture of this very reception
in far-off wild Arizona.
When Guy deposited the bundle on the floor it jarred the room.
It gave forth metallic and rattling and crackling sounds.
"Everybody stand back an' give me elbow room," ordered Jean,
majestically. "My good folks, I want you all to know this is
somethin' that doesn't happen often. The bundle you see here
weighed about a hundred pounds when I packed it on my shoulder
down Market Street in Frisco. It was stolen from me on shipboard.
I got it back in San Diego an' licked the thief. It rode on a burro
from San Diego to Yuma an' once I thought the burro was lost for keeps.
It came up the Colorado River from Yuma to Ehrenberg an' there went
on top of a stage. We got chased by bandits an' once when the horses
were gallopin' hard it near rolled off. Then it went on the back of
a pack horse an' helped wear him out. An' I reckon it would be
somewhere else now if I hadn't fallen in with a freighter goin' north
from Phoenix to the Santa Fe Trail. The last lap when it sagged the
back of a mule was the riskiest an' full of the narrowest escapes.
Twice my mule bucked off his pack an' left my outfit scattered.
Worst of all, my precious bundle made the mule top heavy comin' down
that place back here where the trail seems to drop off the earth.
There I was hard put to keep sight of my pack. Sometimes it was
on top an' other times the mule. But it got here at last. . . .
An' now I'll open it."
After this long and impressive harangue, which at least augmented
the suspense of the women and worked the children into a frenzy,
Jean leisurely untied the many knots round the bundle and unrolled it.
He had packed that bundle for just such travel as it had sustained.
Three cloth-bound rifles he laid aside, and with them a long, very
heavy package tied between two thin wide boards. From this came the,
metallic clink. "Oo, I know what dem is!" cried Lee, breaking the
silence of suspense. Then Jean, tearing open a long flat parcel,
spread before the mute, rapt-eyed youngsters such magnificent things,
as they had never dreamed of--picture books, mouth-harps, dolls,
a toy gun and a toy pistol, a wonderful whistle and a fox horn,
and last of all a box of candy. Before these treasures on the floor,
too magical to be touched at first, the two little boys and their
sister simply knelt. That was a sweet, full moment for Jean; yet
even that was clouded by the something which shadowed these innocent
children fatefully born in a wild place at a wild time. Next Jean
gave to his sister the presents he had brought her--beautiful cloth
for a dress, ribbons and a bit of lace, handkerchiefs and buttons and
yards of linen, a sewing case and a whole box of spools of thread,
a comb and brush and mirror, and lastly a Spanish brooch inlaid with
garnets. "There, Ann," said Jean, "I confess I asked a girl friend
in Oregon to tell me some things my sister might like." Manifestly
there was not much difference in girls. Ann seemed stunned by this
munificence, and then awakening, she hugged Jean in a way that took
his breath. She was not a child any more, that was certain. Aunt Mary
turned knowing eyes upon Jean. "Reckon you couldn't have pleased Ann
more. She's engaged, Jean, an' where girls are in that state these
things mean a heap. . . . Ann, you'll be married in that!" And she
pointed to the beautiful folds of material that Ann had spread out.
"What's this?" demanded Jean. His sister's blushes were enough to
convict her, and they were mightily becoming, too.
"Here, Aunt Mary," went on Jean, "here's yours, an' here's somethin'
for each of my new sisters." This distribution left the women as happy
and occupied, almost, as the children. It left also another package,
the last one in the bundle. Jean laid hold of it and, lifting it,
he was about to speak when he sustained a little shock of memory.
Quite distinctly he saw two little feet, with bare toes peeping out
of worn-out moccasins, and then round, bare, symmetrical ankles that
had been scratched by brush. Next he saw Ellen Jorth's passionate
face as she looked when she had made the violent action so disconcerting
to him. In this happy moment the memory seemed farther off than a
few hours. It had crystallized. It annoyed while it drew him. As a
result he slowly laid this package aside and did not speak as he had
"Dad, I reckon I didn't fetch a lot for you an' the boys," continued
Jean. "Some knives, some pipes an' tobacco. An' sure the guns."
"Shore, you're a regular Santa Claus, Jean," replied his father.
"Wal, wal, look at the kids. An' look at Mary. An' for the land's
sake look at Ann! Wal, wal, I'm gettin' old. I'd forgotten the
pretty stuff an' gimcracks that mean so much to women. We're out
of the world heah. It's just as well you've lived apart from us,
Jean, for comin' back this way, with all that stuff, does us a lot
of good. I cain't say, son, how obliged I am. My mind has been set
on the hard side of life. An' it's shore good to forget--to see the
smiles of the women an' the joy of the kids."
At this juncture a tall young man entered the open door. He looked
a rider. All about him, even his face, except his eyes, seemed old,
but his eyes were young, fine, soft, and dark.
"How do, y'u-all!" he said, evenly.
Ann rose from her knees. Then Jean did not need to be told who this
"Jean, this is my friend, Andrew Colmor."
Jean knew when he met Colmor's grip and the keen flash of his eyes
that he was glad Ann had set her heart upon one of their kind. And
his second impression was something akin to the one given him in the
road by the admiring lad. Colmor's estimate of him must have been a
monument built of Ann's eulogies. Jean's heart suffered misgivings.
Could he live up to the character that somehow had forestalled his
advent in Grass Valley? Surely life was measured differently here
in the Tonto Basin.
The children, bundling their treasures to their bosoms, were dragged
off to bed in some remote part of the house, from which their laughter
and voices came back with happy significance. Jean forthwith had an
interested audience. How eagerly these lonely pioneer people listened
to news of the outside world! Jean talked until he was hoarse.
In their turn his hearers told him much that had never found place
in the few and short letters he had received since he had been left
in Oregon. Not a word about sheepmen or any hint of rustlers!
Jean marked the omission and thought all the more seriously of
probabilities because nothing was said. Altogether the evening was
a happy reunion of a family of which all living members were there
present. Jean grasped that this fact was one of significant
satisfaction to his father.
"Shore we're all goin' to live together heah," he declared. "I started
this range. I call most of this valley mine. We'll run up a cabin for
Ann soon as she says the word. An' you, Jean, where's your girl?
I shore told you to fetch her."
"Dad, I didn't have one," replied Jean.
"Wal, I wish you had," returned the rancher. "You'll go courtin' one
of these Tonto hussies that I might object to."
"Why, father, there's not a girl in the valley Jean would look twice at,"
interposed Ann Isbel, with spirit.
Jean laughed the matter aside, but he had an uneasy memory. Aunt Mary
averred, after the manner of relatives, that Jean would play havoc
among the women of the settlement. And Jean retorted that at least
one member of the Isbels; should hold out against folly and fight and
love and marriage, the agents which had reduced the family to these
few present. "I'll be the last Isbel to go under, " he concluded.
"Son, you're talkin' wisdom," said his father. "An' shore that reminds
me of the uncle you're named after. Jean Isbel! . . . Wal, he was my
youngest brother an' shore a fire-eater. Our mother was a French creole
from Louisiana, an' Jean must have inherited some of his fightin' nature
from her. When the war of the rebellion started Jean an' I enlisted.
I was crippled before we ever got to the front. But Jean went through
three Years before he was killed. His company had orders to fight to
the last man. An' Jean fought an' lived long enough just to be that
At length Jean was left alone with his father.
"Reckon you're used to bunkin' outdoors?" queried the rancher,
"Most of the time," replied Jean.
"Wal, there's room in the house, but I want you to sleep out.
Come get your beddin' an' gun. I'll show you."
They went outside on the porch, where Jean shouldered his roll of
tarpaulin and blankets. His rifle, in its saddle sheath, leaned
against the door. His father took it up and, half pulling it out,
looked at it by the starlight. "Forty-four, eh? Wal, wal, there's
shore no better, if a man can hold straight. "At the moment a big
gray dog trotted up to sniff at Jean. "An' heah's your bunkmate,
Shepp. He's part lofer, Jean. His mother was a favorite shepherd
dog of mine. His father was a big timber wolf that took us two years
to kill. Some bad wolf packs runnin' this Basin."
The night was cold and still, darkly bright under moon and stars;
the smell of hay seemed to mingle with that of cedar. Jean followed
his father round the house and up a gentle slope of grass to the edge
of the cedar line. Here several trees with low-sweeping thick branches
formed a dense, impenetrable shade.
"Son, your uncle Jean was scout for Liggett, one of the greatest
rebels the South had," said the rancher. "An' you're goin' to be
scout for the Isbels of Tonto. Reckon you'll find it 'most as hot
as your uncle did. . . . Spread your bed inside. You can see out,
but no one can see you. Reckon there's been some queer happenin's
'round heah lately. If Shepp could talk he'd shore have lots to
tell us. Bill an' Guy have been sleepin' out, trailin' strange hoss
tracks, an' all that. But shore whoever's been prowlin' around heah
was too sharp for them. Some bad, crafty, light-steppin' woodsmen
'round heah, Jean. . . . Three mawnin's ago, just after daylight,
I stepped out the back door an' some one of these sneaks I'm talkin'
aboot took a shot at me. Missed my head a quarter of an inch!
To-morrow I'll show you the bullet hole in the doorpost. An' some
of my gray hairs that 're stickin' in it!"
"Dad!" ejaculated Jean, with a hand outstretched. That's awful!
You frighten me."
"No time to be scared," replied his father, calmly. "They're shore
goin' to kill me. That's why I wanted you home. . . . In there with
you, now! Go to sleep. You shore can trust Shepp to wake you if he
gets scent or sound. . . . An' good night, my son. I'm sayin' that
I'll rest easy to-night."
Jean mumbled a good night and stood watching his father's shining
white head move away under the starlight. Then the tall, dark form
vanished, a door closed, and all was still. The dog Shepp licked
Jean's hand. Jean felt grateful for that warm touch. For a moment
he sat on his roll of bedding, his thought still locked on the
shuddering revelation of his father's words, "They're shore goin'
to kill me." The shock of inaction passed. Jean pushed his pack
in the dark opening and, crawling inside, he unrolled it and made
When at length he was comfortably settled for the night he breathed
a long sigh of relief. What bliss to relax! A throbbing and burning
of his muscles seemed to begin with his rest. The cool starlit night,
the smell of cedar, the moan of wind, the silence--an were real to his
senses. After long weeks of long, arduous travel he was home. The
warmth of the welcome still lingered, but it seemed to have been
pierced by an icy thrust. What lay before him? The shadow in the
eyes of his aunt, in the younger, fresher eyes of his sister--Jean
connected that with the meaning of his father's tragic words. Far
past was the morning that had been so keen, the breaking of camp in
the sunlit forest, the riding down the brown aisles under the pines,
the music of bleating lambs that had called him not to pass by.
Thought of Ellen Jorth recurred. Had he met her only that morning?
She was up there in the forest, asleep under the starlit pines.
Who was she? What was her story? That savage fling of her skirt,
her bitter speech and passionate flaming face--they haunted Jean.
They were crystallizing into simpler memories, growing away from
his bewilderment, and therefore at once sweeter and more doubtful.
"Maybe she meant differently from what I thought," Jean soliloquized.
"Anyway, she was honest." Both shame and thrill possessed him at the
recall of an insidious idea--dare he go back and find her and give her
the last package of gifts he had brought from the city? What might
they mean to poor, ragged, untidy, beautiful Ellen Jorth? The idea
grew on Jean. It could not be dispelled. He resisted stubbornly.
It was bound to go to its fruition. Deep into his mind had sunk an
impression of her need--a material need that brought spirit and pride
to abasement. From one picture to another his memory wandered, from
one speech and act of hers to another, choosing, selecting, casting
aside, until clear and sharp as the stars shone the words, "Oh, I've
been kissed before!" That stung him now. By whom? Not by one man,
but by several, by many, she had meant. Pshaw! he had only been
sympathetic and drawn by a strange girl in the woods. To-morrow
he would forget. Work there was for him in Grass Valley. And he
reverted uneasily to the remarks of his father until at last sleep
A cold nose against his cheek, a low whine, awakened Jean. The big
dog Shepp was beside him, keen, wary, intense. The night appeared
far advanced toward dawn. Far away a cock crowed; the near-at-hand
one answered in clarion voice. "What is it, Shepp?" whispered Jean,
and he sat up. The dog smelled or heard something suspicious to his
nature, but whether man or animal Jean could not tell.
The morning star, large, intensely blue-white, magnificent in its
dominance of the clear night sky, hung over the dim, dark valley
ramparts. The moon had gone down and all the other stars were wan,
Presently the strained vacuum of Jean's ears vibrated to a low roar
of many hoofs. It came from the open valley, along the slope to the
south. Shepp acted as if he wanted the word to run. Jean laid a hand
on the dog. "Hold on, Shepp," he whispered. Then hauling on his boots
and slipping into his coat Jean took his rifle and stole out into the
open. Shepp appeared to be well trained, for it was evident that he
had a strong natural tendency to run off and hunt for whatever had
roused him. Jean thought it more than likely that the dog scented an
animal of some kind. If there were men prowling around the ranch Shepp,
might have been just as vigilant, but it seemed to Jean that the dog
would have shown less eagerness to leave him, or none at all.
In the stillness of the morning it took Jean a moment to locate the
direction of the wind, which was very light and coming from the south.
In fact that little breeze had borne the low roar of trampling hoofs.
Jean circled the ranch house to the right and kept along the slope at
the edge of the cedars. It struck him suddenly how well fitted he was
for work of this sort. All the work he had ever done, except for his
few years in school, had been in the open. All the leisure he had ever
been able to obtain had been given to his ruling passion for hunting
and fishing. Love of the wild had been born in Jean. At this moment
he experienced a grim assurance of what his instinct and his training
might accomplish if directed to a stern and daring end. Perhaps his
father understood this; perhaps the old Texan had some little reason
for his confidence.
Every few paces Jean halted to listen. All objects, of course, were
indistinguishable in the dark-gray obscurity, except when he came close
upon them. Shepp showed an increasing eagerness to bolt out into the
void. When Jean had traveled half a mile from the house he heard a
scattered trampling of cattle on the run, and farther out a low
strangled bawl of a calf. "Ahuh!" muttered Jean. "Cougar or some
varmint pulled down that calf." Then he discharged his rifle in the
air and yelled with all his might. It was necessary then to yell again
to hold Shepp back.
Thereupon Jean set forth down the valley, and tramped out and across
and around, as much to scare away whatever had been after the stock
as to look for the wounded calf. More than once he heard cattle moving
away ahead of him, but he could not see them. Jean let Shepp go,
hoping the dog would strike a trail. But Shepp neither gave tongue
nor came back. Dawn began to break, and in the growing light Jean
searched around until at last he stumbled over a dead calf, lying in
a little bare wash where water ran in wet seasons. Big wolf tracks
showed in the soft earth. "Lofers," said Jean, as he knelt and just
covered one track with his spread hand. "We had wolves in Oregon,
but not as big as these. . . . Wonder where that half-wolf dog, Shepp,
went. Wonder if he can be trusted where wolves are concerned.
I'll bet not, if there's a she-wolf runnin' around."
Jean found tracks of two wolves, and he trailed them out of the wash,
then lost them in the grass. But, guided by their direction, he went
on and climbed a slope to the cedar line, where in the dusty patches
he found the tracks again. "Not scared much," he muttered, as he noted
the slow trotting tracks. "Well, you old gray lofers, we're goin' to
clash." Jean knew from many a futile hunt that wolves were the wariest
and most intelligent of wild animals in the quest. From the top of a
low foothill he watched the sun rise; and then no longer wondered why
his father waxed eloquent over the beauty and location and luxuriance
of this grassy valley. But it was large enough to make rich a good
many ranchers. Jean tried to restrain any curiosity as to his father's
dealings in Grass Valley until the situation had been made clear.
Moreover, Jean wanted to love this wonderful country. He wanted to be
free to ride and hunt and roam to his heart's content; and therefore
he dreaded hearing his father's claims. But Jean threw off forebodings.
Nothing ever turned out so badly as it presaged. He would think the
best until certain of the worst. The morning was gloriously bright,
and already the frost was glistening wet on the stones. Grass Valley
shone like burnished silver dotted with innumerable black spots.
Burros were braying their discordant messages to one another; the
colts were romping in the fields; stallions were whistling; cows
were bawling. A cloud of blue smoke hung low over the ranch house,
slowly wafting away on the wind. Far out in the valley a dark group
of horsemen were riding toward the village. Jean glanced thoughtfully
at them and reflected that he seemed destined to harbor suspicion of
all men new and strange to him. Above the distant village stood the
darkly green foothills leading up to the craggy slopes, and these
ending in the Rim, a red, black-fringed mountain front, beautiful
in the morning sunlight, lonely, serene, and mysterious against the
level skyline. Mountains, ranges, distances unknown to Jean, always
called to him--to come, to seek, to explore, to find, but no wild
horizon ever before beckoned to him as this one. And the subtle vague
emotion that had gone to sleep with him last night awoke now hauntingly.
It took effort to dispel the desire to think, to wonder.
Upon his return to the house, he went around on the valley side,
so as to see the place by light of day. His father had built for
permanence; and evidently there had been three constructive periods
in the history of that long, substantial, picturesque log house.
But few nails and little sawed lumber and no glass had been used.
Strong and skillful hands, axes and a crosscut saw, had been the
prime factors in erecting this habitation of the Isbels.
"Good mawnin', son," called a cheery voice from the porch. "Shore
we-all heard you shoot; an' the crack of that forty-four was as
welcome as May flowers."
Bill Isbel looked up from a task over a saddle girth and inquired
pleasantly if Jean ever slept of nights. Guy Isbel laughed and
there was warm regard in the gaze he bent on Jean.
"You old Indian!" he drawled, slowly. "Did you get a bead on anythin'?"
"No. I shot to scare away what I found to be some of your lofers,"
replied Jean. "I heard them pullin' down a calf. An' I found tracks
of two whoppin' big wolves. I found the dead calf, too. Reckon the
meat can be saved. Dad, you must lose a lot of stock here."
"Wal, son, you shore hit the nail on the haid," replied the rancher.
"What with lions an' bears an' lofers--an' two-footed lofers of another
breed--I've lost five thousand dollars in stock this last year."
"Dad! You don't mean it!" exclaimed Jean, in astonishment.
To him that sum represented a small fortune.
"I shore do," answered his father.
Jean shook his head as if he could not understand such an enormous
loss where there were keen able-bodied men about." But that's awful,
dad. How could it happen? Where were your herders an' cowboys?
An' Bill an' Guy?"
Bill Isbel shook a vehement fist at Jean and retorted in earnest,
having manifestly been hit in a sore spot. "Where was me an' Guy,
huh? Wal, my Oregon brother, we was heah, all year, sleepin' more
or less aboot three hours out of every twenty-four--ridin' our boots
off--an' we couldn't keep down that loss."
"Jean, you-all have a mighty tumble comin' to you out heah,"
said Guy, complacently.
"Listen, son," spoke up the rancher. "You want to have some hunches
before you figure on our troubles. There's two or three packs of
lofers, an' in winter time they are hell to deal with. Lions thick
as bees, an' shore bad when the snow's on. Bears will kill a cow now
an' then. An' whenever an' old silvertip comes mozyin' across from
the Mazatzals he kills stock. I'm in with half a dozen cattlemen.
We all work together, an' the whole outfit cain't keep these vermints
down. Then two years ago the Hash Knife Gang come into the Tonto."
"Hash Knife Gang? What a pretty name!" replied Jean. "Who're they?"
"Rustlers, son. An' shore the real old Texas brand. The old Lone
Star State got too hot for them, an' they followed the trail of a
lot of other Texans who needed a healthier climate. Some two hundred
Texans around heah, Jean, an' maybe a matter of three hundred inhabitants
in the Tonto all told, good an' bad. Reckon it's aboot half an' half."
A cheery call from the kitchen interrupted the conversation of the men.
"You come to breakfast."
During the meal the old rancher talked to Bill and Guy about the day's
order of work; and from this Jean gathered an idea of what a big cattle
business his father conducted. After breakfast Jean's brothers
manifested keen interest in the new rifles. These were unwrapped
and cleaned and taken out for testing. The three rifles were forty-four
calibre Winchesters, the kind of gun Jean had found most effective.
He tried them out first, and the shots he made were satisfactory to
him and amazing to the others. Bill had used an old Henry rifle.
Guy did not favor any particular rifle. The rancher pinned his faith
to the famous old single-shot buffalo gun, mostly called needle gun.
"Wal, reckon I'd better stick to mine. Shore you cain't teach an old
dog new tricks. But you boys may do well with the forty-fours.
Pack 'em on your saddles an' practice when you see a coyote."
Jean found it difficult to convince himself that this interest in
guns and marksmanship had any sinister propulsion back of it. His
father and brothers had always been this way. Rifles were as important
to pioneers as plows, and their skillful use was an achievement every
frontiersman tried to attain. Friendly rivalry had always existed
among the members of the Isbel family: even Ann Isbel was a good shot.
But such proficiency in the use of firearms--and life in the open
that was correlative with it--had not dominated them as it had Jean.
Bill and Guy Isbel were born cattlemen--chips of the old block.
Jean began to hope that his father's letter was an exaggeration,
and particularly that the fatalistic speech of last night, "they are
goin' to kill me," was just a moody inclination to see the worst side.
Still, even as Jean tried to persuade himself of this more hopeful view,
he recalled many references to the peculiar reputation of Texans for
gun-throwing, for feuds, for never-ending hatreds. In Oregon the
Isbels had lived among industrious and peaceful pioneers from all
over the States; to be sure, the life had been rough and primitive,
and there had been fights on occasions, though no Isbel had ever
killed a man. But now they had become fixed in a wilder and sparsely
settled country among men of their own breed. Jean was afraid his
hopes had only sentiment to foster them. Nevertheless, be forced back
a strange, brooding, mental state and resolutely held up the brighter
side. Whatever the evil conditions existing in Grass Valley, they
could be met with intelligence and courage, with an absolute certainty
that it was inevitable they must pass away. Jean refused to consider
the old, fatal law that at certain wild times and wild places in the
West certain men had to pass away to change evil conditions.
"Wal, Jean, ride around the range with the boys," said the rancher.
"Meet some of my neighbors, Jim Blaisdell, in particular. Take a
look at the cattle. An' pick out some hosses for yourself."
"I've seen one already," declared Jean, quickly. A black with white
face. I'll take him."
"Shore you know a hoss. To my eye he's my pick. But the boys don't
agree. Bill 'specially has degenerated into a fancier of pitchin'
hosses. Ann can ride that black. You try him this mawnin'. . . .
An', son, enjoy yourself."
True to his first impression, Jean named the black horse Whiteface
and fell in love with him before ever he swung a leg over him.
Whiteface appeared spirited, yet gentle. He had been trained
instead of being broken. Of hard hits and quirts and spurs he had
no experience. He liked to do what his rider wanted him to do.
A hundred or more horses grazed in the grassy meadow, and as Jean
rode on among them it was a pleasure to see stallions throw heads
and ears up and whistle or snort. Whole troops of colts and
two-year-olds raced with flying tails and manes.
Beyond these pastures stretched the range, and Jean saw the gray-green
expanse speckled by thousands of cattle. The scene was inspiring.
Jean's brothers led him all around, meeting some of the herders and
riders employed on the ranch, one of whom was a burly, grizzled man
with eyes reddened and narrowed by much riding in wind and sun and dust.
His name was Evans and he was father of the lad whom Jean had met near
the village. Everts was busily skinning the calf that had been killed
by the wolves. "See heah, y'u Jean Isbel," said Everts, "it shore was
aboot time y'u come home. We-all heahs y'u hev an eye fer tracks.
Wal, mebbe y'u can kill Old Gray, the lofer thet did this job. He's
pulled down nine calves as' yearlin's this last two months thet I know
of. An' we've not hed the spring round-up."
Grass Valley widened to the southeast. Jean would have been backward
about estimating the square miles in it. Yet it was not vast acreage
so much as rich pasture that made it such a wonderful range. Several
ranches lay along the western slope of this section. Jean was informed
that open parks and swales, and little valleys nestling among the
foothills, wherever there was water and grass, had been settled by
ranchers. Every summer a few new families ventured in.
Blaisdell struck Jean as being a lionlike type of Texan, both in his
broad, bold face, his huge head with its upstanding tawny hair like
a mane, and in the speech and force that betokened the nature of his
heart. He was not as old as Jean's father. He had a rolling voice,
with the same drawling intonation characteristic of all Texans, and
blue eyes that still held the fire of youth. Quite a marked contrast
he presented to the lean, rangy, hard-jawed, intent-eyed men Jean had
begun to accept as Texans.
Blaisdell took time for a curious scrutiny and study of Jean, that,
frank and kindly as it was, and evidently the adjustment of impressions
gotten from hearsay, yet bespoke the attention of one used to judging
men for himself, and in this particular case having reasons of his own
for so doing.
"Wal, you're like your sister Ann," said Blaisdell. "Which you may
take as a compliment, young man. Both of you favor your mother.
But you're an Isbel. Back in Texas there are men who never wear
a glove on their right hands, an' shore I reckon if one of them met
up with you sudden he'd think some graves had opened an' he'd go for
Blaisdell's laugh pealed out with deep, pleasant roll. Thus he
planted in Jean's sensitive mind a significant thought-provoking
idea about the past-and-gone Isbels.
His further remarks, likewise, were exceedingly interesting to Jean.
The settling of the Tonto Basin by Texans was a subject often in
dispute. His own father had been in the first party of adventurous
pioneers who had traveled up from the south to cross over the Reno
Pass of the Mazatzals into the Basin. "Newcomers from outside get
impressions of the Tonto accordin' to the first settlers they meet,"
declared Blaisdell. "An' shore it's my belief these first impressions
never change. just so strong they are! Wal, I've heard my father say
there were men in his wagon train that got run out of Texas, but he
swore he wasn't one of them. So I reckon that sort of talk held good
for twenty years, an' for all the Texans who emigrated, except, of
course, such notorious rustlers as Daggs an' men of his ilk. Shore
we've got some bad men heah. There's no law. Possession used to
mean more than it does now. Daggs an' his Hash Knife Gang have begun
to hold forth with a high hand. No small rancher can keep enough
stock to pay for his labor."
At the time of which Blaisdell spoke there were not many sheepmen
and cattlemen in the Tonto, considering its vast area. But these,
on account of the extreme wildness of the broken country, were limited
to the comparatively open Grass Valley and its adjacent environs.
Naturally, as the inhabitants increased and stock raising grew in
proportion the grazing and water rights became matters of extreme
importance. Sheepmen ran their flocks up on the Rim in summer time
and down into the Basin in winter time. A sheepman could throw a few
thousand sheep round a cattleman's ranch and ruin him. The range was
free. It was as fair for sheepmen to graze their herds anywhere as it
was for cattlemen. This of course did not apply to the few acres of
cultivated ground that a rancher could call his own; but very few
cattle could have been raised on such limited area. Blaisdell said
that the sheepmen were unfair because they could have done just as well,
though perhaps at more labor, by keeping to the ridges and leaving the
open valley and little flats to the ranchers. Formerly there had been
room enough for all; now the grazing ranges were being encroached upon
by sheepmen newly come to the Tonto. To Blaisdell's way of thinking
the rustler menace was more serious than the sheeping-off of the range,
for the simple reason that no cattleman knew exactly who the rustlers
were and for the more complex and significant reason that the rustlers
did not steal sheep.
"Texas was overstocked with bad men an' fine steers," concluded
Blaisdell. "Most of the first an' some of the last have struck the
Tonto. The sheepmen have now got distributin' points for wool an'
sheep at Maricopa an' Phoenix. They're shore waxin' strong an' bold."
"Ahuh! . . . An' what's likely to come of this mess?" queried Jean.
"Ask your dad," replied Blaisdell.
"I will. But I reckon I'd be obliged for your opinion."
"Wal, short an' sweet it's this: Texas cattlemen will never allow
the range they stocked to be overrun by sheepmen."
"Who's this man Greaves?" went on Jean. "Never run into anyone
"Greaves is hard to figure. He's a snaky customer in deals. But he
seems to be good to the poor people 'round heah. Says he's from
Missouri. Ha-ha! He's as much Texan as I am. He rode into the
Tonto without even a pack to his name. An' presently he builds his
stone house an' freights supplies in from Phoenix. Appears to buy
an' sell a good deal of stock. For a while it looked like he was
steerin' a middle course between cattlemen an' sheepmen. Both sides
made a rendezvous of his store, where he heard the grievances of each.
Laterly he's leanin' to the sheepmen. Nobody has accused him of that
yet. But it's time some cattleman called his bluff."
"Of course there are honest an' square sheepmen in the Basin?"
"Yes, an' some of them are not unreasonable. But the new fellows that
dropped in on us the last few year--they're the ones we're goin' to
"This--sheepman, Jorth?" went on Jean, in slow hesitation, as if
compelled to ask what he would rather not learn.
"Jorth must be the leader of this sheep faction that's harryin' us
ranchers. He doesn't make threats or roar around like some of them.
But he goes on raisin' an' buyin' more an' more sheep. An' his herders
have been grazin' down all around us this winter. Jorth's got to be
"Who is he?"
"Wal, I don't know enough to talk aboot. Your dad never said so,
but I think he an' Jorth knew each other in Texas years ago. I never
saw Jorth but once. That was in Greaves's barroom. Your dad an' Jorth
met that day for the first time in this country. Wal, I've not known
men for nothin'. They just stood stiff an' looked at each other.
Your dad was aboot to draw. But Jorth made no sign to throw a gun.
Jean saw the growing and weaving and thickening threads of a tangle
that had already involved him. And the sudden pang of regret he
sustained was not wholly because of sympathies with his own people.
"The other day back up in the woods on the Rim I ran into a sheepman
who said his name was Colter. Who is he?
"Colter? Shore he's a new one. What'd he look like? "
Jean described Colter with a readiness that spoke volumes for the
vividness of his impressions.
"I don't know him," replied Blaisdell. "But that only goes to prove
my contention--any fellow runnin' wild in the woods can say he's a
"Colter surprised me by callin' me by my name," continued Jean.
"Our little talk wasn't exactly friendly. He said a lot about my
bein' sent for to run sheep herders out of the country."
"Shore that's all over," replied Blaisdell, seriously. "You're a
marked man already."
"What started such rumor?"
"Shore you cain't prove it by me. But it's not taken as rumor.