“Rustlers, son. An’ shore the real old Texas brand. The old Lone Star State got too hot for them, an’ they followed the trail of a lot of other Texans who needed a healthier climate. Some two hundred Texans around heah, Jean, an’ maybe a matter of three hundred inhabitants in the Tonto all told, good an’ bad. Reckon it’s aboot half an’ half.”
A cheery call from the kitchen interrupted the conversation of the men.
“You come to breakfast.”
During the meal the old rancher talked to Bill and Guy about the day’s order of work; and from this Jean gathered an idea of what a big cattle business his father conducted. After breakfast Jean’s brothers manifested keen interest in the new rifles. These were unwrapped and cleaned and taken out for testing. The three rifles were forty-four calibre Winchesters, the kind of gun Jean had found most effective. He tried them out first, and the shots he made were satisfactory to him and amazing to the others. Bill had used an old Henry rifle. Guy did not favor any particular rifle. The rancher pinned his faith to the famous old single-shot buffalo gun, mostly called needle gun. “Wal, reckon I’d better stick to mine. Shore you cain’t teach an old dog new tricks. But you boys may do well with the forty-fours. Pack ’em on your saddles an’ practice when you see a coyote.”
Jean found it difficult to convince himself that this interest in guns and marksmanship had any sinister propulsion back of it. His father and brothers had always been this way. Rifles were as important to pioneers as plows, and their skillful use was an achievement every frontiersman tried to attain. Friendly rivalry had always existed among the members of the Isbel family: even Ann Isbel was a good shot. But such proficiency in the use of firearms—and life in the open that was correlative with it—had not dominated them as it had Jean. Bill and Guy Isbel were born cattlemen—chips of the old block. Jean began to hope that his father’s letter was an exaggeration, and particularly that the fatalistic speech of last night, “they are goin’ to kill me,” was just a moody inclination to see the worst side. Still, even as Jean tried to persuade himself of this more hopeful view, he recalled many references to the peculiar reputation of Texans for gun-throwing, for feuds, for never-ending hatreds. In Oregon the Isbels had lived among industrious and peaceful pioneers from all over the States; to be sure, the life had been rough and primitive, and there had been fights on occasions, though no Isbel had ever killed a man. But now they had become fixed in a wilder and sparsely settled country among men of their own breed. Jean was afraid his hopes had only sentiment to foster them. Nevertheless, be forced back a strange, brooding, mental state and resolutely held up the brighter side. Whatever the evil conditions existing in Grass Valley, they could be met with intelligence and courage, with an absolute certainty that it was inevitable they must pass away. Jean refused to consider the old, fatal law that at certain wild times and wild places in the West certain men had to pass away to change evil conditions.
“Wal, Jean, ride around the range with the boys,” said the rancher. “Meet some of my neighbors, Jim Blaisdell, in particular. Take a look at the cattle. An’ pick out some hosses for yourself.”
“I’ve seen one already,” declared Jean, quickly. “A black with white face. I’ll take him.”
“Shore you know a hoss. To my eye he’s my pick. But the boys don’t agree. Bill ‘specially has degenerated into a fancier of pitchin’ hosses. Ann can ride that black. You try him this mawnin’.... An’, son, enjoy yourself.”
True to his first impression, Jean named the black horse Whiteface and fell in love with him before ever he swung a leg over him. Whiteface appeared spirited, yet gentle. He had been trained instead of being broken. Of hard hits and quirts and spurs he had no experience. He liked to do what his rider wanted him to do.
A hundred or more horses grazed in the grassy meadow, and as Jean rode on among them it was a pleasure to see stallions throw heads and ears up and whistle or snort. Whole troops of colts and two-year-olds raced with flying tails and manes.