Jean Isbel! ... Wal, he was my
youngest brother an' shore a fire-eater. Our mother was a French
creole from Louisiana, an' Jean must have inherited some of his
fightin' nature from her. When the war of the rebellion started Jean
an' I enlisted. I was crippled before we ever got to the front. But
Jean went through three Years before he was killed. His company had
orders to fight to the last man. An' Jean fought an' lived long enough
just to be that last man."
At length Jean was left alone with his father.
"Reckon you're used to bunkin' outdoors?" queried the rancher, rather
abruptly.
"Most of the time," replied Jean.
"Wal, there's room in the house, but I want you to sleep out. Come get
your beddin' an' gun. I'll show you."
They went outside on the porch, where Jean shouldered his roll of
tarpaulin and blankets. His rifle, in its saddle sheath, leaned
against the door. His father took it up and, half pulling it out,
looked at it by the starlight. "Forty-four, eh? Wal, wal, there's
shore no better, if a man can hold straight." At the moment a big gray
dog trotted up to sniff at Jean. "An' heah's your bunkmate, Shepp.
He's part lofer, Jean. His mother was a favorite shepherd dog of mine.
His father was a big timber wolf that took us two years to kill. Some
bad wolf packs runnin' this Basin."
The night was cold and still, darkly bright under moon and stars; the
smell of hay seemed to mingle with that of cedar. Jean followed his
father round the house and up a gentle slope of grass to the edge of
the cedar line. Here several trees with low-sweeping thick branches
formed a dense, impenetrable shade.
"Son, your uncle Jean was scout for Liggett, one of the greatest rebels
the South had," said the rancher. "An' you're goin' to be scout for
the Isbels of Tonto. Reckon you'll find it 'most as hot as your uncle
did.... Spread your bed inside. You can see out, but no one can see
you. Reckon there's been some queer happenin's 'round heah lately. If
Shepp could talk he'd shore have lots to tell us. Bill an' Guy have
been sleepin' out, trailin' strange hoss tracks, an' all that. But
shore whoever's been prowlin' around heah was too sharp for them. Some
bad, crafty, light-steppin' woodsmen 'round heah, Jean.... Three
mawnin's ago, just after daylight, I stepped out the back door an' some
one of these sneaks I'm talkin' aboot took a shot at me. Missed my
head a quarter of an inch! To-morrow I'll show you the bullet hole in
the doorpost. An' some of my gray hairs that 're stickin' in it!"
"Dad!" ejaculated Jean, with a hand outstretched. "That's awful! You
frighten me."
"No time to be scared," replied his father, calmly. "They're shore
goin' to kill me. That's why I wanted you home.... In there with you,
now! Go to sleep. You shore can trust Shepp to wake you if he gets
scent or sound.... An' good night, my son. I'm sayin' that I'll rest
easy to-night."
Jean mumbled a good night and stood watching his father's shining white
head move away under the starlight. Then the tall, dark form vanished,
a door closed, and all was still. The dog Shepp licked Jean's hand.
Jean felt grateful for that warm touch. For a moment he sat on his
roll of bedding, his thought still locked on the shuddering revelation
of his father's words, "They're shore goin' to kill me." The shock of
inaction passed. Jean pushed his pack in the dark opening and,
crawling inside, he unrolled it and made his bed.
When at length he was comfortably settled for the night he breathed a
long sigh of relief. What bliss to relax! A throbbing and burning of
his muscles seemed to begin with his rest. The cool starlit night, the
smell of cedar, the moan of wind, the silence—an were real to his
senses. After long weeks of long, arduous travel he was home. The
warmth of the welcome still lingered, but it seemed to have been
pierced by an icy thrust. What lay before him? The shadow in the eyes
of his aunt, in the younger, fresher eyes of his sister—Jean connected
that with the
youngest brother an' shore a fire-eater. Our mother was a French
creole from Louisiana, an' Jean must have inherited some of his
fightin' nature from her. When the war of the rebellion started Jean
an' I enlisted. I was crippled before we ever got to the front. But
Jean went through three Years before he was killed. His company had
orders to fight to the last man. An' Jean fought an' lived long enough
just to be that last man."
At length Jean was left alone with his father.
"Reckon you're used to bunkin' outdoors?" queried the rancher, rather
abruptly.
"Most of the time," replied Jean.
"Wal, there's room in the house, but I want you to sleep out. Come get
your beddin' an' gun. I'll show you."
They went outside on the porch, where Jean shouldered his roll of
tarpaulin and blankets. His rifle, in its saddle sheath, leaned
against the door. His father took it up and, half pulling it out,
looked at it by the starlight. "Forty-four, eh? Wal, wal, there's
shore no better, if a man can hold straight." At the moment a big gray
dog trotted up to sniff at Jean. "An' heah's your bunkmate, Shepp.
He's part lofer, Jean. His mother was a favorite shepherd dog of mine.
His father was a big timber wolf that took us two years to kill. Some
bad wolf packs runnin' this Basin."
The night was cold and still, darkly bright under moon and stars; the
smell of hay seemed to mingle with that of cedar. Jean followed his
father round the house and up a gentle slope of grass to the edge of
the cedar line. Here several trees with low-sweeping thick branches
formed a dense, impenetrable shade.
"Son, your uncle Jean was scout for Liggett, one of the greatest rebels
the South had," said the rancher. "An' you're goin' to be scout for
the Isbels of Tonto. Reckon you'll find it 'most as hot as your uncle
did.... Spread your bed inside. You can see out, but no one can see
you. Reckon there's been some queer happenin's 'round heah lately. If
Shepp could talk he'd shore have lots to tell us. Bill an' Guy have
been sleepin' out, trailin' strange hoss tracks, an' all that. But
shore whoever's been prowlin' around heah was too sharp for them. Some
bad, crafty, light-steppin' woodsmen 'round heah, Jean.... Three
mawnin's ago, just after daylight, I stepped out the back door an' some
one of these sneaks I'm talkin' aboot took a shot at me. Missed my
head a quarter of an inch! To-morrow I'll show you the bullet hole in
the doorpost. An' some of my gray hairs that 're stickin' in it!"
"Dad!" ejaculated Jean, with a hand outstretched. "That's awful! You
frighten me."
"No time to be scared," replied his father, calmly. "They're shore
goin' to kill me. That's why I wanted you home.... In there with you,
now! Go to sleep. You shore can trust Shepp to wake you if he gets
scent or sound.... An' good night, my son. I'm sayin' that I'll rest
easy to-night."
Jean mumbled a good night and stood watching his father's shining white
head move away under the starlight. Then the tall, dark form vanished,
a door closed, and all was still. The dog Shepp licked Jean's hand.
Jean felt grateful for that warm touch. For a moment he sat on his
roll of bedding, his thought still locked on the shuddering revelation
of his father's words, "They're shore goin' to kill me." The shock of
inaction passed. Jean pushed his pack in the dark opening and,
crawling inside, he unrolled it and made his bed.
When at length he was comfortably settled for the night he breathed a
long sigh of relief. What bliss to relax! A throbbing and burning of
his muscles seemed to begin with his rest. The cool starlit night, the
smell of cedar, the moan of wind, the silence—an were real to his
senses. After long weeks of long, arduous travel he was home. The
warmth of the welcome still lingered, but it seemed to have been
pierced by an icy thrust. What lay before him? The shadow in the eyes
of his aunt, in the younger, fresher eyes of his sister—Jean connected
that with the
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