To The Last Man

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"Sister, I'm askin' you what you think of Ellen Jorth. Would you
be friends 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 lives
alone among rough men. Such a girl can't keep men from handlin' her
and kissin' her. Maybe she's too free. Maybe she's wild. But she's
honest, Jean. You can trust a woman to tell. When she rode past me
that day her face was white and proud. She was a Jorth and I was an
Isbel. She hated herself--she hated me. But no bad girl could look
like that. She knows what's said of her all around the valley.
But she doesn't care. She'd encourage gossip."

"Thank you, Ann," replied Jean, huskily. "Please keep this--this
meetin' 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
and upholding something in him that seemed a wavering part of the
best of him--a chivalry that had demanded to be killed by judgment
of a righteous woman. He was conscious of an uplift, a gladdening
of his spirit. Yet the ache remained. More than that, he found
himself plunged deeper into conjecture, doubt. Had not the Ellen
Jorth incident ended? He denied his father's indictment of her and
accepted the faith of his sister. "Reckon that's aboot all, as dad
says," he soliloquized. Yet was that all? He paced under the cedars.
He watched the sun set. He listened to the coyotes. He lingered
there after the call for supper; until out of the tumult of his
conflicting emotions and ponderings there evolved the staggering
consciousness that he must see Ellen Jorth again.

CHAPTER IV

Ellen Jorth hurried back into the forest, hotly resentful of the
accident that had thrown her in contact with an Isbel.

Disgust filled her--disgust that she had been amiable to a member
of the hated family that had ruined her father. The surprise of
this meeting did not come to her while she was under the spell of
stronger feeling. She walked under the trees, swiftly, with head
erect, looking straight before her, and every step seemed a relief.

Upon reaching camp, her attention was distracted from herself. Pepe,
the Mexican boy, with the two shepherd dogs, was trying to drive sheep
into a closer bunch to save the lambs from coyotes. Ellen loved the
fleecy, tottering little lambs, and at this season she hated all the
prowling beast of the forest. From this time on for weeks the flock
would be besieged by wolves, lions, bears, the last of which were
often bold and dangerous. The old grizzlies that killed the ewes
to eat only the milk-bags were particularly dreaded by Ellen. She
was a good shot with a rifle, but had orders from her father to let
the bears alone. Fortunately, such sheep-killing bears were but few,
and were left to be hunted by men from the ranch. Mexican sheep
herders could not be depended upon to protect their flocks from bears.
Ellen helped Pepe drive in the stragglers, and she took several shots
at coyotes skulking along the edge of the brush. The open glade in
the forest was favorable for herding the sheep at night, and the dogs
could be depended upon to guard the flock, and in most cases to drive
predatory beasts away.

After this task, which brought the time to sunset, Ellen had supper
to cook and eat. Darkness came, and a cool night wind set in.
Here and there a lamb bleated plaintively. With her work done for
the day, Ellen sat before a ruddy camp fire, and found her thoughts
again centering around the singular adventure that had befallen her.
Disdainfully she strove to think of something else. But there was
nothing that could dispel the interest of her meeting with Jean Isbel.
Thereupon she impatiently surrendered to it, and recalled every word
and action which she could remember. And in the process of this
meditation she came to an action of hers, recollection of which
brought the blood tingling to her neck and cheeks, so unusually
and burningly that she covered them with her hands. "What did he
think of me?" she mused, doubtfully. It did not matter what he
thought, but she could not help wondering. And when she came to
the memory of his kiss she suffered more than the sensation of
throbbing scarlet cheeks. Scornfully and bitterly she burst out,
"Shore he couldn't have thought much good of me."

The half hour following this reminiscence was far from being pleasant.
Proud, passionate, strong-willed Ellen Jorth found herself a victim of
conflicting emotions. The event of the day was too close. She could
not understand it. Disgust and disdain and scorn could not make this
meeting with Jean Isbel as if it had never been. Pride could not efface
it from her mind. The more she reflected, the harder she tried to
forget, the stronger grew a significance of interest. And when a hint
of this dawned upon her consciousness she resented it so forcibly that
she lost her temper, scattered the camp fire, and went into the little
teepee tent to roll in her blankets.

Thus settled snug and warm for the night, with a shepherd dog curled
at the opening of her tent, she shut her eyes and confidently bade
sleep end her perplexities. But sleep did not come at her invitation.
She found herself wide awake, keenly sensitive to the sputtering of
the camp fire, the tinkling of bells on the rams, the bleating of lambs,
the sough of wind in the pines, and the hungry sharp bark of coyotes
off in the distance. Darkness was no respecter of her pride. The
lonesome night with its emphasis of solitude seemed to induce clamoring
and strange thoughts, a confusing ensemble of all those that had annoyed
her during the daytime. Not for long hours did sheer weariness bring
her to slumber.

Ellen awakened late and failed of her usual alacrity. Both Pepe and
the shepherd dog appeared to regard her with surprise and solicitude.
Ellen's spirit was low this morning; her blood ran sluggishly; she had
to fight a mournful tendency to feel sorry for herself. And at first
she was not very successful. There seemed to be some kind of pleasure
in reveling in melancholy which her common sense told her had no reason
for existence. But states of mind persisted in spite of common sense.

"Pepe, when is Antonio comin' back?" she asked.

The boy could not give her a satisfactory answer. Ellen had willingly
taken the sheep herder's place for a few days, but now she was impatient
to go home. She looked down the green-and-brown aisles of the forest
until she was tired. Antonio did not return. Ellen spent the day with
the sheep; and in the manifold task of caring for a thousand new-born
lambs she forgot herself. This day saw the end of lambing-time for that
season. The forest resounded to a babel of baas and bleats. When night
came she was glad to go to bed, for what with loss of sleep, and
weariness she could scarcely keep her eyes open.

The following morning she awakened early, bright, eager, expectant,
full of bounding life, strangely aware of the beauty and sweetness
of the scented forest, strangely conscious of some nameless stimulus
to her feelings.

Not long was Ellen in associating this new and delightful variety of
sensations with the fact that Jean Isbel had set to-day for his ride
up to the Rim to see her. Ellen's joyousness fled; her smiles faded.
The spring morning lost its magic radiance.

"Shore there's no sense in my lyin' to myself," she soliloquized,
thoughtfully. "It's queer of me--feelin' glad aboot him--without
knowin'. Lord! I must be lonesome! To be glad of seein' an Isbel,
even if he is different!"

Soberly she accepted the astounding reality. Her confidence died
with her gayety; her vanity began to suffer. And she caught at her
admission that Jean Isbel was different; she resented it in amaze;
she ridiculed it; she laughed at her naive confession. She could
arrive at no conclusion other than that she was a weak-minded,
fluctuating, inexplicable little fool.

But for all that she found her mind had been made up for her, without
consent or desire, before her will had been consulted; and that
inevitably and unalterably she meant to see Jean Isbel again.
Long she battled with this strange decree. One moment she won
a victory over, this new curious self, only to lose it the next.
And at last out of her conflict there emerged a few convictions
that left her with some shreds of pride. She hated all Isbels,
she hated any Isbel, and particularly she hated Jean Isbel. She was
only curious--intensely curious to see if he would come back, and if
he did come what he would do. She wanted only to watch him from some
covert. She would not go near him, not let him see her or guess of
her presence.

Thus she assuaged her hurt vanity--thus she stifled her miserable doubts.

Long before the sun had begun to slant westward toward the
mid-afternoon Jean Isbel had set as a meeting time Ellen directed
her steps through the forest to the Rim. She felt ashamed of her
eagerness. She had a guilty conscience that no strange thrills could
silence. It would be fun to see him, to watch him, to let him wait
for her, to fool him.

Like an Indian, she chose the soft pine-needle mats to tread upon,
and her light-moccasined feet left no trace. Like an Indian also she
made a wide detour, and reached the Rim a quarter of a mile west of the
spot where she had talked with Jean Isbel; and here, turning east, she
took care to step on the bare stones. This was an adventure, seemingly
the first she had ever had in her life. Assuredly she had never before
come directly to the Rim without halting to look, to wonder, to worship.
This time she scarcely glanced into the blue abyss. All absorbed was
she in hiding her tracks. Not one chance in a thousand would she risk.
The Jorth pride burned even while the feminine side of her dominated
her actions. She had some difficult rocky points to cross, then
windfalls to round, and at length reached the covert she desired.
A rugged yellow point of the Rim stood somewhat higher than the spot
Ellen wanted to watch. A dense thicket of jack pines grew to the
very edge. It afforded an ambush that even the Indian eyes Jean
Isbel was credited with could never penetrate. Moreover, if by
accident she made a noise and excited suspicion, she could retreat
unobserved and hide in the huge rocks below the Rim, where a ferret
could not locate her.

With her plan decided upon, Ellen had nothing to do but wait,
so she repaired to the other side of the pine thicket and to the
edge of the Rim where she could watch and listen. She knew that
long before she saw Isbel she would hear his horse. It was altogether
unlikely that he would come on foot.

"Shore, Ellen Jorth, y'u're a queer girl," she mused. "I reckon I
wasn't well acquainted with y'u."

Beneath her yawned a wonderful deep canyon, rugged and rocky with but
few pines on the north slope, thick with dark green timber on the
south slope. Yellow and gray crags, like turreted castles, stood up
out of the sloping forest on the side opposite her. The trees were
all sharp, spear pointed. Patches of light green aspens showed
strikingly against the dense black. The great slope beneath Ellen
was serrated with narrow, deep gorges, almost canyons in themselves.
Shadows alternated with clear bright spaces. The mile-wide mouth of
the canyon opened upon the Basin, down into a world of wild timbered
ranges and ravines, valleys and hills, that rolled and tumbled in
dark-green waves to the Sierra Anchas.

But for once Ellen seemed singularly unresponsive to this panorama
of wildness and grandeur. Her ears were like those of a listening deer,
and her eyes continually reverted to the open places along the Rim.
At first, in her excitement, time flew by. Gradually, however, as
the sun moved westward, she began to be restless. The soft thud of
dropping pine cones, the rustling of squirrels up and down the
shaggy-barked spruces, the cracking of weathered bits of rock,
these caught her keen ears many times and brought her up erect and
thrilling. Finally she heard a sound which resembled that of an
unshod hoof on stone. Stealthily then she took her rifle and slipped
back through the pine thicket to the spot she had chosen. The little
pines were so close together that she had to crawl between their trunks.
The ground was covered with a soft bed of pine needles, brown and
fragrant. In her hurry she pricked her ungloved hand on a sharp pine
cone and drew the blood. She sucked the tiny wound. "Shore I'm
wonderin' if that's a bad omen," she muttered, darkly thoughtful.
Then she resumed her sinuous approach to the edge of the thicket,
and presently reached it.

Ellen lay flat a moment to recover her breath, then raised herself on
her elbows. Through an opening in the fringe of buck brush she could
plainly see the promontory where she had stood with Jean Isbel, and
also the approaches by which he might come. Rather nervously she
realized that her covert was hardly more than a hundred feet from
the promontory. It was imperative that she be absolutely silent.
Her eyes searched the openings along the Rim. The gray form of a
deer crossed one of these, and she concluded it had made the sound
she had heard. Then she lay down more comfortably and waited.
Resolutely she held, as much as possible, to her sensorial perceptions.
The meaning of Ellen Jorth lying in ambush just to see an Isbel was a
conundrum she refused to ponder in the present. She was doing it, and
the physical act had its fascination. Her ears, attuned to all the
sounds of the lonely forest, caught them and arranged them according
to her knowledge of woodcraft.

A long hour passed by. The sun had slanted to a point halfway between
the zenith and the horizon. Suddenly a thought confronted Ellen Jorth:
"He's not comin'," she whispered. The instant that idea presented
itself she felt a blank sense of loss, a vague regret--something that
must have been disappointment. Unprepared for this, she was held by
surprise for a moment, and then she was stunned. Her spirit, swift
and rebellious, had no time to rise in her defense. She was a lonely,
guilty, miserable girl, too weak for pride to uphold, too fluctuating
to know her real self. She stretched there, burying her face in the
pine needles, digging her fingers into them, wanting nothing so much
as that they might hide her. The moment was incomprehensible to Ellen,
and utterly intolerable. The sharp pine needles, piercing her wrists
and cheeks, and her hot heaving breast, seemed to give her exquisite
relief.

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 be 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." I

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.

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