To the Last Man

by Zane Grey

  CHAPTER III

  The morning star, large, intensely blue-white, magnificent in itsdominance of the clear night sky, hung over the dim, dark valleyramparts. The moon had gone down and all the other stars were wan, paleghosts.

  Presently the strained vacuum of Jean's ears vibrated to a low roar ofmany hoofs. It came from the open valley, along the slope to thesouth. Shepp acted as if he wanted the word to run. Jean laid a handon the dog. "Hold on, Shepp," he whispered. Then hauling on his bootsand slipping into his coat Jean took his rifle and stole out into theopen. Shepp appeared to be well trained, for it was evident that hehad a strong natural tendency to run off and hunt for whatever hadroused him. Jean thought it more than likely that the dog scented ananimal of some kind. If there were men prowling around the ranchShepp, might have been just as vigilant, but it seemed to Jean that thedog 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 thedirection 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 atthe edge of the cedars. It struck him suddenly how well fitted he wasfor work of this sort. All the work he had ever done, except for hisfew years in school, had been in the open. All the leisure he had everbeen able to obtain had been given to his ruling passion for huntingand fishing. Love of the wild had been born in Jean. At this momenthe experienced a grim assurance of what his instinct and his trainingmight accomplish if directed to a stern and daring end. Perhaps hisfather understood this; perhaps the old Texan had some little reasonfor his confidence.

  Every few paces Jean halted to listen. All objects, of course, wereindistinguishable in the dark-gray obscurity, except when he came closeupon them. Shepp showed an increasing eagerness to bolt out into thevoid. When Jean had traveled half a mile from the house he heard ascattered trampling of cattle on the run, and farther out a lowstrangled bawl of a calf. "Ahuh!" muttered Jean. "Cougar or somevarmint pulled down that calf." Then he discharged his rifle in theair and yelled with all his might. It was necessary then to yell againto hold Shepp back.

  Thereupon Jean set forth down the valley, and tramped out and acrossand around, as much to scare away whatever had been after the stock asto look for the wounded calf. More than once he heard cattle movingaway ahead of him, but he could not see them. Jean let Shepp go,hoping the dog would strike a trail. But Shepp neither gave tongue norcame back. Dawn began to break, and in the growing light Jean searchedaround until at last he stumbled over a dead calf, lying in a littlebare wash where water ran in wet seasons. Big wolf tracks showed inthe soft earth. "Lofers," said Jean, as he knelt and just covered onetrack with his spread hand. "We had wolves in Oregon, but not as bigas these.... Wonder where that half-wolf dog, Shepp, went. Wonder ifhe can be trusted where wolves are concerned. I'll bet not, if there'sa she-wolf runnin' around."

  Jean found tracks of two wolves, and he trailed them out of the wash,then lost them in the grass. But, guided by their direction, he wenton and climbed a slope to the cedar line, where in the dusty patches hefound the tracks again. "Not scared much," he muttered, as he notedthe slow trotting tracks. "Well, you old gray lofers, we're goin' toclash." Jean knew from many a futile hunt that wolves were the wariestand most intelligent of wild animals in the quest. From the top of alow foothill he watched the sun rise; and then no longer wondered whyhis father waxed eloquent over the beauty and location and luxurianceof this grassy valley. But it was large enough to make rich a goodmany ranchers. Jean tried to restrain any curiosity as to his father'sdealings in Grass Valley until the situation had been made clear.

  Moreover, Jean wanted to love this wonderful country. He wanted to befree to ride and hunt and roam to his heart's content; and therefore hedreaded hearing his father's claims. But Jean threw off forebodings.Nothing ever turned out so badly as it presaged. He would think thebest until certain of the worst. The morning was gloriously bright,and already the frost was glistening wet on the stones. Grass Valleyshone like burnished silver dotted with innumerable black spots. Burroswere braying their discordant messages to one another; the colts wereromping in the fields; stallions were whistling; cows were bawling. Acloud of blue smoke hung low over the ranch house, slowly wafting awayon the wind. Far out in the valley a dark group of horsemen wereriding toward the village. Jean glanced thoughtfully at them andreflected that he seemed destined to harbor suspicion of all men newand strange to him. Above the distant village stood the darkly greenfoothills leading up to the craggy slopes, and these ending in the Rim,a red, black-fringed mountain front, beautiful in the morning sunlight,lonely, serene, and mysterious against the level skyline. Mountains,ranges, distances unknown to Jean, always called to him--to come, toseek, to explore, to find, but no wild horizon ever before beckoned tohim as this one. And the subtle vague emotion that had gone to sleepwith him last night awoke now hauntingly. It took effort to dispel thedesire to think, to wonder.

  Upon his return to the house, he went around on the valley side, so asto see the place by light of day. His father had built for permanence;and evidently there had been three constructive periods in the historyof that long, substantial, picturesque log house. But few nails andlittle sawed lumber and no glass had been used. Strong and skillfulhands, axes and a crosscut saw, had been the prime factors in erectingthis habitation of the Isbels.

  "Good mawnin', son," called a cheery voice from the porch. "Shorewe-all heard you shoot; an' the crack of that forty-four was as welcomeas May flowers."

  Bill Isbel looked up from a task over a saddle girth and inquiredpleasantly if Jean ever slept of nights. Guy Isbel laughed and therewas warm regard in the gaze he bent on Jean.

  "You old Indian!" he drawled, slowly. "Did you get a bead on anythin'?"

  "No. I shot to scare away what I found to be some of your lofers,"replied Jean. "I heard them pullin' down a calf. An' I found tracksof two whoppin' big wolves. I found the dead calf, too. Reckon themeat can be saved. Dad, you must lose a lot of stock here."

  "Wal, son, you shore hit the nail on the haid," replied the rancher."What with lions an' bears an' lofers--an' two-footed lofers of anotherbreed--I've lost five thousand dollars in stock this last year."

  "Dad! You don't mean it!" exclaimed Jean, in astonishment. To him thatsum represented a small fortune.

  "I shore do," answered his father.

  Jean shook his head as if he could not understand such an enormous losswhere there were keen able-bodied men about. "But that's awful, dad.How could it happen? Where were your herders an' cowboys? An' Bill an'Guy?"

  Bill Isbel shook a vehement fist at Jean and retorted in earnest,having manifestly been hit in a sore spot. "Where was me an' Guy, huh?Wal, my Oregon brother, we was heah, all year, sleepin' more or lessaboot three hours out of every twenty-four--ridin' our boots off--an'we couldn't keep down that loss."

  "Jean, you-all have a mighty tumble comin' to you out heah," said Guy,complacently.

  "Listen, son," spoke up the rancher. "You want to have some hunchesbefore you figure on our troubles. There's two or three packs oflofers, an' in winter time they are hell to deal with. Lions thick asbees, an' shore bad when the snow's on. Bears will kill a cow now an'then. An' whenever an' old silvertip comes mozyin' across from theMazatzals he kills stock. I'm in with half a dozen cattlemen. We allwork together, an' the whole outfit cain't keep these vermints down.Then two years ago the Hash Knife Gang come into the Tonto."

  "Hash Knife Gang? What a pretty name!" replied Jean. "Who're they?"

  "Rustlers, son. An' shore the real old Texas brand. The old Lone StarState got too hot for them, an' they followed the trail of a lot ofother Texans who needed a healthier climate. Some two hundred Texansaround heah, Jean, an' maybe a matter of three hundred inhabitants inthe Tonto all told, good an' bad. Reckon it's aboot half an' half."

 
A cheery call from the kitchen interrupted the conversation of the men.

  "You come to breakfast."

  During the meal the old rancher talked to Bill and Guy about the day'sorder of work; and from this Jean gathered an idea of what a big cattlebusiness his father conducted. After breakfast Jean's brothersmanifested keen interest in the new rifles. These were unwrapped andcleaned and taken out for testing. The three rifles were forty-fourcalibre Winchesters, the kind of gun Jean had found most effective. Hetried them out first, and the shots he made were satisfactory to himand amazing to the others. Bill had used an old Henry rifle. Guy didnot favor any particular rifle. The rancher pinned his faith to thefamous old single-shot buffalo gun, mostly called needle gun. "Wal,reckon I'd better stick to mine. Shore you cain't teach an old dog newtricks. But you boys may do well with the forty-fours. Pack 'em onyour saddles an' practice when you see a coyote."

  Jean found it difficult to convince himself that this interest in gunsand marksmanship had any sinister propulsion back of it. His fatherand brothers had always been this way. Rifles were as important topioneers as plows, and their skillful use was an achievement everyfrontiersman tried to attain. Friendly rivalry had always existedamong the members of the Isbel family: even Ann Isbel was a good shot.But such proficiency in the use of firearms--and life in the open thatwas correlative with it--had not dominated them as it had Jean. Billand Guy Isbel were born cattlemen--chips of the old block. Jean beganto hope that his father's letter was an exaggeration, and particularlythat the fatalistic speech of last night, "they are goin' to kill me,"was just a moody inclination to see the worst side. Still, even as Jeantried to persuade himself of this more hopeful view, he recalled manyreferences to the peculiar reputation of Texans for gun-throwing, forfeuds, for never-ending hatreds. In Oregon the Isbels had lived amongindustrious and peaceful pioneers from all over the States; to be sure,the life had been rough and primitive, and there had been fights onoccasions, though no Isbel had ever killed a man. But now they hadbecome fixed in a wilder and sparsely settled country among men oftheir own breed. Jean was afraid his hopes had only sentiment tofoster them. Nevertheless, be forced back a strange, brooding, mentalstate and resolutely held up the brighter side. Whatever the evilconditions existing in Grass Valley, they could be met withintelligence and courage, with an absolute certainty that it wasinevitable they must pass away. Jean refused to consider the old,fatal law that at certain wild times and wild places in the Westcertain men had to pass away to change evil conditions.

  "Wal, Jean, ride around the range with the boys," said the rancher."Meet some of my neighbors, Jim Blaisdell, in particular. Take a lookat the cattle. An' pick out some hosses for yourself."

  "I've seen one already," declared Jean, quickly. "A black with whiteface. I'll take him."

  "Shore you know a hoss. To my eye he's my pick. But the boys don'tagree. Bill 'specially has degenerated into a fancier of pitchin'hosses. Ann can ride that black. You try him this mawnin'.... An',son, enjoy yourself."

  True to his first impression, Jean named the black horse Whiteface andfell in love with him before ever he swung a leg over him. Whitefaceappeared spirited, yet gentle. He had been trained instead of beingbroken. Of hard hits and quirts and spurs he had no experience. Heliked to do what his rider wanted him to do.

  A hundred or more horses grazed in the grassy meadow, and as Jean rodeon among them it was a pleasure to see stallions throw heads and earsup and whistle or snort. Whole troops of colts and two-year-olds racedwith flying tails and manes.

  Beyond these pastures stretched the range, and Jean saw the gray-greenexpanse speckled by thousands of cattle. The scene was inspiring.Jean's brothers led him all around, meeting some of the herders andriders employed on the ranch, one of whom was a burly, grizzled manwith eyes reddened and narrowed by much riding in wind and sun anddust. His name was Evans and he was father of the lad whom Jean had metnear the village. Everts was busily skinning the calf that had beenkilled by the wolves. "See heah, y'u Jean Isbel," said Everts, "itshore was aboot time y'u come home. We-all heahs y'u hev an eye fertracks. Wal, mebbe y'u can kill Old Gray, the lofer thet did this job.He's pulled down nine calves as' yearlin's this last two months thet Iknow of. An' we've not hed the spring round-up."

  Grass Valley widened to the southeast. Jean would have been backwardabout estimating the square miles in it. Yet it was not vast acreageso much as rich pasture that made it such a wonderful range. Severalranches lay along the western slope of this section. Jean was informedthat open parks and swales, and little valleys nestling among thefoothills, wherever there was water and grass, had been settled byranchers. Every summer a few new families ventured in.

  Blaisdell struck Jean as being a lionlike type of Texan, both in hisbroad, bold face, his huge head with its upstanding tawny hair like amane, and in the speech and force that betokened the nature of hisheart. He was not as old as Jean's father. He had a rolling voice,with the same drawling intonation characteristic of all Texans, andblue eyes that still held the fire of youth. Quite a marked contrasthe presented to the lean, rangy, hard-jawed, intent-eyed men Jean hadbegun to accept as Texans.

  Blaisdell took time for a curious scrutiny and study of Jean, that,frank and kindly as it was, and evidently the adjustment of impressionsgotten from hearsay, yet bespoke the attention of one used to judgingmen for himself, and in this particular case having reasons of his ownfor so doing.

  "Wal, you're like your sister Ann," said Blaisdell. "Which you maytake as a compliment, young man. Both of you favor your mother. Butyou're an Isbel. Back in Texas there are men who never wear a glove ontheir right hands, an' shore I reckon if one of them met up with yousudden he'd think some graves had opened an' he'd go for his gun."

  Blaisdell's laugh pealed out with deep, pleasant roll. Thus he plantedin Jean's sensitive mind a significant thought-provoking idea about thepast-and-gone Isbels.

  His further remarks, likewise, were exceedingly interesting to Jean.The settling of the Tonto Basin by Texans was a subject often indispute. His own father had been in the first party of adventurouspioneers who had traveled up from the south to cross over the Reno Passof the Mazatzals into the Basin. "Newcomers from outside getimpressions of the Tonto accordin' to the first settlers they meet,"declared Blaisdell. "An' shore it's my belief these first impressionsnever change, just so strong they are! Wal, I've heard my father saythere were men in his wagon train that got run out of Texas, but heswore he wasn't one of them. So I reckon that sort of talk held goodfor twenty years, an' for all the Texans who emigrated, except, ofcourse, such notorious rustlers as Daggs an' men of his ilk. Shorewe've got some bad men heah. There's no law. Possession used to meanmore than it does now. Daggs an' his Hash Knife Gang have begun tohold forth with a high hand. No small rancher can keep enough stock topay for his labor."

  At the time of which Blaisdell spoke there were not many sheepmen andcattlemen in the Tonto, considering its vast area. But these, onaccount of the extreme wildness of the broken country, were limited tothe comparatively open Grass Valley and its adjacent environs.Naturally, as the inhabitants increased and stock raising grew inproportion the grazing and water rights became matters of extremeimportance. Sheepmen ran their flocks up on the Rim in summer time anddown into the Basin in winter time. A sheepman could throw a fewthousand sheep round a cattleman's ranch and ruin him. The range wasfree. It was as fair for sheepmen to graze their herds anywhere as itwas for cattlemen. This of course did not apply to the few acres ofcultivated ground that a rancher could call his own; but very fewcattle could have been raised on such limited area. Blaisdell saidthat the sheepmen were unfair because they could have done just aswell, though perhaps at more labor, by keeping to the ridges andleaving the open valley and little flats to the ranchers. Formerlythere had been room enough for all; now the grazing ranges were beingencroached upon by sheepmen newly come to the Tonto. To Blaisdell'sway of thinking the rustler menace was more
serious than thesheeping-off of the range, for the simple reason that no cattleman knewexactly who the rustlers were and for the more complex and significantreason that the rustlers did not steal sheep.

  "Texas was overstocked with bad men an' fine steers," concludedBlaisdell. "Most of the first an' some of the last have struck theTonto. The sheepmen have now got distributin' points for wool an'sheep at Maricopa an' Phoenix. They're shore waxin' strong an' bold."

  "Ahuh! ... An' what's likely to come of this mess?" queried Jean.

  "Ask your dad," replied Blaisdell.

  "I will. But I reckon I'd be obliged for your opinion."

  "Wal, short an' sweet it's this: Texas cattlemen will never allow therange they stocked to be overrun by sheepmen."

  "Who's this man Greaves?" went on Jean. "Never run into anyone likehim."

  "Greaves is hard to figure. He's a snaky customer in deals. But heseems to be good to the poor people 'round heah. Says he's fromMissouri. Ha-ha! He's as much Texan as I am. He rode into the Tontowithout even a pack to his name. An' presently he builds his stonehouse an' freights supplies in from Phoenix. Appears to buy an' sell agood deal of stock. For a while it looked like he was steerin' amiddle course between cattlemen an' sheepmen. Both sides made arendezvous of his store, where he heard the grievances of each. Laterlyhe's leanin' to the sheepmen. Nobody has accused him of that yet. Butit's time some cattleman called his bluff."

  "Of course there are honest an' square sheepmen in the Basin?" queriedJean.

  "Yes, an' some of them are not unreasonable. But the new fellows thatdropped in on us the last few year--they're the ones we're goin' toclash with."

  "This--sheepman, Jorth?" went on Jean, in slow hesitation, as ifcompelled to ask what he would rather not learn.

  "Jorth must be the leader of this sheep faction that's harryin' usranchers. He doesn't make threats or roar around like some of them.But he goes on raisin' an' buyin' more an' more sheep. An' his herdershave been grazin' down all around us this winter. Jorth's got to bereckoned with."

  "Who is he?"

  "Wal, I don't know enough to talk aboot. Your dad never said so, but Ithink he an' Jorth knew each other in Texas years ago. I never sawJorth but once. That was in Greaves's barroom. Your dad an' Jorth metthat day for the first time in this country. Wal, I've not known menfor nothin'. They just stood stiff an' looked at each other. Your dadwas aboot to draw. But Jorth made no sign to throw a gun."

  Jean saw the growing and weaving and thickening threads of a tanglethat had already involved him. And the sudden pang of regret hesustained was not wholly because of sympathies with his own people.

  "The other day back up in the woods on the Rim I ran into a sheepmanwho said his name was Colter. Who is he?

  "Colter? Shore he's a new one. What'd he look like?"

  Jean described Colter with a readiness that spoke volumes for thevividness of his impressions.

  "I don't know him," replied Blaisdell. "But that only goes to prove mycontention--any fellow runnin' wild in the woods can say he's asheepman."

  "Colter surprised me by callin' me by my name," continued Jean. "Ourlittle talk wasn't exactly friendly. He said a lot about my bein' sentfor to run sheep herders out of the country."

  "Shore that's all over," replied Blaisdell, seriously. "You're amarked man already."

  "What started such rumor?"

  "Shore you cain't prove it by me. But it's not taken as rumor. It'sgot to the sheepmen as hard as bullets."

  "Ahuh! That accunts for Colter's seemin' a little sore under thecollar. Well, he said they were goin' to run sheep over Grass Valley,an' for me to take that hunch to my dad."

  Blaisdell had his chair tilted back and his heavy boots against a postof the porch. Down he thumped. His neck corded with a sudden rush ofblood and his eyes changed to blue fire.

  "The hell he did!" he ejaculated, in furious amaze.

  Jean gauged the brooding, rankling hurt of this old cattleman by hissudden break from the cool, easy Texan manner. Blaisdell cursed underhis breath, swung his arms violently, as if to throw a last doubt orhope aside, and then relapsed to his former state. He laid a brownhand on Jean's knee.

  "Two years ago I called the cards," he said, quietly. "It means aGrass Valley war."

  Not until late that afternoon did Jean's father broach the subjectuppermost in his mind. Then at an opportune moment he drew Jean awayinto the cedars out of sight.

  "Son, I shore hate to make your home-comin' unhappy," he said, withevidence of agitation, "but so help me God I have to do it!"

  "Dad, you called me Prodigal, an' I reckon you were right. I'veshirked my duty to you. I'm ready now to make up for it," repliedJean, feelingly.

  "Wal, wal, shore thats fine-spoken, my boy.... Let's set down heah an'have a long talk. First off, what did Jim Blaisdell tell you?"

  Briefly Jean outlined the neighbor rancher's conversation. Then Jeanrecounted his experience with Colter and concluded with Blaisdell'sreception of the sheepman's threat. If Jean expected to see his fatherrise up like a lion in his wrath he made a huge mistake. This news ofColter and his talk never struck even a spark from Gaston Isbel.

  "Wal," he began, thoughtfully, "reckon there are only two points inJim's talk I need touch on. There's shore goin' to be a Grass Valleywar. An' Jim's idea of the cause of it seems to be pretty much thesame as that of all the other cattlemen. It 'll go down a black bloton the history page of the Tonto Basin as a war between rival sheepmenan' cattlemen. Same old fight over water an' grass! ... Jean, my son,that is wrong. It 'll not be a war between sheepmen an' cattlemen. Buta war of honest ranchers against rustlers maskin' as sheep-raisers! ...Mind you, I don't belittle the trouble between sheepmen an' cattlemenin Arizona. It's real an' it's vital an' it's serious. It 'll take lawan' order to straighten out the grazin' question. Some day thegovernment will keep sheep off of cattle ranges.... So get things rightin your mind, my son. You can trust your dad to tell the absolutetruth. In this fight that 'll wipe out some of the Isbels--maybe allof them--you're on the side of justice an' right. Knowin' that, a mancan fight a hundred times harder than he who knows he is a liar an' athief."

  The old rancher wiped his perspiring face and breathed slowly anddeeply. Jean sensed in him the rise of a tremendous emotional strain.Wonderingly he watched the keen lined face. More than material worrieswere at the root of brooding, mounting thoughts in his father's eyes.

  "Now next take what Jim said aboot your comin' to chase thesesheep-herders out of the valley.... Jean, I started that talk. I had mytricky reasons. I know these greaser sheep-herders an' I know therespect Texans have for a gunman. Some say I bragged. Some say I'm anold fool in his dotage, ravin' aboot a favorite son. But they arepeople who hate me an' are afraid. True, son, I talked with a purpose,but shore I was mighty cold an' steady when I did it. My feelin' wasthat you'd do what I'd do if I were thirty years younger. No, Ireckoned you'd do more. For I figured on your blood. Jean, you'reIndian, an' Texas an' French, an' you've trained yourself in the Oregonwoods. When you were only a boy, few marksmen I ever knew could beatyou, an' I never saw your equal for eye an' ear, for trackin' a hoss,for all the gifts that make a woodsman.... Wal, rememberin' this an'seein' the trouble ahaid for the Isbels, I just broke out whenever Ihad a chance. I bragged before men I'd reason to believe would take mywords deep. For instance, not long ago I missed some stock, an',happenin' into Greaves's place one Saturday night, I shore talked loud.His barroom was full of men an' some of them were in my black book.Greaves took my talk a little testy. He said. 'Wal, Gass, mebbe you'reright aboot some of these cattle thieves livin' among us, but ain'tthey jest as liable to be some of your friends or relatives as TedMeeker's or mine or any one around heah?' That was where Greaves an'me fell out. I yelled at him: 'No, by God, they're not! My record heahan' that of my people is open. The least I can say for you, Greaves,an' your crowd, is that your records fade away on dim trails.' Then hesaid, n
asty-like, 'Wal, if you could work out all the dim trails in theTonto you'd shore be surprised.' An' then I roared. Shore that wasthe chance I was lookin' for. I swore the trails he hinted of would betracked to the holes of the rustlers who made them. I told him I hadsent for you an' when you got heah these slippery, mysterious thieves,whoever they were, would shore have hell to pay. Greaves said he hopedso, but he was afraid I was partial to my Indian son. Then we had hotwords. Blaisdell got between us. When I was leavin' I took a partin'fling at him. 'Greaves, you ought to know the Isbels, considerin'you're from Texas. Maybe you've got reasons for throwin' taunts at myclaims for my son Jean. Yes, he's got Indian in him an' that 'll bethe worse for the men who will have to meet him. I'm tellin' you,Greaves, Jean Isbel is the black sheep of the family. If you ride downhis record you'll find he's shore in line to be another Poggin, orReddy Kingfisher, or Hardin', or any of the Texas gunmen you ought toremember.... Greaves, there are men rubbin' elbows with you right heahthat my Indian son is goin' to track down!'"

  Jean bent his head in stunned cognizance of the notoriety with whichhis father had chosen to affront any and all Tonto Basin men who wereunder the ban of his suspicion. What a terrible reputation and trustto have saddled upon him! Thrills and strange, heated sensationsseemed to rush together inside Jean, forming a hot ball of fire thatthreatened to explode. A retreating self made feeble protests. He sawhis own pale face going away from this older, grimmer man.

  "Son, if I could have looked forward to anythin' but blood spillin' I'dnever have given you such a name to uphold," continued the rancher."What I'm goin' to tell you now is my secret. My other sons an' Annhave never heard it. Jim Blaisdell suspects there's somethin' strange,but he doesn't know. I'll shore never tell anyone else but you. An'you must promise to keep my secret now an' after I am gone."

  "I promise," said Jean.

  "Wal, an' now to get it out," began his father, breathing hard. Hisface twitched and his hands clenched. "The sheepman heah I have toreckon with is Lee Jorth, a lifelong enemy of mine. We were born inthe same town, played together as children, an' fought with each otheras boys. We never got along together. An' we both fell in love withthe same girl. It was nip an' tuck for a while. Ellen Sutton belongedto one of the old families of the South. She was a beauty, an' muchcourted, an' I reckon it was hard for her to choose. But I won her an'we became engaged. Then the war broke out. I enlisted with my brotherJean. He advised me to marry Ellen before I left. But I would not.That was the blunder of my life. Soon after our partin' her lettersceased to come. But I didn't distrust her. That was a terrible timean' all was confusion. Then I got crippled an' put in a hospital. An'in aboot a year I was sent back home."

  At this juncture Jean refrained from further gaze at his father's face.

  "Lee Jorth had gotten out of goin' to war," went on the rancher, inlower, thicker voice. "He'd married my sweetheart, Ellen.... I knewthe story long before I got well. He had run after her like a houndafter a hare.... An' Ellen married him. Wal, when I was able to getaboot I went to see Jorth an' Ellen. I confronted them. I had to knowwhy she had gone back on me. Lee Jorth hadn't changed any with all hisgood fortune. He'd made Ellen believe in my dishonor. But, I reckon,lies or no lies, Ellen Sutton was faithless. In my absence he had wonher away from me. An' I saw that she loved him as she never had me. Ireckon that killed all my generosity. If she'd been imposed upon an'weaned away by his lies an' had regretted me a little I'd haveforgiven, perhaps. But she worshiped him. She was his slave. An' I,wal, I learned what hate was.

  "The war ruined the Suttons, same as so many Southerners. Lee Jorthwent in for raisin' cattle. He'd gotten the Sutton range an' after afew years he began to accumulate stock. In those days every cattlemanwas a little bit of a thief. Every cattleman drove in an' brandedcalves he couldn't swear was his. Wal, the Isbels were the strongestcattle raisers in that country. An' I laid a trap for Lee Jorth,caught him in the act of brandin' calves of mine I'd marked, an' Iproved him a thief. I made him a rustler. I ruined him. We met once.But Jorth was one Texan not strong on the draw, at least against anIsbel. He left the country. He had friends an' relatives an' theystarted him at stock raisin' again. But he began to gamble an' he gotin with a shady crowd. He went from bad to worse an' then he came backhome. When I saw the change in proud, beautiful Ellen Sutton, an' howshe still worshiped Jorth, it shore drove me near mad between pity an'hate.... Wal, I reckon in a Texan hate outlives any other feelin'.There came a strange turn of the wheel an' my fortunes changed. Likemost young bloods of the day, I drank an' gambled. An' one night I runacross Jorth an' a card-sharp friend. He fleeced me. We quarreled.Guns were thrown. I killed my man.... Aboot that period the TexasRangers had come into existence.... An', son, when I said I never wasrun out of Texas I wasn't holdin' to strict truth. I rode out on ahoss.

  "I went to Oregon. There I married soon, an' there Bill an' Guy wereborn. Their mother did not live long. An' next I married your mother,Jean. She had some Indian blood, which, for all I could see, made heronly the finer. She was a wonderful woman an' gave me the onlyhappiness I ever knew. You remember her, of course, an' those homedays in Oregon. I reckon I made another great blunder when I moved toArizona. But the cattle country had always called me. I had heard ofthis wild Tonto Basin an' how Texans were settlin' there. An' JimBlaisdell sent me word to come--that this shore was a garden spot ofthe West. Wal, it is. An' your mother was gone--

  "Three years ago Lee Jorth drifted into the Tonto. An', strange to me,along aboot a year or so after his comin' the Hash Knife Gang rode upfrom Texas. Jorth went in for raisin' sheep. Along with some othersheepmen he lives up in the Rim canyons. Somewhere back in the wildbrakes is the hidin' place of the Hash Knife Gang. Nobody but me, Ireckon, associates Colonel Jorth, as he's called, with Daggs an' hisgang. Maybe Blaisdell an' a few others have a hunch. But that's nomatter. As a sheepman Jorth has a legitimate grievance with thecattlemen. But what could be settled by a square consideration for thegood of all an' the future Jorth will never settle. He'll never settlebecause he is now no longer an honest man. He's in with Daggs. Icain't prove this, son, but I know it. I saw it in Jorth's face when Imet him that day with Greaves. I saw more. I shore saw what he is upto. He'd never meet me at an even break. He's dead set on usin' thissheep an' cattle feud to ruin my family an' me, even as I ruined him.But he means more, Jean. This will be a war between Texans, an' abloody war. There are bad men in this Tonto--some of the worst thatdidn't get shot in Texas. Jorth will have some of these fellows....Now, are we goin' to wait to be sheeped off our range an' to bemurdered from ambush?"

  "No, we are not," replied Jean, quietly.

  "Wal, come down to the house," said the rancher, and led the waywithout speaking until he halted by the door. There he placed hisfinger on a small hole in the wood at about the height of a man's head.Jean saw it was a bullet hole and that a few gray hairs stuck to itsedges. The rancher stepped closer to the door-post, so that his headwas within an inch of the wood. Then he looked at Jean with eyes inwhich there glinted dancing specks of fire, like wild sparks.

  "Son, this sneakin' shot at me was made three mawnin's ago. Irecollect movin' my haid just when I heard the crack of a rifle. Shorewas surprised. But I got inside quick."

  Jean scarcely heard the latter part of this speech. He seemed doubledup inwardly, in hot and cold convulsions of changing emotion. Aterrible hold upon his consciousness was about to break and let go. Thefirst shot had been fired and he was an Isbel. Indeed, his father hadmade him ten times an Isbel. Blood was thick. His father did notspeak to dull ears. This strife of rising tumult in him seemed theeffect of years of calm, of peace in the woods, of dreamy waiting forhe knew not what. It was the passionate primitive life in him that hadawakened to the call of blood ties.

  "That's aboot all, son," concluded the rancher. "You understand nowwhy I feel they're goin' to kill me. I feel it heah." With solemngesture h
e placed his broad hand over his heart. "An', Jean, strangewhispers come to me at night. It seems like your mother was callin' ortryin' to warn me. I cain't explain these queer whispers. But I knowwhat I know."

  "Jorth has his followers. You must have yours," replied Jean, tensely.

  "Shore, son, an' I can take my choice of the best men heah," repliedthe rancher, with pride. "But I'll not do that. I'll lay the dealbefore them an' let them choose. I reckon it 'll not be a long-windedfight. It 'll be short an bloody, after the way of Texans. I'mlookin' to you, Jean, to see that an Isbel is the last man!"

  "My God--dad! is there no other way? Think of my sister Ann--of mybrothers' wives--of--of other women! Dad, these damned Texas feuds arecruel, horrible!" burst out Jean, in passionate protest.

  "Jean, would it be any easier for our women if we let these men shootus down in cold blood?"

  "Oh no--no, I see, there's no hope of--of.... But, dad, I wasn'tthinkin' about myself. I don't care. Once started I'll--I'll be whatyou bragged I was. Only it's so hard to-to give in."

  Jean leaned an arm against the side of the cabin and, bowing his faceover it, he surrendered to the irresistible contention within hisbreast. And as if with a wrench that strange inward hold broke. He letdown. He went back. Something that was boyish and hopeful--and in itsplace slowly rose the dark tide of his inheritance, the savage instinctof self-preservation bequeathed by his Indian mother, and the fierce,feudal blood lust of his Texan father.

  Then as he raised himself, gripped by a sickening coldness in hisbreast, he remembered Ellen Jorth's face as she had gazed dreamily downoff the Rim--so soft, so different, with tremulous lips, sad, musing,with far-seeing stare of dark eyes, peering into the unknown, theinstinct of life still unlived. With confused vision and nameless painJean thought of her.

  "Dad, it's hard on--the--the young folks," he said, bitterly. "Thesins of the father, you know. An' the other side. How about Jorth?Has he any children?"

  What a curious gleam of surprise and conjecture Jean encountered in hisfather's gaze!

  "He has a daughter. Ellen Jorth. Named after her mother. The firsttime I saw Ellen Jorth I thought she was a ghost of the girl I hadloved an' lost. Sight of her was like a blade in my side. But thelooks of her an' what she is--they don't gibe. Old as I am, myheart--Bah! Ellen Jorth is a damned hussy!"

  Jean Isbel went off alone into the cedars. Surrender and resignationto his father's creed should have ended his perplexity and worry. Hisinstant and burning resolve to be as his father had represented himshould have opened his mind to slow cunning, to the craft of theIndian, to the development of hate. But there seemed to be anobstacle. A cloud in the way of vision. A face limned on his memory.

  Those damning words of his father's had been a shock--how little orgreat he could not tell. Was it only a day since he had met EllenJorth? What had made all the difference? Suddenly like a breath thefragrance of her hair came back to him. Then the sweet coolness of herlips! Jean trembled. He looked around him as if he were pursued orsurrounded by eyes, by instincts, by fears, by incomprehensible things.

  "Ahuh! That must be what ails me," he muttered. "The look of her--an'that kiss--they've gone hard me. I should never have stopped to talk.An' I'm to kill her father an' leave her to God knows what."

  Something was wrong somewhere. Jean absolutely forgot that within thehour he had pledged his manhood, his life to a feud which could beblotted out only in blood. If he had understood himself he would haverealized that the pledge was no more thrilling and unintelligible inits possibilities than this instinct which drew him irresistibly.

  "Ellen Jorth! So--my dad calls her a damned hussy! So--that explainsthe--the way she acted--why she never hit me when I kissed her. An'her words, so easy an' cool-like. Hussy? That means she's bad--bad!Scornful of me--maybe disappointed because my kiss was innocent! Itwas, I swear. An' all she said: 'Oh, I've been kissed before.'"

  Jean grew furious with himself for the spreading of a new sensation inhis breast that seemed now to ache. Had he become infatuated, all in aday, with this Ellen Jorth? Was he jealous of the men who had theprivilege of her kisses? No! But his reply was hot with shame, withuncertainty. The thing that seemed wrong was outside of himself. Ablunder was no crime. To be attracted by a pretty girl in thewoods--to yield to an impulse was no disgrace, nor wrong. He had beenfoolish over a girl before, though not to such a rash extent. EllenJorth had stuck in his consciousness, and with her a sense of regret.

  Then swiftly rang his father's bitter words, the revealing: "But thelooks of her an' what she is--they don't gibe!" In the import of thesewords hid the meaning of the wrong that troubled him. Broodingly hepondered over them.

  "The looks of her. Yes, she was pretty. But it didn't dawn on me atfirst. I--I was sort of excited. I liked to look at her, but didn'tthink." And now consciously her face was called up, infinitely sweetand more impelling for the deliberate memory. Flash of brown skin,smooth and clear; level gaze of dark, wide eyes, steady, bold,unseeing; red curved lips, sad and sweet; her strong, clean, fine facerose before Jean, eager and wistful one moment, softened by dreamymusing thought, and the next stormily passionate, full of hate, full oflonging, but the more mysterious and beautiful.

  "She looks like that, but she's bad," concluded Jean, with bitterfinality. "I might have fallen in love with Ellen Jorth if--if she'dbeen different."

  But the conviction forced upon Jean did not dispel the haunting memoryof her face nor did it wholly silence the deep and stubborn voice ofhis consciousness. Later that afternoon he sought a moment with hissister.

  "Ann, did you ever meet Ellen Jorth?" he asked.

  "Yes, but not lately," replied Ann.

  "Well, I met her as I was ridin' along yesterday. She was herdin'sheep," went on Jean, rapidly. "I asked her to show me the way to theRim. An' she walked with me a mile or so. I can't say the meetin' wasnot interestin', at least to me.... Will you tell me what you knowabout her?"

  "Sure, Jean," replied his sister, with her dark eyes fixed wonderinglyand kindly on his troubled face. "I've heard a great deal, but in thisTonto Basin I don't believe all I hear. What I know I'll tell you. Ifirst met Ellen Jorth two years ago. We didn't know each other's namesthen. She was the prettiest girl I ever saw. I liked her. She likedme. She seemed unhappy. The next time we met was at a round-up.There were other girls with me and they snubbed her. But I left themand went around with her. That snub cut her to the heart. She waslonely. She had no friends. She talked about herself--how she hatedthe people, but loved Arizona. She had nothin' fit to wear. I didn'tneed to be told that she'd been used to better things. Just when itlooked as if we were goin' to be friends she told me who she was andasked me my name. I told her. Jean, I couldn't have hurt her more ifI'd slapped her face. She turned white. She gasped. And then she ranoff. The last time I saw her was about a year ago. I was ridin' ashort-cut trail to the ranch where a friend lived. And I met EllenJorth ridin' with a man I'd never seen. The trail was overgrown andshady. They were ridin' close and didn't see me right off. The manhad his arm round her. She pushed him away. I saw her laugh. Then hegot hold of her again and was kissin' her when his horse shied at sightof mine. They rode by me then. Ellen Jorth held her head high andnever looked at me."

  "Ann, do you think she's a bad girl?" demanded Jean, bluntly.

  "Bad? Oh, Jean!" exclaimed Ann, in surprise and embarrassment.

  "Dad said she was a damned hussy."

  "Jean, dad hates the Jorths."

  "Sister, I'm askin' you what you think of Ellen Jorth. Would you befriends with her if you could?"

  "Yes."

  "Then you don't believe she's bad."

  "No. Ellen Jorth is lonely, unhappy. She has no mother. She livesalone among rough men. Such a girl can't keep men from handlin' herand kissin' her. Maybe she's too free. Maybe she's wild. But she'shonest, Jean. You can trust a woman to tell. When she rode past m
ethat day her face was white and proud. She was a Jorth and I was anIsbel. She hated herself--she hated me. But no bad girl could looklike that. She knows what's said of her all around the valley. But shedoesn't care. She'd encourage gossip."

  "Thank you, Ann," replied Jean, huskily. "Please keep this--thismeetin' of mine with her all to yourself, won't you?"

  "Why, Jean, of course I will."

  Jean wandered away again, peculiarly grateful to Ann for reviving andupholding something in him that seemed a wavering part of the best ofhim--a chivalry that had demanded to be killed by judgment of arighteous woman. He was conscious of an uplift, a gladdening of hisspirit. Yet the ache remained. More than that, he found himselfplunged deeper into conjecture, doubt. Had not the Ellen Jorthincident ended? He denied his father's indictment of her and acceptedthe faith of his sister. "Reckon that's aboot all, as dad says," hesoliloquized. Yet was that all? He paced under the cedars. He watchedthe sun set. He listened to the coyotes. He lingered there after thecall for supper; until out of the tumult of his conflicting emotionsand ponderings there evolved the staggering consciousness that he mustsee Ellen Jorth again.