To The Last Man | Page 6

travel by horseback, he had felt a retreating of the self that
was tranquil and happy and a dominating of this unknown somber self,
with its menacing possibilities. Yet despite a nameless regret and a
loyalty to Oregon, when he lay in his blankets he had to confess a keen
interest in his adventurous future, a keen enjoyment of this stark, wild
Arizona. It appeared to be a different sky stretching in dark,
star-spangled dome over him--closer, vaster, bluer. The strong
fragrance of sage and cedar floated over him with the camp-fire smoke,
and all seemed drowsily to subdue his thoughts.
At dawn he rolled out of his blankets and, pulling on his boots, began
the day with a zest for the work that must bring closer his calling future.
White, crackling frost and cold, nipping air were the same keen spurs to
action that he had known in the uplands of Oregon, yet they were not
wholly the same. He sensed an exhilaration similar to the effect of a
strong, sweet wine. His horse and mule had fared well during the night,
having been much refreshed by the grass and water of the little canyon.
Jean mounted and rode into the cedars with gladness that at last he had
put the endless leagues of barren land behind him.
The trail he followed appeared to be seldom traveled. It led, according
to the meager information obtainable at the last settlement, directly to
what was called the Rim, and from there Grass Valley could be seen
down in the Basin. The ascent of the ground was so gradual that only in
long, open stretches could it be seen. But the nature of the vegetation
showed Jean how he was climbing. Scant, low, scraggy cedars gave
place to more numerous, darker, greener, bushier ones, and these to
high, full-foliaged, green-berried trees. Sage and grass in the open flats
grew more luxuriously. Then came the pinyons, and presently among
them the checker-barked junipers. Jean hailed the first pine tree with a
hearty slap on the brown, rugged bark. It was a small dwarf pine
struggling to live. The next one was larger, and after that came several,

and beyond them pines stood up everywhere above the lower trees.
Odor of pine needles mingled with the other dry smells that made the
wind pleasant to Jean. In an hour from the first line of pines he had
ridden beyond the cedars and pinyons into a slowly thickening and
deepening forest. Underbrush appeared scarce except in ravines, and
the ground in open patches held a bleached grass. Jean's eye roved for
sight of squirrels, birds, deer, or any moving creature. It appeared to be
a dry, uninhabited forest. About midday Jean halted at a pond of
surface water, evidently melted snow, and gave his animals a drink. He
saw a few old deer tracks in the mud and several huge bird tracks new
to him which he concluded must have been made by wild turkeys.
The trail divided at this pond. Jean had no idea which branch he ought
to take. "Reckon it doesn't matter," he muttered, as he was about to
remount. His horse was standing with ears up, looking back along the
trail. Then Jean heard a clip-clop of trotting hoofs, and presently espied
a horseman.
Jean made a pretense of tightening his saddle girths while he peered
over his horse at the approaching rider. All men in this country were
going to be of exceeding interest to Jean Isbel. This man at a distance
rode and looked like all the Arizonians Jean had seen, he had a superb
seat in the saddle, and he was long and lean. He wore a huge black
sombrero and a soiled red scarf. His vest was open and he was without
a coat.
The rider came trotting up and halted several paces from Jean
"Hullo, stranger! " he said, gruffly.
"Howdy yourself!" replied Jean. He felt an instinctive importance in the
meeting with the man. Never had sharper eyes flashed over Jean and
his outfit. He had a dust-colored, sun-burned face, long, lean, and hard,
a huge sandy mustache that hid his mouth, and eyes of piercing light
intensity. Not very much hard Western experience had passed by this
man, yet he was not old, measured by years. When he dismounted Jean
saw he was tall, even for an Arizonian.

"Seen your tracks back a ways," he said, as he slipped the bit to let his
horse drink. "Where bound?"
"Reckon I'm lost, all right," replied Jean. "New country for me."
"Shore. I seen thet from your tracks an' your last camp. Wal, where was
you headin' for before you got lost?"
The query was deliberately cool, with a dry, crisp ring. Jean felt the
lack of friendliness