Zane Grey (11 page)

The shrill snort of a horse sounded near at hand. With a shock Ellen's
body stiffened. Then she quivered a little and her feelings underwent
swift change. Cautiously and noiselessly she raised herself upon her
elbows and peeped through the opening in the brush. She saw a man
tying a horse to a bush somewhat back from the Rim. Drawing a rifle
from its saddle sheath he threw it in the hollow of his arm and walked
to the edge of the precipice. He gazed away across the Basin and
appeared lost in contemplation or thought. Then he turned to look back
into the forest, as if he expected some one.

Ellen recognized the lithe figure, the dark face so like an Indian's.
It was Isbel. He had come. Somehow his coming seemed wonderful and
terrible. Ellen shook as she leaned on her elbows. Jean Isbel, true
to his word, in spite of her scorn, had come back to see her. The fact
seemed monstrous. He was an enemy of her father. Long had range rumor
been bandied from lip to lip—old Gass Isbel had sent for his Indian
son to fight the Jorths. Jean Isbel—son of a Texan—unerring
shot—peerless tracker—a bad and dangerous man! Then there flashed
over Ellen a burning thought—if it were true, if he was an enemy of
her father's, if a fight between Jorth and Isbel was inevitable, she
ought to kill this Jean Isbel right there in his tracks as he boldly
and confidently waited for her. Fool he was to think she would come.
Ellen sank down and dropped her head until the strange tremor of her
arms ceased. That dark and grim flash of thought retreated. She had
not come to murder a man from ambush, but only to watch him, to try to
see what he meant, what he thought, to allay a strange curiosity.

After a while she looked again. Isbel was sitting on an upheaved
section of the Rim, in a comfortable position from which he could watch
the openings in the forest and gaze as well across the west curve of
the Basin to the Mazatzals. He had composed himself to wait. He was
clad in a buckskin suit, rather new, and it certainly showed off to
advantage, compared with the ragged and soiled apparel Ellen
remembered. He did not look so large. Ellen was used to the long,
lean, rangy Arizonians and Texans. This man was built differently. He
had the widest shoulders of any man she had ever seen, and they made
him appear rather short. But his lithe, powerful limbs proved he was
not short. Whenever he moved the muscles rippled. His hands were
clasped round a knee—brown, sinewy hands, very broad, and fitting the
thick muscular wrists. His collar was open, and he did not wear a
scarf, as did the men Ellen knew. Then her intense curiosity at last
brought her steady gaze to Jean Isbel's head and face. He wore a cap,
evidently of some thin fur. His hair was straight and short, and in
color a dead raven black. His complexion was dark, clear tan, with no
trace of red. He did not have the prominent cheek bones nor the
high-bridged nose usual with white men who were part Indian. Still he
had the Indian look. Ellen caught that in the dark, intent, piercing
eyes, in the wide, level, thoughtful brows, in the stern impassiveness
of his smooth face. He had a straight, sharp-cut profile.

Ellen whispered to herself: "I saw him right the other day. Only, I'd
not admit it.... The finest-lookin' man I ever saw in my life is a
damned Isbel! Was that what I come out heah for?"

She lowered herself once more and, folding her arms under her breast,
she reclined comfortably on them, and searched out a smaller peephole
from which she could spy upon Isbel. And as she watched him the new
and perplexing side of her mind waxed busier. Why had he come back?
What did he want of her? Acquaintance, friendship, was impossible for
them. He had been respectful, deferential toward her, in a way that
had strangely pleased, until the surprising moment when he had kissed
her. That had only disrupted her rather dreamy pleasure in a situation
she had not experienced before. All the men she had met in this wild
country were rough and bold; most of them had wanted to marry her, and,
failing that, they had persisted in amorous attentions not particularly
flattering or honorable. They were a bad lot. And contact with them
had dulled some of her sensibilities. But this Jean Isbel had seemed a
gentleman. She struggled to be fair, trying to forget her antipathy,
as much to understand herself as to give him due credit. True, he had
kissed her, crudely and forcibly. But that kiss had not been an
insult. Ellen's finer feeling forced her to believe this. She
remembered the honest amaze and shame and contrition with which he had
faced her, trying awkwardly to explain his bold act. Likewise she
recalled the subtle swift change in him at her words, "Oh, I've been
kissed before!" She was glad she had said that. Still—was she glad,
after all?

She watched him. Every little while he shifted his gaze from the blue
gulf beneath him to the forest. When he turned thus the sun shone on
his face and she caught the piercing gleam of his dark eyes. She saw,
too, that he was listening. Watching and listening for her! Ellen had
to still a tumult within her. It made her feel very young, very shy,
very strange. All the while she hated him because he manifestly
expected her to come. Several times he rose and walked a little way
into the woods. The last time he looked at the westering sun and shook
his head. His confidence had gone. Then he sat and gazed down into
the void. But Ellen knew he did not see anything there. He seemed an
image carved in the stone of the Rim, and he gave Ellen a singular
impression of loneliness and sadness. Was he thinking of the miserable
battle his father had summoned him to lead—of what it would cost—of
its useless pain and hatred? Ellen seemed to divine his thoughts. In
that moment she softened toward him, and in her soul quivered and
stirred an intangible something that was like pain, that was too deep
for her understanding. But she felt sorry for an Isbel until the old
pride resurged. What if he admired her? She remembered his interest,
the wonder and admiration, the growing light in his eyes. And it had
not been repugnant to her until he disclosed his name. "What's in a
name?" she mused, recalling poetry learned in her girlhood. "'A rose
by any other name would smell as sweet'.... He's an Isbel—yet he might
be splendid—noble.... Bah! he's not—and I'd hate him anyhow."

All at once Ellen felt cold shivers steal over her. Isbel's piercing
gaze was directed straight at her hiding place. Her heart stopped
beating. If he discovered her there she felt that she would die of
shame. Then she became aware that a blue jay was screeching in a pine
above her, and a red squirrel somewhere near was chattering his shrill
annoyance. These two denizens of the woods could be depended upon to
espy the wariest hunter and make known his presence to their kind.
Ellen had a moment of more than dread. This keen-eyed, keen-eared
Indian might see right through her brushy covert, might hear the
throbbing of her heart. It relieved her immeasurably to see him turn
away and take to pacing the promontory, with his head bowed and his
hands behind his back. He had stopped looking off into the forest.
Presently he wheeled to the west, and by the light upon his face Ellen
saw that the time was near sunset. Turkeys were beginning to gobble
back on the ridge.

Isbel walked to his horse and appeared to be untying something from the
back of his saddle. When he came back Ellen saw that he carried a
small package apparently wrapped in paper. With this under his arm he
strode off in the direction of Ellen's camp and soon disappeared in the
forest.

For a little while Ellen lay there in bewilderment. If she had made
conjectures before, they were now multiplied. Where was Jean Isbel
going? Ellen sat up suddenly. "Well, shore this heah beats me," she
said. "What did he have in that package? What was he goin' to do with
it?"

It took no little will power to hold her there when she wanted to steal
after him through the woods and find out what he meant. But his
reputation influenced even her and she refused to pit her cunning in
the forest against his. It would be better to wait until he returned
to his horse. Thus decided, she lay back again in her covert and gave
her mind over to pondering curiosity. Sooner than she expected she
espied Isbel approaching through the forest, empty handed. He had not
taken his rifle. Ellen averted her glance a moment and thrilled to see
the rifle leaning against a rock. Verily Jean Isbel had been far
removed from hostile intent that day. She watched him stride swiftly
up to his horse, untie the halter, and mount. Ellen had an impression
of his arrowlike straight figure, and sinuous grace and ease. Then he
looked back at the promontory, as if to fix a picture of it in his
mind, and rode away along the Rim. She watched him out of sight. What
ailed her? Something was wrong with her, but she recognized only relief.

When Isbel had been gone long enough to assure Ellen that she might
safely venture forth she crawled through the pine thicket to the Rim on
the other side of the point. The sun was setting behind the Black
Range, shedding a golden glory over the Basin. Westward the zigzag Rim
reached like a streamer of fire into the sun. The vast promontories
jutted out with blazing beacon lights upon their stone-walled faces.
Deep down, the Basin was turning shadowy dark blue, going to sleep for
the night.

Ellen bent swift steps toward her camp. Long shafts of gold preceded
her through the forest. Then they paled and vanished. The tips of
pines and spruces turned gold. A hoarse-voiced old turkey gobbler was
booming his chug-a-lug from the highest ground, and the softer chick of
hen turkeys answered him. Ellen was almost breathless when she
arrived. Two packs and a couple of lop-eared burros attested to the
fact of Antonio's return. This was good news for Ellen. She heard the
bleat of lambs and tinkle of bells coming nearer and nearer. And she
was glad to feel that if Isbel had visited her camp, most probably it
was during the absence of the herders.

The instant she glanced into her tent she saw the package Isbel had
carried. It lay on her bed. Ellen stared blankly. "The—the
impudence of him!" she ejaculated. Then she kicked the package out of
the tent. Words and action seemed to liberate a dammed-up hot fury.
She kicked the package again, and thought she would kick it into the
smoldering camp-fire. But somehow she stopped short of that. She left
the thing there on the ground.

Pepe and Antonio hove in sight, driving in the tumbling woolly flock.
Ellen did not want them to see the package, so with contempt for
herself, and somewhat lessening anger, she kicked it back into the
tent. What was in it? She peeped inside the tent, devoured by
curiosity. Neat, well wrapped and tied packages like that were not
often seen in the Tonto Basin. Ellen decided she would wait until
after supper, and at a favorable moment lay it unopened on the fire.
What did she care what it contained? Manifestly it was a gift. She
argued that she was highly incensed with this insolent Isbel who had
the effrontery to approach her with some sort of present.

It developed that the usually cheerful Antonio had returned taciturn
and gloomy. All Ellen could get out of him was that the job of sheep
herder had taken on hazards inimical to peace-loving Mexicans. He had
heard something he would not tell. Ellen helped prepare the supper and
she ate in silence. She had her own brooding troubles. Antonio
presently told her that her father had said she was not to start back
home after dark. After supper the herders repaired to their own tents,
leaving Ellen the freedom of her camp-fire. Wherewith she secured the
package and brought it forth to burn. Feminine curiosity rankled
strong in her breast. Yielding so far as to shake the parcel and press
it, and finally tear a comer off the paper, she saw some words written
in lead pencil. Bending nearer the blaze, she read, "For my sister
Ann." Ellen gazed at the big, bold hand-writing, quite legible and
fairly well done. Suddenly she tore the outside wrapper completely
off. From printed words on the inside she gathered that the package
had come from a store in San Francisco. "Reckon he fetched home a lot
of presents for his folks—the kids—and his sister," muttered Ellen.
"That was nice of him. Whatever this is he shore meant it for sister
Ann.... Ann Isbel. Why, she must be that black-eyed girl I met and
liked so well before I knew she was an Isbel.... His sister!"

Whereupon for the second time Ellen deposited the fascinating package
in her tent. She could not burn it up just then. She had other
emotions besides scorn and hate. And memory of that soft-voiced,
kind-hearted, beautiful Isbel girl checked her resentment. "I wonder
if he is like his sister," she said, thoughtfully. It appeared to be
an unfortunate thought. Jean Isbel certainly resembled his sister.
"Too bad they belong to the family that ruined dad."

Ellen went to bed without opening the package or without burning it.
And to her annoyance, whatever way she lay she appeared to touch this
strange package. There was not much room in the little tent. First
she put it at her head beside her rifle, but when she turned over her
cheek came in contact with it. Then she felt as if she had been stung.
She moved it again, only to touch it presently with her hand. Next she
flung it to the bottom of her bed, where it fell upon her feet, and
whatever way she moved them she could not escape the pressure of this
undesirable and mysterious gift.

By and by she fell asleep, only to dream that the package was a
caressing hand stealing about her, feeling for hers, and holding it
with soft, strong clasp. When she awoke she had the strangest
sensation in her right palm. It was moist, throbbing, hot, and the
feel of it on her cheek was strangely thrilling and comforting. She lay
awake then. The night was dark and still. Only a low moan of wind in
the pines and the faint tinkle of a sheep bell broke the serenity. She
felt very small and lonely lying there in the deep forest, and, try how
she would, it was impossible to think the same then as she did in the
clear light of day. Resentment, pride, anger—these seemed abated now.
If the events of the day had not changed her, they had at least brought
up softer and kinder memories and emotions than she had known for long.
Nothing hurt and saddened her so much as to remember the gay, happy
days of her childhood, her sweet mother, her, old home. Then her
thought returned to Isbel and his gift. It had been years since anyone
had made her a gift. What could this one be? It did not matter. The
wonder was that Jean Isbel should bring it to her and that she could be
perturbed by its presence. "He meant it for his sister and so he
thought well of me," she said, in finality.