by Zane Grey
CHAPTER I
At the end of a dry, uphill ride over barren country Jean Isbelunpacked to camp at the edge of the cedars where a little rocky canyongreen with willow and cottonwood, promised water and grass.
His animals were tired, especially the pack mule that had carried aheavy load; and with slow heave of relief they knelt and rolled in thedust. Jean experienced something of relief himself as he threw off hischaps. He had not been used to hot, dusty, glaring days on the barrenlands. Stretching his long length beside a tiny rill of clear waterthat tinkled over the red stones, he drank thirstily. The water wascool, 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 hadloved. This wild, endless Arizona land bade fair to earn his hatred.
By the time he had leisurely completed his tasks twilight had fallenand coyotes had begun their barking. Jean listened to the yelps and tothe moan of the cool wind in the cedars with a sense of satisfactionthat these lonely sounds were familiar. This cedar wood burned into apretty fire and the smell of its smoke was newly pleasant.
"Reckon maybe I'll learn to like Arizona," he mused, half aloud. "ButI've a hankerin' for waterfalls an' dark-green forests. Must be theIndian in me.... Anyway, dad needs me bad, an' I reckon I'm here forkeeps."
Jean threw some cedar branches on the fire, in the light of which heopened his father's letter, hoping by repeated reading to grasp more ofits strange portent. It had been two months in reaching him, coming bytraveler, by stage and train, and then by boat, and finally by stageagain. Written in lead pencil on a leaf torn from an old ledger, itwould have been hard to read even if the writing had been more legible.
"Dad's writin' was always bad, but I never saw it so shaky," said Jean,thinking aloud.
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,
GASTON ISBEL.
Jean pondered over this letter. Judged by memory of his father, whohad always been self-sufficient, it had been a surprise and somewhat ofa shock. Weeks of travel and reflection had not helped him to graspthe meaning between the lines.
"Yes, dad's growin' old," mused Jean, feeling a warmth and a sadnessstir 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 hisrange. Dad could stand a lot of rustlin', but not much from sheepmen."
The softness that stirred in Jean merged into a cold, thoughtfulearnestness which had followed every perusal of his father's letter. Adark, full current seemed flowing in his veins, and at times he felt itswell and heat. It troubled him, making him conscious of a deeper,stronger self, opposed to his careless, free, and dreamy nature. Noties had bound him in Oregon, except love for the great, still forestsand the thundering rivers; and this love came from his softer side. Ithad cost him a wrench to leave. And all the way by ship down the coastto San Diego and across the Sierra Madres by stage, and so on to thislast overland travel by horseback, he had felt a retreating of the selfthat was tranquil and happy and a dominating of this unknown somberself, with its menacing possibilities. Yet despite a nameless regretand a loyalty to Oregon, when he lay in his blankets he had to confessa keen interest in his adventurous future, a keen enjoyment of thisstark, wild Arizona. It appeared to be a different sky stretching indark, star-spangled dome over him--closer, vaster, bluer. The strongfragrance of sage and cedar floated over him with the camp-fire smoke,and all seemed drowsily to subdue his thoughts.
At dawn he rolled out of his blankets and, pulling on his boots, beganthe day with a zest for the work that must bring closer his callingfuture. White, crackling frost and cold, nipping air were the samekeen spurs to action that he had known in the uplands of Oregon, yetthey were not wholly the same. He sensed an exhilaration similar tothe effect of a strong, sweet wine. His horse and mule had fared wellduring the night, having been much refreshed by the grass and water ofthe little canyon. Jean mounted and rode into the cedars with gladnessthat 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 couldbe seen down in the Basin. The ascent of the ground was so gradualthat only in long, open stretches could it be seen. But the nature ofthe vegetation showed Jean how he was climbing. Scant, low, scraggycedars gave place to more numerous, darker, greener, bushier ones, andthese to high, full-foliaged, green-berried trees. Sage and grass inthe open flats grew more luxuriously. Then came the pinyons, andpresently among them the checker-barked junipers. Jean hailed thefirst pine tree with a hearty slap on the brown, rugged bark. It was asmall dwarf pine struggling to live. The next one was larger, andafter that came several, and beyond them pines stood up everywhereabove the lower trees. Odor of pine needles mingled with the other drysmells that made the wind pleasant to Jean. In an hour from the firstline of pines he had ridden beyond the cedars and pinyons into a slowlythickening and deepening forest. Underbrush appeared scarce except inravines, and the ground in open patches held a bleached grass. Jean'seye roved for sight of squirrels, birds, deer, or any moving creature.It appeared to be a dry, uninhabited forest. About midday Jean haltedat a pond of surface water, evidently melted snow, and gave his animalsa drink. He saw a few old deer tracks in the mud and several huge birdtracks new to him which he concluded must have been made by wildturkeys.
The trail divided at this pond. Jean had no idea which branch he oughtto take. "Reckon it doesn't matter," he muttered, as he was about toremount. His horse was standing with ears up, looking back along thetrail. Then Jean heard a clip-clop of trotting hoofs, and presentlyespied a horseman.
Jean made a pretense of tightening his saddle girths while he peeredover his horse at the approaching rider. All men in this country weregoing to be of exceeding interest to Jean Isbel. This man at adistance rode and looked like all the Arizonians Jean had seen, he hada superb seat in the saddle, and he was long and lean. He wore a hugeblack sombrero and a soiled red scarf. His vest was open and he waswithout a coat.
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 inthe meeting with the man. Never had sharper eyes flashed over Jean andhis outfit. He had a dust-colored, sun-burned face, long, lean, andhard, a huge sandy mustache that hid his mouth, and eyes of piercinglight intensity. Not very much hard Western experience had passed bythis man, yet he was not old, measured by years. When he dismountedJean saw he was tall, even for an Arizonian.
"Seen your tracks back a ways," he said, as he slipped the bit to
lethis 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, wherewas you headin' for before you got lost?"
The query was deliberately cool, with a dry, crisp ring. Jean felt thelack 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 Tontohas 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 theintangible conflict of spirit.
"Shore thet's natural," replied the rider. His speech was slow, andthe motions of his long, brown hands, as he took a cigarette from hisvest, 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'mone of the sheepmen Gass Isbel's riled with."
"Colter. Glad to meet you," replied Jean. "An' I reckon who riled myfather 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 anyTonto Basin fellers yet. Wal, I'm goin' to tell you thet your old mangabbed like a woman down at Greaves's store. Bragged aboot you an' howyou could fight an' how you could shoot an' how you could track a hossor a man! Bragged how you'd chase every sheep herder back up on theRim.... 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 Butteto the Apache country."
"Colter, I'm a stranger in Arizona," said Jean, slowly. "I know littleabout ranchers or sheepmen. It's true my father sent for me. It'strue, 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. Butif he has, an' if he's justified in his stand against you sheepmen, I'mgoin' to do my best to live up to his brag."
"I get your hunch. Shore we understand each other, an' thet's apowerful help. You take my hunch to your old man," replied Colter, ashe turned his horse away toward the left. "Thet trail leadin' south isyours. When you come to the Rim you'll see a bare spot down in theBasin. Thet 'll be Grass Valley."
He rode away out of sight into the woods. Jean leaned against hishorse and pondered. It seemed difficult to be just to this Colter, notbecause of his claims, but because of a subtle hostility that emanatedfrom him. Colter had the hard face, the masked intent, the turn ofspeech that Jean had come to associate with dishonest men. Even if Jeanhad not been prejudiced, if he had known nothing of his father'strouble with these sheepmen, and if Colter had met him only to exchangeglances and greetings, still Jean would never have had a favorableimpression. Colter grated upon him, roused an antagonism seldom felt.
"Heigho!" sighed the young man, "Good-by to huntin' an' fishing'! Dad'sgiven me a man's job."
With that he mounted his horse and started the pack mule into theright-hand trail. Walking and trotting, he traveled all afternoon,toward sunset getting into heavy forest of pine. More than one snowbank showed white through the green, sheltered on the north slopes ofshady ravines. And it was upon entering this zone of richer, deeperforestland that Jean sloughed off his gloomy forebodings. Thesestately pines were not the giant firs of Oregon, but any lover of thewoods could be happy under them. Higher still he climbed until theforest spread before and around him like a level park, with thicketedravines here and there on each side. And presently that deceitfullevel led to a higher bench upon which the pines towered, and werematched by beautiful trees he took for spruce. Heavily barked, withregular spreading branches, these conifers rose in symmetrical shape tospear the sky with silver plumes. A graceful gray-green moss, wavedlike veils from the branches. The air was not so dry and it wascolder, with a scent and touch of snow. Jean made camp at the firstlikely site, taking the precaution to unroll his bed some littledistance from his fire. Under the softly moaning pines he feltcomfortable, having lost the sense of an immeasurable open spacefalling 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 gobbleof a wild turkey and that of a tame one. Jean got up, and taking hisrifle went out into the gray obscurity of dawn to try to locate theturkeys. But it was too dark, and finally when daylight came theyappeared to be gone. The mule had strayed, and, what with finding itand cooking breakfast and packing, Jean did not make a very earlystart. On this last lap of his long journey he had slowed down. He wasweary of hurrying; the change from weeks in the glaring sun anddust-laden wind to this sweet coot darkly green and brown forest wasvery welcome; he wanted to linger along the shaded trail. This day hemade 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 wouldcross an old trail, and as he penetrated deeper into the forest everydamp or dusty spot showed tracks of turkey, deer, and bear. The amountof bear sign surprised him. Presently his keen nostrils were assailedby a smell of sheep, and soon he rode into a broad sheep, trail. Fromthe tracks Jean calculated that the sheep had passed there the daybefore.
An unreasonable antipathy seemed born in him. To be sure he had beenprepared to dislike sheep, and that was why he was unreasonable. Buton the other hand this band of sheep had left a broad bare swath,weedless, grassless, flowerless, in their wake. Where sheep grazedthey destroyed. That was what Jean had against them.
An hour later he rode to the crest of a long parklike slope, where newgreen grass was sprouting and flowers peeped everywhere. The pinesappeared far apart; gnarled oak trees showed rugged and gray againstthe green wall of woods. A white strip of snow gleamed like a movingstream away down in the woods.
Jean heard the musical tinkle of bells and the baa-baa of sheep and thefaint, sweet bleating of lambs. As he road toward these sounds a dogran out from an oak thicket and barked at him. Next Jean smelled acamp fire and soon he caught sight of a curling blue column of smoke,and then a small peaked tent. Beyond the clump of oaks Jeanencountered a Mexican lad carrying a carbine. The boy had a swarthy,pleasant face, and to Jean's greeting he replied, "BUENAS DIAS." Jeanunderstood little Spanish, and about all he gathered by his simplequeries was that the lad was not alone--and that it was "lambing time."
This latter circumstance grew noisily manifest. The forest seemedshrilly full of incessant baas and plaintive bleats. All about thecamp, on the slope, in the glades, and everywhere, were sheep. A fewwere grazing; many were lying down; most of them were ewes sucklingwhite fleecy little lambs that staggered on their feet. EverywhereJean saw tiny lambs just born. Their pin-pointed bleats pierced theheavier baa-baa of their mothers.
Jean dismounted and led his horse down toward the camp, where he ratherexpected to see another and older Mexican, from whom he might getinformation. The lad walked with him. Down this way the plaintiveuproar made by the sheep was not so loud.
"Hello there!" called Jean, cheerfully, as he approached the tent. Noanswer was forthcoming. Dropping his bridle, he went on, ratherslowly, looking for some one to appear. Then a voice from one sidestartled him.
"Mawnin', stranger."
A girl stepped out from beside a pine. She carried a rifle. Her faceflashed richly brown, but she was not Mexican. This fact, and thesudden conviction that she had been watching him, somewhat disconcertedJean.
"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 sheepherder who'd show me. I can't savvy this boy's lingo."
While he spoke it seemed to him an intentness of expression, a strainrelaxed from her face. A faint suggestion of hostility likewisedisappeared. Jean was not even sure that he had caught it, but therehad 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?"
"Yes."
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 manbared his haid to me." She uttered a little laugh in which surpriseand frankness mingled with a tint of bitterness.
Jean sat down with his back to a pine, and, laying the sombrero by hisside, he looked full at her, conscious of a singular eagerness, as ifhe wanted to verify by close scrutiny a first hasty impression. Ifthere had been an instinct in his meeting with Colter, there was morein this. The girl half sat, half leaned against a log, with the shinylittle carbine across her knees. She had a level, curious gaze uponhim, and Jean had never met one just like it. Her eyes were rather awide oval in shape, clear and steady, with shadows of thought in theiramber-brown depths. They seemed to look through Jean, and his gazedropped first. Then it was he saw her ragged homespun skirt and a fewinches of brown, bare ankles, strong and round, and crude worn-outmoccasins that failed to hide the shapeliness, of her feet. Suddenlyshe drew back her stockingless ankles and ill-shod little feet. WhenJean lifted his gaze again he found her face half averted and a stainof red in the gold tan of her cheek. That touch of embarrassmentsomehow removed her from this strong, raw, wild woodland setting. Itchanged her poise. It detracted from the curious, unabashed, almostbold, 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 tohear. "How'd y'u-all guess that?"
"Anybody can tell a Texan. Where I came from there were a good manypioneers an' ranchers from the old Lone Star state. I've worked forseveral. An', come to think of it, I'd rather hear a Texas girl talkthan anybody."
"Did y'u know many Texas girls?" she inquired, turning again to facehim.
"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 Idid--a little," laughed Jean. "Sometimes on a Sunday or a dance oncein 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 notforgotten. I had friends when we lived in Texas.... Three years ago.Shore it seems longer. Three miserable years in this damned country!"
Then she bit her lip, evidently to keep back further unwittingutterance to a total stranger. And it was that biting of her lip thatdrew Jean's attention to her mouth. It held beauty of curve andfullness and color that could not hide a certain sadness andbitterness. Then the whole flashing brown face changed for Jean. Hesaw that it was young, full of passion and restraint, possessing apower which grew on him. This, with her shame and pathos and the factthat she craved respect, gave a leap to Jean's interest.
"Well, I reckon you flatter me," he said, hoping to put her at her easeagain. "I'm only a rough hunter an' fisherman-woodchopper an' horsetracker. Never had all the school I needed--nor near enough company ofnice 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 thatthrilled him. "Look at the holes." She showed rips and worn-outplaces in the sleeves of her buckskin blouse, through which gleamed around, brown arm. "I sew when I have anythin' to sew with.... Look atmy 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 toher action. But shame could not check her violence now. A dammed-upresentment seemed to have broken out in flood. She lifted the raggedskirt almost to her knees. "No stockings! No Shoes! ... How can agirl 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' yourpardon for--sort of stirrin' you to forget yourself a little. Reckon Iunderstand. You don't meet many strangers an' I sort of hit youwrong--makin' you feel too much--an' talk too much. Who an' what youare is none of my business. But we met.... An' I reckon somethin' hashappened--perhaps more to me than to you.... Now let me put youstraight about clothes an' women. Reckon I know most women love nicethings to wear an' think because clothes make them look pretty thatthey're nicer or better. But they're wrong. You're wrong. Maybe it 'dbe too much for a girl like you to be happy without clothes. But youcan be--you axe just as nice, an'--an' fine--an', for all you know, agood deal more appealin' to some men."
"Stranger, y'u shore must excuse my temper an' the show I made ofmyself," replied the girl, with composure. "That, to say the least,was not nice. An' I don't want anyone thinkin' better of me than Ideserve. My mother died in Texas, an' I've lived out heah in this wildcountry--a girl alone among rough men. Meetin' y'u to-day makes me seewhat 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 growingsense 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'sa sheepman. Lately there's been herders shot at. Just now we're shortan' 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 behappy."
"Herders shot at!" exclaimed Jean, thoughtfully. "By whom? An' whatfor?"
"Trouble brewin' between the cattlemen down in the Basin an' thesheepmen up on the Rim. Dad says there'll shore be hell to pay. I tellhim I hope the cattlemen chase him back to Texas."
"Then-- Are you on the ranchers' side?" queried Jean, trying topretend 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 theargument."
"How so?"
"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. Thatstarted the row. Lord knows how it'll end. For most all of them heahare from Texas."
"So I was told," replied Jean. "An' I heard' most all these Texans gotrun out of Texas. Any truth in that?"
"Shore I reckon there is," she replied, seriously. "But, stranger, itmight 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'saccumulated stock, but he's not rich nor so well off as he was backhome."
"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'sthe use of thinkin'? People stay places until they drift away. Y'ucan 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 desireto talk further he certainly had no wish to annoy her. His mule hadstrayed off among the bleating sheep. Jean drove it back and then ledhis horse up to where the girl stood. She appeared taller and, thoughnot of robust build, she was vigorous and lithe, with something abouther 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 walkdown with y'u.... Sup
pose y'u're on the way to Grass Valley?"
"Yes; I've relatives there," he returned. He dreaded her nextquestion, which he suspected would concern his name. But she did notask. Taking up her rifle she turned away. Jean strode ahead to herside. "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, hethought, and it was tied with a string of buckskin. Altogether herapparel proclaimed poverty.
Jean let the conversation languish for a little. He wanted to thinkwhat to say presently, and then he felt a rather vague pleasure instalking beside her. Her profile was straight cut and exquisite inline. From this side view the soft curve of lips could not be seen.
She made several attempts to start conversation, all of which Jeanignored, manifestly to her growing constraint. Presently Jean, havingdecided what he wanted to say, suddenly began: "I like this adventure.Do you?"
"Adventure! Meetin' me in the woods?" And she laughed the laugh ofyouth. "Shore you must be hard up for adventure, stranger."
"Do you like it?" he persisted, and his eyes searched the half-avertedface.
"I might like it," she answered, frankly, "if--if my temper had notmade a fool of me. I never meet anyone I care to talk to. Why shouldit not be pleasant to run across some one new--some one strange in thisheah wild country?"
"We are as we are," said Jean, simply. "I didn't think you made a foolof 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 hetook for gladness. And because he wanted to appear calm and friendly,not too eager, he had to deny himself the thrill of meeting thosechanging eyes.
"Sure I do. Reckon I'm overbold on such short acquaintance. But Imight not have another chance to tell you, so please don't hold itagainst me."
This declaration over, Jean felt relief and something of exultation. Hehad been afraid he might not have the courage to make it. She walkedon 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 inher cheeks. He noticed then a slight swelling quiver of her throat;and he became alive to its graceful contour, and to how full andpulsating it was, how nobly it set into the curve of her shoulder.Here in her quivering throat was the weakness of her, the evidence ofher sex, the womanliness that belied the mountaineer stride and thegrasp of strong brown hands on a rifle. It had an effect on Jeantotally inexplicable to him, both in the strange warmth that stole overhim and in the utterance he could not hold back.
"Girl, we're strangers, but what of that? We've met, an' I tell you itmeans somethin' to me. I've known girls for months an' never felt thisway. I don't know who you are an' I don't care. You betrayed a gooddeal to me. You're not happy. You're lonely. An' if I didn't want tosee you again for my own sake I would for yours. Some things you saidI'll not forget soon. I've got a sister, an' I know you have nobrother. An' I reckon ..."
At this juncture Jean in his earnestness and quite without thoughtgrasped her hand. The contact checked the flow of his speech andsuddenly made him aghast at his temerity. But the girl did not makeany effort to withdraw it. So Jean, inhaling a deep breath and tryingto see through his bewilderment, held on bravely. He imagined he felta faint, warm, returning pressure. She was young, she was friendless,she was human. By this hand in his Jean felt more than ever theloneliness of her. Then, just as he was about to speak again, shepulled her hand free.
"Heah's the Rim," she said, in her quaint Southern drawl. "An' there'sY'ur Tonto Basin."
Jean had been intent only upon the girl. He had kept step beside herwithout taking note of what was ahead of him. At her words he lookedup expectantly, to be struck mute.
He felt a sheer force, a downward drawing of an immense abyss beneathhim. As he looked afar he saw a black basin of timbered country, thedarkest and wildest he had ever gazed upon, a hundred miles of bluedistance across to an unflung mountain range, hazy purple against thesky. It seemed to be a stupendous gulf surrounded on three sides bybold, undulating lines of peaks, and on his side by a wall so high thathe felt lifted aloft on the run of the sky.
"Southeast y'u see the Sierra Anchas," said the girl pointing. "Thatnotch 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 theRim."
Jean could not see at first just what the Rim was, but by shifting hisgaze westward he grasped this remarkable phenomenon of nature. Forleagues and leagues a colossal red and yellow wall, a rampart, amountain-faced cliff, seemed to zigzag westward. Grand and bold werethe promontories reaching out over the void. They ran toward thewestering sun. Sweeping and impressive were the long lines slantingaway from them, sloping darkly spotted down to merge into the blacktimber. Jean had never seen such a wild and rugged manifestation ofnature'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 thatit made him dizzy to look, and then the craggy broken cliffs mergedinto red-slided, cedar-greened slopes running down and down into gorgeschoked with forests, and from which soared up a roar of rushing waters.Slope after slope, ridge beyond ridge, canyon merging into canyon--sothe tremendous bowl sunk away to its black, deceiving depths, awilderness across which travel seemed impossible.
"Wonderful!" exclaimed Jean.
"Indeed it is!" murmured the girl. "Shore that is Arizona. I reckon Ilove 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 notoften do I see the Basin, an' for that matter, one doesn't live ongrand scenery."
"Child, even once in a while--this sight would cure any misery, if youonly 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 beautyand 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 thenthat Jean saw her face for the first time. She was beautiful as he hadnever known beauty. Limned against that scene, she gave it life--wild,sweet, young life--the poignant meaning of which haunted yet eludedhim. But she belonged there. Her eyes were again searching his, as iffor 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 toJean. 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 gaspedin amaze and sudden-dawning contrition--"I kissed you--but I swear itwasn'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 thesame magic, perhaps, that had transfigured her a moment past, she wasnow invested again by the older character.
"Shore I reckon my callin' y'u a gentleman was a little previous," shesaid, 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, adulling of enchantment. "Don't you class me with other men who'vekissed you. I wasn't myself when I did it an' I'd have gone on myknees to ask yo
ur forgiveness.... But now I wouldn't--an' I wouldn'tkiss you again, either--even if you--you wanted it."
Jean read in her strange gaze what seemed to him a vague doubt, as ifshe was questioning him.
"Miss, I take that back," added Jean, shortly. "I'm sorry. I didn'tmean to be rude. It was a mean trick for me to kiss you. A girl alonein the woods who's gone out of her way to be kind to me! I don't knowwhy I forgot my manners. An' I ask your pardon."
She looked away then, and presently pointed far out and down into theBasin.
"There's Grass Valley. That long gray spot in the black. It's aboutfifteen 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 heregarded as his dismissal. Turning his horse, he put his foot in thestirrup, then, hesitating, he looked across the saddle at the girl. Herabstraction, as she gazed away over the purple depths suggestedloneliness and wistfulness. She was not thinking of that scene spreadso wondrously before her. It struck Jean she might be pondering asubtle change in his feeling and attitude, something he was consciousof, yet could not define.
"Reckon this is good-by," he said, with hesitation.
"ADIOS, SENOR," she replied, facing him again. She lifted the littlecarbine to the hollow of her elbow and, half turning, appeared ready todepart.
"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 hadchanged him!
"Did I say I wouldn't?"
"No. But I reckoned you'd not care to after--" he replied, breakingoff in some confusion.
"Shore I'll be glad to meet y'u. Day after to-morrow aboutmid-afternoon. Right heah. Fetch all the news from Grass Valley."
"All right. Thanks. That'll be--fine," replied Jean, and as he spokehe 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. Heneeded to think.
"Stranger shore I'm not recollectin' that y'u told me who y'u are," shesaid.
"No, reckon I didn't tell," he returned. "What difference does thatmake? I said I didn't care who or what you are. Can't you feel thesame about me?"
"Shore--I felt that way," she replied, somewhat non-plussed, with thelevel 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 reckona man--feels so insignificant. What's a name, anyhow? Still, peoplean' things have to be distinguished. I'll call y'u 'Stranger' an' besatisfied--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'sJean--Jean Isbel."
"ISBEL!" she exclaimed, with a violent start. "Shore y'u can't be sonof old Gass Isbel.... I've seen both his sons."
"He has three," replied Jean, with relief, now the secret was out. "I'mthe youngest. I'm twenty-four. Never been out of Oregon till now. Onmy 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 meananythin' to y'u?"
"Never heard it in my life," protested Jean. "Sure I reckoned youbelonged 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'sstrange an' pretty.... Reckon I can be just as good a--a friend toyou--"
"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 oneinstant, entirely another girl, a hostile enemy. Then she wheeled andstrode off into the woods.
Jean, in amaze, in consternation, watched her swiftly draw away withher lithe, free step, wanting to follow her, wanting to call to her;but the resentment roused by her suddenly avowed hostility held himmute in his tracks. He watched her disappear, and when thebrown-and-green wall of forest swallowed the slender gray form hefought against the insistent desire to follow her, and fought in vain.
