To The Last Man
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Zane Grey >> To The Last Man
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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.
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."
CHAPTER V
Old John Sprague launched into his narrative with evident zest.
"I hung round Greaves' store most of two days. An' I heerd a heap.
Some of it was jest plain ole men's gab, but I reckon I got the drift
of things concernin' Grass Valley. Yestiddy mornin' I was packin' my
burros in Greaves' back yard, takin' my time carryin' out supplies from
the store. An' as last when I went in I seen a strange fellar was thar.
Strappin' young man--not so young, either--an' he had on buckskin. Hair
black as my burros, dark face, sharp eyes--you'd took him fer an Injun.
He carried a rifle--one of them new forty-fours--an' also somethin'
wrapped in paper thet he seemed partickler careful about. He wore a
belt round his middle an' thar was a bowie-knife in it, carried like
I've seen scouts an' Injun fighters hev on the frontier in the
'seventies. That looked queer to me, an' I reckon to the rest of
the crowd thar. No one overlooked the big six-shooter he packed
Texas fashion. Wal, I didn't hev no idee this fellar was an Isbel
until I heard Greaves call him thet.
"'Isbel,' said Greaves, 'reckon your money's counterfeit hyar.
I cain't sell you anythin'.'
"'Counterfeit? Not much,' spoke up the young fellar, an' he flipped
some gold twenties on the bar, where they rung like bells. 'Why not?
Ain't this a store? I want a cinch strap.'
"Greaves looked particular sour thet mornin'. I'd been watchin' him
fer two days. He hedn't hed much sleep, fer I hed my bed back of the
store, an' I heerd men come in the night an' hev long confabs with him.
Whatever was in the wind hedn't pleased him none. An' I calkilated
thet young Isbel wasn't a sight good fer Greaves' sore eyes, anyway.
But he paid no more attention to Isbel. Acted jest as if he hedn't
heerd Isbel say he wanted a cinch strap.
"I stayed inside the store then. Thar was a lot of fellars I'd seen,
an' some I knowed. Couple of card games goin', an' drinkin', of course.
I soon gathered thet the general atmosphere wasn't friendly to Jean
Isbel. He seen thet quick enough, but he didn't leave. Between you
an' me I sort of took a likin' to him. An' I sure watched him as close
as I could, not seemin' to, you know. Reckon they all did the same,
only you couldn't see it. It got jest about the same as if Isbel hedn't
been in thar, only you knowed it wasn't really the same. Thet was how
I got the hunch the crowd was all sheepmen or their friends. The day
before I'd heerd a lot of talk about this young Isbel, an' what he'd
come to Grass Valley fer, an' what a bad hombre he was. An' when I
seen him I was bound to admit he looked his reputation.
"Wal, pretty soon in come two more fellars, an' I knowed both of them.
You know them, too, I'm sorry to say. Fer I'm comin' to facts now thet
will shake you. The first fellar was your father's Mexican foreman,
Lorenzo, and the other was Simm Bruce. I reckon Bruce wasn't drunk,
but he'd sure been lookin' on red licker. When he seen Isbel darn me
if he didn't swell an' bustle all up like a mad ole turkey gobbler.
"'Greaves,' he said, 'if thet fellar's Jean Isbel I ain't hankerin'
fer the company y'u keep.' An' he made no bones of pointin' right
at Isbel. Greaves looked up dry an' sour an' he bit out spiteful-like:
'Wal, Simm, we ain't hed a hell of a lot of choice in this heah matter.
Thet's Jean Isbel shore enough. Mebbe you can persuade him thet his
company an' his custom ain't wanted round heah!'
"Jean Isbel set on the counter an took it all in, but he didn't say
nothin'. The way he looked at Bruce was sure enough fer me to see
thet thar might be a surprise any minnit. I've looked at a lot of
men in my day, an' can sure feel events comin'. Bruce got himself
a stiff drink an' then he straddles over the floor in front of Isbel.
"'Air you Jean Isbel, son of ole Gass Isbel?' asked Bruce, sort of
lolling back an' givin' a hitch to his belt.
"'Yes sir, you've identified me,' said Isbel, nice an' polite.
"'My name's Bruce. I'm rangin' sheep heahaboots, an, I hev interest
in Kurnel Lee Jorth's bizness.'
"'Hod do, Mister Bruce,' replied Isbel, very civil ant cool as you
please. Bruce hed an eye fer the crowd thet was now listenin' an'
watchin'. He swaggered closer to Isbel.
"'We heerd y'u come into the Tonto Basin to run us sheepmen off
the range. How aboot thet?'
"'Wal, you heerd wrong,' said Isbel, quietly. 'I came to work fer
my father. Thet work depends on what happens.'
" Bruce began to git redder of face, an' he shook a husky hand in
front of Isbel. 'I'll tell y'u this heah, my Nez Perce Isbel--' an'
when he sort of choked fer more wind Greaves spoke up, 'Simm, I shore
reckon thet Nez Perce handle will stick.' An' the crowd haw-hawed.
Then Bruce got goin' ag'in. 'I'll tell y'u this heah, Nez Perce.
Thar's been enough happen already to run y'u out of Arizona.'
"'Wal, you don't say! What, fer instance?, asked Isbel, quick an'
sarcastic.
"Thet made Bruce bust out puffin' an' spittin': 'Wha-tt, fer instance?
Huh! Why, y'u darn half-breed, y'u'll git run out fer makin' up to
Ellen Jorth. Thet won't go in this heah country. Not fer any Isbel.'
"'You're a liar,' called Isbel, an' like a big cat he dropped off
the counter. I heerd his moccasins pat soft on the floor. An' I bet
to myself thet he was as dangerous as he was quick. But his voice an'
his looks didn't change even a leetle.
"'I'm not a liar,' yelled Bruce. 'I'll make y'u eat thet. I can prove
what I say. . . . Y'u was seen with Ellen Jorth--up on the Rim--day
before yestiddy. Y'u was watched. Y'u was with her. Y'u made up to
her. Y'u grabbed her an' kissed her! . . . An' I'm heah to say, Nez
Perce, thet y'u're a marked man on this range.'
"'Who saw me?' asked Isbel, quiet an' cold. I seen then thet he'd
turned white in the face.
"'Yu cain't lie out of it,' hollered Bruce, wavin' his hands.
'We got y'u daid to rights. Lorenzo saw y'u--follered y'u--watched
y'u.' Bruce pointed at the grinnin' greaser. 'Lorenzo is Kurnel
Jorth's foreman. He seen y'u maulin' of Ellen Jorth. An' when he
tells the Kurnel an' Tad Jorth an' Jackson Jorth! . . . Haw! Haw!
Haw! Why, hell 'd be a cooler place fer yu then this heah Tonto.'
"Greaves an' his gang hed come round, sure tickled clean to thar
gizzards at this mess. I noticed, howsomever, thet they was Texans
enough to keep back to one side in case this Isbel started any action.
. . . Wal, Isbel took a look at Lorenzo. Then with one swift grab he
jerked the little greaser off his feet an' pulled him close. Lorenzo
stopped grinnin'. He began to look a leetle sick. But it was plain
he hed right on his side.
"'You say you saw me?' demanded Isbel.
"'Si, senor,' replied Lorenzo.
"What did you see?'
"'I see senor an' senorita. I hide by manzanita. I see senorita like
grande senor ver mooch. She like senor keese. She--'
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