To The Last Man
But Ellen Jorth's moccasined feet did not leave a distinguishable trail on the springy pine
needle covering of the ground, and Jean could not find any trace of her.
A little futile searching to and fro cooled his impulse and called pride to his rescue.
Returning to his horse, he mounted, rode out behind the pack mule to start it along, and
soon felt the relief of decision and action. Clumps of small pines grew thickly in spots on
the Rim, making it necessary for him to skirt them; at which times he lost sight of the
purple basin. Every time he came back to an opening through which he could see the wild
ruggedness and colors and distances, his appreciation of their nature grew on him.
Arizona from Yuma to the Little Colorado had been to him an endless waste of wind-
scoured, sun-blasted barrenness. This black-forested rock-rimmed land of untrodden
ways was a world that in itself would satisfy him. Some instinct in Jean called for a
lonely, wild land, into the fastnesses of which he could roam at will and be the other
strange self that he had always yearned to be but had never been.
Every few moments there intruded into his flowing consciousness the flashing face of
Ellen Jorth, the way she had looked at him, the things she had said. "Reckon I was a
fool," he soliloquized, with an acute sense of humiliation. "She never saw how much in
earnest I was." And Jean began to remember the circumstances with a vividness that
disturbed and perplexed him.
The accident of running across such a girl in that lonely place might be out of the
ordinary--but it had happened. Surprise had made him dull. The charm of her appearance,
the appeal of her manner, must have drawn him at the very first, but he had not
recognized that. Only at her words, "Oh, I've been kissed before," had his feelings been
checked in their heedless progress. And the utterance of them had made a difference he
now sought to analyze. Some personality in him, some voice, some idea had begun to
defend her even before he was conscious that he had arraigned her before the bar of his
judgment. Such defense seemed clamoring in him now and he forced himself to listen. He
wanted, in his hurt pride, to justify his amazing surrender to a sweet and sentimental
He realized now that at first glance he should have recognized in her look, her poise, her
voice the quality he called thoroughbred. Ragged and stained apparel did not prove her of
a common sort. Jean had known a number of fine and wholesome girls of good family;
and he remembered his sister. This Ellen Jorth was that kind of a girl irrespective of her
present environment. Jean championed her loyally, even after he had gratified his selfish
It was then--contending with an intangible and stealing glamour, unreal and fanciful, like
the dream of a forbidden enchantment--that Jean arrived at the part in the little woodland
drama where he had kissed Ellen Jorth and had been unrebuked. Why had she not
resented his action? Dispelled was the illusion he had been dreamily and nobly