To The Last Man | Page 5

His animals were tired, especially the pack mule that had carried a
heavy load; and with slow heave of relief they knelt and rolled in the
dust. Jean experienced something of relief himself as he threw off his
chaps. He had not been used to hot, dusty, glaring days on the barren
lands. Stretching his long length beside a tiny rill of clear water that
tinkled over the red stones, he drank thirstily. The water was cool, but it
had an acrid taste--an alkali bite that he did not like. Not since he had
left Oregon had he tasted clear, sweet, cold water; and he missed it just
as he longed for the stately shady forests he had loved. This wild,
endless Arizona land bade fair to earn his hatred.
By the time he had leisurely completed his tasks twilight had fallen and
coyotes had begun their barking. Jean listened to the yelps and to the
moan of the cool wind in the cedars with a sense of satisfaction that
these lonely sounds were familiar. This cedar wood burned into a pretty
fire and the smell of its smoke was newly pleasant.
"Reckon maybe I'll learn to like Arizona," he mused, half aloud. "But
I've a hankerin' for waterfalls an' dark-green forests. Must be the Indian
in me. . . . Anyway, dad needs me bad, an' I reckon I'm here for keeps."
Jean threw some cedar branches on the fire, in the light of which he
opened his father's letter, hoping by repeated reading to grasp more of
its strange portent. It had been two months in reaching him, coming by
traveler, by stage and train, and then by boat, and finally by stage again.
Written in lead pencil on a leaf torn from an old ledger, it would have
been hard to read even if the writing had been more legible.

"Dad's writin' was always bad, but I never saw it so shaky," said Jean,
thinking aloud.
GRASS VALLY, ARIZONA. Son Jean,--Come home. Here is your
home and here your needed. When we left Oregon we all reckoned you
would not be long behind. But its years now. I am growing old, son,
and you was always my steadiest boy. Not that you ever was so dam
steady. Only your wildness seemed more for the woods. You take after
mother, and your brothers Bill and Guy take after me. That is the red
and white of it. Your part Indian, Jean, and that Indian I reckon I am
going to need bad. I am rich in cattle and horses. And my range here is
the best I ever seen. Lately we have been losing stock. But that is not
all nor so bad. Sheepmen have moved into the Tonto and are grazing
down on Grass Vally. Cattlemen and sheepmen can never bide in this
country. We have bad times ahead. Reckon I have more reasons to
worry and need you, but you must wait to hear that by word of mouth.
Whatever your doing, chuck it and rustle for Grass Vally so to make
here by spring. I am asking you to take pains to pack in some guns and
a lot of shells. And hide them in your outfit. If you meet anyone when
your coming down into the Tonto, listen more than you talk. And last,
son, dont let anything keep you in Oregon. Reckon you have a
sweetheart, and if so fetch her along. With love from your dad,
GASTON ISBEL.
Jean pondered over this letter. judged by memory of his father, who
had always been self-sufficient, it had been a surprise and somewhat of
a shock. Weeks of travel and reflection had not helped him to grasp the
meaning between the lines.
"Yes, dad's growin' old," mused Jean, feeling a warmth and a sadness
stir in him. "He must be 'way over sixty. But he never looked old. . . .
So he's rich now an' losin' stock, an' goin' to be sheeped off his range.
Dad could stand a lot of rustlin', but not much from sheepmen."
The softness that stirred in Jean merged into a cold, thoughtful
earnestness which had followed every perusal of his father's letter. A
dark, full current seemed flowing in his veins, and at times he felt it
swell and heat. It troubled him, making him conscious of a deeper,

stronger self, opposed to his careless, free, and dreamy nature. No ties
had bound him in Oregon, except love for the great, still forests and the
thundering rivers; and this love came from his softer side. It had cost
him a wrench to leave. And all the way by ship down the coast to San
Diego and across the Sierra Madres by stage, and so on to this last
overland