Zane Grey (8 page)

Blaisdell struck Jean as being a lionlike type of Texan, both in his
broad, bold face, his huge head with its upstanding tawny hair like a
mane, and in the speech and force that betokened the nature of his
heart. He was not as old as Jean's father. He had a rolling voice,
with the same drawling intonation characteristic of all Texans, and
blue eyes that still held the fire of youth. Quite a marked contrast
he presented to the lean, rangy, hard-jawed, intent-eyed men Jean had
begun to accept as Texans.

Blaisdell took time for a curious scrutiny and study of Jean, that,
frank and kindly as it was, and evidently the adjustment of impressions
gotten from hearsay, yet bespoke the attention of one used to judging
men for himself, and in this particular case having reasons of his own
for so doing.

"Wal, you're like your sister Ann," said Blaisdell. "Which you may
take as a compliment, young man. Both of you favor your mother. But
you're an Isbel. Back in Texas there are men who never wear a glove on
their right hands, an' shore I reckon if one of them met up with you
sudden he'd think some graves had opened an' he'd go for his gun."

Blaisdell's laugh pealed out with deep, pleasant roll. Thus he planted
in Jean's sensitive mind a significant thought-provoking idea about the
past-and-gone Isbels.

His further remarks, likewise, were exceedingly interesting to Jean.
The settling of the Tonto Basin by Texans was a subject often in
dispute. His own father had been in the first party of adventurous
pioneers who had traveled up from the south to cross over the Reno Pass
of the Mazatzals into the Basin. "Newcomers from outside get
impressions of the Tonto accordin' to the first settlers they meet,"
declared Blaisdell. "An' shore it's my belief these first impressions
never change, just so strong they are! Wal, I've heard my father say
there were men in his wagon train that got run out of Texas, but he
swore he wasn't one of them. So I reckon that sort of talk held good
for twenty years, an' for all the Texans who emigrated, except, of
course, such notorious rustlers as Daggs an' men of his ilk. Shore
we've got some bad men heah. There's no law. Possession used to mean
more than it does now. Daggs an' his Hash Knife Gang have begun to
hold forth with a high hand. No small rancher can keep enough stock to
pay for his labor."

At the time of which Blaisdell spoke there were not many sheepmen and
cattlemen in the Tonto, considering its vast area. But these, on
account of the extreme wildness of the broken country, were limited to
the comparatively open Grass Valley and its adjacent environs.
Naturally, as the inhabitants increased and stock raising grew in
proportion the grazing and water rights became matters of extreme
importance. Sheepmen ran their flocks up on the Rim in summer time and
down into the Basin in winter time. A sheepman could throw a few
thousand sheep round a cattleman's ranch and ruin him. The range was
free. It was as fair for sheepmen to graze their herds anywhere as it
was for cattlemen. This of course did not apply to the few acres of
cultivated ground that a rancher could call his own; but very few
cattle could have been raised on such limited area. Blaisdell said
that the sheepmen were unfair because they could have done just as
well, though perhaps at more labor, by keeping to the ridges and
leaving the open valley and little flats to the ranchers. Formerly
there had been room enough for all; now the grazing ranges were being
encroached upon by sheepmen newly come to the Tonto. To Blaisdell's
way of thinking the rustler menace was more serious than the
sheeping-off of the range, for the simple reason that no cattleman knew
exactly who the rustlers were and for the more complex and significant
reason that the rustlers did not steal sheep.

"Texas was overstocked with bad men an' fine steers," concluded
Blaisdell. "Most of the first an' some of the last have struck the
Tonto. The sheepmen have now got distributin' points for wool an'
sheep at Maricopa an' Phoenix. They're shore waxin' strong an' bold."

"Ahuh! ... An' what's likely to come of this mess?" queried Jean.

"Ask your dad," replied Blaisdell.

"I will. But I reckon I'd be obliged for your opinion."

"Wal, short an' sweet it's this: Texas cattlemen will never allow the
range they stocked to be overrun by sheepmen."

"Who's this man Greaves?" went on Jean. "Never run into anyone like
him."

"Greaves is hard to figure. He's a snaky customer in deals. But he
seems to be good to the poor people 'round heah. Says he's from
Missouri. Ha-ha! He's as much Texan as I am. He rode into the Tonto
without even a pack to his name. An' presently he builds his stone
house an' freights supplies in from Phoenix. Appears to buy an' sell a
good deal of stock. For a while it looked like he was steerin' a
middle course between cattlemen an' sheepmen. Both sides made a
rendezvous of his store, where he heard the grievances of each. Laterly
he's leanin' to the sheepmen. Nobody has accused him of that yet. But
it's time some cattleman called his bluff."

"Of course there are honest an' square sheepmen in the Basin?" queried
Jean.

"Yes, an' some of them are not unreasonable. But the new fellows that
dropped in on us the last few year—they're the ones we're goin' to
clash with."

"This—sheepman, Jorth?" went on Jean, in slow hesitation, as if
compelled to ask what he would rather not learn.

"Jorth must be the leader of this sheep faction that's harryin' us
ranchers. He doesn't make threats or roar around like some of them.
But he goes on raisin' an' buyin' more an' more sheep. An' his herders
have been grazin' down all around us this winter. Jorth's got to be
reckoned with."

"Who is he?"

"Wal, I don't know enough to talk aboot. Your dad never said so, but I
think he an' Jorth knew each other in Texas years ago. I never saw
Jorth but once. That was in Greaves's barroom. Your dad an' Jorth met
that day for the first time in this country. Wal, I've not known men
for nothin'. They just stood stiff an' looked at each other. Your dad
was aboot to draw. But Jorth made no sign to throw a gun."

Jean saw the growing and weaving and thickening threads of a tangle
that had already involved him. And the sudden pang of regret he
sustained was not wholly because of sympathies with his own people.

"The other day back up in the woods on the Rim I ran into a sheepman
who said his name was Colter. Who is he?

"Colter? Shore he's a new one. What'd he look like?"

Jean described Colter with a readiness that spoke volumes for the
vividness of his impressions.

"I don't know him," replied Blaisdell. "But that only goes to prove my
contention—any fellow runnin' wild in the woods can say he's a
sheepman."

"Colter surprised me by callin' me by my name," continued Jean. "Our
little talk wasn't exactly friendly. He said a lot about my bein' sent
for to run sheep herders out of the country."

"Shore that's all over," replied Blaisdell, seriously. "You're a
marked man already."

"What started such rumor?"

"Shore you cain't prove it by me. But it's not taken as rumor. It's
got to the sheepmen as hard as bullets."

"Ahuh! That accunts for Colter's seemin' a little sore under the
collar. Well, he said they were goin' to run sheep over Grass Valley,
an' for me to take that hunch to my dad."

Blaisdell had his chair tilted back and his heavy boots against a post
of the porch. Down he thumped. His neck corded with a sudden rush of
blood and his eyes changed to blue fire.

"The hell he did!" he ejaculated, in furious amaze.

Jean gauged the brooding, rankling hurt of this old cattleman by his
sudden break from the cool, easy Texan manner. Blaisdell cursed under
his breath, swung his arms violently, as if to throw a last doubt or
hope aside, and then relapsed to his former state. He laid a brown
hand on Jean's knee.

"Two years ago I called the cards," he said, quietly. "It means a
Grass Valley war."

Not until late that afternoon did Jean's father broach the subject
uppermost in his mind. Then at an opportune moment he drew Jean away
into the cedars out of sight.

"Son, I shore hate to make your home-comin' unhappy," he said, with
evidence of agitation, "but so help me God I have to do it!"

"Dad, you called me Prodigal, an' I reckon you were right. I've
shirked my duty to you. I'm ready now to make up for it," replied
Jean, feelingly.

"Wal, wal, shore thats fine-spoken, my boy.... Let's set down heah an'
have a long talk. First off, what did Jim Blaisdell tell you?"

Briefly Jean outlined the neighbor rancher's conversation. Then Jean
recounted his experience with Colter and concluded with Blaisdell's
reception of the sheepman's threat. If Jean expected to see his father
rise up like a lion in his wrath he made a huge mistake. This news of
Colter and his talk never struck even a spark from Gaston Isbel.

"Wal," he began, thoughtfully, "reckon there are only two points in
Jim's talk I need touch on. There's shore goin' to be a Grass Valley
war. An' Jim's idea of the cause of it seems to be pretty much the
same as that of all the other cattlemen. It 'll go down a black blot
on the history page of the Tonto Basin as a war between rival sheepmen
an' cattlemen. Same old fight over water an' grass! ... Jean, my son,
that is wrong. It 'll not be a war between sheepmen an' cattlemen. But
a war of honest ranchers against rustlers maskin' as sheep-raisers! ...
Mind you, I don't belittle the trouble between sheepmen an' cattlemen
in Arizona. It's real an' it's vital an' it's serious. It 'll take law
an' order to straighten out the grazin' question. Some day the
government will keep sheep off of cattle ranges.... So get things right
in your mind, my son. You can trust your dad to tell the absolute
truth. In this fight that 'll wipe out some of the Isbels—maybe all
of them—you're on the side of justice an' right. Knowin' that, a man
can fight a hundred times harder than he who knows he is a liar an' a
thief."

The old rancher wiped his perspiring face and breathed slowly and
deeply. Jean sensed in him the rise of a tremendous emotional strain.
Wonderingly he watched the keen lined face. More than material worries
were at the root of brooding, mounting thoughts in his father's eyes.

"Now next take what Jim said aboot your comin' to chase these
sheep-herders out of the valley.... Jean, I started that talk. I had my
tricky reasons. I know these greaser sheep-herders an' I know the
respect Texans have for a gunman. Some say I bragged. Some say I'm an
old fool in his dotage, ravin' aboot a favorite son. But they are
people who hate me an' are afraid. True, son, I talked with a purpose,
but shore I was mighty cold an' steady when I did it. My feelin' was
that you'd do what I'd do if I were thirty years younger. No, I
reckoned you'd do more. For I figured on your blood. Jean, you're
Indian, an' Texas an' French, an' you've trained yourself in the Oregon
woods. When you were only a boy, few marksmen I ever knew could beat
you, an' I never saw your equal for eye an' ear, for trackin' a hoss,
for all the gifts that make a woodsman.... Wal, rememberin' this an'
seein' the trouble ahaid for the Isbels, I just broke out whenever I
had a chance. I bragged before men I'd reason to believe would take my
words deep. For instance, not long ago I missed some stock, an',
happenin' into Greaves's place one Saturday night, I shore talked loud.
His barroom was full of men an' some of them were in my black book.
Greaves took my talk a little testy. He said. 'Wal, Gass, mebbe you're
right aboot some of these cattle thieves livin' among us, but ain't
they jest as liable to be some of your friends or relatives as Ted
Meeker's or mine or any one around heah?' That was where Greaves an'
me fell out. I yelled at him: 'No, by God, they're not! My record heah
an' that of my people is open. The least I can say for you, Greaves,
an' your crowd, is that your records fade away on dim trails.' Then he
said, nasty-like, 'Wal, if you could work out all the dim trails in the
Tonto you'd shore be surprised.' An' then I roared. Shore that was
the chance I was lookin' for. I swore the trails he hinted of would be
tracked to the holes of the rustlers who made them. I told him I had
sent for you an' when you got heah these slippery, mysterious thieves,
whoever they were, would shore have hell to pay. Greaves said he hoped
so, but he was afraid I was partial to my Indian son. Then we had hot
words. Blaisdell got between us. When I was leavin' I took a partin'
fling at him. 'Greaves, you ought to know the Isbels, considerin'
you're from Texas. Maybe you've got reasons for throwin' taunts at my
claims for my son Jean. Yes, he's got Indian in him an' that 'll be
the worse for the men who will have to meet him. I'm tellin' you,
Greaves, Jean Isbel is the black sheep of the family. If you ride down
his record you'll find he's shore in line to be another Poggin, or
Reddy Kingfisher, or Hardin', or any of the Texas gunmen you ought to
remember.... Greaves, there are men rubbin' elbows with you right heah
that my Indian son is goin' to track down!'"

Jean bent his head in stunned cognizance of the notoriety with which
his father had chosen to affront any and all Tonto Basin men who were
under the ban of his suspicion. What a terrible reputation and trust
to have saddled upon him! Thrills and strange, heated sensations
seemed to rush together inside Jean, forming a hot ball of fire that
threatened to explode. A retreating self made feeble protests. He saw
his own pale face going away from this older, grimmer man.

"Son, if I could have looked forward to anythin' but blood spillin' I'd
never have given you such a name to uphold," continued the rancher.
"What I'm goin' to tell you now is my secret. My other sons an' Ann
have never heard it. Jim Blaisdell suspects there's somethin' strange,
but he doesn't know. I'll shore never tell anyone else but you. An'
you must promise to keep my secret now an' after I am gone."