een 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 exp