To the Last Man

by Zane Grey

  CHAPTER VII

  During June Jean Isbel did not ride far away from Grass Valley.

  Another attempt had been made upon Gaston Isbel's life. Anothercowardly shot had been fired from ambush, this time from a pine thicketbordering the trail that led to Blaisdell's ranch. Blaisdell heardthis shot, so near his home was it fired. No trace of the hidden foecould be found. The 'ground all around that vicinity bore a carpet ofpine needles which showed no trace of footprints. The supposition wasthat this cowardly attempt had been perpetrated, or certainlyinstigated, by the Jorths. But there was no proof. And Gaston Isbelhad other enemies in the Tonto Basin besides the sheep clan. The oldman raged like a lion about this sneaking attack on him. And hisfriend Blaisdell urged an immediate gathering of their kin and friends."Let's quit ranchin' till this trouble's settled," he declared. "Let'sarm an' ride the trails an' meet these men half-way.... It won't helpour side any to wait till you're shot in the back." More than one ofIsbel's supporters offered the same advice.

  "No; we'll wait till we know for shore," was the stubborn cattleman'sreply to all these promptings.

  "Know! Wal, hell! Didn't Jean find the black hoss up at Jorth'sranch?" demanded Blaisdell. "What more do we want?"

  "Jean couldn't swear Jorth stole the black."

  "Wal, by thunder, I can swear to it!" growled Blaisdell. "An' we'relosin' cattle all the time. Who's stealin' 'em?"

  "We've always lost cattle ever since we started ranchin' heah."

  "Gas, I reckon yu want Jorth to start this fight in the open."

  "It'll start soon enough," was Isbel's gloomy reply.

  Jean had not failed altogether in his tracking of lost or stolencattle. Circumstances had been against him, and there was somethingbaffling about this rustling. The summer storms set in early, and ithad been his luck to have heavy rains wash out fresh tracks that hemight have followed. The range was large and cattle were everywhere.Sometimes a loss was not discovered for weeks. Gaston Isbel's sonswere now the only men left to ride the range. Two of his riders hadquit because of the threatened war, and Isbel had let another go. Sothat Jean did not often learn that cattle had been stolen until theirtracks were old. Added to that was the fact that this Grass Valleycountry was covered with horse tracks and cattle tracks. The rustlers,whoever they were, had long been at the game, and now that there wasreason for them to show their cunning they did it.

  Early in July the hot weather came. Down on the red ridges of theTonto it was hot desert. The nights were cool, the early mornings werepleasant, but the day was something to endure. When the white cumulusclouds rolled up out of the southwest, growing larger and thicker anddarker, here and there coalescing into a black thundercloud, Jeanwelcomed them. He liked to see the gray streamers of rain hanging downfrom a canopy of black, and the roar of rain on the trees as itapproached like a trampling army was always welcome. The grassy flats,the red ridges, the rocky slopes, the thickets of manzanita and scruboak and cactus were dusty, glaring, throat-parching places under thehot summer sun. Jean longed for the cool heights of the Rim, the shadypines, the dark sweet verdure under the silver spruces, the tinkle andmurmur of the clear rills. He often had another longing, too, which hebitterly stifled.

  Jean's ally, the keen-nosed shepherd clog, had disappeared one day, andhad never returned. Among men at the ranch there was a difference ofopinion as to what had happened to Shepp. The old rancher thought hehad been poisoned or shot; Bill and Guy Isbel believed he had beenstolen by sheep herders, who were always stealing dogs; and Jeaninclined to the conviction that Shepp had gone off with the timberwolves. The fact was that Shepp did not return, and Jean missed him.

  One morning at dawn Jean heard the cattle bellowing and trampling outin the valley; and upon hurrying to a vantage point he was amazed tosee upward of five hundred steers chasing a lone wolf. Jean's fatherhad seen such a spectacle as this, but it was a new one for Jean. Thewolf was a big gray and black fellow, rangy and powerful, and until hegot the steers all behind him he was rather hard put to it to keep outof their way. Probably he had dogged the herd, trying to sneak in andpull down a yearling, and finally the steers had charged him. Jean keptalong the edge of the valley in the hope they would chase him withinrange of a rifle. But the wary wolf saw Jean and sheered off,gradually drawing away from his pursuers.

  Jean returned to the house for his breakfast, and then set off acrossthe valley. His father owned one small flock of sheep that had not yetbeen driven up on the Rim, where all the sheep in the country were runduring the hot, dry summer down on the Tonto. Young Evarts and aMexican boy named Bernardino had charge of this flock. The regularMexican herder, a man of experience, had given up his job; and theseboys were not equal to the task of risking the sheep up in the enemies'stronghold.

  This flock was known to be grazing in a side draw, well up from GrassValley, where the brush afforded some protection from the sun, andthere was good water and a little feed. Before Jean reached hisdestination he heard a shot. It was not a rifle shot, which factcaused Jean a little concern. Evarts and Bernardino had rifles, but,to his knowledge, no small arms. Jean rode up on one of theblack-brushed conical hills that rose on the south side of GrassValley, and from there he took a sharp survey of the country. At firsthe made out only cattle, and bare meadowland, and the low encirclingridges and hills. But presently up toward the head of the valley hedescried a bunch of horsemen riding toward the village. He could nottell their number. That dark moving mass seemed to Jean to be instinctwith life, mystery, menace. Who were they? It was too far for him torecognize horses, let alone riders. They were moving fast, too.

  Jean watched them out of sight, then turned his horse downhill again,and rode on his quest. A number of horsemen like that was a veryunusual sight around Grass Valley at any time. What then did itportend now? Jean experienced a little shock of uneasy dread that wasa new sensation for him. Brooding over this he proceeded on his way,at length to turn into the draw where the camp of the sheep-herders waslocated. Upon coming in sight of it he heard a hoarse shout. YoungEvarts appeared running frantically out of the brush. Jean urged hishorse into a run and soon covered the distance between them. Evartsappeared beside himself with terror.

  "Boy! what's the matter?" queried Jean, as he dismounted, rifle inhand, peering quickly from Evarts's white face to the camp, and allaround.

  "Ber-nardino! Ber-nardino!" gasped the boy, wringing his hands andpointing.

  Jean ran the few remaining rods to the sheep camp. He saw the littleteepee, a burned-out fire, a half-finished meal--and then the Mexicanlad lying prone on the ground, dead, with a bullet hole in his ghastlyface. Near him lay an old six-shooter.

  "Whose gun is that?" demanded Jean, as he picked it up.

  "Ber-nardino's," replied Evarts, huskily. "He--he jest got it--theother day."

  "Did he shoot himself accidentally?"

  "Oh no! No! He didn't do it--atall."

  "Who did, then?"

  "The men--they rode up--a gang-they did it," panted Evarts.

  "Did you know who they were?"

  "No. I couldn't tell. I saw them comin' an' I was skeered. Bernardinohad gone fer water. I run an' hid in the brush. I wanted to yell, butthey come too close.... Then I heerd them talkin'. Bernardino comeback. They 'peared friendly-like. Thet made me raise up, to look. An'I couldn't see good. I heerd one of them ask Bernardino to let him seehis gun. An' Bernardino handed it over. He looked at the gun an'haw-hawed, an' flipped it up in the air, an' when it fell back in hishand it--it went off bang! ... An' Bernardino dropped.... I hid downclose. I was skeered stiff. I heerd them talk more, but not what theysaid. Then they rode away.... An' I hid there till I seen y'u comin'."

  "Have you got a horse?" queried Jean, sharply.

  "No. But I can ride one of Bernardino's burros."

  "Get one. Hurry over to Blaisdell. Tell him to send word to Blue andGordon and Fredericks to ride like the devil to my father's ranch
.Hurry now!"

  Young Evarts ran off without reply. Jean stood looking down at thelimp and pathetic figure of the Mexican boy. "By Heaven!" heexclaimed, grimly "the Jorth-Isbel war is on! ... Deliberate,cold-blooded murder! I'll gamble Daggs did this job. He's been giventhe leadership. He's started it.... Bernardino, greaser or not, youwere a faithful lad, and you won't go long unavenged."

  Jean had no time to spare. Tearing a tarpaulin out of the teepee hecovered the lad with it and then ran for, his horse. Mounting, hegalloped down the draw, over the little red ridges, out into thevalley, where he put his horse to a run.

  Action changed the sickening horror that sight of Bernardino hadengendered. Jean even felt a strange, grim relief. The long, draggingdays of waiting were over. Jorth's gang had taken the initiative.Blood had begun to flow. And it would continue to flow now till thelast man of one faction stood over the dead body of the last man of theother. Would it be a Jorth or an Isbel? "My instinct was right," hemuttered, aloud. "That bunch of horses gave me a queer feelin'." Jeangazed all around the grassy, cattle-dotted valley he was crossing soswiftly, and toward the village, but he did not see any sign of thedark group of riders. They had gone on to Greaves's store, there, nodoubt, to drink and to add more enemies of the Isbels to their gang.Suddenly across Jean's mind flashed a thought of Ellen Jorth. "What'll become of her? ... What 'll become of all the women? My sister?... The little ones?"

  No one was in sight around the ranch. Never had it appeared morepeaceful and pastoral to Jean. The grazing cattle and horses in theforeground, the haystack half eaten away, the cows in the fencedpasture, the column of blue smoke lazily ascending, the cackle of hens,the solid, well-built cabins--all these seemed to repudiate Jean'shaste and his darkness of mind. This place was, his father's farm.There was not a cloud in the blue, summer sky.

  As Jean galloped up the lane some one saw him from the door, and thenBill and Guy and their gray-headed father came out upon the porch. Jeansaw how he' waved the womenfolk back, and then strode out into thelane. Bill and Guy reached his side as Jean pulled his heaving horseto a halt. They all looked at Jean, swiftly and intently, with alittle, hard, fiery gleam strangely identical in the eyes of each.Probably before a word was spoken they knew what to expect.

  "Wal, you shore was in a hurry," remarked the father.

  "What the hell's up?" queried Bill, grimly.

  Guy Isbel remained silent and it was he who turned slightly pale. Jeanleaped off his horse.

  "Bernardino has just been killed--murdered with his own gun."

  Gaston Isbel seemed to exhale a long-dammed, bursting breath that lethis chest sag. A terrible deadly glint, pale and cold as sunlight onice, grew slowly to dominate his clear eyes.

  "A-huh!" ejaculated Bill Isbel, hoarsely.

  Not one of the three men asked who had done the killing. They weresilent a moment, motionless, locked in the secret seclusion of theirown minds. Then they listened with absorption to Jean's brief story.

  "Wal, that lets us in," said his father. "I wish we had more time.Reckon I'd done better to listen to you boys an' have my men close athand. Jacobs happened to ride over. That makes five of us besides thewomen."

  "Aw, dad, you don't reckon they'll round us up heah?" asked Guy Isbel.

  "Boys, I always feared they might," replied the old man. "But I neverreally believed they'd have the nerve. Shore I ought to have figgeredDaggs better. This heah secret bizness an' shootin' at us from ambushlooked aboot Jorth's size to me. But I reckon now we'll have to fightwithout our friends."

  "Let them come," said Jean. "I sent for Blaisdell, Blue, Gordon, andFredericks. Maybe they'll get here in time. But if they don't itneedn't worry us much. We can hold out here longer than Jorth's gangcan hang around. We'll want plenty of water, wood, and meat in thehouse."

  "Wal, I'll see to that," rejoined his father. "Jean, you go out closeby, where you can see all around, an' keep watch."

  "Who's goin' to tell the women?" asked Guy Isbel.

  The silence that momentarily ensued was an eloquent testimony to thehardest and saddest aspect of this strife between men. Theinevitableness of it in no wise detracted from its sheer uselessness.Men from time immemorial had hated, and killed one another, always tothe misery and degradation of their women. Old Gaston Isbel showedthis tragic realization in his lined face.

  "Wal, boys, I'll tell the women," he said. "Shore you needn't worrynone aboot them. They'll be game."

  Jean rode away to an open knoll a short distance from the house, andhere he stationed himself to watch all points. The cedared ridge backof the ranch was the one approach by which Jorth's gang might comeclose without being detected, but even so, Jean could see them and rideto the house in time to prevent a surprise. The moments dragged by,and at the end of an hour Jean was in hopes that Blaisdell would sooncome. These hopes were well founded. Presently he heard a clatter ofhoofs on hard ground to the south, and upon wheeling to look he saw thefriendly neighbor coming fast along the road, riding a big white horse.Blaisdell carried a rifle in his hand, and the sight of him gave Jean aglow of warmth. He was one of the Texans who would stand by the Isbelsto the last man. Jean watched him ride to the house--watched themeeting between him and his lifelong friend. There floated out to Jeanold Blaisdell's roar of rage.

  Then out on the green of Grass Valley, where a long, swelling plainswept away toward the village, there appeared a moving dark patch. Abunch of horses! Jean's body gave a slight start--the shock of suddenpropulsion of blood through all his veins. Those horses bore riders.They were coming straight down the open valley, on the wagon road toIsbel's ranch. No subterfuge nor secrecy nor sneaking in that advance!A hot thrill ran over Jean.

  "By Heaven! They mean business!" he muttered. Up to the last momenthe had unconsciously hoped Jorth's gang would not come boldly likethat. The verifications of all a Texan's inherited instincts left nodoubts, no hopes, no illusions--only a grim certainty that this was notconjecture nor probability, but fact. For a moment longer Jean watchedthe slowly moving dark patch of horsemen against the green background,then he hurried back to the ranch. His father saw him coming--strodeout as before.

  "Dad--Jorth is comin'," said Jean, huskily. How he hated to be forcedto tell his father that! The boyish love of old had flashed up.

  "Whar?" demanded the old man, his eagle gaze sweeping the horizon.

  "Down the road from Grass Valley. You can't see from here."

  "Wal, come in an' let's get ready."

  Isbel's house had not been constructed with the idea of repelling anattack from a band of Apaches. The long living room of the main cabinwas the one selected for defense and protection. This room had twowindows and a door facing the lane, and a door at each end, one ofwhich opened into the kitchen and the other into an adjoining andlater-built cabin. The logs of this main cabin were of large size, andthe doors and window coverings were heavy, affording safer protectionfrom bullets than the other cabins.

  When Jean went in he seemed to see a host of white faces lifted to him.His sister Ann, his two sisters-in-law, the children, all mutelywatched him with eyes that would haunt him.

  "Wal, Blaisdell, Jean says Jorth an' his precious gang of rustlers areon the way heah," announced the rancher.

  "Damn me if it's not a bad day fer Lee Jorth!" declared Blaisdell.

  "Clear off that table," ordered Isbel, "an' fetch out all the guns an'shells we got."

  Once laid upon the table these presented a formidable arsenal, whichconsisted of the three new .44 Winchesters that Jean had brought withhim from the coast; the enormous buffalo, or so-called "needle" gun,that Gaston Isbel had used for years; a Henry rifle which Blaisdell hadbrought, and half a dozen six-shooters. Piles and packages ofammunition littered the table.

  "Sort out these heah shells," said Isbel. "Everybody wants to get holdof his own."

  Jacobs, the neighbor who was present, was a thick-set, bearded man,rather jovial among those lean-jawe
d Texans. He carried a .44 rifle ofan old pattern. "Wal, boys, if I'd knowed we was in fer some fun I'dhev fetched more shells. Only got one magazine full. Mebbe them new.44's will fit my gun."

  It was discovered that the ammunition Jean had brought in quantityfitted Jacob's rifle, a fact which afforded peculiar satisfaction toall the men present.

  "Wal, shore we're lucky," declared Gaston Isbel.

  The women sat apart, in the corner toward the kitchen, and there seemedto be a strange fascination for them in the talk and action of the men.The wife of Jacobs was a little woman, with homely face and very brighteyes. Jean thought she would be a help in that household during thenext doubtful hours.

  Every moment Jean would go to the window and peer out down the road.His companions evidently relied upon him, for no one else looked out.Now that the suspense of days and weeks was over, these Texans facedthe issue with talk and act not noticeably different from those ofordinary moments.

  At last Jean espied the dark mass of horsemen out in the valley road.They were close together, walking their mounts, and evidently inearnest conversation. After several ineffectual attempts Jean countedeleven horses, every one of which he was sure bore a rider.

  "Dad, look out!" called Jean.

  Gaston Isbel strode to the door and stood looking, without a word.

  The other men crowded to the windows. Blaisdell cursed under hisbreath. Jacobs said: "By Golly! Come to pay us a call!" The womensat motionless, with dark, strained eyes. The children ceased theirplay and looked fearfully to their mother.

  When just out of rifle shot of the cabins the band of horsemen haltedand lined up in a half circle, all facing the ranch. They were closeenough for Jean to see their gestures, but he could not recognize anyof their faces. It struck him singularly that not one of them wore amask.

  "Jean, do you know any of them?" asked his father

  "No, not yet. They're too far off."

  "Dad, I'll get your old telescope," said Guy Isbel, and he ran outtoward the adjoining cabin.

  Blaisdell shook his big, hoary head and rumbled out of his bull-likeneck, "Wal, now you're heah, you sheep fellars, what are you goin' todo aboot it?"

  Guy Isbel returned with a yard-long telescope, which he passed to hisfather. The old man took it with shaking hands and leveled it.Suddenly it was as if he had been transfixed; then he lowered theglass, shaking violently, and his face grew gray with an exceedingbitter wrath.

  "Jorth!" he swore, harshly.

  Jean had only to look at his father to know that recognition had beenlike a mortal shock. It passed. Again the rancher leveled the glass.

  "Wal, Blaisdell, there's our old Texas friend, Daggs," he drawled,dryly. "An' Greaves, our honest storekeeper of Grass Valley. An'there's Stonewall Jackson Jorth. An' Tad Jorth, with the same old rednose! ... An', say, damn if one of that gang isn't Queen, as bad a gunfighter as Texas ever bred. Shore I thought he'd been killed in theBig Bend country. So I heard.... An' there's Craig, anotherrespectable sheepman of Grass Valley. Haw-haw! An', wal, I don'trecognize any more of them."

  Jean forthwith took the glass and moved it slowly across the faces ofthat group of horsemen. "Simm Bruce," he said, instantly. "I seeColter. And, yes, Greaves is there. I've seen the man next tohim--face like a ham...."

  "Shore that is Craig," interrupted his father.

  Jean knew the dark face of Lee Jorth by the resemblance it bore toEllen's, and the recognition brought a twinge. He thought, too, thathe could tell the other Jorths. He asked his father to describe Daggsand then Queen. It was not likely that Jean would fail to know theseseveral men in the future. Then Blaisdell asked for the telescope and,when he got through looking and cursing, he passed it on to others,who, one by one, took a long look, until finally it came back to theold rancher.

  "Wal, Daggs is wavin' his hand heah an' there, like a general aboot tosend out scouts. Haw-haw! ... An' 'pears to me he's not overlookin'our hosses. Wal, that's natural for a rustler. He'd have to steal ahoss or a steer before goin' into a fight or to dinner or to a funeral."

  "It 'll be his funeral if he goes to foolin' 'round them hosses,"declared Guy Isbel, peering anxiously out of the door.

  "Wal, son, shore it 'll be somebody's funeral," replied his father.

  Jean paid but little heed to the conversation. With sharp eyes fixedupon the horsemen, he tried to grasp at their intention. Daggs pointedto the horses in the pasture lot that lay between him and the house.These animals were the best on the range and belonged mostly to GuyIsbel, who was the horse fancier and trader of the family. His horseswere his passion.

  "Looks like they'd do some horse stealin'," said Jean.

  "Lend me that glass," demanded Guy, forcefully. He surveyed the bandof men for a long moment, then he handed the glass back to Jean.

  "I'm goin' out there after my hosses," he declared.

  "No!" exclaimed his father.

  "That gang come to steal an' not to fight. Can't you see that? If theymeant to fight they'd do it. They're out there arguin' about myhosses."

  Guy picked up his rifle. He looked sullenly determined and the gleamin his eye was one of fearlessness.

  "Son, I know Daggs," said his father. "An' I know Jorth. They've cometo kill us. It 'll be shore death for y'u to go out there."

  "I'm goin', anyhow. They can't steal my hosses out from under my eyes.An' they ain't in range."

  "Wal, Guy, you ain't goin' alone," spoke up Jacobs, cheerily, as hecame forward.

  The red-haired young wife of Guy Isbel showed no change of her graveface. She had been reared in a stern school. She knew men in timeslike these. But Jacobs's wife appealed to him, "Bill, don't risk yourlife for a horse or two."

  Jacobs laughed and answered, "Not much risk," and went out with Guy.To Jean their action seemed foolhardy. He kept a keen eye on them andsaw instantly when the band became aware of Guy's and Jacobs's entranceinto the pasture. It took only another second then to realize thatDaggs and Jorth had deadly intent. Jean saw Daggs slip out of hissaddle, rifle in hand. Others of the gang did likewise, until half ofthem were dismounted.

  "Dad, they're goin' to shoot," called out Jean, sharply. "Yell for Guyand Jacobs. Make them come back."

  The old man shouted; Bill Isbel yelled; Blaisdell lifted his stentorianvoice.

  Jean screamed piercingly: "Guy! Run! Run!"

  But Guy Isbel and his companion strode on into the pasture, as if theyhad not heard, as if no menacing horse thieves were within miles. Theyhad covered about a quarter of the distance across the pasture, andwere nearing the horses, when Jean saw red flashes and white puffs ofsmoke burst out from the front of that dark band of rustlers. Thenfollowed the sharp, rattling crack of rifles.

  Guy Isbel stopped short, and, dropping his gun, he threw up his armsand fell headlong. Jacobs acted as if he had suddenly encountered aninvisible blow. He had been hit. Turning, he began to run and ranfast for a few paces. There were more quick, sharp shots. He let goof his rifle. His running broke. Walking, reeling, staggering, hekept on. A hoarse cry came from him. Then a single rifle shot pealedout. Jean heard the bullet strike. Jacobs fell to his knees, thenforward on his face.

  Jean Isbel felt himself turned to marble. The suddenness of thistragedy paralyzed him. His gaze remained riveted on those prostrateforms.

  A hand clutched his arm--a shaking woman's hand, slim and hard andtense.

  "Bill's--killed!" whispered a broken voice. "I was watchin'....They're both dead!"

  The wives of Jacobs and Guy Isbel had slipped up behind Jean and frombehind him they had seen the tragedy.

  "I asked Bill--not to--go," faltered the Jacobs woman, and, coveringher face with her hands, she groped back to the corner of the cabin,where the other women, shaking and white, received her in their arms.Guy Isbel's wife stood at the window, peering over Jean's shoulder. Shehad the nerve of a man. She had looked out upon death before.

  "Yes, they're dead," she s
aid, bitterly. "An' how are we goin' to gettheir bodies?"

  At this Gaston Isbel seemed to rouse from the cold spell that hadtransfixed him.

  "God, this is hell for our women," he cried out, hoarsely. "My son--myson! ... Murdered by the Jorths!" Then he swore a terrible oath.

  Jean saw the remainder of the mounted rustlers get off, and then, allof them leading their horses, they began to move around to the left.

  "Dad, they're movin' round," said Jean.

  "Up to some trick," declared Bill Isbel.

  "Bill, you make a hole through the back wall, say aboot the fifth logup," ordered the father. "Shore we've got to look out."

  The elder son grasped a tool and, scattering the children, who had beenplaying near the back corner, he began to work at the point designated.The little children backed away with fixed, wondering, grave eyes. Thewomen moved their chairs, and huddled together as if waiting andlistening.

  Jean watched the rustlers until they passed out of his sight. They hadmoved toward the sloping, brushy ground to the north and west of thecabins.

  "Let me know when you get a hole in the back wall," said Jean, and hewent through the kitchen and cautiously out another door to slip into alow-roofed, shed-like end of the rambling cabin. This small space wasused to store winter firewood. The chinks between the walls had notbeen filled with adobe clay, and he could see out on three sides. Therustlers were going into the juniper brush. They moved out of sight,and presently reappeared without their horses. It looked to Jean as ifthey intended to attack the cabins. Then they halted at the edge ofthe brush and held a long consultation. Jean could see themdistinctly, though they were too far distant for him to recognize anyparticular man. One of them, however, stood and moved apart from theclosely massed group. Evidently, from his strides and gestures, he wasexhorting his listeners. Jean concluded this was either Daggs orJorth. Whoever it was had a loud, coarse voice, and this and hisactions impressed Jean with a suspicion that the man was under theinfluence of the bottle.

  Presently Bill Isbel called Jean in a low voice. "Jean, I got the holemade, but we can't see anyone."

  "I see them," Jean replied. "They're havin' a powwow. Looks to melike either Jorth or Daggs is drunk. He's arguin' to charge us, an'the rest of the gang are holdin' back.... Tell dad, an' all of you keepwatchin'. I'll let you know when they make a move."

  Jorth's gang appeared to be in no hurry to expose their plan of battle.Gradually the group disintegrated a little; some of them sat down;others walked to and fro. Presently two of them went into the brush,probably back to the horses. In a few moments they reappeared,carrying a pack. And when this was deposited on the ground all therustlers sat down around it. They had brought food and drink. Jeanhad to utter a grim laugh at their coolness; and he was reminded ofmany dare-devil deeds known to have been perpetrated by the Hash KnifeGang. Jean was glad of a reprieve. The longer the rustlers put off anattack the more time the allies of the Isbels would have to get here.Rather hazardous, however, would it be now for anyone to attempt to getto the Isbel cabins in the daytime. Night would be more favorable.

  Twice Bill Isbel came through the kitchen to whisper to Jean. Thestrain in the large room, from which the rustlers could not be seen,must have been great. Jean told him all he had seen and what hethought about it. "Eatin' an' drinkin'!" ejaculated Bill. "Well, I'llbe--! That 'll jar the old man. He wants to get the fight over.

  "Tell him I said it'll be over too quick--for us--unless are mightycareful," replied Jean, sharply.

  Bill went back muttering to himself. Then followed a long wait,fraught with suspense, during which Jean watched the rustlers regalethemselves. The day was hot and still. And the unnatural silence ofthe cabin was broken now and then by the gay laughter of the children.The sound shocked and haunted Jean. Playing children! Then anothersound, so faint he had to strain to hear it, disturbed and saddenedhim--his father's slow tread up and down the cabin floor, to and fro,to and fro. What must be in his father's heart this day!

  At length the rustlers rose and, with rifles in hand, they moved as oneman down the slope. They came several hundred yards closer, untilJean, grimly cocking his rifle, muttered to himself that a few morerods closer would mean the end of several of that gang. They knew therange of a rifle well enough, and once more sheered off at right angleswith the cabin. When they got even with the line of corrals theystooped down and were lost to Jean's sight. This fact caused himalarm. They were, of course, crawling up on the cabins. At the end ofthat line of corrals ran a ditch, the bank of which was high enough toafford cover. Moreover, it ran along in front of the cabins, scarcelya hundred yards, and it was covered with grass and little clumps ofbrush, from behind which the rustlers could fire into the windows andthrough the clay chinks without any considerable risk to themselves. Asthey did not come into sight again, Jean concluded he had discoveredtheir plan. Still, he waited awhile longer, until he saw faint, littleclouds of dust rising from behind the far end of the embankment. Thatdiscovery made him rush out, and through the kitchen to the largecabin, where his sudden appearance startled the men.

  "Get back out of sight!" he ordered, sharply, and with swift steps hereached the door and closed it. "They're behind the bank out there bythe corrals. An' they're goin' to crawl down the ditch closer tous.... It looks bad. They'll have grass an' brush to shoot from. We'vegot to be mighty careful how we peep out."

  "Ahuh! All right," replied his father. "You women keep the kids withyou in that corner. An' you all better lay down flat."

  Blaisdell, Bill Isbel, and the old man crouched at the large window,peeping through cracks in the rough edges of the logs. Jean took hispost beside the small window, with his keen eyes vibrating like acompass needle. The movement of a blade of grass, the flight of agrasshopper could not escape his trained sight.

  "Look sharp now!" he called to the other men. "I see dust.... They'reworkin' along almost to that bare spot on the bank.... I saw the tip ofa rifle ... a black hat ... more dust. They're spreadin' along behindthe bank."

  Loud voices, and then thick clouds of yellow dust, coming from behindthe highest and brushiest line of the embankment, attested to the truthof Jean's observation, and also to a reckless disregard of danger.

  Suddenly Jean caught a glint of moving color through the fringe ofbrush. Instantly he was strung like a whipcord.

  Then a tall, hatless and coatless man stepped up in plain sight. Thesun shone on his fair, ruffled hair. Daggs!

  "Hey, you -- -- Isbels!" he bawled, in magnificent derisive boldness."Come out an' fight!"

  Quick as lightning Jean threw up his rifle and fired. He saw tufts offair hair fly from Daggs's head. He saw the squirt of red blood. Thenquick shots from his comrades rang out. They all hit the swaying bodyof the rustler. But Jean knew with a terrible thrill that his bullethad killed Daggs before the other three struck. Daggs fell forward,his arms and half his body resting over, the embankment. Then therustlers dragged him back out of sight. Hoarse shouts rose. A cloud ofyellow dust drifted away from the spot.

  "Daggs!" burst out Gaston Isbel. "Jean, you knocked off the top of hishaid. I seen that when I was pullin' trigger. Shore we over heahwasted our shots."

  "God! he must have been crazy or drunk--to pop up there--an' brace usthat way," said Blaisdell, breathing hard.

  "Arizona is bad for Texans," replied Isbel, sardonically. "Shore it'sbeen too peaceful heah. Rustlers have no practice at fightin'. An' Ireckon Daggs forgot."

  "Daggs made as crazy a move as that of Guy an' Jacobs," spoke up Jean."They were overbold, an' he was drunk. Let them be a lesson to us."

  Jean had smelled whisky upon his entrance to this cabin. Bill was ahard drinker, and his father was not immune. Blaisdell, too, drankheavily upon occasions. Jean made a mental note that he would notpermit their chances to become impaired by liquor.

  Rifles began to crack, and puffs of smoke rose all along the embankmentfor the space of a
hundred feet. Bullets whistled through the rudewindow casing and spattered on the heavy door, and one split the claybetween the logs before Jean, narrowly missing him. Another volleyfollowed, then another. The rustlers had repeating rifles and theywere emptying their magazines. Jean changed his position. The othermen profited by his wise move. The volleys had merged into onecontinuous rattling roar of rifle shots. Then came a sudden cessationof reports, with silence of relief. The cabin was full of dust,mingled with the smoke from the shots of Jean and his companions. Jeanheard the stifled breaths of the children. Evidently they wereterror-stricken, but they did not cry out. The women uttered no sound.

  A loud voice pealed from behind the embankment.

  "Come out an' fight! Do you Isbels want to be killed like sheep?"

  This sally gained no reply. Jean returned to his post by the window andhis comrades followed his example. And they exercised extreme cautionwhen they peeped out.

  "Boys, don't shoot till you see one," said Gaston Isbel. "Maybe aftera while they'll get careless. But Jorth will never show himself."

  The rustlers did not again resort to volleys. One by one, fromdifferent angles, they began to shoot, and they were not firing atrandom. A few bullets came straight in at the windows to pat into thewalls; a few others ticked and splintered the edges of the windows; andmost of them broke through the clay chinks between the logs. It dawnedupon Jean that these dangerous shots were not accident. They were wellaimed, and most of them hit low down. The cunning rustlers had someunerring riflemen and they were picking out the vulnerable places allalong the front of the cabin. If Jean had not been lying flat he wouldhave been hit twice. Presently he conceived the idea of driving pegsbetween the logs, high up, and, kneeling on these, he managed to peepout from the upper edge of the window. But this position was awkwardand difficult to hold for long.

  He heard a bullet hit one of his comrades. Whoever had been strucknever uttered a sound. Jean turned to look. Bill Isbel was holdinghis shoulder, where red splotches appeared on his shirt. He shook hishead at Jean, evidently to make light of the wound. The women andchildren were lying face down and could not see what was happening.Plain is was that Bill did not want them to know. Blaisdell bound upthe bloody shoulder with a scarf.

  Steady firing from the rustlers went on, at the rate of one shot everyfew minutes. The Isbels did not return these. Jean did not fire againthat afternoon. Toward sunset, when the besiegers appeared to growrestless or careless, Blaisdell fired at something moving behind thebrush; and Gaston Isbel's huge buffalo gun boomed out.

  "Wal, what 're they goin' to do after dark, an' what 're WE goin' todo?" grumbled Blaisdell.

  "Reckon they'll never charge us," said Gaston.

  "They might set fire to the cabins," added Bill Isbel. He appeared tobe the gloomiest of the Isbel faction. There was something on his mind.

  "Wal, the Jorths are bad, but I reckon they'd not burn us alive,"replied Blaisdell.

  "Hah!" ejaculated Gaston Isbel. "Much you know aboot Lee Jorth. Hewould skin me alive an' throw red-hot coals on my raw flesh."

  So they talked during the hour from sunset to dark. Jean Isbel hadlittle to say. He was revolving possibilities in his mind. Darknessbrought a change in the attack of the rustlers. They stationed men atfour points around the cabins; and every few minutes one of theseoutposts would fire. These bullets embedded themselves in the logs,causing but little anxiety to the Isbels.

  "Jean, what you make of it?" asked the old rancher.

  "Looks to me this way," replied Jean. "They're set for a long fight.They're shootin' just to let us know they're on the watch."

  "Ahuh! Wal, what 're you goin' to do aboot it?"

  "I'm goin' out there presently."

  Gaston Isbel grunted his satisfaction at this intention of Jean's.

  All was pitch dark inside the cabin. The women had water and food athand. Jean kept a sharp lookout from his window while he ate hissupper of meat, bread, and milk. At last the children, worn out by thelong day, fell asleep. The women whispered a little in their corner.

  About nine o'clock Jean signified his intention of going out toreconnoitre.

  "Dad, they've got the best of us in the daytime," he said, "but notafter dark."

  Jean buckled on a belt that carried shells, a bowie knife, andrevolver, and with rifle in hand he went out through the kitchen to theyard. The night was darker than usual, as some of the stars were hiddenby clouds. He leaned against the log cabin, waiting for his eyes tobecome perfectly adjusted to the darkness. Like an Indian, Jean couldsee well at night. He knew every point around cabins and sheds andcorrals, every post, log, tree, rock, adjacent to the ranch. Afterperhaps a quarter of an hour watching, during which time several shotswere fired from behind the embankment and one each from the rustlers atthe other locations, Jean slipped out on his quest.

  He kept in the shadow of the cabin walls, then the line of orchardtrees, then a row of currant bushes. Here, crouching low, he halted tolook and listen. He was now at the edge of the open ground, with thegently rising slope before him. He could see the dark patches of cedarand juniper trees. On the north side of the cabin a streak of fireflashed in the blackness, and a shot rang out. Jean heard the bulletbit the cabin. Then silence enfolded the lonely ranch and the darknesslay like a black blanket. A low hum of insects pervaded the air. Dullsheets of lightning illumined the dark horizon to the south. Once Jeanheard voices, but could not tell from which direction they came. Tothe west of him then flared out another rifle shot. The bulletwhistled down over Jean to thud into the cabin.

  Jean made a careful study of the obscure, gray-black open before himand then the background to his rear. So long as he kept the denseshadows behind him he could not be seen. He slipped from behind hiscovert and, gliding with absolutely noiseless footsteps, he gained thefirst clump of junipers. Here he waited patiently and motionlessly foranother round of shots from the rustlers. After the second shot fromthe west side Jean sheered off to the right. Patches of brush, clumpsof juniper, and isolated cedars covered this slope, affording Jean aperfect means for his purpose, which was to make a detour and come upbehind the rustler who was firing from that side. Jean climbed to thetop of the ridge, descended the opposite slope, made his turn to theleft, and slowly worked up behind the point near where he expected tolocate the rustler. Long habit in the open, by day and night, renderedhis sense of direction almost as perfect as sight itself. The firstflash of fire he saw from this side proved that he had come straight uptoward his man. Jean's intention was to crawl up on this one of theJorth gang and silently kill him with a knife. If the plan workedsuccessfully, Jean meant to work round to the next rustler. Layingaside his rifle, he crawled forward on hands and knees, making no moresound than a cat. His approach was slow. He had to pick his way, becareful not to break twigs nor rattle stones. His buckskin garmentsmade no sound against the brush. Jean located the rustler sitting onthe top of the ridge in the center of an open space. He was alone.Jean saw the dull-red end of the cigarette he was smoking. The groundon the ridge top was rocky and not well adapted for Jean's purpose. Hehad to abandon the idea of crawling up on the rustler. Whereupon, Jeanturned back, patiently and slowly, to get his rifle.

  Upon securing it he began to retrace his course, this time more slowlythan before, as he was hampered by the rifle. But he did not make theslightest sound, and at length he reached the edge of the open ridgetop, once more to espy the dark form of the rustler silhouetted againstthe sky. The distance was not more than fifty yards.

  As Jean rose to his knee and carefully lifted his rifle round to avoidthe twigs of a juniper he suddenly experienced another emotion besidesthe one of grim, hard wrath at the Jorths. It was an emotion thatsickened him, made him weak internally, a cold, shaking, ungovernablesensation. Suppose this man was Ellen Jorth's father! Jean loweredthe rifle. He felt it shake over his knee. He was trembling all over.The astounding discovery that he did
not want to kill Ellen'sfather--that he could not do it--awakened Jean to the despairing natureof his love for her. In this grim moment of indecision, when he knewhis Indian subtlety and ability gave him a great advantage over theJorths, he fully realized his strange, hopeless, and irresistible lovefor the girl. He made no attempt to deny it any longer. Like thenight and the lonely wilderness around him, like the inevitableness ofthis Jorth-Isbel feud, this love of his was a thing, a fact, a reality.He breathed to his own inward ear, to his soul--he could not kill EllenJorth's father. Feud or no feud, Isbel or not, he could notdeliberately do it. And why not? There was no answer. Was he notfaithless to his father? He had no hope of ever winning Ellen Jorth.He did not want the love of a girl of her character. But he loved her.And his struggle must be against the insidious and mysterious growth ofthat passion. It swayed him already. It made him a coward. Throughhis mind and heart swept the memory of Ellen Jorth, her beauty andcharm, her boldness and pathos, her shame and her degradation. And thesweetness of her outweighed the boldness. And the mystery of herarrayed itself in unquenchable protest against her acknowledged shame.Jean lifted his face to the heavens, to the pitiless white stars, tothe infinite depths of the dark-blue sky. He could sense the fact ofhis being an atom in the universe of nature. What was he, what was hisrevengeful father, what were hate and passion and strife in comparisonto the nameless something, immense and everlasting, that he sensed inthis dark moment?

  But the rustlers--Daggs--the Jorths--they had killed his brotherGuy--murdered him brutally and ruthlessly. Guy had been a playmate ofJean's--a favorite brother. Bill had been secretive and selfish. Jeanhad never loved him as he did Guy. Guy lay dead down there on themeadow. This feud had begun to run its bloody course. Jean steeled hisnerve. The hot blood crept back along his veins. The dark andmasterful tide of revenge waved over him. The keen edge of his mindthen cut out sharp and trenchant thoughts. He must kill when and wherehe could. This man could hardly be Ellen Jorth's father. Jorth wouldbe with the main crowd, directing hostilities. Jean could shoot thisrustler guard and his shot would be taken by the gang as the regularone from their comrade. Then swiftly Jean leveled his rifle, coveredthe dark form, grew cold and set, and pressed the trigger. After thereport he rose and wheeled away. He did not look nor listen for theresult of his shot. A clammy sweat wet his face, the hollow of hishands, his breast. A horrible, leaden, thick sensation oppressed hisheart. Nature had endowed him with Indian gifts, but the exercise ofthem to this end caused a revolt in his soul.

  Nevertheless, it was the Isbel blood that dominated him. The wind blewcool on his face. The burden upon his shoulders seemed to lift. Theclamoring whispers grew fainter in his ears. And by the time he hadretraced his cautious steps back to the orchard all his physical beingwas strung to the task at hand. Something had come between hisreflective self and this man of action.

  Crossing the lane, he took to the west line of sheds, and passed beyondthem into the meadow. In the grass he crawled silently away to theright, using the same precaution that had actuated him on the slope,only here he did not pause so often, nor move so slowly. Jean aimed togo far enough to the right to pass the end of the embankment behindwhich the rustlers had found such efficient cover. This ditch had beenmade to keep water, during spring thaws and summer storms, from pouringoff the slope to flood the corrals.

  Jean miscalculated and found he had come upon the embankment somewhatto the left of the end, which fact, however, caused him no uneasiness.He lay there awhile to listen. Again he heard voices. After a time ashot pealed out. He did not see the flash, but he calculated that ithad come from the north side of the cabins.

  The next quarter of an hour discovered to Jean that the nearest guardwas firing from the top of the embankment, perhaps a hundred yardsdistant, and a second one was performing the same office from a pointapparently only a few yards farther on. Two rustlers close together!Jean had not calculated upon that. For a little while he pondered onwhat was best to do, and at length decided to crawl round behind them,and as close as the situation made advisable.

  He found the ditch behind the embankment a favorable path by which tostalk these enemies. It was dry and sandy, with borders of high weeds.The only drawback was that it was almost impossible for him to keepfrom brushing against the dry, invisible branches of the weeds. Tooffset this he wormed his way like a snail, inch by inch, taking a longtime before he caught sight of the sitting figure of a man, blackagainst the dark-blue sky. This rustler had fired his rifle threetimes during Jean's slow approach. Jean watched and listened a fewmoments, then wormed himself closer and closer, until the man waswithin twenty steps of him.

  Jean smelled tobacco smoke, but could see no light of pipe orcigarette, because the fellow's back was turned.

  "Say, Ben," said this man to his companion sitting hunched up a fewyards distant, "shore it strikes me queer thet Somers ain't shootin'any over thar."

  Jean recognized the dry, drawling voice of Greaves, and the shock of itseemed to contract the muscles of his whole thrilling body, like thatof a panther about to spring.