The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

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

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

  “Howdy, Gass!” he said. “What’s the good word?”

  “Wal, Abel, it’s not good, but bad. An’ it’s shore started,” replied Isbel. “I’m askin’ y’u to let me have your cabin.”

  “You’re welcome. I’ll send the folks ’round to Jim’s,” returned Meeker. “An’ if y’u want me, I’m with y’u, Isbel.”

  “Thanks, Abel, but I’m not leadin’ any more kin an’ friends into this heah deal.”

  “Wal, jest as y’u say. But I’d like damn bad to jine with y’u…. My brother Ted was shot last night.”

  “Ted! Is he daid?” ejaculated Isbel, blankly.

  “We can’t find out,” replied Meeker. “Jim says thet Jeff Campbell said thet Ted went into Greaves’s place last night. Greaves allus was friendly to Ted, but Greaves wasn’t thar—”

  “No, he shore wasn’t,” interrupted Isbel, with a dark smile, “an’ he never will be there again.”

  Meeker nodded with slow comprehension and a shade crossed his face.

  “Wal, Campbell claimed he’d heerd from someone who was thar. Anyway, the Jorths were drinkin’ hard, an’ they raised a row with Ted—same old sheep talk an’ somebody shot him. Campbell said Ted was thrown out back, an’ he was shore he wasn’t killed.”

  “Ahuh! Wal, I’m sorry, Abel, your family had to lose in this. Maybe Ted’s not bad hurt. I shore hope so…. An’ y’u an’ Jim keep out of the fight, anyway.”

  “All right, Isbel. But I reckon I’ll give y’u a hunch. If this heah fight lasts long the whole damn Basin will be in it, on one side or t’other.”

  “Abe, you’re talkin’ sense,” broke in Blaisdell. “An’ that’s why we’re up heah for quick action.”

  “I heerd y’u got Daggs,” whispered Meeker, as he peered all around.

  “Wal, y’u heerd correct,” drawled Blaisdell.

  Meeker muttered strong words into his beard. “Say, was Daggs in thet Jorth outfit?”

  “He was. But he walked right into Jean’s forty-four…. An’ I reckon his carcass would show some more.”

  “An’ whar’s Guy Isbel?” demanded Meeker.

  “Daid an’ buried, Abel,” replied Gaston Isbel. “An’ now I’d be obliged if y’u’ll hurry your folks away, an’ let us have your cabin an’ corral. Have yu got any hay for the hosses?”

  “Shore. The barn’s half full,” replied Meeker, as he turned away. “Come on in.”

  “No. We’ll wait till you’ve gone.”

  When Meeker had gone, Isbel and his men sat their horses and looked about them and spoke low. Their advent had been expected, and the little town awoke to the imminence of the impending battle. Inside Meeker’s house there was the sound of indistinct voices of women and the bustle incident to a hurried vacating.

  Across the wide road people were peering out on all sides, some hiding, others walking to and fro, from fence to fence, whispering in little groups. Down the wide road, at the point where it turned, stood Greaves’s fort-like stone house. Low, flat, isolated, with its dark, eye-like windows, it presented a forbidding and sinister aspect. Jean distinctly saw the forms of men, some dark, others in shirt sleeves, come to the wide door and look down the road.

  “Wal, I reckon only aboot five hundred good hoss steps are separatin’ us from that outfit,” drawled Blaisdell.

  No one replied to his jocularity. Gaston Isbel’s eyes narrowed to a slit in his furrowed face and he kept them fastened upon Greaves’s store. Blue, likewise, had a somber cast of countenance, not, perhaps, any darker nor grimmer than those of his comrades, but more representative of intense preoccupation of mind. The look of him thrilled Jean, who could sense its deadliness, yet could not grasp any more. Altogether, the manner of the villagers and the watchful pacing to and fro of the Jorth followers and the silent, boding front of Isbel and his men summed up for Jean the menace of the moment that must very soon change to a terrible reality.

  At a call from Meeker, who stood at the back of the cabin, Gaston Isbel rode into the yard, followed by the others of his party. “Somebody look after the hosses,” ordered Isbel, as he dismounted and took his rifle and pack. “Better leave the saddles on, leastways till we see what’s comin’ off.”

  Jean and Bill Isbel led the horses back to the corral. While watering and feeding them, Jean somehow received the impression that Bill was trying to speak, to confide in him, to unburden himself of some load. This peculiarity of Bill’s had become marked when he was perfectly sober. Yet he had never spoken or even begun anything unusual. Upon the present occasion, however, Jean believed that his brother might have gotten rid of his emotion, or whatever it was, had they not been interrupted by Colmor.

  “Boys, the old man’s orders are for us to sneak round on three sides of Greaves’s store, keepin’ out of gunshot till we find good cover, an’ then crawl closer an’ to pick off any of Jorth’s gang who shows himself.”

  Bill Isbel strode off without a reply to Colmor.

  “Well, I don’t think so much of that,” said Jean, ponderingly. “Jorth has lots of friends here. Somebody might pick us off.”

  “I kicked, but the old man shut me up. He’s not to be bucked ag’in’ now. Struck me as powerful queer. But no wonder.”

  “Maybe he knows best. Did he say anythin’ about what he an’ the rest of them are goin’ to do?”

  “Nope. Blue taxed him with that an’ got the same as me. I reckon we’d better try it out, for a while, anyway.”

  “Looks like he wants us to keep out of the fight,” replied Jean, thoughtfully. “Maybe, though … Dad’s no fool. Colmor, you wait here till I get out of sight. I’ll go round an’ come up as close as advisable behind Greaves’s store. You take the right side. An’ keep hid.”

  With that Jean strode off, going around the barn, straight out the orchard lane to the open flat, and then climbing a fence to the north of the village. Presently he reached a line of sheds and corrals, to which he held until he arrived at the road. This point was about a quarter of a mile from Greaves’s store, and around the bend. Jean sighted no one. The road, the fields, the yards, the backs of the cabins all looked deserted. A blight had settled down upon the peaceful activities of Grass Valley. Crossing the road, Jean began to circle until he came close to several cabins, around which he made a wide detour. This took him to the edge of the slope, where brush and thickets afforded him a safe passage to a line directly back of Greaves’s store. Then he turned toward it. Soon he was again approaching a cabin of that side, and some of its inmates descried him, Their actions attested to their alarm. Jean half expected a shot from this quarter, such were his growing doubts, but he was mistaken. A man, unknown to Jean, closely watched his guarded movements and then waved a hand, as if to signify to Jean that he had nothing to fear. After this act he disappeared. Jean believed that he had been recognized by someone not antagonistic to the Isbels. Ther
efore he passed the cabin and, coming to a thick scrub-oak tree that offered shelter, he hid there to watch. From this spot he could see the back of Greaves’s store, at a distance probably too far for a rifle bullet to reach. Before him, as far as the store, and on each side, extended the village common. In front of the store ran the road. Jean’s position was such that he could not command sight of this road down toward Meeker’s house, a fact that disturbed him. Not satisfied with this stand, he studied his surroundings in the hope of espying a better. And he discovered what he thought would be a more favorable position, although he could not see much farther down the road. Jean went back around the cabin and, coming out into the open to the right, he got the corner of Greaves’s barn between him and the window of the store. Then he boldly hurried into the open, and soon reached an old wagon, from behind which he proposed to watch. He could not see either window or door of the store, but if any of the Jorth contingent came out the back way they would be within reach of his rifle. Jean took the risk of being shot at from either side.

  So sharp and roving was his sight that he soon espied Colmor slipping along behind the trees some hundred yards to the left. All his efforts to catch a glimpse of Bill, however, were fruitless. And this appeared strange to Jean, for there were several good places on the right from which Bill could have commanded the front of Greaves’s store and the whole west side.

  Colmor disappeared among some shrubbery, and Jean seemed left alone to watch a deserted, silent village. Watching and listening, he felt that the time dragged. Yet the shadows cast by the sun showed him that, no matter how tense he felt and how the moments seemed hours, they were really flying.

  Suddenly Jean’s ears rang with the vibrant shock of a rifle report. He jerked up, strung and thrilling. It came from in front of the store. It was followed by revolver shots, heavy, booming. Three he counted, and the rest were too close together to enumerate. A single hoarse yell pealed out, somehow trenchant and triumphant. Other yells, not so wild and strange, muffled the first one. Then silence clapped down on the store and the open square.

  Jean was deadly certain that some of the Jorth clan would show themselves. He strained to still the trembling those sudden shots and that significant yell had caused him. No man appeared. No more sounds caught Jean’s ears. The suspense, then, grew unbearable. It was not that he could not wait for an enemy to appear, but that he could not wait to learn what had happened. Every moment that he stayed there, with hands like steel on his rifle, with eyes of a falcon, but added to a dreadful, dark certainty of disaster. A rifle shot swiftly followed by revolver shots! What could, they mean? Revolver shots of different caliber, surely fired by different men! What could they mean? It was not these shots that accounted for Jean’s dread, but the yell which had followed. All his intelligence and all his nerve were not sufficient to fight down the feeling of calamity. And at last, yielding to it, he left his post, and ran like a deer across the open, through the cabin yard, and around the edge of the slope to the road. Here his caution brought him to a halt. Not a living thing crossed his vision. Breaking into a run, he soon reached the back of Meeker’s place and entered, to hurry forward to the cabin.

  Colmor was there in the yard, breathing hard, his face working, and in front of him crouched several of the men with rifles ready. The road, to Jean’s flashing glance, was apparently deserted. Blue sat on the doorstep, lighting a cigarette. Then on the moment Blaisdell strode to the door of the cabin. Jean had never seen him look like that.

  “Jean—look—down the road,” he said, brokenly, and with big hand shaking he pointed down toward Greaves’s store.

  Like lightning Jean’s glance shot down—down—down—until it stopped to fix upon the prostrate form of a man, lying in the middle of the road. A man of lengthy build, shirt-sleeved arms flung wide, white head in the dust—dead! Jean’s recognition was as swift as his sight. His father! They had killed him! The Jorths! It was done. His father’s premonition of death had not been false. And then, after these flashing thoughts, came a sense of blankness, momentarily almost oblivion, that gave place to a rending of the heart. That pain Jean had known only at the death of his mother. It passed, this agonizing pang, and its icy pressure yielded to a rushing gust of blood, fiery as hell.

  “Who—did it?” whispered Jean.

  “Jorth!” replied Blaisdell, huskily. “Son, we couldn’t hold your dad back…. We couldn’t. He was like a lion…. An’ he throwed his life away! Oh, if it hadn’t been for that it ’d not be so awful. Shore, we come heah to shoot an’ be shot. But not like that…. By God, it was murder—murder!”

  Jean’s mute lips framed a query easily read.

  “Tell him, Blue. I cain’t,” continued Blaisdell, and he tramped back into the cabin.

  “Set down, Jean, an’ take things easy,” said Blue, calmly. “You know we all reckoned we’d git plugged one way or another in this deal. An’ shore it doesn’t matter much how a fellar gits it. All thet ought to bother us is to make shore the other outfit bites the dust—same as your dad had to.”

  Under this man’s tranquil presence, all the more quieting because it seemed to be so deadly sure and cool, Jean felt the uplift of his dark spirit, the acceptance of fatality, the mounting control of faculties that must wait. The little gunman seemed to have about his inert presence something that suggested a rattlesnake’s inherent knowledge of its destructiveness. Jean sat down and wiped his clammy face.

  “Jean, your dad reckoned to square accounts with Jorth, an’ save us all,” began Blue, puffing out a cloud of smoke. “But he reckoned too late. Mebbe years; ago—or even not long ago—if he’d called Jorth out man to man there’d never been any Jorth-Isbel war. Gaston Isbel’s conscience woke too late. That’s how I figger it.”

  “Hurry! Tell me—how it—happen,” panted Jean.

  “Wal, a little while after y’u left I seen your dad writin’ on a leaf he tore out of a book—Meeker’s Bible, as yu can see. I thought thet was funny. An’ Blaisdell gave me a hunch. Pretty soon along comes young Evarts. The old man calls him out of our hearin’ an’ talks to him. Then I seen him give the boy somethin’, which I afterward figgered was what he wrote on the leaf out of the Bible. Me an’ Blaisdell both tried to git out of him what thet meant. But not a word. I kept watchin’ an’ after a while I seen young Evarts slip out the back way. Mebbe half an hour I seen a bare-legged kid cross, the road an’ go into Greaves’s store…. Then shore I tumbled to your dad. He’d sent a note to Jorth to come out an’ meet him face to face, man to man! … Shore it was like readin’ what your dad had wrote. But I didn’t say nothin’ to Blaisdell. I jest watched.”

  Blue drawled these last words, as if he enjoyed remembrance of his keen reasoning. A smile wreathed his thin lips. He drew twice on the cigarette and emitted another cloud of smoke. Quite suddenly then he changed. He made a rapid gesture—the whip of a hand, significant and passionate. And swift words followed:

  “Colonel Lee Jorth stalked out of the store—out into the road—mebbe a hundred steps. Then he halted. He wore his long black coat an’ his wide black hat, an’ he stood like a stone.

  “‘What the hell!’ burst out Blaisdell, comin’ out of his trance.

  “The rest of us jest looked. I’d forgot your dad, for the minnit. So had all of us. But we remembered soon enough when we seen him stalk out. Everybody had a hunch then. I called him. Blaisdell begged him to come back. All the fellars; had a say. No use! Then I shore cussed him an’ told him it was plain as day thet Jorth didn’t hit me like an honest man. I can sense such things. I knew Jorth had trick up his sleeve. I’ve not been a gun fighter fer nothin’.

  “Your dad had no rifle. He packed his gun at his hip. He jest stalked down thet road like a giant, goin’ faster an’ faster, holdin’ his head high. It shore was fine to see him. But I was sick. I heerd Blaisdell groan, an’ Fredericks thar cussed somethin’ fierce…. When your dad halted—I reckon aboot fifty steps from Jorth—then we all went numb. I heerd your dad’
s voice—then Jorth’s. They cut like knives. Y’u could shore heah the hate they hed fer each other.”

  Blue had become a little husky. His speech had grown gradually to denote his feeling. Underneath his serenity there was a different order of man.

  “I reckon both your dad an’ Jorth went fer their guns at the same time—an even break. But jest as they drew, someone shot a rifle from the store. Must hev been a forty-five seventy. A big gun! The bullet must have hit your dad low down, aboot the middle. He acted thet way, sinkin’ to his knees. An’ he was wild in shootin’—so wild thet he must hev missed. Then he wabbled—an’ Jorth run in a dozen steps, shootin’ fast, till your dad fell over…. Jorth run closer, bent over him, an’ then straightened up with an Apache yell, if I ever heerd one…. An’ then Jorth backed slow—lookin’ all the time—backed to the store, an’ went in.”

  Blue’s voice ceased. Jean seemed suddenly released from an impelling magnet that now dropped him to some numb, dizzy depth. Blue’s lean face grew hazy. Then Jean bowed his head in his hands, and sat there, while a slight tremor shook all his muscles at once. He grew deathly cold and deathly sick. This paroxysm slowly wore away, and Jean grew conscious of a dull amaze at the apparent deadness of his spirit. Blaisdell placed a huge, kindly hand on his shoulder.

  “Brace up, son!” he said, with voice now clear and resonant. “Shore it’s what your dad expected—an’ what we all must look for…. If yu was goin’ to kill Jorth before—think how — — shore y’u’re goin’ to kill him now.”

  “Blaisdell’s talkin’,” put in Blue, and his voice had a cold ring. “Lee Jorth will never see the sun rise ag’in!”

  These calls to the primitive in Jean, to the Indian, were not in vain. But even so, when the dark tide rose in him, there was still a haunting consciousness of the cruelty of this singular doom imposed upon him. Strangely Ellen Jorth’s face floated back in the depths of his vision, pale, fading, like the face of a spirit floating by.