Zane Grey (7 page)

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.

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.