by Zane Grey
CHAPTER II
But Ellen Jorth's moccasined feet did not leave a distinguishable trailon the springy pine needle covering of the ground, and Jean could notfind any trace of her.
A little futile searching to and fro cooled his impulse and calledpride to his rescue. Returning to his horse, he mounted, rode outbehind the pack mule to start it along, and soon felt the relief ofdecision and action. Clumps of small pines grew thickly in spots onthe Rim, making it necessary for him to skirt them; at which times helost sight of the purple basin. Every time he came back to an openingthrough which he could see the wild ruggedness and colors anddistances, his appreciation of their nature grew on him. Arizona fromYuma to the Little Colorado had been to him an endless waste ofwind-scoured, sun-blasted barrenness. This black-forested rock-rimmedland of untrodden ways was a world that in itself would satisfy him.Some instinct in Jean called for a lonely, wild land, into thefastnesses of which he could roam at will and be the other strange selfthat he had always yearned to be but had never been.
Every few moments there intruded into his flowing consciousness theflashing face of Ellen Jorth, the way she had looked at him, the thingsshe had said. "Reckon I was a fool," he soliloquized, with an acutesense of humiliation. "She never saw how much in earnest I was." AndJean began to remember the circumstances with a vividness thatdisturbed and perplexed him.
The accident of running across such a girl in that lonely place mightbe out of the ordinary--but it had happened. Surprise had made himdull. The charm of her appearance, the appeal of her manner, must havedrawn him at the very first, but he had not recognized that. Only ather words, "Oh, I've been kissed before," had his feelings been checkedin their heedless progress. And the utterance of them had made adifference he now sought to analyze. Some personality in him, somevoice, some idea had begun to defend her even before he was consciousthat he had arraigned her before the bar of his judgment. Such defenseseemed clamoring in him now and he forced himself to listen. Hewanted, in his hurt pride, to justify his amazing surrender to a sweetand sentimental impulse.
He realized now that at first glance he should have recognized in herlook, her poise, her voice the quality he called thoroughbred. Raggedand stained apparel did not prove her of a common sort. Jean had knowna number of fine and wholesome girls of good family; and he rememberedhis sister. This Ellen Jorth was that kind of a girl irrespective ofher present environment. Jean championed her loyally, even after hehad gratified his selfish pride.
It was then--contending with an intangible and stealing glamour, unrealand fanciful, like the dream of a forbidden enchantment--that Jeanarrived at the part in the little woodland drama where he had kissedEllen Jorth and had been unrebuked. Why had she not resented hisaction? Dispelled was the illusion he had been dreamily and noblyconstructing. "Oh, I've been kissed before!" The shock to him nowexceeded his first dismay. Half bitterly she had spoken, and whollyscornful of herself, or of him, or of all men. For she had said allmen were alike. Jean chafed under the smart of that, a taunt everydecent man hated. Naturally every happy and healthy young man wouldwant to kiss such red, sweet lips. But if those lips had been forothers--never for him! Jean reflected that not since childish gameshad he kissed a girl--until this brown-faced Ellen Jorth came his way.He wondered at it. Moreover, he wondered at the significance he placedupon it. After all, was it not merely an accident? Why should heremember? Why should he ponder? What was the faint, deep, growingthrill 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 muleled the way without being driven. And when Jean reached the edge ofthe bluff one look down was enough to fetch him off his horse. Thattrail was steep, narrow, clogged with stones, and as full of sharpcorners as a crosscut saw. Once on the descent with a packed mule anda spirited horse, Jean had no time for mind wanderings and very littlefor occasional glimpses out over the cedar tops to the vast blue hollowasleep under a westering sun.
The stones rattled, the dust rose, the cedar twigs snapped, the littleavalanches of red earth slid down, the iron-shod hoofs rang on therocks. This slope had been narrow at the apex in the Rim where thetrail led down a crack, and it widened in fan shape as Jean descended.He zigzagged down a thousand feet before the slope benched intodividing ridges. Here the cedars and junipers failed and pines oncemore hid the sun. Deep ravines were black with brush. From somewhererose a roar of running water, most pleasant to Jean's ears. Fresh deerand bear tracks covered old ones made in the trail.
Those timbered ridges were but billows of that tremendous slope thatnow sheered above Jean, ending in a magnificent yellow wall of rock,greened in niches, stained by weather rust, carved and cracked andcaverned. As Jean descended farther the hum of bees made melody, theroar of rapid water and the murmur of a rising breeze filled him withthe content of the wild. Sheepmen like Colter and wild girls likeEllen Jorth and all that seemed promising or menacing in his father'sletter could never change the Indian in Jean. So he thought. Hardupon that conclusion rushed another--one which troubled with itsstinging revelation. Surely these influences he had defied were justthe ones to bring out in him the Indian he had sensed but had neverknown. The eventful day had brought new and bitter food for Jean toreflect upon.
The trail landed him in the bowlder-strewn bed of a wide canyon, wherethe huge trees stretched a canopy of foliage which denied the sunlight,and where a beautiful brook rushed and foamed. Here at last Jeantasted water that rivaled his Oregon springs. "Ah," he cried, "thatsure is good!" Dark and shaded and ferny and mossy was this streamway;and everywhere were tracks of game, from the giant spread of a grizzlybear to the tiny, birdlike imprints of a squirrel. Jean heard familiarsounds of deer crackling the dead twigs; and the chatter of squirrelswas incessant. This fragrant, cool retreat under the Rim brought backto him the dim recesses of Oregon forests. After all, Jean felt thathe would not miss anything that he had loved in the Cascades. But whatwas the vague sense of all not being well with him--the essence of afaint regret--the insistence of a hovering shadow? And then flashedagain, etched more vividly by the repetition in memory, a picture ofeyes, 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 ofdistance. Down here all was on a big, rough, broken scale. Jean didnot find even a few rods of level ground. Bowlders as huge as housesobstructed the stream bed; spruce trees eight feet thick tried to lordit over the brawny pines; the ravine was a veritable canyon from whichoccasional glimpses through the foliage showed the Rim as a loftyred-tipped mountain peak.
Jean's pack mule became frightened at scent of a bear or lion and ranoff down the rough trail, imperiling Jean's outfit. It was not an easytask to head him off nor, when that was accomplished, to keep him to atrot. But his fright and succeeding skittishness at least made forfast traveling. Jean calculated that he covered ten miles under theRim 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 afalling off of pine. The spruce had long disappeared. Juniperthickets gave way more and more to the beautiful manzanita; and soon onthe south slopes appeared cactus and a scrubby live oak. But for thewell-broken trail, Jean would have fared ill through this tough brush.
Jean espied several deer, and again a coyote, and what he took to be asmall herd of wild horses. No more turkey tracks showed in the dustypatches. He crossed a number of tiny brooklets, and at length came toa place where the trail ended or merged in a rough road that showedevidence of considerable travel. Horses, sheep, and cattle had passedalong there that day. This road turned southward, and Jean began tohave pleasurable expectations.
The road, like the trai
l, led down grade, but no longer at such steepangles, and was bordered by cedar and pinyon, jack-pine and juniper,mescal and manzanita. Quite sharply, going around a ridge, the roadled 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 ridgesmarked another change in the character of the Basin. Beyond that thecountry began to spread out and roll gracefully, its dark-green forestinterspersed with grassy parks, until Jean headed into a long, widegray-green valley surrounded by black-fringed hills. His pulsesquickened here. He saw cattle dotting the expanse, and here and therealong the edge log cabins and corrals.
As a village, Grass Valley could not boast of much, apparently, in theway of population. Cabins and houses were widely scattered, as if theinhabitants did not care to encroach upon one another. But the onestore, built of stone, and stamped also with the characteristicisolation, seemed to Jean to be a rather remarkable edifice. Notexactly like a fort did it strike him, but if it had not been designedfor defense it certainly gave that impression, especially from thelong, low side with its dark eye-like windows about the height of aman's shoulder. Some rather fine horses were tied to a hitching rail.Otherwise dust and dirt and age and long use stamped this Grass Valleystore and its immediate environment.
Jean threw his bridle, and, getting down, mounted the low porch andstepped into the wide open door. A face, gray against the backgroundof gloom inside, passed out of sight just as Jean entered. He knew hehad been seen. In front of the long, rather low-ceiled store were fourmen, all absorbed, apparently, in a game of checkers. Two were playingand two were looking on. One of these, a gaunt-faced man past middleage, casually looked up as Jean entered. But the moment of that casualglance afforded Jean time enough to meet eyes he instinctivelydistrusted. They masked their penetration. They seemed neither curiousnor 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 himwith 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 nothave been more pregnant with meaning. Jean's sharp sensibilitiesabsorbed much. None of the slouch-sombreroed, long-mustachedTexans--for so Jean at once classed them--had ever seen Jean, but theyknew him and knew that he was expected in Grass Valley. All but theone who had spoken happened to have their faces in shadow under thewide-brimmed black hats. Motley-garbed, gun-belted, dusty-booted, theygave Jean the same impression of latent force that he had encounteredin 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 hadnot spoken. Waiting, half amused, half irritated, Jean shot a rapidglance around the store. The place had felt bare; and Jean, peeringback through gloomy space, saw that it did not contain much. Dry goodsand sacks littered a long rude counter; long rough shelves dividedtheir length into stacks of canned foods and empty sections; a lowshelf 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 casesof plug tobacco, the odor of which was second in strength only to thatof rum.
Jean's swift-roving eye reverted to the men, three of whom wereabsorbed in the greasy checkerboard. The fourth man was the one whohad spoken and he now deigned to look at Jean. Not much flesh wasthere stretched over his bony, powerful physiognomy. He stroked a leanchin with a big mobile hand that suggested more of bridle holding thanfamiliarity with a bucksaw and plow handle. It was a lazy hand. Theman looked lazy. If he spoke at all it would be with lazy speech, yetJean had not encountered many men to whom he would have accorded morepotency to stir in him the instinct of self-preservation.
"Shore," drawled this gaunt-faced Texan, "old Gass lives aboot a miledown heah." With slow sweep of the big hand he indicated a generaldirection to the south; then, appearing to forget his questioner, heturned his attention to the game.
Jean muttered his thanks and, striding out, he mounted again, and drovethe pack mule down the road. "Reckon I've ran into the wrong foldsto-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 thestore were some rather pretty and comfortable homes, little ranchhouses back in the coves of the hills. The road turned west and Jeansaw his first sunset in the Tonto Basin. It was a pageant of purpleclouds with silver edges, and background of deep rich gold. PresentlyJean met a lad driving a cow. "Hello, Johnny!" he said, genially, andwith a double purpose. "My name's Jean Isbel. By Golly! I'm lost inGrass Valley. Will you tell me where my dad lives?"
"Yep. Keep right on, an' y'u cain't miss him," replied the lad, with abright 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 histhroat.
"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 wassettin' outside, but I heerd. A Mexican come down off the Rim ter-dayan' he fetched the news." Here the lad looked furtively around, thenwhispered. "An' thet greaser was sent by somebody. I never heerd nomore, but them sheepmen looked pretty plumb sour. An' one of them,comin' out, give me a kick, darn him. It shore is the luckedest dayfer us cowmen."
"How's that, Johnny?"
"Wal, that's shore a big fight comin' to Grass Valley. My dad says soan' 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 theton me. Ain't y'u an Injun, Jean Isbel? Ain't y'u a hoss tracker thetrustlers cain't fool? Ain't y'u a plumb dead shot? Ain't y'u wuss'erna 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 hisway. Manifestly a reputation somewhat difficult to live up to hadpreceded his entry into Grass Valley.
Jean's first sight of his future home thrilled him through. It was abig, low, rambling log structure standing well out from a wooded knollat the edge of the valley. Corrals and barns and sheds lay off at theback. To the fore stretched broad pastures where numberless cattle andhorses grazed. At sunset the scene was one of rich color. Prosperityand abundance and peace seemed attendant upon that ranch; lusty voicesof burros braying and cows bawling seemed welcoming Jean. A houndbayed. The first cool touch of wind fanned Jean's cheek and brought afragrance of wood smoke and frying ham.
Horses in the Pasture romped to the fence and whistled at thesenewcomers. Jean espied a white-faced black horse that gladdened hissight. "Hello, Whiteface! I'll sure straddle you," called Jean. Thenup the gentle slope he saw the tall figure of his father--the same ashe had seen him thousands of times, bareheaded, shirt sleeved, stridingwith long step. Jean waved and called to him.
"Hi, You Prodigal!" came the answer. Yes, the voice of his father--andJean's boyhood memories flashed. He hurried his horse those last fewrods. 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, thepang 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 yourmother."
Jean felt in the iron clasp of hand, in the uplifting of the handsomehead, in the strong, fine light of piercing eyes that there was nodifference in the spirit of his father. But the old smile could nothide lines and shades stran
ge to Jean.
"Dad, I'm as glad as you," replied Jean, heartily. "It seems longwe'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 thefolks.... Wal, wal, you got heah at last."
On the porch of the house a group awaited Jean's coming, rathersilently, he thought. Wide-eyed children were there, very shy andwatchful. The dark face of his sister corresponded with the image ofher in his memory. She appeared taller, more womanly, as she embracedhim. "Oh, Jean, Jean, I'm glad you've come!" she cried, and pressedhim close. Jean felt in her a woman's anxiety for the present as wellas affection for the past. He remembered his aunt Mary, though he hadnot seen her for years. His half brothers, Bill and Guy, had changedbut little except perhaps to grow lean and rangy. Bill resembled hisfather, though his aspect was jocular rather than serious. Guy wassmaller, wiry, and hard as rock, with snapping eyes in a brown, stillface, and he had the bow-legs of a cattleman. Both had married inArizona. Bill's wife, Kate, was a stout, comely little woman, motherof three of the children. The other wife was young, a strapping girl,red headed and freckled, with wonderful lines of pain and strength inher face. Jean remembered, as he looked at her, that some one hadwritten him about the tragedy in her life. When she was only a childthe Apaches had murdered all her family. Then next to greet Jean werethe little children, all shy, yet all manifestly impressed by theoccasion. A warmth and intimacy of forgotten home emotions floodedover Jean. Sweet it was to get home to these relatives who loved himand welcomed him with quiet gladness. But there seemed more. Jean wasquick to see the shadow in the eyes of the women in that household andto sense a strange reliance which his presence brought.
"Son, this heah Tonto is a land of milk an' honey," said his father, asJean gazed spellbound at the bounteous supper.
Jean certainly performed gastronomic feats on this occasion, to thedelight of Aunt Mary and the wonder of the children. "Oh, he'sstarv-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 totalk, even had he been able to, for the meal-time showed a relaxationof restraint and they all tried to tell him things at once. In thebright lamplight his father looked easier and happier as he beamed uponJean.
After supper the men went into an adjoining room that appeared mostcomfortable and attractive. It was long, and the width of the house,with a huge stone fireplace, low ceiling of hewn timbers and walls ofthe same, small windows with inside shutters of wood, and home-madetable and chairs and rugs.
"Wal, Jean, do you recollect them shootin'-irons?" inquired therancher, pointing above the fireplace. Two guns hung on the spreadingdeer antlers there. One was a musket Jean's father had used in the warof the rebellion and the other was a long, heavy, muzzle-loadingflintlock Kentucky, rifle with which Jean had learned to shoot.
"Reckon I do, dad," replied Jean, and with reverent hands and a rush ofmemory 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 hadbeen leading a luxurious and tame life back there in Oregon, and thenadded, "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 werebursting with utterance about to break forth, and his father suddenlywore a look that recalled to Jean critical times of days long past. Butthe entrance of the children and the women folk put an end toconfidences. Evidently the youngsters were laboring under subduedexcitement. 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 andmother, 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 scrutinyof his uncle, he toddled forward and bravely delivered the question oftremendous importance.
"What did I fetch you, hey?" cried Jean, in delight, as he took the ladup on his knee. "Wouldn't you like to know? I didn't forget, Lee. Iremembered you all. Oh! the job I had packin' your bundle ofpresents.... 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, youfour-year-old Texas gunman! Make another guess."
That appeared too momentous and entrancing for the other twoyoungsters, and, adding their shrill and joyous voices to Lee's, theybesieged Jean.
"Dad, where's my pack?" cried Jean. "These young Apaches are after myscalp."
"Reckon the boys fetched it onto the porch," replied the rancher.
Guy Isbel opened the door and went out. "By golly! heah's threepacks," 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 theyoungsters and bright gleams to the eyes of the women. Jean lostnothing of this. How glad he was that he had tarried in San Franciscobecause of a mental picture of this very reception in far-off wildArizona.
When Guy deposited the bundle on the floor it jarred the room. It gaveforth 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 ahundred pounds when I packed it on my shoulder down Market Street inFrisco. It was stolen from me on shipboard. I got it back in San Diegoan' 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 ColoradoRiver from Yuma to Ehrenberg an' there went on top of a stage. We gotchased by bandits an' once when the horses were gallopin' hard it nearrolled off. Then it went on the back of a pack horse an' helped wearhim out. An' I reckon it would be somewhere else now if I hadn'tfallen in with a freighter goin' north from Phoenix to the Santa FeTrail. The last lap when it sagged the back of a mule was the riskiestan' full of the narrowest escapes. Twice my mule bucked off his packan' left my outfit scattered. Worst of all, my precious bundle made themule top heavy comin' down that place back here where the trail seemsto 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 atlast.... An' now I'll open it."
After this long and impressive harangue, which at least augmented thesuspense of the women and worked the children into a frenzy, Jeanleisurely untied the many knots round the bundle and unrolled it. Hehad packed that bundle for just such travel as it had sustained. Threecloth-bound rifles he laid aside, and with them a long, very heavypackage tied between two thin wide boards. From this came the metallicclink. "Oo, I know what dem is!" cried Lee, breaking the silence ofsuspense. Then Jean, tearing open a long flat parcel, spread beforethe mute, rapt-eyed youngsters such magnificent things, as they hadnever dreamed of--picture books, mouth-harps, dolls, a toy gun and atoy pistol, a wonderful whistle and a fox horn, and last of all a boxof candy. Before these treasures on the floor, too magical to betouched at first, the two little boys and their sister simply knelt.That was a sweet, full moment for Jean; yet even that was clouded bythe something which shadowed these innocent children fatefully born ina wild place at a wild time. Next Jean gave to his sister the presentshe had brought her--beautiful cloth for a dress, ribbons and a bit oflace, handkerchiefs and buttons and yards of linen, a sewing case and awhol
e box of spools of thread, a comb and brush and mirror, and lastlya Spanish brooch inlaid with garnets. "There, Ann," said Jean, "Iconfess I asked a girl friend in Oregon to tell me some things mysister might like." Manifestly there was not much difference in girls.Ann seemed stunned by this munificence, and then awakening, she huggedJean in a way that took his breath. She was not a child any more, thatwas certain. Aunt Mary turned knowing eyes upon Jean. "Reckon youcouldn't have pleased Ann more. She's engaged, Jean, an' where girlsare in that state these things mean a heap.... Ann, you'll be marriedin that!" And she pointed to the beautiful folds of material that Annhad spread out.
"What's this?" demanded Jean. His sister's blushes were enough toconvict 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 happyand occupied, almost, as the children. It left also another package,the last one in the bundle. Jean laid hold of it and, lifting it, hewas about to speak when he sustained a little shock of memory. Quitedistinctly he saw two little feet, with bare toes peeping out ofworn-out moccasins, and then round, bare, symmetrical ankles that hadbeen scratched by brush. Next he saw Ellen Jorth's passionate face asshe looked when she had made the violent action so disconcerting tohim. In this happy moment the memory seemed farther off than a fewhours. It had crystallized. It annoyed while it drew him. As aresult he slowly laid this package aside and did not speak as he hadintended to.
"Dad, I reckon I didn't fetch a lot for you an' the boys," continuedJean. "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 lookat 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' backthis 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' thejoy of the kids."
At this juncture a tall young man entered the open door. He looked arider. All about him, even his face, except his eyes, seemed old, buthis 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 thisnewcomer was.
"Jean, this is my friend, Andrew Colmor."
Jean knew when he met Colmor's grip and the keen flash of his eyes thathe was glad Ann had set her heart upon one of their kind. And hissecond impression was something akin to the one given him in the roadby the admiring lad. Colmor's estimate of him must have been amonument built of Ann's eulogies. Jean's heart suffered misgivings.Could he live up to the character that somehow had forestalled hisadvent in Grass Valley? Surely life was measured differently here inthe Tonto Basin.
The children, bundling their treasures to their bosoms, were draggedoff to bed in some remote part of the house, from which their laughterand voices came back with happy significance. Jean forthwith had aninterested audience. How eagerly these lonely pioneer people listenedto news of the outside world! Jean talked until he was hoarse. Intheir turn his hearers told him much that had never found place in thefew 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 theomission and thought all the more seriously of probabilities becausenothing was said. Altogether the evening was a happy reunion of afamily of which all living members were there present. Jean graspedthat this fact was one of significant satisfaction to his father.
"Shore we're all goin' to live together heah," he declared. "I startedthis range. I call most of this valley mine. We'll run up a cabin forAnn soon as she says the word. An' you, Jean, where's your girl? Ishore 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' oneof these Tonto hussies that I might object to."
"Why, father, there's not a girl in the valley Jean would look twiceat," interposed Ann Isbel, with spirit.
Jean laughed the matter aside, but he had an uneasy memory. Aunt Maryaverred, after the manner of relatives, that Jean would play havocamong the women of the settlement. And Jean retorted that at least onemember of the Isbels; should hold out against folly and fight and loveand marriage, the agents which had reduced the family to these fewpresent. "I'll be the last Isbel to go under," he concluded.
"Son, you're talkin' wisdom," said his father. "An' shore that remindsme of the uncle you're named after. Jean Isbel! ... Wal, he was myyoungest brother an' shore a fire-eater. Our mother was a Frenchcreole from Louisiana, an' Jean must have inherited some of hisfightin' nature from her. When the war of the rebellion started Jeanan' I enlisted. I was crippled before we ever got to the front. ButJean went through three Years before he was killed. His company hadorders to fight to the last man. An' Jean fought an' lived long enoughjust to be that last man."
At length Jean was left alone with his father.
"Reckon you're used to bunkin' outdoors?" queried the rancher, ratherabruptly.
"Most of the time," replied Jean.
"Wal, there's room in the house, but I want you to sleep out. Come getyour beddin' an' gun. I'll show you."
They went outside on the porch, where Jean shouldered his roll oftarpaulin and blankets. His rifle, in its saddle sheath, leanedagainst the door. His father took it up and, half pulling it out,looked at it by the starlight. "Forty-four, eh? Wal, wal, there'sshore no better, if a man can hold straight." At the moment a big graydog 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. Somebad wolf packs runnin' this Basin."
The night was cold and still, darkly bright under moon and stars; thesmell of hay seemed to mingle with that of cedar. Jean followed hisfather round the house and up a gentle slope of grass to the edge ofthe cedar line. Here several trees with low-sweeping thick branchesformed a dense, impenetrable shade.
"Son, your uncle Jean was scout for Liggett, one of the greatest rebelsthe South had," said the rancher. "An' you're goin' to be scout forthe Isbels of Tonto. Reckon you'll find it 'most as hot as your uncledid.... Spread your bed inside. You can see out, but no one can seeyou. Reckon there's been some queer happenin's 'round heah lately. IfShepp could talk he'd shore have lots to tell us. Bill an' Guy havebeen sleepin' out, trailin' strange hoss tracks, an' all that. Butshore whoever's been prowlin' around heah was too sharp for them. Somebad, crafty, light-steppin' woodsmen 'round heah, Jean.... Threemawnin's ago, just after daylight, I stepped out the back door an' someone of these sneaks I'm talkin' aboot took a shot at me. Missed myhead a quarter of an inch! To-morrow I'll show you the bullet hole inthe doorpost. An' some of my gray hairs that 're stickin' in it!"
"Dad!" ejaculated Jean, with a hand outstretched. "That's awful! Youfrighten me."
"No time to be scared," replied his father, calmly. "They're shoregoin' 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 getsscent or sound.... An' good night, my son. I'm sayin' that I'll resteasy to-night."
Jean mumbled a good night and stood watching his father's shining whitehead 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 hisroll of bedding, his thought still locked on the shuddering revelationof his father's words, "They're shore goin' to kill me." The shock ofinaction 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 bre
athed along sigh of relief. What bliss to relax! A throbbing and burning ofhis muscles seemed to begin with his rest. The cool starlit night, thesmell of cedar, the moan of wind, the silence--an were real to hissenses. After long weeks of long, arduous travel he was home. Thewarmth of the welcome still lingered, but it seemed to have beenpierced by an icy thrust. What lay before him? The shadow in the eyesof his aunt, in the younger, fresher eyes of his sister--Jean connectedthat with the meaning of his father's tragic words. Far past was themorning that had been so keen, the breaking of camp in the sunlitforest, the riding down the brown aisles under the pines, the music ofbleating lambs that had called him not to pass by. Thought of EllenJorth recurred. Had he met her only that morning? She was up there inthe forest, asleep under the starlit pines. Who was she? What was herstory? That savage fling of her skirt, her bitter speech andpassionate flaming face--they haunted Jean. They were crystallizinginto simpler memories, growing away from his bewilderment, andtherefore at once sweeter and more doubtful. "Maybe she meantdifferently from what I thought," Jean soliloquized. "Anyway, she washonest." Both shame and thrill possessed him at the recall of aninsidious idea--dare he go back and find her and give her the lastpackage of gifts he had brought from the city? What might they mean topoor, ragged, untidy, beautiful Ellen Jorth? The idea grew on Jean.It could not be dispelled. He resisted stubbornly. It was bound to goto its fruition. Deep into his mind had sunk an impression of herneed--a material need that brought spirit and pride to abasement. Fromone picture to another his memory wandered, from one speech and act ofhers to another, choosing, selecting, casting aside, until clear andsharp 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 astrange girl in the woods. To-morrow he would forget. Work there wasfor him in Grass Valley. And he reverted uneasily to the remarks ofhis father until at last sleep claimed him.
A cold nose against his cheek, a low whine, awakened Jean. The big dogShepp was beside him, keen, wary, intense. The night appeared faradvanced toward dawn. Far away a cock crowed; the near-at-hand oneanswered in clarion voice. "What is it, Shepp?" whispered Jean, and hesat up. The dog smelled or heard something suspicious to his nature,but whether man or animal Jean could not tell.
