To The Last Man

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"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.

A cold nose against his cheek, a low whine, awakened Jean. The big
dog Shepp was beside him, keen, wary, intense. The night appeared
far advanced toward dawn. Far away a cock crowed; the near-at-hand
one answered in clarion voice. "What is it, Shepp?" whispered Jean,
and he sat up. The dog smelled or heard something suspicious to his
nature, but whether man or animal Jean could not tell.

CHAPTER III

The morning star, large, intensely blue-white, magnificent in its
dominance of the clear night sky, hung over the dim, dark valley
ramparts. The moon had gone down and all the other stars were wan,
pale ghosts.

Presently the strained vacuum of Jean's ears vibrated to a low roar
of many hoofs. It came from the open valley, along the slope to the
south. Shepp acted as if he wanted the word to run. Jean laid a hand
on the dog. "Hold on, Shepp," he whispered. Then hauling on his boots
and slipping into his coat Jean took his rifle and stole out into the
open. Shepp appeared to be well trained, for it was evident that he
had a strong natural tendency to run off and hunt for whatever had
roused him. Jean thought it more than likely that the dog scented an
animal of some kind. If there were men prowling around the ranch Shepp,
might have been just as vigilant, but it seemed to Jean that the dog
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 the
direction 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 at
the edge of the cedars. It struck him suddenly how well fitted he was
for work of this sort. All the work he had ever done, except for his
few years in school, had been in the open. All the leisure he had ever
been able to obtain had been given to his ruling passion for hunting
and fishing. Love of the wild had been born in Jean. At this moment
he experienced a grim assurance of what his instinct and his training
might accomplish if directed to a stern and daring end. Perhaps his
father understood this; perhaps the old Texan had some little reason
for his confidence.

Every few paces Jean halted to listen. All objects, of course, were
indistinguishable in the dark-gray obscurity, except when he came close
upon them. Shepp showed an increasing eagerness to bolt out into the
void. When Jean had traveled half a mile from the house he heard a
scattered trampling of cattle on the run, and farther out a low
strangled bawl of a calf. "Ahuh!" muttered Jean. "Cougar or some
varmint pulled down that calf." Then he discharged his rifle in the
air and yelled with all his might. It was necessary then to yell again
to hold Shepp back.

Thereupon Jean set forth down the valley, and tramped out and across
and around, as much to scare away whatever had been after the stock
as to look for the wounded calf. More than once he heard cattle moving
away 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
nor came back. Dawn began to break, and in the growing light Jean
searched around until at last he stumbled over a dead calf, lying in
a little bare wash where water ran in wet seasons. Big wolf tracks
showed in the soft earth. "Lofers," said Jean, as he knelt and just
covered one track with his spread hand. "We had wolves in Oregon,
but not as big as these. . . . Wonder where that half-wolf dog, Shepp,
went. Wonder if he can be trusted where wolves are concerned.
I'll bet not, if there's a 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 went
on and climbed a slope to the cedar line, where in the dusty patches
he found the tracks again. "Not scared much," he muttered, as he noted
the slow trotting tracks. "Well, you old gray lofers, we're goin' to
clash." Jean knew from many a futile hunt that wolves were the wariest
and most intelligent of wild animals in the quest. From the top of a
low foothill he watched the sun rise; and then no longer wondered why
his father waxed eloquent over the beauty and location and luxuriance
of this grassy valley. But it was large enough to make rich a good
many ranchers. Jean tried to restrain any curiosity as to his father's
dealings in Grass Valley until the situation had been made clear.

Moreover, Jean wanted to love this wonderful country. He wanted to be
free to ride and hunt and roam to his heart's content; and therefore
he dreaded hearing his father's claims. But Jean threw off forebodings.
Nothing ever turned out so badly as it presaged. He would think the
best until certain of the worst. The morning was gloriously bright,
and already the frost was glistening wet on the stones. Grass Valley
shone like burnished silver dotted with innumerable black spots.
Burros were braying their discordant messages to one another; the
colts were romping in the fields; stallions were whistling; cows
were bawling. A cloud of blue smoke hung low over the ranch house,
slowly wafting away on the wind. Far out in the valley a dark group
of horsemen were riding toward the village. Jean glanced thoughtfully
at them and reflected that he seemed destined to harbor suspicion of
all men new and strange to him. Above the distant village stood the
darkly green foothills 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, to seek, to explore, to find, but no wild
horizon ever before beckoned to him as this one. And the subtle vague
emotion that had gone to sleep with him last night awoke now hauntingly.
It took effort to dispel the desire to think, to wonder.

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

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

Bill Isbel looked up from a task over a saddle girth and inquired
pleasantly if Jean ever slept of nights. Guy Isbel laughed and
there was 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 tracks
of two whoppin' big wolves. I found the dead calf, too. Reckon the
meat 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 another
breed--I've lost five thousand dollars in stock this last year."

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

"I shore do," answered his father.

Jean shook his head as if he could not understand such an enormous
loss where 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 less aboot 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 hunches
before you figure on our troubles. There's two or three packs of
lofers, an' in winter time they are hell to deal with. Lions thick
as bees, 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
the Mazatzals he kills stock. I'm in with half a dozen cattlemen.
We all work 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
Star State got too hot for them, an' they followed the trail of a
lot of other Texans who needed a healthier climate. Some two hundred
Texans around heah, Jean, an' maybe a matter of three hundred inhabitants
in the 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's
order of work; and from this Jean gathered an idea of what a big cattle
business his father conducted. After breakfast Jean's brothers
manifested keen interest in the new rifles. These were unwrapped
and cleaned and taken out for testing. The three rifles were forty-four
calibre Winchesters, the kind of gun Jean had found most effective.
He tried them out first, and the shots he made were satisfactory to
him and amazing to the others. Bill had used an old Henry rifle.
Guy did not favor any particular rifle. The rancher pinned his faith
to the famous 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 new tricks. But you boys may do well with the forty-fours.
Pack 'em on your saddles an' practice when you see a coyote."

Jean found it difficult to convince himself that this interest in
guns and marksmanship had any sinister propulsion back of it. His
father and brothers had always been this way. Rifles were as important
to pioneers as plows, and their skillful use was an achievement every
frontiersman tried to attain. Friendly rivalry had always existed
among 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
that was correlative with it--had not dominated them as it had Jean.
Bill and Guy Isbel were born cattlemen--chips of the old block.
Jean began to hope that his father's letter was an exaggeration,
and particularly that 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 Jean tried to persuade himself of this more hopeful view,
he recalled many references to the peculiar reputation of Texans for
gun-throwing, for feuds, for never-ending hatreds. In Oregon the
Isbels had lived among industrious and peaceful pioneers from all
over the States; to be sure, the life had been rough and primitive,
and there had been fights on occasions, though no Isbel had ever
killed a man. But now they had become fixed in a wilder and sparsely
settled country among men of their own breed. Jean was afraid his
hopes had only sentiment to foster them. Nevertheless, be forced back
a strange, brooding, mental state and resolutely held up the brighter
side. Whatever the evil conditions existing in Grass Valley, they
could be met with intelligence and courage, with an absolute certainty
that it was inevitable they must pass away. Jean refused to consider
the old, fatal law that at certain wild times and wild places in the
West certain 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
look at the cattle. An' pick out some hosses for yourself."

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

"Shore you know a hoss. To my eye he's my pick. But the boys don't
agree. 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
and fell in love with him before ever he swung a leg over him.
Whiteface appeared spirited, yet gentle. He had been trained
instead of being broken. Of hard hits and quirts and spurs he had
no experience. He liked to do what his rider wanted him to do.

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

Beyond these pastures stretched the range, and Jean saw the gray-green
expanse speckled by thousands of cattle. The scene was inspiring.
Jean's brothers led him all around, meeting some of the herders and
riders employed on the ranch, one of whom was a burly, grizzled man
with eyes reddened and narrowed by much riding in wind and sun and dust.
His name was Evans and he was father of the lad whom Jean had met near
the village. Everts was busily skinning the calf that had been killed
by the wolves. "See heah, y'u Jean Isbel," said Everts, "it shore was
aboot time y'u come home. We-all heahs y'u hev an eye fer tracks.
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 I know
of. An' we've not hed the spring round-up."

Grass Valley widened to the southeast. Jean would have been backward
about estimating the square miles in it. Yet it was not vast acreage
so much as rich pasture that made it such a wonderful range. Several
ranches lay along the western slope of this section. Jean was informed
that open parks and swales, and little valleys nestling among the
foothills, wherever there was water and grass, had been settled by
ranchers. Every summer a few new families ventured in.

Blaisdell struck Jean as being a lionlike type of Texan, both in his
broad, bold face, his huge head with its upstanding tawny hair like
a mane, and in the speech and force that betokened the nature of his
heart. He was not as old as Jean's father. He had a rolling voice,
with the same drawling intonation characteristic of all Texans, and
blue eyes that still held the fire of youth. Quite a marked contrast
he presented to the lean, rangy, hard-jawed, intent-eyed men Jean had
begun 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 impressions
gotten from hearsay, yet bespoke the attention of one used to judging
men for himself, and in this particular case having reasons of his own
for so doing.

"Wal, you're like your sister Ann," said Blaisdell. "Which you may
take as a compliment, young man. Both of you favor your mother.
But you're an Isbel. Back in Texas there are men who never wear
a glove on their right hands, an' shore I reckon if one of them met
up with you sudden 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
planted in Jean's sensitive mind a significant thought-provoking
idea about the past-and-gone Isbels.

His further remarks, likewise, were exceedingly interesting to Jean.
The settling of the Tonto Basin by Texans was a subject often in
dispute. His own father had been in the first party of adventurous
pioneers who had traveled up from the south to cross over the Reno
Pass of the Mazatzals into the Basin. "Newcomers from outside get
impressions of the Tonto accordin' to the first settlers they meet,"
declared Blaisdell. "An' shore it's my belief these first impressions
never change. just so strong they are! Wal, I've heard my father say
there were men in his wagon train that got run out of Texas, but he
swore he wasn't one of them. So I reckon that sort of talk held good
for twenty years, an' for all the Texans who emigrated, except, of
course, such notorious rustlers as Daggs an' men of his ilk. Shore
we've got some bad men heah. There's no law. Possession used to
mean more than it does now. Daggs an' his Hash Knife Gang have begun
to hold forth with a high hand. No small rancher can keep enough
stock to pay for his labor."

At the time of which Blaisdell spoke there were not many sheepmen
and cattlemen in the Tonto, considering its vast area. But these,
on account of the extreme wildness of the broken country, were limited
to the comparatively open Grass Valley and its adjacent environs.
Naturally, as the inhabitants increased and stock raising grew in
proportion the grazing and water rights became matters of extreme
importance. Sheepmen ran their flocks up on the Rim in summer time
and down into the Basin in winter time. A sheepman could throw a few
thousand sheep round a cattleman's ranch and ruin him. The range was
free. It was as fair for sheepmen to graze their herds anywhere as it
was for cattlemen. This of course did not apply to the few acres of
cultivated ground that a rancher could call his own; but very few
cattle could have been raised on such limited area. Blaisdell said
that the sheepmen were unfair because they could have done just as well,
though perhaps at more labor, by keeping to the ridges and leaving the
open valley and little flats to the ranchers. Formerly there had been
room enough for all; now the grazing ranges were being encroached upon
by sheepmen newly come to the Tonto. To Blaisdell's way of thinking
the rustler menace was more serious than the sheeping-off of the range,
for the simple reason that no cattleman knew exactly who the rustlers
were and for the more complex and significant reason that the rustlers
did not steal sheep.

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

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