lumber and no glass had been used. Strong and skillful
hands, axes and a crosscut saw, had been the prime factors in erecting
this habitation of the Isbels.
"Good mawnin', son," called a cheery voice from the porch. "Shore
we-all heard you shoot; an' the crack of that forty-four was as welcome
as May flowers."
Bill Isbel looked up from a task over a saddle girth and inquired
pleasantly if Jean ever slept of nights. Guy Isbel laughed and there
was warm regard in the gaze he bent on Jean.
"You old Indian!" he drawled, slowly. "Did you get a bead on anythin'?"
"No. I shot to scare away what I found to be some of your lofers,"
replied Jean. "I heard them pullin' down a calf. An' I found tracks
of two whoppin' big wolves. I found the dead calf, too. Reckon the
meat can be saved. Dad, you must lose a lot of stock here."
"Wal, son, you shore hit the nail on the haid," replied the rancher.
"What with lions an' bears an' lofers—an' two-footed lofers of another
breed—I've lost five thousand dollars in stock this last year."
"Dad! You don't mean it!" exclaimed Jean, in astonishment. To him that
sum represented a small fortune.
"I shore do," answered his father.
Jean shook his head as if he could not understand such an enormous loss
where there were keen able-bodied men about. "But that's awful, dad.
How could it happen? Where were your herders an' cowboys? An' Bill an'
Guy?"
Bill Isbel shook a vehement fist at Jean and retorted in earnest,
having manifestly been hit in a sore spot. "Where was me an' Guy, huh?
Wal, my Oregon brother, we was heah, all year, sleepin' more or less
aboot three hours out of every twenty-four—ridin' our boots off—an'
we couldn't keep down that loss."
"Jean, you-all have a mighty tumble comin' to you out heah," said Guy,
complacently.
"Listen, son," spoke up the rancher. "You want to have some hunches
before you figure on our troubles. There's two or three packs of
lofers, an' in winter time they are hell to deal with. Lions thick as
bees, an' shore bad when the snow's on. Bears will kill a cow now an'
then. An' whenever an' old silvertip comes mozyin' across from the
Mazatzals he kills stock. I'm in with half a dozen cattlemen. We all
work together, an' the whole outfit cain't keep these vermints down.
Then two years ago the Hash Knife Gang come into the Tonto."
"Hash Knife Gang? What a pretty name!" replied Jean. "Who're they?"
"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
hands, axes and a crosscut saw, had been the prime factors in erecting
this habitation of the Isbels.
"Good mawnin', son," called a cheery voice from the porch. "Shore
we-all heard you shoot; an' the crack of that forty-four was as welcome
as May flowers."
Bill Isbel looked up from a task over a saddle girth and inquired
pleasantly if Jean ever slept of nights. Guy Isbel laughed and there
was warm regard in the gaze he bent on Jean.
"You old Indian!" he drawled, slowly. "Did you get a bead on anythin'?"
"No. I shot to scare away what I found to be some of your lofers,"
replied Jean. "I heard them pullin' down a calf. An' I found tracks
of two whoppin' big wolves. I found the dead calf, too. Reckon the
meat can be saved. Dad, you must lose a lot of stock here."
"Wal, son, you shore hit the nail on the haid," replied the rancher.
"What with lions an' bears an' lofers—an' two-footed lofers of another
breed—I've lost five thousand dollars in stock this last year."
"Dad! You don't mean it!" exclaimed Jean, in astonishment. To him that
sum represented a small fortune.
"I shore do," answered his father.
Jean shook his head as if he could not understand such an enormous loss
where there were keen able-bodied men about. "But that's awful, dad.
How could it happen? Where were your herders an' cowboys? An' Bill an'
Guy?"
Bill Isbel shook a vehement fist at Jean and retorted in earnest,
having manifestly been hit in a sore spot. "Where was me an' Guy, huh?
Wal, my Oregon brother, we was heah, all year, sleepin' more or less
aboot three hours out of every twenty-four—ridin' our boots off—an'
we couldn't keep down that loss."
"Jean, you-all have a mighty tumble comin' to you out heah," said Guy,
complacently.
"Listen, son," spoke up the rancher. "You want to have some hunches
before you figure on our troubles. There's two or three packs of
lofers, an' in winter time they are hell to deal with. Lions thick as
bees, an' shore bad when the snow's on. Bears will kill a cow now an'
then. An' whenever an' old silvertip comes mozyin' across from the
Mazatzals he kills stock. I'm in with half a dozen cattlemen. We all
work together, an' the whole outfit cain't keep these vermints down.
Then two years ago the Hash Knife Gang come into the Tonto."
"Hash Knife Gang? What a pretty name!" replied Jean. "Who're they?"
"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
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