Thus happily and dreamily absorbed, Ellen covered the forest miles and soon reached the trail that led down into the wild brakes of Chevelon Canyon. It was rough going and less conducive to sweet wanderings of mind. Ellen slowly lost them. And then a familiar feeling assailed her, one she never failed to have upon returning to her father's ranch --a reluctance, a bitter dissatisfaction with her home, a loyal struggle against the vague sense that all was not as it should be.
At the head of this canyon in a little, level, grassy meadow stood a rude one-room log shack, with a leaning red-stone chimney on the outside.
This was the abode of a strange old man who had long lived there. His name was John Sprague and his occupation was raising burros. No sheep or cattle or horses did he own, not even a dog. Rumor had said Sprague was a prospector, one of the many who had searched that country for the Lost Dutchman gold mine. Sprague knew more about the Basin and Rim than any of the sheepmen or ranchers. From Black Butte to the Cibique and from Chevelon Butte to Reno Pass he knew every trail, canyon, ridge, and spring, and could find his way to them on the darkest night. His fame, however, depended mostly upon the fact that he did nothing but raise burros, and would raise none but black burros with white faces.
These burros were the finest bred in ail the Basin and were in great demand. Sprague sold a few every year. He had made a present of one to Ellen, although he hated to part with them. This old man was Ellen's one and only friend.
Upon her trip out to the Rim with the sheep, Uncle John, as Ellen called him, had been away on one of his infrequent visits to Grass Valley. It pleased her now to see a blue column of smoke lazily lifting from the old chimney and to hear the discordant bray of burros.
As she entered the clearing Sprague saw her from the door of his shack.
"Hello, Uncle John!" she called.
"Wal, if it ain't Ellen!" he replied, heartily. "When I seen thet white-faced jinny I knowed who was leadin' her. Where you been, girl?"
Sprague was a little, stoop-shouldered old man, with grizzled head and face, and shrewd gray eyes that beamed kindly on her over his ruddy cheeks. Ellen did not like the tobacco stain on his grizzled beard nor the dirty, motley, ragged, ill-smelling garb he wore, but she had ceased her useless attempts to make him more cleanly.
"I've been herdin' sheep," replied Ellen. "And where have y'u been, uncle? I missed y'u on the way over."
"Been packin' in some grub. An' I reckon I stayed longer in Grass Valley than I recollect. But thet was only natural, considerin'--"
"What?" asked Ellen, bluntly, as the old man paused.
Sprague took a black pipe out of his vest pocket and began rimming the bowl with his fingers. The glance he bent on Ellen was thoughtful and earnest, and so kind that she feared it was pity. Ellen suddenly burned for news from the village.
Wal, come in an' set down, won't you?" he asked.
"No, thanks," replied Ellen, and she took a seat on the chopping block.
"Tell me, uncle, what's goin' on down in the Valley?"
"Nothin' much yet--except talk. An' there's a heap of thet."
"Humph! There always was talk," declared Ellen, contemptuously.
"A nasty, gossipy, catty hole, that Grass Valley!"
"Ellen, thar's goin' to be war--a bloody war in the ole Tonto Basin," went on Sprague, seriously.
"War! . . . Between whom?"
"The Isbels an' their enemies. I reckon most people down thar, an' sure all the cattlemen, air on old Gass's side. Blaisdell, Gordon, Fredericks, Blue--they'll all be in it."
"Who are they goin' to fight?" queried Ellen, sharply.
" Wal, the open talk is thet the sheepmen are forcin' this war. But thar's talk not so open, an' I reckon not very healthy for any man to whisper hyarbouts."
"Uncle John, y'u needn't be afraid to tell me anythin', said Ellen.
"I'd never give y'u away. Y'u've been a good friend to me."
"Reckon I want to be, Ellen," he returned, nodding his shaggy head.
"It ain't easy to be fond of you as I am an' keep my mouth shet. . . I'd like to know somethin'. Hev you any relatives away from hyar thet you could go to till this fight's over?"
"No. All I have, so far as I know, are right heah."
"How aboot friends?"
"Uncle John, I have none," she said, sadly, with bowed head.
"Wal, wal, I'm sorry. I was hopin' you might git away."
She lifted her face. "Shore y'u don't think I'd run off if my dad got in a fight? " she flashed.
"I hope you will."
"I'm a Jorth," she said, darkly, and dropped her head again.
Sprague nodded gloomily. Evidently he was perplexed and worried, and strongly swayed by affection for her.
"Would you go away with me? " he asked. "We could pack over to the Mazatzals an' live thar till this blows over."
"Thank y'u, Uncle John. Y'u're kind and good. But I'll stay with my father. His troubles are mine."
"Ahuh! . . . Wal, I might hev reckoned so. . . . Ellen, how do you stand on this hyar sheep an' cattle question?"
"I think what's fair for one is fair for another. I don't like sheep as much as I like cattle. But that's not the point. The range is free.
Suppose y'u had cattle and I had sheep. I'd feel as free to run my sheep anywhere as y'u were to ran your cattle."
"Right. But what if you throwed your sheep round my range an' sheeped off the grass so my cattle would hev to move or starve?"
"Shore I wouldn't throw my sheep round y'ur range," she declared, stoutly.
"Wal, you've answered half of the question. An' now supposin' a lot of my cattle was stolen by rustlers, but not a single one of your sheep.
What 'd you think then? "
"I'd shore think rustlers chose to steal cattle because there was no profit in stealin' sheep."
"Egzactly. But wouldn't you hev a queer idee aboot it?"
"I don't know. Why queer? What 're y'u drivin' at, Uncle John?"
"Wal, wouldn't you git kind of a hunch thet the rustlers was--say a leetle friendly toward the sheepmen?
Ellen felt a sudden vibrating shock. The blood rushed to her temples.
Trembling all over, she rose.
"Uncle John!" she cried.