The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  “Wal, Simm, I’ll be damned if you don’t look it.”

  “Beat you! What with?” burst out Jorth, explosively.

  “I thought he was swingin’ an ax, but Greaves swore it was his fists,” bawled Bruce, in misery and fury.

  “Where was your gun?” queried Jorth, sharply.

  “Gun? Hell!” exclaimed Bruce, flinging wide his arms. “Ask Lorenzo. He had a gun. An’ he got a biff in the jaw before my turn come. Ask him?”

  Attention thus directed to the Mexican showed a heavy discolored swelling upon the side of his olive-skinned face. Lorenzo looked only serious.

  “Hah! Speak up,” shouted Jorth, impatiently.

  “Señor Isbel heet me ver quick,” replied Lorenzo, with expressive gesture. “I see thousand stars—then moocho black—all like night.”

  At that some of Daggs’s men lolled back with dry crisp laughter. Daggs’s hard face rippled with a smile. But there was no humor in anything for Colonel Jorth.

  “Tell us what come off. Quick!” he ordered. “Where did it happen? Why? Who saw it? What did you do?”

  Bruce lapsed into a sullen impressiveness. “Wal, I happened in Greaves’s store an’ run into Jean Isbel. Shore was lookin’ fer him. I had my mind made up what to do, but I got to shootin’ off my gab instead of my gun. I called him Nez Perce—an’ I throwed all thet talk in his face about old Gass Isbel sendin’ fer him—an’ I told him he’d git run out of the Tonto. Reckon I was jest warmin’ up…. But then it all happened. He slugged Lorenzo jest one. An’ Lorenzo slid peaceful-like to bed behind the counter. I hadn’t time to think of throwin’ a gun before he whaled into me. He knocked out two of my teeth. An’ I swallered one of them.”

  Ellen stood in the background behind three of the men and in the shadow. She did not join in the laugh that followed Bruce’s remarks. She had known that he would lie. Uncertain yet of her reaction to this, but more bitter and furious as he revealed his utter baseness, she waited for more to be said.

  “Wal, I’ll be doggoned,” drawled Daggs.

  “What do you make of this kind of fightin’?” queried Jorth,

  “Darn if I know,” replied Daggs in perplexity. “Shore an’ sartin it’s not the way of a Texan. Mebbe this young Isbel really is what old Gass swears he is. Shore Bruce ain’t nothin’ to give an edge to a real gun fighter. Looks to me like Isbel bluffed Greaves an’ his gang an’ licked your men without throwin’ a gun.”

  “Maybe Isbel doesn’t want the name of drawin’ first blood,” suggested Jorth.

  “That ’d be like Gass,” spoke up Rock Wells, quietly. “I onct rode fer Gass in Texas.”

  “Say, Bruce,” said Daggs, “was this heah palaverin’ of yours an’ Jean Isbel’s aboot the old stock dispute? Aboot his father’s range an’ water? An’ partickler aboot, sheep?”

  “Wal—I—I yelled a heap,” declared Bruce, haltingly, “but I don’t recollect all I said—I was riled…. Shore, though it was the same old argyment thet’s been fetchin’ us closer an’ closer to trouble.”

  Daggs removed his keen hawklike gaze from Bruce. “Wal, Jorth, all I’ll say is this. If Bruce is tellin’ the truth we ain’t got a hell of a lot to fear from this young Isbel. I’ve known a heap of gun fighters in my day. An’ Jean Isbel don’t ran true to class. Shore there never was a gunman who’d risk cripplin’ his right hand by sluggin’ anybody.”

  “Wal,” broke in Bruce, sullenly. “You-all can take it daid straight or not. I don’t give a damn. But you’ve shore got my hunch thet Nez Perce Isbel is liable to handle any of you fellars jest as he did me, an’ jest as easy. What’s more, he’s got Greaves figgered. An’ you-all know thet Greaves is as deep in—”

  “Shut up that kind of gab,” demanded Jorth, stridently. “An’ answer me. Was the row in Greaves’s barroom aboot sheep?”

  “Aw, hell! I said so, didn’t I?” shouted Bruce, with a fierce uplift of his distorted face.

  Ellen strode out from the shadow of the tall men who had obscured her.

  “Bruce, y’u’re a liar,” she said, bitingly.

  The surprise of her sudden appearance seemed to root Bruce to the spot. All but the discolored places on his face turned white. He held his breath a moment, then expelled it hard. His effort to recover from the shock was painfully obvious. He stammered incoherently.

  “Shore y’u’re more than a liar, too,” cried Ellen, facing him with blazing eyes. And the rifle, gripped in both hands, seemed to declare her intent of menace. “That row was not about sheep…. Jean Isbel didn’t beat y’u for anythin’ about sheep…. Old John Sprague was in Greaves’s store. He heard y’u. He saw Jean Isbel beat y’u as y’u deserved…. An’ he told me!”

  Ellen saw Bruce shrink in fear of his life; and despite her fury she was filled with disgust that he could imagine she would have his blood on her hands. Then she divined that Bruce saw more in the gathering storm in her father’s eyes than he had to fear from her.

  “Girl, what the hell are y’u sayin’?” hoarsely called Jorth, in dark amaze.

  “Dad, y’u leave this to me,” she retorted.

  Daggs stepped beside Jorth, significantly on his right side. “Let her alone Lee,” he advised, coolly. “She’s shore got a hunch on Bruce.”

  “Simm Bruce, y’u cast a dirty slur on my name,” cried Ellen, passionately.

  It was then that Daggs grasped Jorth’s right arm and held it tight, “Jest what I thought,” he said. “Stand still, Lee. Let’s see the kid make him showdown.”

  “That’s what jean Isbel beat y’u for,” went on Ellen. “For slandering a girl who wasn’t there…. Me! Y’u rotten liar!”

  “But, Ellen, it wasn’t all lies,” said Bruce, huskily. “I was half drunk—an’ horrible jealous…. You know Lorenzo seen Isbel kissin’ you. I can prove thet.”

  Ellen threw up her head and a scarlet wave of shame and wrath flooded her face.

  “Yes,” she cried, ringingly. “He saw Jean Isbel kiss me. Once! … An’ it was the only decent kiss I’ve had in years. He meant no insult. I didn’t know who he was. An’ through his kiss I learned a difference between men…. Y’u made Lorenzo lie. An’ if I had a shred of good name left in Grass Valley you dishonored it…. Y’u made him think I was your girl! Damn y’u! I ought to kill y’u…. Eat your words now—take them back—or I’ll cripple y’u for life!”

  Ellen lowered the cocked rifle toward his feet.

  “Shore, Ellen, I take back—all I said,” gulped Bruce. He gazed at the quivering rifle barrel and then into the face of Ellen’s father. Instinct told him where his real peril lay.

  Here the cool and tactful Daggs showed himself master of the situation.

  “Heah, listen!” he called. “Ellen, I reckon Bruce was drunk an’ out of his haid. He’s shore ate his words. Now, we don’t want any cripples in this camp. Let him alone. Your dad got me heah to lead the Jorths, an’ that’s my say to you…. Simm, you’re shore a low-down lyin’ rascal. Keep away from Ellen after this or I’ll bore you myself…. Jorth, it won’t be a bad idee for you to forget you’re a Texan till you cool off. Let Bruce stop some Isbel lead. Shore the Jorth-Isbel war is aboot on, an’ I reckon we’d be smart to believe old Gass’s talk aboot his Nez Perce son.”

  CHAPTER VI

  From this hour Ellen Jorth bent all of her lately awakened intelligence and will to the only end that seemed to hold possible salvation for her. In the crisis sure to come she did not want to be blind or weak. Dreaming and indolence, habits born in her which were often a comfort to one as lonely as she, would ill fit her for the hard test she divined and dreaded. In the matter of her father’s fight she must stand by him whatever the issue or the outcome; in what pertained to her own principles, her womanhood, and her soul she stood absolutely alone.

  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 singu
larly 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.