Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  “How — how can a girl...” began Jean. “See here, miss, I’m beggin’ your pardon for — sort of stirrin’ you to forget yourself a little. Reckon I understand. You don’t meet many strangers an’ I sort of hit you wrong — makin’ you feel too much — an’ talk too much. Who an’ what you are is none of my business. But we met.... An’ I reckon somethin’ has happened — perhaps more to me than to you.... Now let me put you straight about clothes an’ women. Reckon I know most women love nice things to wear an’ think because clothes make them look pretty that they’re nicer or better. But they’re wrong. You’re wrong. Maybe it ‘d be too much for a girl like you to be happy without clothes. But you can be — you axe just as nice, an’ — an’ fine — an’, for all you know, a good deal more appealin’ to some men.”

  “Stranger, y’u shore must excuse my temper an’ the show I made of myself,” replied the girl, with composure. “That, to say the least, was not nice. An’ I don’t want anyone thinkin’ better of me than I deserve. My mother died in Texas, an’ I’ve lived out heah in this wild country — a girl alone among rough men. Meetin’ y’u to-day makes me see what a hard lot they are — an’ what it’s done to me.”

  Jean smothered his curiosity and tried to put out of his mind a growing sense that he pitied her, liked her.

  “Are you a sheep herder?” he asked.

  “Shore I am now an’ then. My father lives back heah in a canyon. He’s a sheepman. Lately there’s been herders shot at. Just now we’re short an’ I have to fill in. But I like shepherdin’ an’ I love the woods, and the Rim Rock an’ all the Tonto. If they were all, I’d shore be happy.”

  “Herders shot at!” exclaimed Jean, thoughtfully. “By whom? An’ what for?”

  “Trouble brewin’ between the cattlemen down in the Basin an’ the sheepmen up on the Rim. Dad says there’ll shore be hell to pay. I tell him I hope the cattlemen chase him back to Texas.”

  “Then — Are you on the ranchers’ side?” queried Jean, trying to pretend casual interest.

  “No. I’ll always be on my father’s side,” she replied, with spirit. “But I’m bound to admit I think the cattlemen have the fair side of the argument.”

  “How so?”

  “Because there’s grass everywhere. I see no sense in a sheepman goin’ out of his way to surround a cattleman an’ sheep off his range. That started the row. Lord knows how it’ll end. For most all of them heah are from Texas.”

  “So I was told,” replied Jean. “An’ I heard’ most all these Texans got run out of Texas. Any truth in that?”

  “Shore I reckon there is,” she replied, seriously. “But, stranger, it might not be healthy for y’u to, say that anywhere. My dad, for one, was not run out of Texas. Shore I never can see why he came heah. He’s accumulated stock, but he’s not rich nor so well off as he was back home.”

  “Are you goin’ to stay here always?” queried Jean, suddenly.

  “If I do so it ‘ll be in my grave,” she answered, darkly. “But what’s the use of thinkin’? People stay places until they drift away. Y’u can never tell.... Well, stranger, this talk is keepin’ y’u.”

  She seemed moody now, and a note of detachment crept into her voice. Jean rose at once and went for his horse. If this girl did not desire to talk further he certainly had no wish to annoy her. His mule had strayed off among the bleating sheep. Jean drove it back and then led his horse up to where the girl stood. She appeared taller and, though not of robust build, she was vigorous and lithe, with something about her that fitted the place. Jean was loath to bid her good-by.

  “Which way is the Rim?” he asked, turning to his saddle girths.

  “South,” she replied, pointing. “It’s only a mile or so. I’ll walk down with y’u.... Suppose y’u’re on the way to Grass Valley?”

  “Yes; I’ve relatives there,” he returned. He dreaded her next question, which he suspected would concern his name. But she did not ask. Taking up her rifle she turned away. Jean strode ahead to her side. “Reckon if you walk I won’t ride.”

  So he found himself beside a girl with the free step of a Mountaineer. Her bare, brown head came up nearly to his shoulder. It was a small, pretty head, graceful, well held, and the thick hair on it was a shiny, soft brown. She wore it in a braid, rather untidily and tangled, he thought, and it was tied with a string of buckskin. Altogether her apparel proclaimed poverty.

  Jean let the conversation languish for a little. He wanted to think what to say presently, and then he felt a rather vague pleasure in stalking beside her. Her profile was straight cut and exquisite in line. From this side view the soft curve of lips could not be seen.

  She made several attempts to start conversation, all of which Jean ignored, manifestly to her growing constraint. Presently Jean, having decided what he wanted to say, suddenly began: “I like this adventure. Do you?”

  “Adventure! Meetin’ me in the woods?” And she laughed the laugh of youth. “Shore you must be hard up for adventure, stranger.”

  “Do you like it?” he persisted, and his eyes searched the half-averted face.

  “I might like it,” she answered, frankly, “if — if my temper had not made a fool of me. I never meet anyone I care to talk to. Why should it not be pleasant to run across some one new — some one strange in this heah wild country?”

  “We are as we are,” said Jean, simply. “I didn’t think you made a fool of yourself. If I thought so, would I want to see you again?”

  “Do y’u?” The brown face flashed on him with surprise, with a light he took for gladness. And because he wanted to appear calm and friendly, not too eager, he had to deny himself the thrill of meeting those changing eyes.

  “Sure I do. Reckon I’m overbold on such short acquaintance. But I might not have another chance to tell you, so please don’t hold it against me.”

  This declaration over, Jean felt relief and something of exultation. He had been afraid he might not have the courage to make it. She walked on as before, only with her head bowed a little and her eyes downcast. No color but the gold-brown tan and the blue tracery of veins showed in her cheeks. He noticed then a slight swelling quiver of her throat; and he became alive to its graceful contour, and to how full and pulsating it was, how nobly it set into the curve of her shoulder. Here in her quivering throat was the weakness of her, the evidence of her sex, the womanliness that belied the mountaineer stride and the grasp of strong brown hands on a rifle. It had an effect on Jean totally inexplicable to him, both in the strange warmth that stole over him and in the utterance he could not hold back.

  “Girl, we’re strangers, but what of that? We’ve met, an’ I tell you it means somethin’ to me. I’ve known girls for months an’ never felt this way. I don’t know who you are an’ I don’t care. You betrayed a good deal to me. You’re not happy. You’re lonely. An’ if I didn’t want to see you again for my own sake I would for yours. Some things you said I’ll not forget soon. I’ve got a sister, an’ I know you have no brother. An’ I reckon ...”

  At this juncture Jean in his earnestness and quite without thought grasped her hand. The contact checked the flow of his speech and suddenly made him aghast at his temerity. But the girl did not make any effort to withdraw it. So Jean, inhaling a deep breath and trying to see through his bewilderment, held on bravely. He imagined he felt a faint, warm, returning pressure. She was young, she was friendless, she was human. By this hand in his Jean felt more than ever the loneliness of her. Then, just as he was about to speak again, she pulled her hand free.

  “Heah’s the Rim,” she said, in her quaint Southern drawl. “An’ there’s Y’ur Tonto Basin.”

  Jean had been intent only upon the girl. He had kept step beside her without taking note of what was ahead of him. At her words he looked up expectantly, to be struck mute.

  He felt a sheer force, a downward drawing of an immense abyss beneath him. As he looked afar he saw a black basin of timbered country, the darkest and wildest he had ever gazed
upon, a hundred miles of blue distance across to an unflung mountain range, hazy purple against the sky. It seemed to be a stupendous gulf surrounded on three sides by bold, undulating lines of peaks, and on his side by a wall so high that he felt lifted aloft on the run of the sky.

  “Southeast y’u see the Sierra Anchas,” said the girl pointing. “That notch in the range is the pass where sheep are driven to Phoenix an’ Maricopa. Those big rough mountains to the south are the Mazatzals. Round to the west is the Four Peaks Range. An’ y’u’re standin’ on the Rim.”

  Jean could not see at first just what the Rim was, but by shifting his gaze westward he grasped this remarkable phenomenon of nature. For leagues and leagues a colossal red and yellow wall, a rampart, a mountain-faced cliff, seemed to zigzag westward. Grand and bold were the promontories reaching out over the void. They ran toward the westering sun. Sweeping and impressive were the long lines slanting away from them, sloping darkly spotted down to merge into the black timber. Jean had never seen such a wild and rugged manifestation of nature’s depths and upheavals. He was held mute.

  “Stranger, look down,” said the girl.

  Jean’s sight was educated to judge heights and depths and distances. This wall upon which he stood sheered precipitously down, so far that it made him dizzy to look, and then the craggy broken cliffs merged into red-slided, cedar-greened slopes running down and down into gorges choked with forests, and from which soared up a roar of rushing waters. Slope after slope, ridge beyond ridge, canyon merging into canyon — so the tremendous bowl sunk away to its black, deceiving depths, a wilderness across which travel seemed impossible.

  “Wonderful!” exclaimed Jean.

  “Indeed it is!” murmured the girl. “Shore that is Arizona. I reckon I love THIS. The heights an’ depths — the awfulness of its wilderness!”

  “An’ you want to leave it?”

  “Yes an’ no. I don’t deny the peace that comes to me heah. But not often do I see the Basin, an’ for that matter, one doesn’t live on grand scenery.”

  “Child, even once in a while — this sight would cure any misery, if you only see. I’m glad I came. I’m glad you showed it to me first.”

  She too seemed under the spell of a vastness and loneliness and beauty and grandeur that could not but strike the heart.

  Jean took her hand again. “Girl, say you will meet me here,” he said, his voice ringing deep in his ears.

  “Shore I will,” she replied, softly, and turned to him. It seemed then that Jean saw her face for the first time. She was beautiful as he had never known beauty. Limned against that scene, she gave it life — wild, sweet, young life — the poignant meaning of which haunted yet eluded him. But she belonged there. Her eyes were again searching his, as if for some lost part of herself, unrealized, never known before. Wondering, wistful, hopeful, glad — they were eyes that seemed surprised, to reveal part of her soul.

  Then her red lips parted. Their tremulous movement was a magnet to Jean. An invisible and mighty force pulled him down to kiss them. Whatever the spell had been, that rude, unconscious action broke it.

  He jerked away, as if he expected to be struck. “Girl — I — I” — he gasped in amaze and sudden-dawning contrition— “I kissed you — but I swear it wasn’t intentional — I never thought....”

  The anger that Jean anticipated failed to materialize. He stood, breathing hard, with a hand held out in unconscious appeal. By the same magic, perhaps, that had transfigured her a moment past, she was now invested again by the older character.

  “Shore I reckon my callin’ y’u a gentleman was a little previous,” she said, with a rather dry bitterness. “But, stranger, yu’re sudden.”

  “You’re not insulted?” asked Jean, hurriedly.

  “Oh, I’ve been kissed before. Shore men are all alike.”

  “They’re not,” he replied, hotly, with a subtle rush of disillusion, a dulling of enchantment. “Don’t you class me with other men who’ve kissed you. I wasn’t myself when I did it an’ I’d have gone on my knees to ask your forgiveness.... But now I wouldn’t — an’ I wouldn’t kiss you again, either — even if you — you wanted it.”

  Jean read in her strange gaze what seemed to him a vague doubt, as if she was questioning him.

  “Miss, I take that back,” added Jean, shortly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. It was a mean trick for me to kiss you. A girl alone in the woods who’s gone out of her way to be kind to me! I don’t know why I forgot my manners. An’ I ask your pardon.”

  She looked away then, and presently pointed far out and down into the Basin.

  “There’s Grass Valley. That long gray spot in the black. It’s about fifteen miles. Ride along the Rim that way till y’u cross a trail. Shore y’u can’t miss it. Then go down.”

  “I’m much obliged to you,” replied Jean, reluctantly accepting what he regarded as his dismissal. Turning his horse, he put his foot in the stirrup, then, hesitating, he looked across the saddle at the girl. Her abstraction, as she gazed away over the purple depths suggested loneliness and wistfulness. She was not thinking of that scene spread so wondrously before her. It struck Jean she might be pondering a subtle change in his feeling and attitude, something he was conscious of, yet could not define.

  “Reckon this is good-by,” he said, with hesitation.

  “ADIOS, SENOR,” she replied, facing him again. She lifted the little carbine to the hollow of her elbow and, half turning, appeared ready to depart.

  “Adios means good-by?” he queried.

  “Yes, good-by till to-morrow or good-by forever. Take it as y’u like.”

  “Then you’ll meet me here day after to-morrow?” How eagerly he spoke, on impulse, without a consideration of the intangible thing that had changed him!

  “Did I say I wouldn’t?”

  “No. But I reckoned you’d not care to after—” he replied, breaking off in some confusion.

  “Shore I’ll be glad to meet y’u. Day after to-morrow about mid-afternoon. Right heah. Fetch all the news from Grass Valley.”

  “All right. Thanks. That’ll be — fine,” replied Jean, and as he spoke he experienced a buoyant thrill, a pleasant lightness of enthusiasm, such as always stirred boyishly in him at a prospect of adventure. Before it passed he wondered at it and felt unsure of himself. He needed to think.

  “Stranger shore I’m not recollectin’ that y’u told me who y’u are,” she said.

  “No, reckon I didn’t tell,” he returned. “What difference does that make? I said I didn’t care who or what you are. Can’t you feel the same about me?”

  “Shore — I felt that way,” she replied, somewhat non-plussed, with the level brown gaze steadily on his face. “But now y’u make me think.”

  “Let’s meet without knowin’ any more about each other than we do now.”

  “Shore. I’d like that. In this big wild Arizona a girl — an’ I reckon a man — feels so insignificant. What’s a name, anyhow? Still, people an’ things have to be distinguished. I’ll call y’u ‘Stranger’ an’ be satisfied — if y’u say it’s fair for y’u not to tell who y’u are.”

  “Fair! No, it’s not,” declared Jean, forced to confession. “My name’s Jean — Jean Isbel.”

  “ISBEL!” she exclaimed, with a violent start. “Shore y’u can’t be son of old Gass Isbel.... I’ve seen both his sons.”

  “He has three,” replied Jean, with relief, now the secret was out. “I’m the youngest. I’m twenty-four. Never been out of Oregon till now. On my way—”

  The brown color slowly faded out of her face, leaving her quite pale, with eyes that began to blaze. The suppleness of her seemed to stiffen.

  “My name’s Ellen Jorth,” she burst out, passionately. “Does it mean anythin’ to y’u?”

  “Never heard it in my life,” protested Jean. “Sure I reckoned you belonged to the sheep raisers who ‘re on the outs with my father. That’s why I had to tell you I’m Jean Isbel.... Ellen Jorth. I
t’s strange an’ pretty.... Reckon I can be just as good a — a friend to you—”

  “No Isbel, can ever be a friend to me,” she said, with bitter coldness. Stripped of her ease and her soft wistfulness, she stood before him one instant, entirely another girl, a hostile enemy. Then she wheeled and strode off into the woods.

  Jean, in amaze, in consternation, watched her swiftly draw away with her lithe, free step, wanting to follow her, wanting to call to her; but the resentment roused by her suddenly avowed hostility held him mute in his tracks. He watched her disappear, and when the brown-and-green wall of forest swallowed the slender gray form he fought against the insistent desire to follow her, and fought in vain.

  CHAPTER II

  BUT ELLEN JORTH’S moccasined feet did not leave a distinguishable trail on the springy pine needle covering of the ground, and Jean could not find any trace of her.

  A little futile searching to and fro cooled his impulse and called pride to his rescue. Returning to his horse, he mounted, rode out behind the pack mule to start it along, and soon felt the relief of decision and action. Clumps of small pines grew thickly in spots on the Rim, making it necessary for him to skirt them; at which times he lost sight of the purple basin. Every time he came back to an opening through which he could see the wild ruggedness and colors and distances, his appreciation of their nature grew on him. Arizona from Yuma to the Little Colorado had been to him an endless waste of wind-scoured, sun-blasted barrenness. This black-forested rock-rimmed land of untrodden ways was a world that in itself would satisfy him. Some instinct in Jean called for a lonely, wild land, into the fastnesses of which he could roam at will and be the other strange self that he had always yearned to be but had never been.