n' aboot a favorite son. But they are
people who hate me an' are afraid. True, son, I talked with a purpose,
but shore I was mighty cold an' steady when I did it. My feelin' was
that you'd do what I'd do if I were thirty years younger. No, I
reckoned you'd do more. For I figured on your blood. Jean, you're
Indian, an' Texas an' French, an' you've trained yourself in the Oregon
woods. When you were only a boy, few marksmen I ever knew could beat
you, an' I never saw your equal for eye an' ear, for trackin' a hoss,
for all the gifts that make a woodsman.... Wal, rememberin' this an'
seein' the trouble ahaid for the Isbels, I just broke out whenever I
had a chance. I bragged before men I'd reason to believe would take my
words deep. For instance, not long ago I missed some stock, an',
happenin' into Greaves's place one Saturday night, I shore talked loud.
His barroom was full of men an' some of them were in my black book.
Greaves took my talk a little testy. He said. 'Wal, Gass, mebbe you're
right aboot some of these cattle thieves livin' among us, but ain't
they jest as liable to be some of your friends or relatives as Ted
Meeker's or mine or any one around heah?' That was where Greaves an'
me fell out. I yelled at him: 'No, by God, they're not! My record heah
an' that of my people is open. The least I can say for you, Greaves,
an' your crowd, is that your records fade away on dim trails.' Then he
said, nasty-like, 'Wal, if you could work out all the dim trails in the
Tonto you'd shore be surprised.' An' then I roared. Shore that was
the chance I was lookin' for. I swore the trails he hinted of would be
tracked to the holes of the rustlers who made them. I told him I had
sent for you an' when you got heah these slippery, mysterious thieves,
whoever they were, would shore have hell to pay. Greaves said he hoped
so, but he was afraid I was partial to my Indian son. Then we had hot
words. Blaisdell got between us. When I was leavin' I took a partin'
fling at him. 'Greaves, you ought to know the Isbels, considerin'
you're from Texas. Maybe you've got reasons for throwin' taunts at my
claims for my son Jean. Yes, he's got Indian in him an' that 'll be
the worse for the men who will have to meet him. I'm tellin' you,
Greaves, Jean Isbel is the black sheep of the family. If you ride down
his record you'll find he's shore in line to be another Poggin, or
Reddy Kingfisher, or Hardin', or any of the Texas gunme