by Zane Grey
“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 my scalp.”
“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 intended to.
“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 newcomer was.
“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 last man.”
At length Jean was left alone with his father.
“Reckon you’re used to bunkin’ outdoors?” queried the rancher, rather abruptly.
“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 his bed.
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 claimed him.
A cold nose against his cheek, a low whine, awakened Jean. The big dog Shepp was beside him, keen, wa
ry, 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.
CHAPTER III
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, pale ghosts.
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.
