The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  Whereupon for the second time Ellen deposited the fascinating package in her tent. She could not burn it up just then. She had other emotions besides scorn and hate. And memory of that soft-voiced, kind-hearted, beautiful Isbel girl checked her resentment. “I wonder if he is like his sister,” she said, thoughtfully. It appeared to be an unfortunate thought. Jean Isbel certainly resembled his sister. “Too bad they belong to the family that ruined dad.”

  Ellen went to bed without opening the package or without burning it. And to her annoyance, whatever way she lay she appeared to touch this strange package. There was not much room in the little tent. First she put it at her head beside her rifle, but when she turned over her cheek came in contact with it. Then she felt as if she had been stung. She moved it again, only to touch it presently with her hand. Next she flung it to the bottom of her bed, where it fell upon her feet, and whatever way she moved them she could not escape the pressure of this undesirable and mysterious gift.

  By and by she fell asleep, only to dream that the package was a caressing hand stealing about her, feeling for hers, and holding it with soft, strong clasp. When she awoke she had the strangest sensation in her right palm. It was moist, throbbing, hot, and the feel of it on her cheek was strangely thrilling and comforting. She lay awake then. The night was dark and still. Only a low moan of wind in the pines and the faint tinkle of a sheep bell broke the serenity. She felt very small and lonely lying there in the deep forest, and, try how she would, it was impossible to think the same then as she did in the clear light of day. Resentment, pride, anger—these seemed abated now. If the events of the day had not changed her, they had at least brought up softer and kinder memories and emotions than she had known for long. Nothing hurt and saddened her so much as to remember the gay, happy days of her childhood, her sweet mother, her, old home. Then her thought returned to Isbel and his gift. It had been years since anyone had made her a gift. What could this one be? It did not matter. The wonder was that Jean Isbel should bring it to her and that she could be perturbed by its presence. “He meant it for his sister and so he thought well of me,” she said, in finality.

  Morning brought Ellen further vacillation. At length she rolled the obnoxious package inside her blankets, saying that she would wait until she got home and then consign it cheerfully to the flames. Antonio tied her pack on a burro. She did not have a horse, and therefore had to walk the several miles, to her father’s ranch.

  She set off at a brisk pace, leading the burro and carrying her rifle. And soon she was deep in the fragrant forest. The morning was clear and cool, with just enough frost to make the sunlit grass sparkle as if with diamonds. Ellen felt fresh, buoyant, singularly full of, life. Her youth would not be denied. It was pulsing, yearning. She hummed an old Southern tune and every step seemed one of pleasure in action, of advance toward some intangible future happiness. All the unknown of life before her called. Her heart beat high in her breast and she walked as one in a dream. Her thoughts were swift-changing, intimate, deep, and vague, not of yesterday or today, nor of reality.

  The big, gray, white-tailed squirrels crossed ahead of her on the trail, scampered over the piny ground to hop on tree trunks, and there they paused to watch her pass. The vociferous little red squirrels barked and chattered at her. From every thicket sounded the gobble of turkeys. The blue jays squalled in the tree tops. A deer lifted its head from browsing and stood motionless, with long ears erect, watching her go by.

  Thus happily and dreamily absorbed, Ellen covered the forest miles and soon reached the trail that led down into the wild brakes of Chevelon Canyon. It was rough going and less conducive to sweet wanderings of mind. Ellen slowly lost them. And then a familiar feeling assailed her, one she never failed to have upon returning to her father’s ranch—a reluctance, a bitter dissatisfaction with her home, a loyal struggle against the vague sense that all was not as it should be.

  At the head of this canyon in a little, level, grassy meadow stood a rude one-room log shack, with a leaning red-stone chimney on the outside. This was the abode of a strange old man who had long lived there. His name was John Sprague and his occupation was raising burros. No sheep or cattle or horses did he own, not even a dog. Rumor had said Sprague was a prospector, one of the many who had searched that country for the Lost Dutchman gold mine. Sprague knew more about the Basin and Rim than any of the sheepmen or ranchers. From Black Butte to the Cibique and from Chevelon Butte to Reno Pass he knew every trail, canyon, ridge, and spring, and could find his way to them on the darkest night. His fame, however, depended mostly upon the fact that he did nothing but raise burros, and would raise none but black burros with white faces. These burros were the finest bred in ail the Basin and were in great demand. Sprague sold a few every year. He had made a present of one to Ellen, although he hated to part with them. This old man was Ellen’s one and only friend.

  Upon her trip out to the Rim with the sheep, Uncle John, as Ellen called him, had been away on one of his infrequent visits to Grass Valley. It pleased her now to see a blue column of smoke lazily lifting from the old chimney and to hear the discordant bray of burros. As she entered the clearing Sprague saw her from the door of his shack.

  “Hello, Uncle John!” she called.

  “Wal, if it ain’t Ellen!” he replied, heartily. “When I seen thet white-faced jinny I knowed who was leadin’ her. Where you been, girl?”

  Sprague was a little, stoop-shouldered old man, with grizzled head and face, and shrewd gray eyes that beamed kindly on her over his ruddy cheeks. Ellen did not like the tobacco stain on his grizzled beard nor the dirty, motley, ragged, ill-smelling garb he wore, but she had ceased her useless attempts to make him more cleanly.

  “I’ve been herdin’ sheep,” replied Ellen. “And where have y’u been, uncle? I missed y’u on the way over.”

  “Been packin’ in some grub. An’ I reckon I stayed longer in Grass Valley than I recollect. But thet was only natural, considerin’—”

  “What?” asked Ellen, bluntly, as the old man paused.

  Sprague took a black pipe out of his vest pocket and began rimming the bowl with his fingers. The glance he bent on Ellen was thoughtful and earnest, and so kind that she feared it was pity. Ellen suddenly burned for news from the village.

  “Wal, come in an’ set down, won’t you?” he asked.

  “No, thanks,” replied Ellen, and she took a seat on the chopping block. “Tell me, uncle, what’s goin’ on down in the Valley?”

  “Nothin’ much yet—except talk. An’ there’s a heap of thet.”

  “Humph! There always was talk,” declared Ellen, contemptuously. “A nasty, gossipy, catty hole, that Grass Valley!”

  “Ellen, thar’s goin’ to be war—a bloody war in the ole Tonto Basin,” went on Sprague, seriously.

  “War! … Between whom?”

  “The Isbels an’ their enemies. I reckon most people down thar, an’ sure all the cattlemen, air on old Gass’s side. Blaisdell, Gordon, Fredericks, Blue—they’ll all be in it.”

  “Who are they goin’ to fight?” queried Ellen, sharply.

  “Wal, the open talk is thet the sheepmen are forcin’ this war. But thar’s talk not so open, an’ I reckon not very healthy for any man to whisper hyarbouts.”

  “Uncle John, y’u needn’t be afraid to tell me anythin’,” said Ellen. “I’d never give y’u away. Y’u’ve been a good friend to me.”

  “Reckon I want to be, Ellen,” he returned, nodding his shaggy head. “It ain’t easy to be fond of you as I am an’ keep my mouth shet…. I’d like to know somethin’. Hev you any relatives away from hyar thet you could go to till this fight’s over?”

  “No. All I have, so far as I know, are right heah.”

  “How aboot friends?”

  “Uncle John, I have none,” she said, sadly, with bowed head.

  “Wal, wal, I’m sorry. I was hopin’ you might git away.”

  She lifted her face. “Shore y’u don’t think I’d run off if
my dad got in a fight?” she flashed.

  “I hope you will.”

  “I’m a Jorth,” she said, darkly, and dropped her head again.

  Sprague nodded gloomily. Evidently he was perplexed and worried, and strongly swayed by affection for her.

  “Would you go away with me?” he asked. “We could pack over to the Mazatzals an’ live thar till this blows over.”

  “Thank y’u, Uncle John. Y’u’re kind and good. But I’ll stay with my father. His troubles are mine.”

  “Ahuh! … Wal, I might hev reckoned so…. Ellen, how do you stand on this hyar sheep an’ cattle question?”

  “I think what’s fair for one is fair for another. I don’t like sheep as much as I like cattle. But that’s not the point. The range is free. Suppose y’u had cattle and I had sheep. I’d feel as free to run my sheep anywhere as y’u were to ran your cattle.”

  “Right. But what if you throwed your sheep round my range an’ sheeped off the grass so my cattle would hev to move or starve?”

  “Shore I wouldn’t throw my sheep round y’ur range,” she declared, stoutly.

  “Wal, you’ve answered half of the question. An’ now supposin’ a lot of my cattle was stolen by rustlers, but not a single one of your sheep. What ’d you think then?”

  “I’d shore think rustlers chose to steal cattle because there was no profit in stealin’ sheep.”

  “Egzactly. But wouldn’t you hev a queer idee aboot it?”

  “I don’t know. Why queer? What’re y’u drivin’ at, Uncle John?”

  “Wal, wouldn’t you git kind of a hunch thet the rustlers was—say a leetle friendly toward the sheepmen?”

  Ellen felt a sudden vibrating shock. The blood rushed to her temples. Trembling all over, she rose.

  “Uncle John!” she cried.

  “Now, girl, you needn’t fire up thet way. Set down an’ don’t—”

  “Dare y’u insinuate my father has—”

  “Ellen, I ain’t insinuatin’ nothin’,” interrupted the old man. “I’m jest askin’ you to think. Thet’s all. You’re ’most grown into a young woman now. An’ you’ve got sense. Thar’s bad times ahead, Ellen. An’ I hate to see you mix in them.”

  “Oh, y’u do make me think,” replied Ellen, with smarting tears in her eyes. “Y’u make me unhappy. Oh, I know my dad is not liked in this cattle country. But it’s unjust. He happened to go in for sheep raising. I wish he hadn’t. It was a mistake. Dad always was a cattleman till we came heah. He made enemies—who—who ruined him. And everywhere misfortune crossed his trail…. But, oh, Uncle John, my dad is an honest man.”

  “Wal, child, I—I didn’t mean to—to make you cry,” said the old man, feelingly, and he averted his troubled gaze. “Never mind what I said. I’m an old meddler. I reckon nothin’ I could do or say would ever change what’s goin’ to happen. If only you wasn’t a girl! … Thar I go ag’in. Ellen, face your future an’ fight your way. All youngsters hev to do thet. An’ it’s the right kind of fight thet makes the right kind of man or woman. Only you must be sure to find yourself. An’ by thet I mean to find the real, true, honest-to-God best in you an’ stick to it an’ die fightin’ for it. You’re a young woman, almost, an’ a blamed handsomeone. Which means you’ll hev more trouble an’ a harder fight. This country ain’t easy on a woman when once slander has marked her.

  “What do I care for the talk down in that Basin?” returned Ellen. “I know they think I’m a hussy. I’ve let them think it. I’ve helped them to.”

  “You’re wrong, child,” said Sprague, earnestly. “Pride an’ temper! You must never let anyone think bad of you, much less help them to.”

  “I hate everybody down there,” cried Ellen, passionately. “I hate them so I’d glory in their thinkin’ me bad…. My mother belonged to the best blood in Texas. I am her daughter. I know who and what i am. That uplifts me whenever I meet the sneaky, sly suspicions of these Basin people. It shows me the difference between them and me. That’s what I glory in.”

  “Ellen, you’re a wild, headstrong child,” rejoined the old man, in severe tones. “Word has been passed ag’in’ your good name—your honor…. An’ hevn’t you given cause fer thet?”

  Ellen felt her face blanch and all her blood rush back to her heart in sickening force. The shock of his words was like a stab from a cold blade. If their meaning and the stem, just light of the old man’s glance did not kill her pride and vanity they surely killed her girlishness. She stood mute, staring at him, with her brown, trembling hands stealing up toward her bosom, as if to ward off another and a mortal blow.

  “Ellen!” burst out Sprague, hoarsely. “You mistook me. Aw, I didn’t mean—what you think, I swear…. Ellen, I’m old an’ blunt. I ain’t used to wimmen. But I’ve love for you, child, an’ respect, jest the same as if you was my own…. An’ I know you’re good…. Forgive me…. I meant only hevn’t you been, say, sort of—careless?”

  “Care-less?” queried Ellen, bitterly and low.

  “An’ powerful thoughtless an’—an’ blind—lettin’ men kiss you an’ fondle you—when you’re really a growed-up woman now?”

  “Yes—I have,” whispered Ellen.

  “Wal, then, why did you let them?

  “I—I don’t know…. I didn’t think. The men never let me alone—never—never! I got tired everlastingly pushin’ them away. And sometimes—when they were kind—and I was lonely for something I—I didn’t mind if one or another fooled round me. I never thought. It never looked as y’u have made it look…. Then—those few times ridin’ the trail to Grass Valley—when people saw me—then I guess I encouraged such attentions…. Oh, I must be—I am a shameless little hussy!”

  “Hush thet kind of talk,” said the old man, as he took her hand. “Ellen, you’re only young an’ lonely an’ bitter. No mother—no friends—no one but a lot of rough men! It’s a wonder you hev kept yourself good. But now your eyes are open, Ellen. They’re brave an’ beautiful eyes, girl, an’ if you stand by the light in them you will come through any trouble. An’ you’ll be happy. Don’t ever forgit that. Life is hard enough, God knows, but it’s unfailin’ true in the end to the man or woman who finds the best in them an’ stands by it.”

  “Uncle John, y’u talk so—so kindly. Yu make me have hope. There seemed really so little for me to live for—hope for…. But I’ll never be a coward again—nor a thoughtless fool. I’ll find some good in me—or make some—and never fail it, come what will. I’ll remember your words. I’ll believe the future holds wonderful things for me…. I’m only eighteen. Shore all my life won’t be lived heah. Perhaps this threatened fight over sheep and cattle will blow over…. Somewhere there must be some nice girl to be a friend—a sister to me…. And maybe some man who’d believe, in spite of all they say—that I’m not a hussy.”

  “Wal, Ellen, you remind me of what I was wantin’ to tell you when you just got here…. Yestiddy I heerd you called thet name in a barroom. An’ thar was a fellar thar who raised hell. He near killed one man an’ made another plumb eat his words. An’ he scared thet crowd stiff.”

  Old John Sprague shook his grizzled head and laughed, beaming upon Ellen as if the memory of what he had seen had warmed his heart.

  “Was it—y’u?” asked Ellen, tremulously.

  “Me? Aw, I wasn’t nowhere. Ellen, this fellar was quick as a cat in his actions an’ his words was like lightnin’.’

  “Who? she whispered.

  “Wal, no one else but a stranger jest come to these parts—an Isbel, too. Jean Isbel.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Ellen, faintly.

  “In a barroom full of men—almost all of them in sympathy with the sheep crowd—most of them on the Jorth side—this Jean Isbel resented an insult to Ellen Jorth.”

  “No!” cried Ellen. Something terrible was happening to her mind or her heart.

  “Wal, he sure did,” replied the old man, “an’ it’s goin’ to be good fer you to hear all about it.”

  TO
THE LAST MAN [Part 2]

  CHAPTER V

  Old John Sprague launched into his narrative with evident zest.

  “I hung round Greaves’ store most of two days. An’ I heerd a heap. Some of it was jest plain ole men’s gab, but I reckon I got the drift of things concernin’ Grass Valley. Yestiddy mornin’ I was packin’ my burros in Greaves’ back yard, takin’ my time carryin’ out supplies from the store. An’ as last when I went in I seen a strange fellar was thar. Strappin’ young man—not so young, either—an’ he had on buckskin. Hair black as my burros, dark face, sharp eyes—you’d took him fer an Injun. He carried a rifle—one of them new forty-fours—an’ also somethin’ wrapped in paper thet he seemed partickler careful about. He wore a belt round his middle an’ thar was a bowie-knife in it, carried like I’ve seen scouts an’ Injun fighters hev on the frontier in the ’seventies. That looked queer to me, an’ I reckon to the rest of the crowd thar. No one overlooked the big six-shooter he packed Texas fashion. Wal, I didn’t hev no idee this fellar was an Isbel until I heard Greaves call him thet.

  “‘Isbel,’ said Greaves, ‘reckon your money’s counterfeit hyar. I cain’t sell you anythin’.’

  “‘Counterfeit? Not much,’ spoke up the young fellar, an’ he flipped some gold twenties on the bar, where they rung like bells. ‘Why not? Ain’t this a store? I want a cinch strap.’

  “Greaves looked particular sour thet mornin’. I’d been watchin’ him fer two days. He hedn’t hed much sleep, fer I hed my bed back of the store, an’ I heerd men come in the night an’ hev long confabs with him. Whatever was in the wind hedn’t pleased him none. An’ I calkilated thet young Isbel wasn’t a sight good fer Greaves’ sore eyes, anyway. But he paid no more attention to Isbel. Acted jest as if he hedn’t heerd Isbel say he wanted a cinch strap.