by Zane Grey
The gobbling of wild turkeys awakened Jean, “Chuga-lug, chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug-chug.” There was not a great difference between the gobble of a wild turkey and that of a tame one. Jean got up, and taking his rifle went out into the gray obscurity of dawn to try to locate the turkeys. But it was too dark, and finally when daylight came they appeared to be gone. The mule had strayed, and, what with finding it and cooking breakfast and packing, Jean did not make a very early start. On this last lap of his long journey he had slowed down. He was weary of hurrying; the change from weeks in the glaring sun and dust-laden wind to this sweet coot darkly green and brown forest was very welcome; he wanted to linger along the shaded trail. This day he made sure would see him reach the Rim. By and by he lost the trail. It had just worn out from lack of use. Every now and then Jean would cross an old trail, and as he penetrated deeper into the forest every damp or dusty spot showed tracks of turkey, deer, and bear. The amount of bear sign surprised him. Presently his keen nostrils were assailed by a smell of sheep, and soon he rode into a broad sheep, trail. From the tracks Jean calculated that the sheep had passed there the day before.
An unreasonable antipathy seemed born in him. To be sure he had been prepared to dislike sheep, and that was why he was unreasonable. But on the other hand this band of sheep had left a broad bare swath, weedless, grassless, flowerless, in their wake. Where sheep grazed they destroyed. That was what Jean had against them.
An hour later he rode to the crest of a long parklike slope, where new green grass was sprouting and flowers peeped everywhere. The pines appeared far apart; gnarled oak trees showed rugged and gray against the green wall of woods. A white strip of snow gleamed like a moving stream away down in the woods.
Jean heard the musical tinkle of bells and the baa-baa of sheep and the faint, sweet bleating of lambs. As he road toward these sounds a dog ran out from an oak thicket and barked at him. Next Jean smelled a camp fire and soon he caught sight of a curling blue column of smoke, and then a small peaked tent. Beyond the clump of oaks Jean encountered a Mexican lad carrying a carbine. The boy had a swarthy, pleasant face, and to Jean’s greeting he replied, “Buenas dias.” Jean understood little Spanish, and about all he gathered by his simple queries was that the lad was not alone—and that it was “lambing time.”
This latter circumstance grew noisily manifest. The forest seemed shrilly full of incessant baas and plaintive bleats. All about the camp, on the slope, in the glades, and everywhere, were sheep. A few were grazing; many were lying down; most of them were ewes suckling white fleecy little lambs that staggered on their feet. Everywhere Jean saw tiny lambs just born. Their pin-pointed bleats pierced the heavier baa-baa of their mothers.
Jean dismounted and led his horse down toward the camp, where he rather expected to see another and older Mexican, from whom he might get information. The lad walked with him. Down this way the plaintive uproar made by the sheep was not so loud.
“Hello there!” called Jean, cheerfully, as he approached the tent. No answer was forthcoming. Dropping his bridle, he went on, rather slowly, looking for someone to appear. Then a voice from one side startled him.
“Mawnin’, stranger.”
A girl stepped out from beside a pine. She carried a rifle. Her face flashed richly brown, but she was not Mexican. This fact, and the sudden conviction that she had been watching him, somewhat disconcerted Jean.
“Beg pardon—miss,” he floundered. “Didn’t expect, to see a—girl…. I’m sort of lost—lookin’ for the Rim—an’ thought I’d find a sheep herder who’d show me. I can’t savvy this boy’s lingo.”
While he spoke it seemed to him an intentness of expression, a strain relaxed from her face. A faint suggestion of hostility likewise disappeared. Jean was not even sure that he had caught it, but there had been something that now was gone.
“Shore I’ll be glad to show y’u,” she said.
“Thanks, miss. Reckon I can breathe easy now,” he replied,
“It’s a long ride from San Diego. Hot an’ dusty! I’m pretty tired. An’ maybe this woods isn’t good medicine to achin’ eyes!”
“San Diego! Y’u’re from the coast?”
“Yes.”
Jean had doffed his sombrero at sight of her and he still held it, rather deferentially, perhaps. It seemed to attract her attention.
“Put on y’ur hat, stranger…. Shore I can’t recollect when any man bared his haid to me.” She uttered a little laugh in which surprise and frankness mingled with a tint of bitterness.
Jean sat down with his back to a pine, and, laying the sombrero by his side, he looked full at her, conscious of a singular eagerness, as if he wanted to verify by close scrutiny a first hasty impression. If there had been an instinct in his meeting with Colter, there was more in this. The girl half sat, half leaned against a log, with the shiny little carbine across her knees. She had a level, curious gaze upon him, and Jean had never met one just like it. Her eyes were rather a wide oval in shape, clear and steady, with shadows of thought in their amber-brown depths. They seemed to look through Jean, and his gaze dropped first. Then it was he saw her ragged homespun skirt and a few inches of brown, bare ankles, strong and round, and crude worn-out moccasins that failed to hide the shapeliness, of her feet. Suddenly she drew back her stockingless ankles and ill-shod little feet. When Jean lifted his gaze again he found her face half averted and a stain of red in the gold tan of her cheek. That touch of embarrassment somehow removed her from this strong, raw, wild woodland setting. It changed her poise. It detracted from the curious, unabashed, almost bold, look that he had encountered in her eyes.
“Reckon you’re from Texas,” said Jean, presently.
“Shore am,” she drawled. She had a lazy Southern voice, pleasant to hear. “How’d y’u-all guess that?”
“Anybody can tell a Texan. Where I came from there were a good many pioneers an’ ranchers from the old Lone Star state. I’ve worked for several. An’, come to think of it, I’d rather hear a Texas girl talk than anybody.”
“Did y’u know many Texas girls?” she inquired, turning again to face him.
“Reckon I did—quite a good many.”
“Did y’u go with them?”
“Go with them? Reckon you mean keep company. Why, yes, I guess I did—a little,” laughed Jean. “Sometimes on a Sunday or a dance once in a blue moon, an’ occasionally a ride.”
“Shore that accounts,” said the girl, wistfully.
“For what?” asked Jean.
“Y’ur bein’ a gentleman,” she replied, with force. “Oh, I’ve not forgotten. I had friends when we lived in Texas…. Three years ago. Shore it seems longer. Three miserable years in this damned country!”
Then she bit her lip, evidently to keep back further unwitting utterance to a total stranger. And it was that biting of her lip that drew Jean’s attention to her mouth. It held beauty of curve and fullness and color that could not hide a certain sadness and bitterness. Then the whole flashing brown face changed for Jean. He saw that it was young, full of passion and restraint, possessing a power which grew on him. This, with her shame and pathos and the fact that she craved respect, gave a leap to Jean’s interest.
“Well, I reckon you flatter me,” he said, hoping to put her at her ease again. “I’m only a rough hunter an’ fisherman-woodchopper an’ horse tracker. Never had all the school I needed—nor near enough company of nice girls like you.”
“Am I nice?” she asked, quickly.
“You sure are,” he replied, smiling.
“In these rags,” she demanded, with a sudden flash of passion that thrilled him. “Look at the holes.” She showed rips and worn-out places in the sleeves of her buckskin blouse, through which gleamed a round, brown arm. “I sew when I have anythin’ to sew with…. Look at my skirt—a dirty rag. An’ I have only one other to my name…. Look!” Again a color tinged her cheeks, most becoming, and giving the lie to her action. But shame could not check her violence now. A dammed-up re
sentment seemed to have broken out in flood. She lifted the ragged skirt almost to her knees. “No stockings! No Shoes! … How can a girl be nice when she has no clean, decent woman’s clothes to wear?”
“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 today 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 someone new—someone 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!”