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To　The　Last　Man

by　Zane　Grey







FOREWORD

It　was　inevitable　that　in　my　efforts　to　write　romantic　history　of　the
great　West　I　should　at　length　come　to　the　story　of　a　feud。　　For　long
I　have　steered　clear　of　this　rock。　　But　at　last　I　have　reached　it　and
must　go　over　it；　driven　by　my　desire　to　chronicle　the　stirring　events
of　pioneer　days。

Even　to…day　it　is　not　possible　to　travel　into　the　remote　corners　of
the　West　without　seeing　the　lives　of　people　still　affected　by　a
fighting　past。　　How　can　the　truth　be　told　about　the　pioneering　of
the　West　if　the　struggle；　the　fight；　the　blood　be　left　out？　　It　cannot
be　done。　　How　can　a　novel　be　stirring　and　thrilling；　as　were　those
times；　unless　it　be　full　of　sensation？　　My　long　labors　have　been
devoted　to　making　stories　resemble　the　times　they　depict。　　I　have
loved　the　West　for　its　vastness；　its　contrast；　its　beauty　and　color
and　life；　for　its　wildness　and　violence；　and　for　the　fact　that　I
have　seen　how　it　developed　great　men　and　women　who　died　unknown
and　unsung。

In　this　materialistic　age；　this　hard；　practical；　swift；　greedy　age
of　realism；　it　seems　there　is　no　place　for　writers　of　romance；　no
place　for　romance　itself。　　For　many　years　all　the　events　leading　up
to　the　great　war　were　realistic；　and　the　war　itself　was　horribly
realistic；　and　the　aftermath　is　likewise。　　Romance　is　only　another
name　for　idealism；　and　I　contend　that　life　without　ideals　is　not
worth　living。　　Never　in　the　history　of　the　world　were　ideals　needed
so　terribly　as　now。　　Walter　Scott　wrote　romance；　so　did　Victor　Hugo；
and　likewise　Kipling；　Hawthorne；　Stevenson。　　It　was　Stevenson；
particularly；　who　wielded　a　bludgeon　against　the　realists。　　People
live　for　the　dream　in　their　hearts。　　And　I　have　yet　to　know　anyone
who　has　not　some　secret　dream；　some　hope；　however　dim；　some　storied
wall　to　look　at　in　the　dusk；　some　painted　window　leading　to　the　soul。
How　strange　indeed　to　find　that　the　realists　have　ideals　and　dreams！
To　read　them　one　would　think　their　lives　held　nothing　significant。
But　they　love；　they　hope；　they　dream；　they　sacrifice；　they　struggle
on　with　that　dream　in　their　hearts　just　the　same　as　others。　　We　all
are　dreamers；　if　not　in　the　heavy…lidded　wasting　of　time；　then　in　the
meaning　of　life　that　makes　us　work　on。

It　was　Wordsworth　who　wrote；　〃The　world　is　too　much　with　us〃；　and　if
I　could　give　the　secret　of　my　ambition　as　a　novelist　in　a　few　words
it　would　be　contained　in　that　quotation。　　My　inspiration　to　write　has
always　come　from　nature。　　Character　and　action　are　subordinated　to
setting。　　In　all　that　I　have　done　I　have　tried　to　make　people　see　how
the　world　is　too　much　with　them。　　Getting　and　spending　they　lay　waste
their　powers；　with　never　a　breath　of　the　free　and　wonderful　life　of
the　open！

So　I　come　back　to　the　main　point　of　this　foreword；　in　which　I　am
trying　to　tell　why　and　how　I　came　to　write　the　story　of　a　feud
notorious　in　Arizona　as　the　Pleasant　Valley　War。

Some　years　ago　Mr。　Harry　Adams；　a　cattleman　of　Vermajo　Park；　New　Mexico；
told　me　he　had　been　in　the　Tonto　Basin　of　Arizona　and　thought　I　might
find　interesting　material　there　concerning　this　Pleasant　Valley　War。
His　version　of　the　war　between　cattlemen　and　sheepmen　certainly
determined　me　to　look　over　the　ground。　　My　old　guide；　Al　Doyle　of
Flagstaff；　had　led　me　over　half　of　Arizona；　but　never　down　into　that
wonderful　wild　and　rugged　basin　between　the　Mogollon　Mesa　and　the
Mazatzal　Mountains。　　Doyle　had　long　lived　on　the　frontier　and　his
version　of　the　Pleasant　Valley　War　differed　markedly　from　that　of
Mr。　Adams。　　I　asked　other　old　timers　about　it；　and　their　remarks
further　excited　my　curiosity。

Once　down　there；　Doyle　and　I　found　the　wildest；　most　rugged；　roughest；
and　most　remarkable　country　either　of　us　had　visited；　and　the　few
inhabitants　were　like　the　country。　　I　went　in　ostensibly　to　hunt　bear
and　lion　and　turkey；　but　what　I　really　was　hunting　for　was　the　story
of　that　Pleasant　Valley　War。　　I　engaged　the　services　of　a　bear　hunter
who　had　three　strapping　sons　as　reserved　and　strange　and　aloof　as　he　was。
No　wheel　tracks　of　any　kind　had　ever　come　within　miles　of　their　cabin。
I　spent　two　wonderful　months　hunting　game　and　reveling　in　the　beauty
and　grandeur　of　that　Rim　Rock　country；　but　I　came　out　knowing　no　more
about　the　Pleasant　Valley　War。　　These　Texans　and　their　few　neighbors；
likewise　from　Texas；　did　not　talk。　　But　all　I　saw　and　felt　only　inspired
me　the　more。　　This　trip　was　in　the　fall　of　1918。

The　next　year　I　went　again　with　the　best　horses；　outfit；　and　men　the
Doyles　could　provide。　　And　this　time　I　did　not　ask　any　questions。
But　I　rode　horsessome　of　them　too　wild　for　meand　packed　a　rifle
many　a　hundred　miles；　riding　sometimes　thirty　and　forty　miles　a　day；
and　I　climbed　in　and　out　of　the　deep　canyons；　desperately　staying　at
the　heels　of　one　of　those　long…legged　Texans。　　I　learned　the　life　of
those　backwoodsmen；　but　I　did　not　get　the　story　of　the　Pleasant
Valley　War。　　I　had；　however；　won　the　friendship　of　that　hardy　people。

In　1920　I　went　back　with　a　still　larger　outfit；　equipped　to　stay　as
long　as　I　liked。　　And　this　time；　without　my　asking　it；　different
natives　of　the　Tonto　came　to　tell　me　about　the　Pleasant　Valley　War。
No　two　of　them　agreed　on　anything　concerning　it；　except　that　only　one
of　the　active　participants　survived　the　fighting。　　Whence　comes　my
title；　TO　THE　LAST　MAN。　　Thus　I　was　swamped　in　a　mass　of　material
out　of　which　I　could　only　flounder　to　my　own　conclusion。　　Some　of
the　stories　told　me　are　singularly　tempting　to　a　novelist。　　But；
though　I　believe　them　myself；　I　cannot　risk　their　improbability
to　those　who　have　no　idea　of　the　wildness　of　wild　men　at　a　wild
time。　　There　really　was　a　terrible　and　bloody　feud；　perhaps　the
most　deadly　and　least　known　in　all　the　annals　of　the　West。　　I　saw
the　ground；　the　cabins；　the　graves；　all　so　darkly　suggestive　of
what　must　have　happened。

I　never　learned　the　truth　of　the　cause　of　the　Pleasant　Valley　War；
or　if　I　did　hear　it　I　had　no　means　of　recognizing　it。　　All　the　given
causes　were　plausible　and　convincing。　　Strange　to　state；　there　is
still　secrecy　and　reticence　all　over　the　Tonto　Basin　as　to　the　facts
of　this　feud。　　Many　descendents　of　those　killed　are　living　there　now。
But　no　one　likes　to　talk　about　it。　　Assuredly　many　of　the　incidents
told　me　really　occurred；　as；　for　example；　the　terrible　one　of　the
two　women；　in　the　face　of　relentless　enemies；　saving　the　bodies　of
their　dead　husbands　from　being　devoured　by　wild　hogs。　　Suffice　it　to
say　that　this　romance　is　true　to　my　conception　of　the　war；　and　I　base
it　upon　the　setting　I　learned　to　know　and　love　so　well；　upon　the
strange　passions　of　primitive　people；　and　upon　my　instinctive　reaction
to　the　facts　and　rumors　that　I　gathered。

ZANE　GREY。
AVALON；　CALIFORNIA；
April；　1921



CHAPTER　I

At　the　end　of　a　dry；　uphill　ride　over　barren　country　Jean　Isbel
unpacked　to　camp　at　the　edge　of　the　cedars　where　a　little　rocky
canyon　green　with　willow　and　cottonwood；　promised　water　and　grass。

His　animals　were　tired；　especially　the　pack　mule　that　had　carried　a
heavy　load；　and　with　slow　heave　of　relief　they　knelt　and　rolled　in
the　dust。　　Jean　experienced　something　of　relief　himself　as　he　threw
off　his　chaps。　　He　had　not　been　used　to　hot；　dusty；　glaring　days　on
the　barren　lands。　　Stretching　his　long　length　beside　a　tiny　rill　of
clear　water　that　tinkled　over　the　red　stones；　he　drank　thirstily。
The　water　was　cool；　but　it　had　an　acrid　tastean　alkali　bite　that
he　did　not　like。　　Not　since　he　had　left　Oregon　had　he　tasted　clear；
sweet；　cold　water；　and　he　missed　it　just　as　he　longed　for　the　stately
shady　forests　he　had　loved。　　This　wild；　endless　Arizona　land　bade
fair　to　earn　his　hatred。

By　the　time　he　had　leisurely　completed　his　tasks　twilight　had　fallen
and　coyotes　had　begun　their　barking。　　Jean　listened　to　the　yelps　and
to　the　moan　of　the　cool　wind　in　the　cedars　with　a　sense　of　satisfaction
that　these　lonely　sounds　were　familiar。　　This　cedar　wood　burned　into　a
pretty　fire　and　the　smell　of　its　smoke　was　newly　pleasant。

〃Reckon　maybe　I'll　learn　to　like　Arizona；〃　he　mused；　half　aloud。
〃But　I've　a　hankerin'　for　waterfalls　an'　dark…green　forests。
Must　be　the　Indian　in　me。　。　。　。　Anyway；　dad　needs　me　bad；　an'
I　reckon　I'm　here　for　keeps。〃

Jean　threw　some　cedar　branches　on　the　fire；　in　the　light　of　which　he
opened　his　father's　letter；　hoping　by　repeated　reading　to　grasp　more
of　its　strange　portent。　　It　had　been　two　months　in　reaching　him；
coming　by　traveler；　by　stage　and　train；　and　then　by　boat；　and　finally
by　stage　again。　　Written　in　lead　pencil　on　a　leaf　torn　from　an　old
ledger；　it　would　have　been　hard　to　read　even　if　the　writing　had　been
more　legible。

〃Dad's　writin'　was　always　bad；　but　I　never　saw　it　so　shaky；〃　said　Jean；
thinking　aloud。

　　　GRASS　VALLY；　ARIZONA。
　　　Son　Jean；Come　home。　　Here　is　your　home　and　here　your　needed。
　　　When　we　left　Oregon　we　all　reckoned　you　would　not　be　long　behind。
　　　But　its　years　now。　　I　am　growing　old；　son；　and　you　was　always　my
　　　steadiest　boy。　　Not　that　you　ever　was　so　dam　steady。　　Only　your
　　　wildness　seemed　more　for　the　woods。　　You　take　after　mother