Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  Therefore, Ellen put dreams aside, and indolence of mind and body behind her. Many tasks she found, and when these were done for a day she kept active in other ways, thus earning the poise and peace of labor.

  Jorth rode off every day, sometimes with one or two of the men, often with a larger number. If he spoke of such trips to Ellen it was to give an impression of visiting the ranches of his neighbors or the various sheep camps. Often he did not return the day he left. When he did get back he smelled of rum and appeared heavy from need of sleep. His horses were always dust and sweat covered. During his absences Ellen fell victim to anxious dread until he returned. Daily he grew darker and more haggard of face, more obsessed by some impending fate. Often he stayed up late, haranguing with the men in the dim-lit cabin, where they drank and smoked, but seldom gambled any more. When the men did not gamble something immediate and perturbing was on their minds. Ellen had not yet lowered herself to the deceit and suspicion of eavesdropping, but she realized that there was a climax approaching in which she would deliberately do so.

  In those closing May days Ellen learned the significance of many things that previously she had taken as a matter of course. Her father did not run a ranch. There was absolutely no ranching done, and little work. Often Ellen had to chop wood herself. Jorth did not possess a plow. Ellen was bound to confess that the evidence of this lack dumfounded her. Even old John Sprague raised some hay, beets, turnips. Jorth’s cattle and horses fared ill during the winter. Ellen remembered how they used to clean up four-inch oak saplings and aspens. Many of them died in the snow. The flocks of sheep, however, were driven down into the Basin in the fall, and across the Reno Pass to Phoenix and Maricopa.

  Ellen could not discover a fence post on the ranch, nor a piece of salt for the horses and cattle, nor a wagon, nor any sign of a sheep-shearing outfit. She had never seen any sheep sheared. Ellen could never keep track of the many and different horses running loose and hobbled round the ranch. There were droves of horses in the woods, and some of them wild as deer. According to her long-established understanding, her father and her uncles were keen on horse trading and buying.

  Then the many trails leading away from the Jorth ranch — these grew to have a fascination for Ellen; and the time came when she rode out on them to see for herself where they led. The sheep ranch of Daggs, supposed to be only a few miles across the ridges, down in Bear Canyon, never materialized at all for Ellen. This circumstance so interested her that she went up to see her friend Sprague and got him to direct her to Bear Canyon, so that she would be sure not to miss it. And she rode from the narrow, maple-thicketed head of it near the Rim down all its length. She found no ranch, no cabin, not even a corral in Bear Canyon. Sprague said there was only one canyon by that name. Daggs had assured her of the exact location on his place, and so had her father. Had they lied? Were they mistaken in the canyon? There were many canyons, all heading up near the Rim, all running and widening down for miles through the wooded mountain, and vastly different from the deep, short, yellow-walled gorges that cut into the Rim from the Basin side. Ellen investigated the canyons within six or eight miles of her home, both to east and to west. All she discovered was a couple of old log cabins, long deserted. Still, she did not follow out all the trails to their ends. Several of them led far into the deepest, roughest, wildest brakes of gorge and thicket that she had seen. No cattle or sheep had ever been driven over these trails.

  This riding around of Ellen’s at length got to her father’s ears. Ellen expected that a bitter quarrel would ensue, for she certainly would refuse to be confined to the camp; but her father only asked her to limit her riding to the meadow valley, and straightway forgot all about it. In fact, his abstraction one moment, his intense nervousness the next, his harder drinking and fiercer harangues with the men, grew to be distressing for Ellen. They presaged his further deterioration and the ever-present evil of the growing feud.

  One day Jorth rode home in the early morning, after an absence of two nights. Ellen heard the clip-clop of, horses long before she saw them.

  “Hey, Ellen! Come out heah,” called her father.

  Ellen left her work and went outside. A stranger had ridden in with her father, a young giant whose sharp-featured face appeared marked by ferret-like eyes and a fine, light, fuzzy beard. He was long, loose jointed, not heavy of build, and he had the largest hands and feet Ellen bad ever seen. Next Ellen espied a black horse they had evidently brought with them. Her father was holding a rope halter. At once the black horse struck Ellen as being a beauty and a thoroughbred.

  “Ellen, heah’s a horse for you,” said Jorth, with something of pride. “I made a trade. Reckon I wanted him myself, but he’s too gentle for me an’ maybe a little small for my weight.”

  Delight visited Ellen for the first time in many days. Seldom had she owned a good horse, and never one like this.

  “Oh, dad!” she exclaimed, in her gratitude.

  “Shore he’s yours on one condition,” said her father.

  “What’s that?” asked Ellen, as she laid caressing hands on the restless horse.

  “You’re not to ride him out of the canyon.”

  “Agreed.... All daid black, isn’t he, except that white face? What’s his name, dad?

  “I forgot to ask,” replied Jorth, as he began unsaddling his own horse. “Slater, what’s this heah black’s name?”

  The lanky giant grinned. “I reckon it was Spades.”

  “Spades?” ejaculated Ellen, blankly. “What a name! ... Well, I guess it’s as good as any. He’s shore black.”

  “Ellen, keep him hobbled when you’re not ridin’ him,” was her father’s parting advice as he walked off with the stranger.

  Spades was wet and dusty and his satiny skin quivered. He had fine, dark, intelligent eyes that watched Ellen’s every move. She knew how her father and his friends dragged and jammed horses through the woods and over the rough trails. It did not take her long to discover that this horse had been a pet. Ellen cleaned his coat and brushed him and fed him. Then she fitted her bridle to suit his head and saddled him. His evident response to her kindness assured her that he was gentle, so she mounted and rode him, to discover he had the easiest gait she had ever experienced. He walked and trotted to suit her will, but when left to choose his own gait he fell into a graceful little pace that was very easy for her. He appeared quite ready to break into a run at her slightest bidding, but Ellen satisfied herself on this first ride with his slower gaits.

  “Spades, y’u’ve shore cut out my burro Jinny,” said Ellen, regretfully. “Well, I reckon women are fickle.”

  Next day she rode up the canyon to show Spades to her friend John Sprague. The old burro breeder was not at home. As his door was open, however, and a fire smoldering, Ellen concluded he would soon return. So she waited. Dismounting, she left Spades free to graze on the new green grass that carpeted the ground. The cabin and little level clearing accentuated the loneliness and wildness of the forest. Ellen always liked it here and had once been in the habit of visiting the old man often. But of late she had stayed away, for the reason that Sprague’s talk and his news and his poorly hidden pity depressed her.

  Presently she heard hoof beats on the hard, packed trail leading down the canyon in the direction from which she had come. Scarcely likely was it that Sprague should return from this direction. Ellen thought her father had sent one of the herders for her. But when she caught a glimpse of the approaching horseman, down in the aspens, she failed to recognize him. After he had passed one of the openings she heard his horse stop. Probably the man had seen her; at least she could not otherwise account for his stopping. The glimpse she had of him had given her the impression that he was bending over, peering ahead in the trail, looking for tracks. Then she heard the rider come on again, more slowly this time. At length the horse trotted out into the opening, to be hauled up short. Ellen recognized the buckskin-clad figure, the broad shoulders, the dark face of Jean Isbel.

 
Ellen felt prey to the strangest quaking sensation she had ever suffered. It took violence of her new-born spirit to subdue that feeling.

  Isbel rode slowly across the clearing toward her. For Ellen his approach seemed singularly swift — so swift that her surprise, dismay, conjecture, and anger obstructed her will. The outwardly calm and cold Ellen Jorth was a travesty that mocked her — that she felt he would discern.

  The moment Isbel drew close enough for Ellen to see his face she experienced a strong, shuddering repetition of her first shock of recognition. He was not the same. The light, the youth was gone. This, however, did not cause her emotion. Was it not a sudden transition of her nature to the dominance of hate? Ellen seemed to feel the shadow of her unknown self standing with her.

  Isbel halted his horse. Ellen had been standing near the trunk of a fallen pine and she instinctively backed against it. How her legs trembled! Isbel took off his cap and crushed it nervously in his bare, brown hand.

  “Good mornin’, Miss Ellen!” he said.

  Ellen did not return his greeting, but queried, almost breathlessly, “Did y’u come by our ranch?”

  “No. I circled,” he replied.

  “Jean Isbel! What do y’u want heah?” she demanded.

  “Don’t you know?” he returned. His eyes were intensely black and piercing. They seemed to search Ellen’s very soul. To meet their gaze was an ordeal that only her rousing fury sustained.

  Ellen felt on her lips a scornful allusion to his half-breed Indian traits and the reputation that had preceded him. But she could not utter it.

  “No,” she replied.

  “It’s hard to call a woman a liar,” he returned, bitterly. But you must be — seein’ you’re a Jorth.

  “Liar! Not to y’u, Jean Isbel,” she retorted. “I’d not lie to y’u to save my life.”

  He studied her with keen, sober, moody intent. The dark fire of his eyes thrilled her.

  “If that’s true, I’m glad,” he said.

  “Shore it’s true. I’ve no idea why y’u came heah.”

  Ellen did have a dawning idea that she could not force into oblivion. But if she ever admitted it to her consciousness, she must fail in the contempt and scorn and fearlessness she chose to throw in this man’s face.

  “Does old Sprague live here?” asked Isbel.

  “Yes. I expect him back soon.... Did y’u come to see him?”

  “No.... Did Sprague tell you anythin’ about the row he saw me in?”

  “He — did not,” replied Ellen, lying with stiff lips. She who had sworn she could not lie! She felt the hot blood leaving her heart, mounting in a wave. All her conscious will seemed impelled to deceive. What had she to hide from Jean Isbel? And a still, small voice replied that she had to hide the Ellen Jorth who had waited for him that day, who had spied upon him, who had treasured a gift she could not destroy, who had hugged to her miserable heart the fact that he had fought for her name.

  “I’m glad of that,” Isbel was saying, thoughtfully.

  “Did you come heah to see me?” interrupted Ellen. She felt that she could not endure this reiterated suggestion of fineness, of consideration in him. She would betray herself — betray what she did not even realize herself. She must force other footing — and that should be the one of strife between the Jorths and Isbels.

  “No — honest, I didn’t, Miss Ellen,” he rejoined, humbly. “I’ll tell you, presently, why I came. But it wasn’t to see you.... I don’t deny I wanted ... but that’s no matter. You didn’t meet me that day on the Rim.”

  “Meet y’u!” she echoed, coldly. “Shore y’u never expected me?”

  “Somehow I did,” he replied, with those penetrating eyes on her. “I put somethin’ in your tent that day. Did you find it?”

  “Yes,” she replied, with the same casual coldness.

  “What did you do with it?”

  “I kicked it out, of course,” she replied.

  She saw him flinch.

  “And you never opened it?”

  “Certainly not,” she retorted, as if forced. “Doon’t y’u know anythin’ about — about people? ... Shore even if y’u are an Isbel y’u never were born in Texas.”

  “Thank God I wasn’t!” he replied. “I was born in a beautiful country of green meadows and deep forests and white rivers, not in a barren desert where men live dry and hard as the cactus. Where I come from men don’t live on hate. They can forgive.”

  “Forgive! ... Could y’u forgive a Jorth?”

  “Yes, I could.”

  “Shore that’s easy to say — with the wrongs all on your side,” she declared, bitterly.

  “Ellen Jorth, the first wrong was on your side,” retorted Jean, his voice fall. “Your father stole my father’s sweetheart — by lies, by slander, by dishonor, by makin’ terrible love to her in his absence.”

  “It’s a lie,” cried Ellen, passionately.

  “It is not,” he declared, solemnly.

  “Jean Isbel, I say y’u lie!”

  “No! I say you’ve been lied to,” he thundered.

  The tremendous force of his spirit seemed to fling truth at Ellen. It weakened her.

  “But — mother loved dad — best.”

  “Yes, afterward. No wonder, poor woman! ... But it was the action of your father and your mother that ruined all these lives. You’ve got to know the truth, Ellen Jorth.... All the years of hate have borne their fruit. God Almighty can never save us now. Blood must be spilled. The Jorths and the Isbels can’t live on the same earth.... And you’ve got to know the truth because the worst of this hell falls on you and me.”

  The hate that he spoke of alone upheld her.

  “Never, Jean Isbel!” she cried. “I’ll never know truth from y’u.... I’ll never share anythin’ with y’u — not even hell.”

  Isbel dismounted and stood before her, still holding his bridle reins. The bay horse champed his bit and tossed his head.

  “Why do you hate me so?” he asked. “I just happen to be my father’s son. I never harmed you or any of your people. I met you ... fell in love with you in a flash — though I never knew it till after.... Why do you hate me so terribly?”

  Ellen felt a heavy, stifling pressure within her breast. “Y’u’re an Isbel.... Doon’t speak of love to me.”

  “I didn’t intend to. But your — your hate seems unnatural. And we’ll probably never meet again.... I can’t help it. I love you. Love at first sight! Jean Isbel and Ellen Jorth! Strange, isn’t it? ... It was all so strange. My meetin’ you so lonely and unhappy, my seein’ you so sweet and beautiful, my thinkin’ you so good in spite of—”

  “Shore it was strange,” interrupted Ellen, with scornful laugh. She had found her defense. In hurting him she could hide her own hurt. “Thinking me so good in spite of — Ha-ha! And I said I’d been kissed before!”

  “Yes, in spite of everything,” he said.

  Ellen could not look at him as he loomed over her. She felt a wild tumult in her heart. All that crowded to her lips for utterance was false.

  “Yes — kissed before I met you — and since,” she said, mockingly. “And I laugh at what y’u call love, Jean Isbel.”

  “Laugh if you want — but believe it was sweet, honorable — the best in me,” he replied, in deep earnestness.

  “Bah!” cried Ellen, with all the force of her pain and shame and hate.

  “By Heaven, you must be different from what I thought!” exclaimed Isbel, huskily.

  “Shore if I wasn’t, I’d make myself.... Now, Mister Jean Isbel, get on your horse an’ go!”

  Something of composure came to Ellen with these words of dismissal, and she glanced up at him with half-veiled eyes. His changed aspect prepared her for some blow.

  “That’s a pretty black horse.”

  “Yes,” replied Ellen, blankly.

  “Do you like him?”

  “I — I love him.”

  “All right, I’ll give him to you then. He’ll have less work and
kinder treatment than if I used him. I’ve got some pretty hard rides ahead of me.”

  “Y’u — y’u give—” whispered Ellen, slowly stiffening. “Yes. He’s mine,” replied Isbel. With that he turned to whistle. Spades threw up his head, snorted, and started forward at a trot. He came faster the closer he got, and if ever Ellen saw the joy of a horse at sight of a beloved master she saw it then. Isbel laid a hand on the animal’s neck and caressed him, then, turning back to Ellen, he went on speaking: “I picked him from a lot of fine horses of my father’s. We got along well. My sister Ann rode him a good deal.... He was stolen from our pasture day before yesterday. I took his trail and tracked him up here. Never lost his trail till I got to your ranch, where I had to circle till I picked it up again.”

  “Stolen — pasture — tracked him up heah?” echoed Ellen, without any evidence of emotion whatever. Indeed, she seemed to have been turned to stone.

  “Trackin’ him was easy. I wish for your sake it ‘d been impossible,” he said, bluntly.

  “For my sake?” she echoed, in precisely the same tone,

  Manifestly that tone irritated Isbel beyond control. He misunderstood it. With a hand far from gentle he pushed her bent head back so he could look into her face.

  “Yes, for your sake!” he declared, harshly. “Haven’t you sense enough to see that? ... What kind of a game do you think you can play with me?”

  “Game I ... Game of what?” she asked.

  “Why, a — a game of ignorance — innocence — any old game to fool a man who’s tryin’ to be decent.”

  This time Ellen mutely looked her dull, blank questioning. And it inflamed Isbel.

  “You know your father’s a horse thief!” he thundered.