by Zane Grey
He tried to reach her across the table, and his movements were lazy and slow, like his smile. His tone was coaxing.
“Mah dear, shore you set on my knee just the other day, now, didn’t you?”
Ellen felt the blood sting her cheeks.
“I was a child,” she returned.
“Wal, listen to this heah grown-up young woman. All in a few days! … Doon’t be in a temper, Ellen…. Come, give us a kiss.”
She deliberately gazed into his eyes. Like the eyes of an eagle, they were clear and hard, just now warmed by the dalliance of the moment, but there was no light, no intelligence in them to prove he understood her. The instant separated Ellen immeasurably from him and from all of his ilk.
“Daggs, I was a child,” she said. “I was lonely—hungry for affection—I was innocent. Then I was careless, too, and thoughtless when I should have known better. But I hardly understood y’u men. I put such thoughts out of my mind. I know now—know what y’u mean—what y’u have made people believe I am.”
“Ahuh! Shore I get your hunch,” he returned, with a change of tone. “But I asked you to marry me?”
“Yes y’u did. The first day y’u got heah to my dad’s house. And y’u asked me to marry y’u after y’u found y’u couldn’t have your way with me. To y’u the one didn’t mean any more than the other.”
“Shore I did more than Simm Bruce an’ Colter,” he retorted. “They never asked you to marry.”
“No, they didn’t. And if I could respect them at all I’d do it because they didn’t ask me.”
“Wal, I’ll be dog-goned!” ejaculated Daggs, thoughtfully, as he stroked his long mustache.
“I’ll say to them what I’ve said to y’u,” went on Ellen. “I’ll tell dad to make y’u let me alone. I wouldn’t marry one of y’u—y’u loafers to save my life. I’ve my suspicions about y’u. Y’u’re a bad lot.”
Daggs changed subtly. The whole indolent nonchalance of the man vanished in an instant.
“Wal, Miss Jorth, I reckon you mean we’re a bad lot of sheepmen?” he queried, in the cool, easy speech of a Texan.
“No,” flashed Ellen. “Shore I don’t say sheepmen. I say y’u’re a bad lot.”
“Oh, the hell you say!” Daggs spoke as he might have spoken to a man; then turning swiftly on his heel he left her. Outside he encountered Ellen’s father. She heard Daggs speak: “Lee, your little wildcat is shore heah. An’ take mah hunch. Somebody has been talkin’ to her.”
“Who has?” asked her father, in his husky voice. Ellen knew at once that he had been drinking.
“Lord only knows,” replied Daggs. “But shore it wasn’t any friends of ours.”
“We cain’t stop people’s tongues,” said Jorth, resignedly.
“Wal, I ain’t so shore,” continued Daggs, with his slow, cool laugh. “Reckon I never yet heard any daid men’s tongues wag.”
Then the musical tinkle of his spurs sounded fainter. A moment later Ellen’s father entered the cabin. His dark, moody face brightened at sight of her. Ellen knew she was the only person in the world left for him to love. And she was sure of his love. Her very presence always made him different. And through the years, the darker their misfortunes, the farther he slipped away from better days, the more she loved him.
“Hello, my Ellen!” he said, and he embraced her. When he had been drinking he never kissed her. “Shore I’m glad you’re home. This heah hole is bad enough any time, but when you’re gone it’s black…. I’m hungry.”
Ellen laid food and drink on the table; and for a little while she did not look directly at him. She was concerned about this new searching power of her eyes. In relation to him she vaguely dreaded it.
Lee Jorth had once been a singularly handsome man. He was tall, but did not have the figure of a horseman. His dark hair was streaked with gray, and was white over his ears. His face was sallow and thin, with deep lines. Under his round, prominent, brown eyes, like deadened furnaces, were blue swollen welts. He had a bitter mouth and weak chin, not wholly concealed by gray mustache and pointed beard. He wore a long frock coat and a wide-brimmed sombrero, both black in color, and so old and stained and frayed that along with the fashion of them they betrayed that they had come from Texas with him. Jorth always persisted in wearing a white linen shirt, likewise a relic of his Southern prosperity, and today it was ragged and soiled as usual.
Ellen watched her father eat and waited for him to speak. It occured to her strangely that he never asked about the sheep or the new-born lambs. She divined with a subtle new woman’s intuition that he cared nothing for his sheep.
“Ellen, what riled Daggs?” inquired her father, presently. “He shore had fire in his eye.”
Long ago Ellen had betrayed an indignity she had suffered at the hands of a man. Her father had nearly killed him. Since then she had taken care to keep her troubles to herself. If her father had not been blind and absorbed in his own brooding he would have seen a thousand things sufficient to inflame his Southern pride and temper.
“Daggs asked me to marry him again and I said he belonged to a bad lot,” she replied.
Jorth laughed in scorn. “Fool! My God! Ellen, I must have dragged you low—that every damned ru—er—sheepman—who comes along thinks he can marry you.”
At the break in his words, the incompleted meaning, Ellen dropped her eyes. Little things once never noted by her were now come to have a fascinating significance.
“Never mind, dad,” she replied. “They cain’t marry me.”
“Daggs said somebody had been talkin’ to you. How aboot that?”
“Old John Sprague has just gotten back from Grass Valley,” said Ellen. “I stopped in to see him. Shore he told me all the village gossip.”
“Anythin’ to interest me?” he queried, darkly.
“Yes, dad, I’m afraid a good deal,” she said, hesitatingly. Then in accordance with a decision Ellen had made she told him of the rumored war between sheepmen and cattlemen; that old Isbel had Blaisdell, Gordon, Fredericks, Blue and other well-known ranchers on his side; that his son Jean Isbel had come from Oregon with a wonderful reputation as fighter and scout and tracker; that it was no secret how Colonel Lee Jorth was at the head of the sheepmen; that a bloody war was sure to come.
“Hah!” exclaimed Jorth, with a stain of red in his sallow cheek. “Reckon none of that is news to me. I knew all that.”
Ellen wondered if he had heard of her meeting with Jean Isbel. If not he would hear as soon as Simm Bruce and Lorenzo came back. She decided to forestall them.
“Dad, I met Jean Isbel. He came into my camp. Asked the way to the Rim. I showed him. We—we talked a little. And shore were gettin’ acquainted when—when he told me who he was. Then I left him—hurried back to camp.”
“Colter met Isbel down in the woods,” replied Jorth, ponderingly. “Said he looked like an Indian—a hard an’ slippery customer to reckon with.”
“Shore I guess I can indorse what Colter said,” returned Ellen, dryly. She could have laughed aloud at her deceit. Still she had not lied.
“How’d this heah young Isbel strike you?” queried her father, suddenly glancing up at her.
Ellen felt the slow, sickening, guilty rise of blood in her face. She was helpless to stop it. But her father evidently never saw it. He was looking at her without seeing her.
“He—he struck me as different from men heah,” she stammered.
“Did Sprague tell you aboot this half-Indian Isbel—aboot his reputation?”
“Yes.”
“Did he look to you like a real woodsman?”
“Indeed he did. He wore buckskin. He stepped quick and soft. He acted at home in the woods. He had eyes black as night and sharp as lightnin’. They shore saw about all there was to see.”
Jorth chewed at his mustache and lost himself in brooding thought.
“Dad, tell me, is there goin’ to be a war?” asked Ellen, presently.
What a red, strange, rolling flas
h blazed in his eyes! His body jerked.
“Shore. You might as well know.”
“Between sheepmen and cattlemen?”
“Yes.”
“With y’u, dad, at the haid of one faction and Gaston Isbel the other?”
“Daughter, you have it correct, so far as you go.”
“Oh! … Dad, can’t this fight be avoided?”
“You forget you’re from Texas,” he replied.
“Cain’t it be helped?” she repeated, stubbornly.
“No!” he declared, with deep, hoarse passion.
“Why not?”
“Wal, we sheepmen are goin’ to run sheep anywhere we like on the range. An’ cattlemen won’t stand for that.”
“But, dad, it’s so foolish,” declared Ellen, earnestly. “Y’u sheepmen do not have to run sheep over the cattle range.”
“I reckon we do.”
“Dad, that argument doesn’t go with me. I know the country. For years to come there will be room for both sheep and cattle without overrunnin’. If some of the range is better in water and grass, then whoever got there first should have it. That shore is only fair. It’s common sense, too.”
“Ellen, I reckon some cattle people have been prejudicin’ you,” said Jorth, bitterly.
“Dad!” she cried, hotly.
This had grown to be an ordeal for Jorth. He seemed a victim of contending tides of feeling. Some will or struggle broke within him and the change was manifest. Haggard, shifty-eyed, with wabbling chin, he burst into speech.
“See heah, girl. You listen. There’s a clique of ranchers down in the Basin, all those you named, with Isbel at their haid. They have resented sheepmen comin’ down into the valley. They want it all to themselves. That’s the reason. Shore there’s another. All the Isbels are crooked. They’re cattle an’ horse thieves—have been for years. Gaston Isbel always was a maverick rustler. He’s gettin’ old now an’ rich, so he wants to cover his tracks. He aims to blame this cattle rustlin’ an’ horse stealin’ on to us sheepmen, an’ run us out of the country.”
Gravely Ellen Jorth studied her father’s face, and the newly found truth-seeing power of her eyes did not fail her. In part, perhaps in all, he was telling lies. She shuddered a little, loyally battling against the insidious convictions being brought to fruition. Perhaps in his brooding over his failures and troubles he leaned toward false judgments. Ellen could not attach dishonor to her father’s motives or speeches. For long, however, something about him had troubled her, perplexed her. Fearfully she believed she was coming to some revelation, and, despite her keen determination to know, she found herself shrinking.
“Dad, mother told me before she died that the Isbels had ruined you,” said Ellen, very low. It hurt her so to see her father cover his face that she could hardly go on. “If they ruined you they ruined all of us. I know what we had once—what we lost again and again—and I see what we are come to now. Mother hated the Isbels. She taught me to hate the very name. But I never knew how they ruined you—or why—or when. And I want to know now.”
Then it was not the face of a liar that Jorth disclosed. The present was forgotten. He lived in the past. He even seemed younger in the revivifying flash of hate that made his face radiant. The lines burned out. Hate gave him back the spirit of his youth.
“Gaston Isbel an’ I were boys together in Weston, Texas,” began Jorth, in swift, passionate voice. “We went to school together. We loved the same girl—your mother. When the war broke out she was engaged to Isbel. His family was rich. They influenced her people. But she loved me. When Isbel went to war she married me. He came back an’ faced us. God! I’ll never forget that. Your mother confessed her unfaithfulness—by Heaven! She taunted him with it. Isbel accused me of winnin’ her by lies. But she took the sting out of that.
“Isbel never forgave her an’ he hounded me to ruin. He made me out a card-sharp, cheatin’ my best friends. I was disgraced. Later he tangled me in the courts—he beat me out of property—an’ last by convictin’ me of rustlin’ cattle he run me out of Texas.”
Black and distorted now, Jorth’s face was a spectacle to make Ellen sick with a terrible passion of despair and hate. The truth of her father’s ruin and her own were enough. What mattered all else? Jorth beat the table with fluttering, nerveless hands that seemed all the more significant for their lack of physical force.
“An’ so help me God, it’s got to be wiped out in blood!” he hissed.
That was his answer to the wavering and nobility of Ellen. And she in her turn had no answer to make. She crept away into the corner behind the curtain, and there on her couch in the semidarkness she lay with strained heart, and a resurging, unconquerable tumult in her mind. And she lay there from the middle of that afternoon until the next morning.
When she awakened she expected to be unable to rise—she hoped she could not—but life seemed multiplied in her, and inaction was impossible. Something young and sweet and hopeful that had been in her did not greet the sun this morning. In their place was a woman’s passion to learn for herself, to watch events, to meet what must come, to survive.
After breakfast, at which she sat alone, she decided to put Isbel’s package out of the way, so that it would not be subjecting her to continual annoyance. The moment she picked it up the old curiosity assailed her.
“Shore I’ll see what it is, anyway,” she muttered, and with swift hands she opened the package. The action disclosed two pairs of fine, soft shoes, of a style she had never seen, and four pairs of stockings, two of strong, serviceable wool, and the others of a finer texture. Ellen looked at them in amaze. Of all things in the world, these would have been the last she expected to see. And, strangely, they were what she wanted and needed most. Naturally, then, Ellen made the mistake of taking them in her hands to feel their softness and warmth.
“Shore! He saw my bare legs! And he brought me these presents he’d intended for his sister…. He was ashamed for me—sorry for me…. And I thought he looked at me bold-like, as I’m used to be looked at heah! Isbel or not, he’s shore…”
But Ellen Jorth could not utter aloud the conviction her intelligence tried to force upon her.
“It’d be a pity to burn them,” she mused. “I cain’t do it. Sometime I might send them to Ann Isbel.”
Whereupon she wrapped them up again and hid them in the bottom of the old trunk, and slowly, as she lowered the lid, looking darkly, blankly at the wall, she whispered: “Jean Isbel! … I hate him!”
Later when Ellen went outdoors she carried her rifle, which was unusual for her, unless she intended to go into the woods.
The morning was sunny and warm. A group of shirt-sleeved men lounged in the hall and before the porch of the double cabin. Her father was pacing up and down, talking forcibly. Ellen heard his hoarse voice. As she approached he ceased talking and his listeners relaxed their attention. Ellen’s glance ran over them swiftly—Daggs, with his superb head, like that of a hawk, uncovered to the sun; Colter with his lowered, secretive looks, his sand-gray lean face; Jackson Jorth, her uncle, huge, gaunt, hulking, with white in his black beard and hair, and the fire of a ghoul in his hollow eyes; Tad Jorth, another brother of her father’s, younger, red of eye and nose, a weak-chinned drinker of rum. Three other limber-legged Texans lounged there, partners of Daggs, and they were sun-browned, light-haired, blue-eyed men singularly alike in appearance, from their dusty high-heeled boots to their broad black sombreros. They claimed to be sheepmen. All Ellen could be sure of was that Rock Wells spent most of his time there, doing nothing but look for a chance to waylay her; Springer was a gambler; and the third, who answered to the strange name of Queen, was a silent, lazy, watchful-eyed man who never wore a glove on his right hand and who never was seen without a gun within easy reach of that hand.
“Howdy, Ellen. Shore you ain’t goin’ to say good mawnin’ to this heah bad lot?” drawled Daggs, with good-natured sarcasm.
“Why, shore! Good morning, y’u hard-workin
g industrious mañana sheep raisers,” replied Ellen, coolly.
Daggs stared. The others appeared taken back by a greeting so foreign from any to which they were accustomed from her. Jackson Jorth let out a gruff haw-haw. Some of them doffed their sombreros, and Rock Wells managed a lazy, polite good morning. Ellen’s father seemed most significantly struck by her greeting, and the least amused.
“Ellen, I’m not likin’ your talk,” he said, with a frown.
“Dad, when y’u play cards don’t y’u call a spade a spade?”
“Why, shore I do.”
“Well, I’m calling spades spades.”
“Ahuh!” grunted Jorth, furtively dropping his eyes. “Where you goin’ with your gun? I’d rather you hung round heah now.”
“Reckon I might as well get used to packing my gun all the time,” replied Ellen. “Reckon I’ll be treated more like a man.”
Then the event Ellen had been expecting all morning took place. Simm Bruce and Lorenzo rode around the slope of the Knoll and trotted toward the cabin. Interest in Ellen was relegated to the background.
“Shore they’re bustin’ with news,” declared Daggs.
“They been ridin’ some, you bet,” remarked another.
“Huh!” exclaimed Jorth. “Bruce shore looks queer to me.”
“Red liquor,” said Tad Jorth, sententiously. “You-all know the brand Greaves hands out.”
“Naw, Simm ain’t drunk,” said Jackson Jorth. “Look at his bloody shirt.”
The cool, indolent interest of the crowd vanished at the red color pointed out by Jackson Jorth. Daggs rose in a single springy motion to his lofty height. The face Bruce turned to Jorth was swollen and bruised, with unhealed cuts. Where his right eye should have been showed a puffed dark purple bulge. His other eye, however, gleamed with hard and sullen light. He stretched a big shaking hand toward Jorth.
“Thet Nez Perce Isbel beat me half to death,” he bellowed.
Jorth stared hard at the tragic, almost grotesque figure, at the battered face. But speech failed him. It was Daggs who answered Bruce.
