Zane Grey (6 page)

That appeared too momentous and entrancing for the other two
youngsters, and, adding their shrill and joyous voices to Lee's, they
besieged Jean.

"Dad, where's my pack?" cried Jean. "These young Apaches are after my
scalp."

"Reckon the boys fetched it onto the porch," replied the rancher.

Guy Isbel opened the door and went out. "By golly! heah's three
packs," 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 the
youngsters and bright gleams to the eyes of the women. Jean lost
nothing of this. How glad he was that he had tarried in San Francisco
because of a mental picture of this very reception in far-off wild
Arizona.

When Guy deposited the bundle on the floor it jarred the room. It gave
forth 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 a
hundred pounds when I packed it on my shoulder down Market Street in
Frisco. It was stolen from me on shipboard. I got it back in San Diego
an' 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 Colorado
River from Yuma to Ehrenberg an' there went on top of a stage. We got
chased by bandits an' once when the horses were gallopin' hard it near
rolled off. Then it went on the back of a pack horse an' helped wear
him out. An' I reckon it would be somewhere else now if I hadn't
fallen in with a freighter goin' north from Phoenix to the Santa Fe
Trail. The last lap when it sagged the back of a mule was the riskiest
an' full of the narrowest escapes. Twice my mule bucked off his pack
an' left my outfit scattered. Worst of all, my precious bundle made the
mule top heavy comin' down that place back here where the trail seems
to 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 at
last.... An' now I'll open it."

After this long and impressive harangue, which at least augmented the
suspense of the women and worked the children into a frenzy, Jean
leisurely untied the many knots round the bundle and unrolled it. He
had packed that bundle for just such travel as it had sustained. Three
cloth-bound rifles he laid aside, and with them a long, very heavy
package tied between two thin wide boards. From this came the metallic
clink. "Oo, I know what dem is!" cried Lee, breaking the silence of
suspense. Then Jean, tearing open a long flat parcel, spread before
the mute, rapt-eyed youngsters such magnificent things, as they had
never dreamed of—picture books, mouth-harps, dolls, a toy gun and a
toy pistol, a wonderful whistle and a fox horn, and last of all a box
of candy. Before these treasures on the floor, too magical to be
touched at first, the two little boys and their sister simply knelt.
That was a sweet, full moment for Jean; yet even that was clouded by
the something which shadowed these innocent children fatefully born in
a wild place at a wild time. Next Jean gave to his sister the presents
he had brought her—beautiful cloth for a dress, ribbons and a bit of
lace, handkerchiefs and buttons and yards of linen, a sewing case and a
whole box of spools of thread, a comb and brush and mirror, and lastly
a Spanish brooch inlaid with garnets. "There, Ann," said Jean, "I
confess I asked a girl friend in Oregon to tell me some things my
sister might like." Manifestly there was not much difference in girls.
Ann seemed stunned by this munificence, and then awakening, she hugged
Jean in a way that took his breath. She was not a child any more, that
was certain. Aunt Mary turned knowing eyes upon Jean. "Reckon you
couldn't have pleased Ann more. She's engaged, Jean, an' where girls
are in that state these things mean a heap.... Ann, you'll be married
in that!" And she pointed to the beautiful folds of material that Ann
had spread out.

"What's this?" demanded Jean. His sister's blushes were enough to
convict 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 happy
and occupied, almost, as the children. It left also another package,
the last one in the bundle. Jean laid hold of it and, lifting it, he
was about to speak when he sustained a little shock of memory. Quite
distinctly he saw two little feet, with bare toes peeping out of
worn-out moccasins, and then round, bare, symmetrical ankles that had
been scratched by brush. Next he saw Ellen Jorth's passionate face as
she looked when she had made the violent action so disconcerting to
him. In this happy moment the memory seemed farther off than a few
hours. It had crystallized. It annoyed while it drew him. As a
result he slowly laid this package aside and did not speak as he had
intended to.

"Dad, I reckon I didn't fetch a lot for you an' the boys," continued
Jean. "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 look
at 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' back
this 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' the
joy of the kids."

At this juncture a tall young man entered the open door. He looked a
rider. All about him, even his face, except his eyes, seemed old, but
his 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 this
newcomer was.

"Jean, this is my friend, Andrew Colmor."

Jean knew when he met Colmor's grip and the keen flash of his eyes that
he was glad Ann had set her heart upon one of their kind. And his
second impression was something akin to the one given him in the road
by the admiring lad. Colmor's estimate of him must have been a
monument built of Ann's eulogies. Jean's heart suffered misgivings.
Could he live up to the character that somehow had forestalled his
advent in Grass Valley? Surely life was measured differently here in
the Tonto Basin.

The children, bundling their treasures to their bosoms, were dragged
off to bed in some remote part of the house, from which their laughter
and voices came back with happy significance. Jean forthwith had an
interested audience. How eagerly these lonely pioneer people listened
to news of the outside world! Jean talked until he was hoarse. In
their turn his hearers told him much that had never found place in the
few 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 the
omission and thought all the more seriously of probabilities because
nothing was said. Altogether the evening was a happy reunion of a
family of which all living members were there present. Jean grasped
that this fact was one of significant satisfaction to his father.

"Shore we're all goin' to live together heah," he declared. "I started
this range. I call most of this valley mine. We'll run up a cabin for
Ann soon as she says the word. An' you, Jean, where's your girl? I
shore 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' one
of these Tonto hussies that I might object to."

"Why, father, there's not a girl in the valley Jean would look twice
at," interposed Ann Isbel, with spirit.

Jean laughed the matter aside, but he had an uneasy memory. Aunt Mary
averred, after the manner of relatives, that Jean would play havoc
among the women of the settlement. And Jean retorted that at least one
member of the Isbels; should hold out against folly and fight and love
and marriage, the agents which had reduced the family to these few
present. "I'll be the last Isbel to go under," he concluded.

"Son, you're talkin' wisdom," said his father. "An' shore that reminds
me of the uncle you're named after. Jean Isbel! ... Wal, he was my
youngest brother an' shore a fire-eater. Our mother was a French
creole from Louisiana, an' Jean must have inherited some of his
fightin' nature from her. When the war of the rebellion started Jean
an' I enlisted. I was crippled before we ever got to the front. But
Jean went through three Years before he was killed. His company had
orders to fight to the last man. An' Jean fought an' lived long enough
just to be that last man."

At length Jean was left alone with his father.

"Reckon you're used to bunkin' outdoors?" queried the rancher, rather
abruptly.

"Most of the time," replied Jean.

"Wal, there's room in the house, but I want you to sleep out. Come get
your beddin' an' gun. I'll show you."

They went outside on the porch, where Jean shouldered his roll of
tarpaulin and blankets. His rifle, in its saddle sheath, leaned
against the door. His father took it up and, half pulling it out,
looked at it by the starlight. "Forty-four, eh? Wal, wal, there's
shore no better, if a man can hold straight." At the moment a big gray
dog 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. Some
bad wolf packs runnin' this Basin."

The night was cold and still, darkly bright under moon and stars; the
smell of hay seemed to mingle with that of cedar. Jean followed his
father round the house and up a gentle slope of grass to the edge of
the cedar line. Here several trees with low-sweeping thick branches
formed a dense, impenetrable shade.

"Son, your uncle Jean was scout for Liggett, one of the greatest rebels
the South had," said the rancher. "An' you're goin' to be scout for
the Isbels of Tonto. Reckon you'll find it 'most as hot as your uncle
did.... Spread your bed inside. You can see out, but no one can see
you. Reckon there's been some queer happenin's 'round heah lately. If
Shepp could talk he'd shore have lots to tell us. Bill an' Guy have
been sleepin' out, trailin' strange hoss tracks, an' all that. But
shore whoever's been prowlin' around heah was too sharp for them. Some
bad, crafty, light-steppin' woodsmen 'round heah, Jean.... Three
mawnin's ago, just after daylight, I stepped out the back door an' some
one of these sneaks I'm talkin' aboot took a shot at me. Missed my
head a quarter of an inch! To-morrow I'll show you the bullet hole in
the doorpost. An' some of my gray hairs that 're stickin' in it!"

"Dad!" ejaculated Jean, with a hand outstretched. "That's awful! You
frighten me."

"No time to be scared," replied his father, calmly. "They're shore
goin' 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 gets
scent or sound.... An' good night, my son. I'm sayin' that I'll rest
easy to-night."

Jean mumbled a good night and stood watching his father's shining white
head 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 his
roll of bedding, his thought still locked on the shuddering revelation
of his father's words, "They're shore goin' to kill me." The shock of
inaction 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 breathed a
long sigh of relief. What bliss to relax! A throbbing and burning of
his muscles seemed to begin with his rest. The cool starlit night, the
smell of cedar, the moan of wind, the silence—an were real to his
senses. After long weeks of long, arduous travel he was home. The
warmth of the welcome still lingered, but it seemed to have been
pierced by an icy thrust. What lay before him? The shadow in the eyes
of his aunt, in the younger, fresher eyes of his sister—Jean connected
that with the meaning of his father's tragic words. Far past was the
morning that had been so keen, the breaking of camp in the sunlit
forest, the riding down the brown aisles under the pines, the music of
bleating lambs that had called him not to pass by. Thought of Ellen
Jorth recurred. Had he met her only that morning? She was up there in
the forest, asleep under the starlit pines. Who was she? What was her
story? That savage fling of her skirt, her bitter speech and
passionate flaming face—they haunted Jean. They were crystallizing
into simpler memories, growing away from his bewilderment, and
therefore at once sweeter and more doubtful. "Maybe she meant
differently from what I thought," Jean soliloquized. "Anyway, she was
honest." Both shame and thrill possessed him at the recall of an
insidious idea—dare he go back and find her and give her the last
package of gifts he had brought from the city? What might they mean to
poor, ragged, untidy, beautiful Ellen Jorth? The idea grew on Jean.
It could not be dispelled. He resisted stubbornly. It was bound to go
to its fruition. Deep into his mind had sunk an impression of her
need—a material need that brought spirit and pride to abasement. From
one picture to another his memory wandered, from one speech and act of
hers to another, choosing, selecting, casting aside, until clear and
sharp 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 a
strange girl in the woods. To-morrow he would forget. Work there was
for him in Grass Valley. And he reverted uneasily to the remarks of
his father until at last sleep claimed him.