Zane Grey (24 page)

"Jean, your dad started me in the cattle business," said Colmor,
earnestly. "An' I'm doin' well now. An' when I asked him for Ann he
said he'd be glad to have me in the family.... Well, when this talk of
fight come up, I asked your dad to let me go in on his side. He
wouldn't hear of it. But after a while, as the time passed an' he made
more enemies, he finally consented. I reckon he needs me now. An' I
can't back out, not even for Ann."

"I would if I were you," replied jean, and knew that he lied.

"Jean, I'm gamblin' to come out of the fight," said Colmor, with a
smile. He had no morbid fears nor presentiments, such as troubled jean.

"Why, sure—you stand as good a chance as anyone," rejoined Jean. "It
wasn't that I was worryin' about so much."

"What was it, then?" asked Ann, steadily.

"If Andrew DOES come through alive he'll have blood on his hands,"
returned Jean, with passion. "He can't come through without it....
I've begun to feel what it means to have killed my fellow men.... An'
I'd rather your husband an' the father of your children never felt
that."

Colmor did not take Jean as subtly as Ann did. She shrunk a little.
Her dark eyes dilated. But Colmor showed nothing of her spiritual
reaction. He was young. He had wild blood. He was loyal to the
Isbels.

"Jean, never worry about my conscience," he said, with a keen look.
"Nothin' would tickle me any more than to get a shot at every damn one
of the Jorths."

That established Colmor's status in regard to the Jorth-Isbel feud.
Jean had no more to say. He respected Ann's friend and felt poignant
sorrow for Ann.

Gaston Isbel called for meat and drink to be set on the table for his
guests. When his wishes had been complied with the women took the
children into the adjoining cabin and shut the door.

"Hah! Wal, we can eat an' talk now."

First the newcomers wanted to hear particulars of what had happened.
Blaisdell had told all he knew and had seen, but that was not
sufficient. They plied Gaston Isbel with questions. Laboriously and
ponderously he rehearsed the experiences of the fight at the ranch,
according to his impressions. Bill Isbel was exhorted to talk, but he
had of late manifested a sullen and taciturn disposition. In spite of
Jean's vigilance Bill had continued to imbibe red liquor. Then Jean was
called upon to relate all he had seen and done. It had been Jean's
intention to keep his mouth shut, first for his own sake and, secondly,
because he did not like to talk of his deeds. But when thus appealed
to by these somber-faced, intent-eyed men he divined that the more
carefully he described the cruelty and baseness of their enemies, and
the more vividly he presented his participation in the first fight of
the feud the more strongly he would bind these friends to the Isbel
cause. So he talked for an hour, beginning with his meeting with
Colter up on the Rim and ending with an account of his killing Greaves.
His listeners sat through this long narrative with unabated interest
and at the close they were leaning forward, breathless and tense.

"Ah! So Greaves got his desserts at last," exclaimed Gordon.

All the men around the table made comments, and the last, from Blue,
was the one that struck Jean forcibly.

"Shore thet was a strange an' a hell of a way to kill Greaves. Why'd
you do thet, Jean?"

"I told you. I wanted to avoid noise an' I hoped to get more of them."

Blue nodded his lean, eagle-like head and sat thoughtfully, as if not
convinced of anything save Jean's prowess. After a moment Blue spoke
again.

"Then, goin' back to Jean's tellin' aboot trackin' rustled Cattle, I've
got this to say. I've long suspected thet somebody livin' right heah
in the valley has been drivin' off cattle an' dealin' with rustlers.
An' now I'm shore of it."

This speech did not elicit the amaze from Gaston Isbel that Jean
expected it would.

"You mean Greaves or some of his friends?"

"No. They wasn't none of them in the cattle business, like we are.
Shore we all knowed Greaves was crooked. But what I'm figgerin' is
thet some so-called honest man in our settlement has been makin'
crooked deals."

Blue was a man of deeds rather than words, and so much strong speech
from him, whom everybody knew to be remarkably reliable and keen, made
a profound impression upon most of the Isbel faction. But, to Jean's
surprise, his father did not rave. It was Blaisdell who supplied the
rage and invective. Bill Isbel, also, was strangely indifferent to
this new element in the condition of cattle dealing. Suddenly Jean
caught a vague flash of thought, as if he had intercepted the thought
of another's mind, and he wondered—could his brother Bill know
anything about this crooked work alluded to by Blue? Dismissing the
conjecture, Jean listened earnestly.

"An' if it's true it shore makes this difference—we cain't blame all
the rustlin' on to Jorth," concluded Blue.

"Wal, it's not true," declared Gaston Isbel, roughly. "Jorth an' his
Hash Knife Gang are at the bottom of all the rustlin' in the valley for
years back. An' they've got to be wiped out!"

"Isbel, I reckon we'd all feel better if we talk straight," replied
Blue, coolly. "I'm heah to stand by the Isbels. An' y'u know what
thet means. But I'm not heah to fight Jorth because he may be a
rustler. The others may have their own reasons, but mine is this—you
once stood by me in Texas when I was needin' friends. Wal, I'm
standin' by y'u now. Jorth is your enemy, an' so he is mine."

Gaston Isbel bowed to this ultimatum, scarcely less agitated than when
Esther Isbel had denounced him. His rabid and morbid hate of Jorth had
eaten into his heart to take possession there, like the parasite that
battened upon the life of its victim. Blue's steely voice, his cold,
gray eyes, showed the unbiased truth of the man, as well as his
fidelity to his creed. Here again, but in a different manner, Gaston
Isbel had the fact flung at him that other men must suffer, perhaps
die, for his hate. And the very soul of the old rancher apparently
rose in Passionate revolt against the blind, headlong, elemental
strength of his nature. So it seemed to Jean, who, in love and pity
that hourly grew, saw through his father. Was it too late? Alas!
Gaston Isbel could never be turned back! Yet something was altering
his brooding, fixed mind.

"Wal," said Blaisdell, gruffly, "let's get down to business.... I'm for
havin' Blue be foreman of this heah outfit, an' all of us to do as he
says."

Gaston Isbel opposed this selection and indeed resented it. He intended
to lead the Isbel faction.

"All right, then. Give us a hunch what we're goin' to do," replied
Blaisdell.

"We're goin' to ride off on Jorth's trail—an' one way or another—kill
him—KILL HIM! ... I reckon that'll end the fight."

What did old Isbel have in his mind? His listeners shook their heads.

"No," asserted Blaisdell. "Killin' Jorth might be the end of your
desires, Isbel, but it 'd never end our fight. We'll have gone too
far.... If we take Jorth's trail from heah it means we've got to wipe
out that rustier gang, or stay to the last man."

"Yes, by God!" exclaimed Fredericks.

"Let's drink to thet!" said Blue. Strangely they turned to this Texas
gunman, instinctively recognizing in him the brain and heart, and the
past deeds, that fitted him for the leadership of such a clan. Blue
had all in life to lose, and nothing to gain. Yet his spirit was such
that he could not lean to all the possible gain of the future, and
leave a debt unpaid. Then his voice, his look, his influence were
those of a fighter. They all drank with him, even Jean, who hated
liquor. And this act of drinking seemed the climax of the council.
Preparations were at once begun for their departure on Jorth's trail.

Jean took but little time for his own needs. A horse, a blanket, a
knapsack of meat and bread, a canteen, and his weapons, with all the
ammunition he could pack, made up his outfit. He wore his buckskin
suit, leggings, and moccasins. Very soon the cavalcade was ready to
depart. Jean tried not to watch Bill Isbel say good-by to his
children, but it was impossible not to. Whatever Bill was, as a man,
he was father of those children, and he loved them. How strange that
the little ones seemed to realize the meaning of this good-by? They
were grave, somber-eyed, pale up to the last moment, then they broke
down and wept. Did they sense that their father would never come back?
Jean caught that dark, fatalistic presentiment. Bill Isbel's convulsed
face showed that he also caught it. Jean did not see Bill say good-by
to his wife. But he heard her. Old Gaston Isbel forgot to speak to
the children, or else could not. He never looked at them. And his
good-by to Ann was as if he were only riding to the village for a day.
Jean saw woman's love, woman's intuition, woman's grief in her eyes. He
could not escape her. "Oh, Jean! oh, brother!" she whispered as she
enfolded him. "It's awful! It's wrong! Wrong! Wrong! ... Good-by!
... If killing MUST be—see that y'u kill the Jorths! ... Good-by!"

Even in Ann, gentle and mild, the Isbel blood spoke at the last. Jean
gave Ann over to the pale-faced Colmor, who took her in his arms. Then
Jean fled out to his horse. This cold-blooded devastation of a home
was almost more than he could bear. There was love here. What would be
left?

Colmor was the last one to come out to the horses. He did not walk
erect, nor as one whose sight was clear. Then, as the silent, tense,
grim men mounted their horses, Bill Isbel's eldest child, the boy,
appeared in the door. His little form seemed instinct with a force
vastly different from grief. His face was the face of an Isbel.

"Daddy—kill 'em all!" he shouted, with a passion all the fiercer for
its incongruity to the treble voice.

So the poison had spread from father to son.

Half a mile from the Isbel ranch the cavalcade passed the log cabin of
Evarts, father of the boy who had tended sheep with Bernardino.

It suited Gaston Isbel to halt here. No need to call! Evarts and his
son appeared so quickly as to convince observers that they had been
watching.

"Howdy, Jake!" said Isbel. "I'm wantin' a word with y'u alone."

"Shore, boss, git down an' come in," replied Evarts.

Isbel led him aside, and said something forcible that Jean divined from
the very gesture which accompanied it. His father was telling Evarts
that he was not to join in the Isbel-Jorth war. Evarts had worked for
the Isbels a long time, and his faithfulness, along with something
stronger and darker, showed in his rugged face as he stubbornly opposed
Isbel. The old man raised his voice: "No, I tell you. An' that
settles it."

They returned to the horses, and, before mounting, Isbel, as if he
remembered something, directed his somber gaze on young Evarts.

"Son, did you bury Bernardino?"

"Dad an' me went over yestiddy," replied the lad. "I shore was glad
the coyotes hadn't been round."

"How aboot the sheep?"

"I left them there. I was goin' to stay, but bein' all alone—I got
skeered.... The sheep was doin' fine. Good water an' some grass. An'
this ain't time fer varmints to hang round."

"Jake, keep your eye on that flock," returned Isbel. "An' if I
shouldn't happen to come back y'u can call them sheep yours.... I'd
like your boy to ride up to the village. Not with us, so anybody would
see him. But afterward. We'll be at Abel Meeker's."

Again Jean was confronted with an uneasy premonition as to some idea or
plan his father had not shared with his followers. When the cavalcade
started on again Jean rode to his father's side and asked him why he
had wanted the Evarts boy to come to Grass Valley. And the old man
replied that, as the boy could run to and fro in the village without
danger, he might be useful in reporting what was going on at Greaves's
store, where undoubtedly the Jorth gang would hold forth. This appeared
reasonable enough, therefore Jean smothered the objection he had meant
to make.

The valley road was deserted. When, a mile farther on, the riders
passed a group of cabins, just on the outskirts of the village, Jean's
quick eye caught sight of curious and evidently frightened people
trying to see while they avoided being seen. No doubt the whole
settlement was in a state of suspense and terror. Not unlikely this
dark, closely grouped band of horsemen appeared to them as Jorth's gang
had looked to Jean. It was an orderly, trotting march that manifested
neither hurry nor excitement. But any Western eye could have caught
the singular aspect of such a group, as if the intent of the riders was
a visible thing.

Soon they reached the outskirts of the village. Here their approach
bad been watched for or had been already reported. Jean saw men,
women, children peeping from behind cabins and from half-opened doors.
Farther on Jean espied the dark figures of men, slipping out the back
way through orchards and gardens and running north, toward the center
of the village. Could these be friends of the Jorth crowd, on the way
with warnings of the approach of the Isbels? Jean felt convinced of
it. He was learning that his father had not been absolutely correct in
his estimation of the way Jorth and his followers were regarded by
their neighbors. Not improbably there were really many villagers who,
being more interested in sheep raising than in cattle, had an honest
leaning toward the Jorths. Some, too, no doubt, had leanings that were
dishonest in deed if not in sincerity.

Gaston Isbel led his clan straight down the middle of the wide road of
Grass Valley until he reached a point opposite Abel Meeker's cabin.
Jean espied the same curiosity from behind Meeker's door and windows as
had been shown all along the road. But presently, at Isbel's call, the
door opened and a short, swarthy man appeared. He carried a rifle.