tightening his saddle girths while he peered over his horse at the approaching rider. All men in this country were going to be of exceeding interest to Jean Isbel. This man at a distance rode and looked like all the Arizonians Jean had seen, he had a superb seat in the saddle, and he was long and lean. He wore a huge black sombrero and a soiled red scarf. His vest was open and he was without a coat. 

 The rider came trotting up and halted several paces from Jean 

 "Hullo, stranger!" he said, gruffly. 

 "Howdy yourself!" replied Jean. He felt an instinctive importance in the meeting with the man. Never had sharper eyes flashed over Jean and his outfit. He had a dust-colored, sun-burned face, long, lean, and hard, a huge sandy mustache that hid his mouth, and eyes of piercing light intensity. Not very much hard Western experience had passed by this man, yet he was not old, measured by years. When he dismounted Jean saw he was tall, even for an Arizonian. 

 "Seen your tracks back a ways," he said, as he slipped the bit to let his horse drink.  "Where bound?" 

 "Reckon I'm lost, all right," replied Jean.  "New country for me." 

 "Shore. I seen thet from your tracks an' your last camp. Wal, where was you headin' for before you got lost?" 

 The query was deliberately cool, with a dry, crisp ring. Jean felt the lack of friendliness or kindliness in it. 

 "Grass Valley. My name's Isbel," he replied, shortly. 

 The rider attended to his drinking horse and presently rebridled him; then with long swing of leg he appeared to step into the saddle. 

 "Shore I knowed you was Jean Isbel," he said.  "Everybody in the Tonto has heerd old Gass Isbel sent fer his boy." 

 "Well then, why did you ask?" inquired Jean, bluntly. 

 "Reckon I wanted to see what you'd say." 

 "So? All right. But I'm not carin' very much for what YOU say." 

 Their glances locked steadily then and each measured the other by the intangible conflict of spirit. 

 Prev. P 7/227 next