To The Last Man | Page 7

or kindliness in it.
"Grass Valley. My name's Isbel," he replied, shortly.
The rider attended to his drinking horse and presently rebridled him;
then with long swing of leg he appeared to step into the saddle.
"Shore I knowed you was Jean Isbel," he said. "Everybody in the Tonto
has heerd old Gass Isbel sent fer his boy."
"Well then, why did you ask?" inquired Jean, bluntly.
"Reckon I wanted to see what you'd say."
"So? All right. But I'm not carin' very much for what YOU say."
Their glances locked steadily then and each measured the other by the
intangible conflict of spirit.
"Shore thet's natural," replied the rider. His speech was slow, and the
motions of his long, brown hands, as he took a cigarette from his vest,
kept time with his words. "But seein' you're one of the Isbels, I'll hev
my say whether you want it or not. My name's Colter an' I'm one of the
sheepmen Gass Isbel's riled with."
"Colter. Glad to meet you," replied Jean. "An' I reckon who riled my
father is goin' to rile me."
"Shore. If thet wasn't so you'd not be an Isbel," returned Colter, with a
grim little laugh. "It's easy to see you ain't run into any Tonto Basin

fellers yet. Wal, I'm goin' to tell you thet your old man gabbed like a
woman down at Greaves's store. Bragged aboot you an' how you could
fight an' how you could shoot an' how you could track a hoss or a man!
Bragged how you'd chase every sheep herder back up on the Rim. . . .
I'm tellin' you because we want you to git our stand right. We're goin' to
run sheep down in Grass Valley."
"Ahuh! Well, who's we?" queried Jean, curtly.
"What-at? . . . We--I mean the sheepmen rangin' this Rim from Black
Butte to the Apache country."
"Colter, I'm a stranger in Arizona," said Jean, slowly. I know little
about ranchers or sheepmen. It's true my father sent for me. It's true, I
dare say, that he bragged, for he was given to bluster an' blow. An' he's
old now. I can't help it if he bragged about me. But if he has, an' if he's
justified in his stand against you sheepmen, Im goin' to do my best to
live up to his brag. "
"I get your hunch. Shore we understand each other, an' thet's a powerful
help. You take my hunch to your old man," replied Colter, as he turned
his horse away toward the left. "Thet trail leadin' south is yours. When
you come to the Rim you'll see a bare spot down in the Basin. Thet 'll
be Grass Valley."
He rode away out of sight into the woods. Jean leaned against his horse
and pondered. It seemed difficult to be just to this Colter, not because
of his claims, but because of a subtle hostility that emanated from him.
Colter had the hard face, the masked intent, the turn of speech that Jean
had come to associate with dishonest men. Even if Jean had not been
prejudiced, if he had known nothing of his father's trouble with these
sheepmen, and if Colter had met him only to exchange glances and
greetings, still Jean would never have had a favorable impression.
Colter grated upon him, roused an antagonism seldom felt.
"Heigho!" sighed the young man, "Good-by to huntin' an' fishing'!
Dad's given me a man's job."

With that he mounted his horse and started the pack mule into the
right-hand trail. Walking and trotting, he traveled all afternoon, toward
sunset getting into heavy forest of pine. More than one snow bank
showed white through the green, sheltered on the north slopes of shady
ravines. And it was upon entering this zone of richer, deeper forestland
that Jean sloughed off his gloomy forebodings. These stately pines
were not the giant firs of Oregon, but any lover of the woods could be
happy under them. Higher still he climbed until the forest spread before
and around him like a level park, with thicketed ravines here and there
on each side. And presently that deceitful level led to a higher bench
upon which the pines towered, and were matched by beautiful trees he
took for spruce. Heavily barked, with regular spreading branches, these
conifers rose in symmetrical shape to spear the sky with silver plumes.
A graceful gray-green moss, waved like veils from the branches. The
air was not so dry and it was colder, with a scent and touch of snow.
Jean made camp at the first likely site, taking the precaution to unroll
his bed some little distance from his fire. Under the softly moaning
pines he felt comfortable, having lost the sense of an immeasurable
open space falling