Zane Grey by To the Last Man Page B

objects, of course, were
indistinguishable in the dark-gray obscurity, except when he came close
upon them. Shepp showed an increasing eagerness to bolt out into the
void. When Jean had traveled half a mile from the house he heard a
scattered trampling of cattle on the run, and farther out a low
strangled bawl of a calf. "Ahuh!" muttered Jean. "Cougar or some
varmint pulled down that calf." Then he discharged his rifle in the
air and yelled with all his might. It was necessary then to yell again
to hold Shepp back.
    Thereupon Jean set forth down the valley, and tramped out and across
and around, as much to scare away whatever had been after the stock as
to look for the wounded calf. More than once he heard cattle moving
away ahead of him, but he could not see them. Jean let Shepp go,
hoping the dog would strike a trail. But Shepp neither gave tongue nor
came back. Dawn began to break, and in the growing light Jean searched
around until at last he stumbled over a dead calf, lying in a little
bare wash where water ran in wet seasons. Big wolf tracks showed in
the soft earth. "Lofers," said Jean, as he knelt and just covered one
track with his spread hand. "We had wolves in Oregon, but not as big
as these.... Wonder where that half-wolf dog, Shepp, went. Wonder if
he can be trusted where wolves are concerned. I'll bet not, if there's
a she-wolf runnin' around."
    Jean found tracks of two wolves, and he trailed them out of the wash,
then lost them in the grass. But, guided by their direction, he went
on and climbed a slope to the cedar line, where in the dusty patches he
found the tracks again. "Not scared much," he muttered, as he noted
the slow trotting tracks. "Well, you old gray lofers, we're goin' to
clash." Jean knew from many a futile hunt that wolves were the wariest
and most intelligent of wild animals in the quest. From the top of a
low foothill he watched the sun rise; and then no longer wondered why
his father waxed eloquent over the beauty and location and luxuriance
of this grassy valley. But it was large enough to make rich a good
many ranchers. Jean tried to restrain any curiosity as to his father's
dealings in Grass Valley until the situation had been made clear.
    Moreover, Jean wanted to love this wonderful country. He wanted to be
free to ride and hunt and roam to his heart's content; and therefore he
dreaded hearing his father's claims. But Jean threw off forebodings.
Nothing ever turned out so badly as it presaged. He would think the
best until certain of the worst. The morning was gloriously bright,
and already the frost was glistening wet on the stones. Grass Valley
shone like burnished silver dotted with innumerable black spots. Burros
were braying their discordant messages to one another; the colts were
romping in the fields; stallions were whistling; cows were bawling. A
cloud of blue smoke hung low over the ranch house, slowly wafting away
on the wind. Far out in the valley a dark group of horsemen were
riding toward the village. Jean glanced thoughtfully at them and
reflected that he seemed destined to harbor suspicion of all men new
and strange to him. Above the distant village stood the darkly green
foothills leading up to the craggy slopes, and these ending in the Rim,
a red, black-fringed mountain front, beautiful in the morning sunlight,
lonely, serene, and mysterious against the level skyline. Mountains,
ranges, distances unknown to Jean, always called to him—to come, to
seek, to explore, to find, but no wild horizon ever before beckoned to
him as this one. And the subtle vague emotion that had gone to sleep
with him last night awoke now hauntingly. It took effort to dispel the
desire to think, to wonder.
    Upon his return to the house, he went around on the valley side, so as
to see the place by light of day. His father had built for permanence;
and evidently there had been three constructive periods in the history
of that long, substantial, picturesque log house. But few nails and
little sawed