Zane Grey (12 page)

Morning brought Ellen further vacillation. At length she rolled the
obnoxious package inside her blankets, saying that she would wait until
she got home and then consign it cheerfully to the flames. Antonio tied
her pack on a burro. She did not have a horse, and therefore had to
walk the several miles, to her father's ranch.

She set off at a brisk pace, leading the burro and carrying her rifle.
And soon she was deep in the fragrant forest. The morning was clear
and cool, with just enough frost to make the sunlit grass sparkle as if
with diamonds. Ellen felt fresh, buoyant, singularly full of, life.
Her youth would not be denied. It was pulsing, yearning. She hummed
an old Southern tune and every step seemed one of pleasure in action,
of advance toward some intangible future happiness. All the unknown of
life before her called. Her heart beat high in her breast and she
walked as one in a dream. Her thoughts were swift-changing, intimate,
deep, and vague, not of yesterday or to-day, nor of reality.

The big, gray, white-tailed squirrels crossed ahead of her on the
trail, scampered over the piny ground to hop on tree trunks, and there
they paused to watch her pass. The vociferous little red squirrels
barked and chattered at her. From every thicket sounded the gobble of
turkeys. The blue jays squalled in the tree tops. A deer lifted its
head from browsing and stood motionless, with long ears erect, watching
her go by.

Thus happily and dreamily absorbed, Ellen covered the forest miles and
soon reached the trail that led down into the wild brakes of Chevelon
Canyon. It was rough going and less conducive to sweet wanderings of
mind. Ellen slowly lost them. And then a familiar feeling assailed
her, one she never failed to have upon returning to her father's
ranch—a reluctance, a bitter dissatisfaction with her home, a loyal
struggle against the vague sense that all was not as it should be.

At the head of this canyon in a little, level, grassy meadow stood a
rude one-room log shack, with a leaning red-stone chimney on the
outside. This was the abode of a strange old man who had long lived
there. His name was John Sprague and his occupation was raising
burros. No sheep or cattle or horses did he own, not even a dog.
Rumor had said Sprague was a prospector, one of the many who had
searched that country for the Lost Dutchman gold mine. Sprague knew
more about the Basin and Rim than any of the sheepmen or ranchers.
From Black Butte to the Cibique and from Chevelon Butte to Reno Pass he
knew every trail, canyon, ridge, and spring, and could find his way to
them on the darkest night. His fame, however, depended mostly upon the
fact that he did nothing but raise burros, and would raise none but
black burros with white faces. These burros were the finest bred in ail
the Basin and were in great demand. Sprague sold a few every year. He
had made a present of one to Ellen, although he hated to part with
them. This old man was Ellen's one and only friend.

Upon her trip out to the Rim with the sheep, Uncle John, as Ellen
called him, had been away on one of his infrequent visits to Grass
Valley. It pleased her now to see a blue column of smoke lazily
lifting from the old chimney and to hear the discordant bray of burros.
As she entered the clearing Sprague saw her from the door of his shack.

"Hello, Uncle John!" she called.

"Wal, if it ain't Ellen!" he replied, heartily. "When I seen thet
white-faced jinny I knowed who was leadin' her. Where you been, girl?"

Sprague was a little, stoop-shouldered old man, with grizzled head and
face, and shrewd gray eyes that beamed kindly on her over his ruddy
cheeks. Ellen did not like the tobacco stain on his grizzled beard nor
the dirty, motley, ragged, ill-smelling garb he wore, but she had
ceased her useless attempts to make him more cleanly.

"I've been herdin' sheep," replied Ellen. "And where have y'u been,
uncle? I missed y'u on the way over."

"Been packin' in some grub. An' I reckon I stayed longer in Grass
Valley than I recollect. But thet was only natural, considerin'—"

"What?" asked Ellen, bluntly, as the old man paused.

Sprague took a black pipe out of his vest pocket and began rimming the
bowl with his fingers. The glance he bent on Ellen was thoughtful and
earnest, and so kind that she feared it was pity. Ellen suddenly
burned for news from the village.

"Wal, come in an' set down, won't you?" he asked.

"No, thanks," replied Ellen, and she took a seat on the chopping block.
"Tell me, uncle, what's goin' on down in the Valley?"

"Nothin' much yet—except talk. An' there's a heap of thet."

"Humph! There always was talk," declared Ellen, contemptuously. "A
nasty, gossipy, catty hole, that Grass Valley!"

"Ellen, thar's goin' to be war—a bloody war in the ole Tonto Basin,"
went on Sprague, seriously.

"War! ... Between whom?"

"The Isbels an' their enemies. I reckon most people down thar, an'
sure all the cattlemen, air on old Gass's side. Blaisdell, Gordon,
Fredericks, Blue—they'll all be in it."

"Who are they goin' to fight?" queried Ellen, sharply.

"Wal, the open talk is thet the sheepmen are forcin' this war. But
thar's talk not so open, an' I reckon not very healthy for any man to
whisper hyarbouts."

"Uncle John, y'u needn't be afraid to tell me anythin'," said Ellen.
"I'd never give y'u away. Y'u've been a good friend to me."

"Reckon I want to be, Ellen," he returned, nodding his shaggy head. "It
ain't easy to be fond of you as I am an' keep my mouth shet.... I'd
like to know somethin'. Hev you any relatives away from hyar thet you
could go to till this fight's over?"

"No. All I have, so far as I know, are right heah."

"How aboot friends?"

"Uncle John, I have none," she said, sadly, with bowed head.

"Wal, wal, I'm sorry. I was hopin' you might git away."

She lifted her face. "Shore y'u don't think I'd run off if my dad got
in a fight?" she flashed.

"I hope you will."

"I'm a Jorth," she said, darkly, and dropped her head again.

Sprague nodded gloomily. Evidently he was perplexed and worried, and
strongly swayed by affection for her.

"Would you go away with me?" he asked. "We could pack over to the
Mazatzals an' live thar till this blows over."

"Thank y'u, Uncle John. Y'u're kind and good. But I'll stay with my
father. His troubles are mine."

"Ahuh! ... Wal, I might hev reckoned so.... Ellen, how do you stand on
this hyar sheep an' cattle question?"

"I think what's fair for one is fair for another. I don't like sheep
as much as I like cattle. But that's not the point. The range is
free. Suppose y'u had cattle and I had sheep. I'd feel as free to run
my sheep anywhere as y'u were to ran your cattle."

"Right. But what if you throwed your sheep round my range an' sheeped
off the grass so my cattle would hev to move or starve?"

"Shore I wouldn't throw my sheep round y'ur range," she declared,
stoutly.

"Wal, you've answered half of the question. An' now supposin' a lot of
my cattle was stolen by rustlers, but not a single one of your sheep.
What 'd you think then?"

"I'd shore think rustlers chose to steal cattle because there was no
profit in stealin' sheep."

"Egzactly. But wouldn't you hev a queer idee aboot it?"

"I don't know. Why queer? What 're y'u drivin' at, Uncle John?"

"Wal, wouldn't you git kind of a hunch thet the rustlers was—say a
leetle friendly toward the sheepmen?"

Ellen felt a sudden vibrating shock. The blood rushed to her temples.
Trembling all over, she rose.

"Uncle John!" she cried.

"Now, girl, you needn't fire up thet way. Set down an' don't—"

"Dare y'u insinuate my father has—"

"Ellen, I ain't insinuatin' nothin'," interrupted the old man. "I'm
jest askin' you to think. Thet's all. You're 'most grown into a young
woman now. An' you've got sense. Thar's bad times ahead, Ellen. An' I
hate to see you mix in them."

"Oh, y'u do make me think," replied Ellen, with smarting tears in her
eyes. "Y'u make me unhappy. Oh, I know my dad is not liked in this
cattle country. But it's unjust. He happened to go in for sheep
raising. I wish he hadn't. It was a mistake. Dad always was a
cattleman till we came heah. He made enemies—who—who ruined him. And
everywhere misfortune crossed his trail.... But, oh, Uncle John, my dad
is an honest man."

"Wal, child, I—I didn't mean to—to make you cry," said the old man,
feelingly, and he averted his troubled gaze. "Never mind what I said.
I'm an old meddler. I reckon nothin' I could do or say would ever
change what's goin' to happen. If only you wasn't a girl! ... Thar I
go ag'in. Ellen, face your future an' fight your way. All youngsters
hev to do thet. An' it's the right kind of fight thet makes the right
kind of man or woman. Only you must be sure to find yourself. An' by
thet I mean to find the real, true, honest-to-God best in you an' stick
to it an' die fightin' for it. You're a young woman, almost, an' a
blamed handsome one. Which means you'll hev more trouble an' a harder
fight. This country ain't easy on a woman when once slander has marked
her.

"What do I care for the talk down in that Basin?" returned Ellen. "I
know they think I'm a hussy. I've let them think it. I've helped them
to."

"You're wrong, child," said Sprague, earnestly. "Pride an' temper! You
must never let anyone think bad of you, much less help them to."

"I hate everybody down there," cried Ellen, passionately. "I hate them
so I'd glory in their thinkin' me bad.... My mother belonged to the
best blood in Texas. I am her daughter. I know WHO AND WHAT I AM.
That uplifts me whenever I meet the sneaky, sly suspicions of these
Basin people. It shows me the difference between them and me. That's
what I glory in."

"Ellen, you're a wild, headstrong child," rejoined the old man, in
severe tones. "Word has been passed ag'in' your good name—your
honor.... An' hevn't you given cause fer thet?"

Ellen felt her face blanch and all her blood rush back to her heart in
sickening force. The shock of his words was like a stab from a cold
blade. If their meaning and the stem, just light of the old man's
glance did not kill her pride and vanity they surely killed her
girlishness. She stood mute, staring at him, with her brown, trembling
hands stealing up toward her bosom, as if to ward off another and a
mortal blow.

"Ellen!" burst out Sprague, hoarsely. "You mistook me. Aw, I didn't
mean—what you think, I swear.... Ellen, I'm old an' blunt. I ain't
used to wimmen. But I've love for you, child, an' respect, jest the
same as if you was my own.... An' I KNOW you're good.... Forgive me....
I meant only hevn't you been, say, sort of—careless?"

"Care-less?" queried Ellen, bitterly and low.

"An' powerful thoughtless an'—an' blind—lettin' men kiss you an'
fondle you—when you're really a growed-up woman now?"

"Yes—I have," whispered Ellen.

"Wal, then, why did you let them?

"I—I don't know.... I didn't think. The men never let me
alone—never—never! I got tired everlastingly pushin' them away. And
sometimes—when they were kind—and I was lonely for something I—I
didn't mind if one or another fooled round me. I never thought. It
never looked as y'u have made it look.... Then—those few times ridin'
the trail to Grass Valley—when people saw me—then I guess I
encouraged such attentions.... Oh, I must be—I am a shameless little
hussy!"

"Hush thet kind of talk," said the old man, as he took her hand.
"Ellen, you're only young an' lonely an' bitter. No mother—no
friends—no one but a lot of rough men! It's a wonder you hev kept
yourself good. But now your eyes are open, Ellen. They're brave an'
beautiful eyes, girl, an' if you stand by the light in them you will
come through any trouble. An' you'll be happy. Don't ever forgit
that. Life is hard enough, God knows, but it's unfailin' true in the
end to the man or woman who finds the best in them an' stands by it."

"Uncle John, y'u talk so—so kindly. Yu make me have hope. There
seemed really so little for me to live for—hope for.... But I'll never
be a coward again—nor a thoughtless fool. I'll find some good in
me—or make some—and never fail it, come what will. I'll remember
your words. I'll believe the future holds wonderful things for me....
I'm only eighteen. Shore all my life won't be lived heah. Perhaps
this threatened fight over sheep and cattle will blow over....
Somewhere there must be some nice girl to be a friend—a sister to
me.... And maybe some man who'd believe, in spite of all they say—that
I'm not a hussy."

"Wal, Ellen, you remind me of what I was wantin' to tell you when you
just got here.... Yestiddy I heerd you called thet name in a barroom.
An' thar was a fellar thar who raised hell. He near killed one man an'
made another plumb eat his words. An' he scared thet crowd stiff."

Old John Sprague shook his grizzled head and laughed, beaming upon
Ellen as if the memory of what he had seen had warmed his heart.

"Was it—y'u?" asked Ellen, tremulously.

"Me? Aw, I wasn't nowhere. Ellen, this fellar was quick as a cat in
his actions an' his words was like lightnin'.'

"Who? she whispered.

"Wal, no one else but a stranger jest come to these parts—an Isbel,
too. Jean Isbel."

"Oh!" exclaimed Ellen, faintly.

"In a barroom full of men—almost all of them in sympathy with the
sheep crowd—most of them on the Jorth side—this Jean Isbel resented
an insult to Ellen Jorth."

"No!" cried Ellen. Something terrible was happening to her mind or her
heart.

"Wal, he sure did," replied the old man, "an' it's goin' to be good fer
you to hear all about it."