by Zane Grey
“Come on, men!” called Blaisdell, turning back toward the others who were still firing. “We’ll let well enough alone…. Fredericks, y’u an’ Bill help me find the body of the old man. It’s heah somewhere.”
Farther on down the road the searchers stumbled over Gaston Isbel. They picked him up and followed Jean and Gordon, who were supporting the wounded Colmor. Jean looked back to see Blue dragging himself along in the rear. It was too dark to see distinctly; nevertheless, Jean got the impression that Blue was more severely wounded than he had claimed to be. The distance to Meeker’s cabin was not far, but it took what Jean felt to be a long and anxious time to get there. Colmor apparently rallied somewhat. When this procession entered Meeker’s yard, Blue was lagging behind.
“Blue, how air y’u?” called Blaisdell, with concern.
“Wal, I got—my boots—on—anyhow,” replied Blue, huskily.
He lurched into the yard and slid down on the grass and stretched out.
“Man! Y’u’re hurt bad!” exclaimed Blaisdell. The others halted in their slow march and, as if by tacit, unspoken word, lowered the body of Isbel to the ground. Then Blaisdell knelt beside Blue. Jean left Colmor to Gordon and hurried to peer down into Blue’s dim face.
“No, I ain’t—hurt,” said Blue, in a much weaker voice. “I’m—jest killed! … It was Queen! … Y’u all heerd me—Queen was—only bad man in that lot. I knowed it…. I could—hev killed him…. But I was—after Lee Jorth an’ his brothers….”
Blue’s voice failed there.
“Wal!” ejaculated Blaisdell.
“Shore was funny—Jorth’s face—when I said—King Fisher,” whispered Blue. “Funnier—when I bored—him through…. But it—was—Queen—”
His whisper died away.
“Blue!” called Blaisdell, sharply. Receiving no answer, he bent lower in the starlight and placed a hand upon the man’s breast.
“Wal, he’s gone…. I wonder if he really was the old Texas King Fisher. No one would ever believe it…. But if he killed the Jorths, I’ll shore believe him.”
CHAPTER X
Two weeks of lonely solitude in the forest had worked incalculable change in Ellen Jorth.
Late in June her father and her two uncles had packed and ridden off with Daggs, Colter, and six other men, all heavily armed, some somber with drink, others hard and grim with a foretaste of fight. Ellen had not been given any orders. Her father had forgotten to bid her good-by or had avoided it. Their dark mission was stamped on their faces.
They had gone and, keen as had been Ellen’s pang, nevertheless, their departure was a relief. She had heard them bluster and brag so often that she had her doubts of any great Jorth-Isbel war. Barking dogs did not bite. Somebody, perhaps on each side, would be badly wounded, possibly killed, and then the feud would go on as before, mostly talk. Many of her former impressions had faded. Development had been so rapid and continuous in her that she could look back to a day-by-day transformation. At night she had hated the sight of herself and when the dawn came she would rise, singing.
Jorth had left Ellen at home with the Mexican woman and Antonio. Ellen saw them only at meal times, and often not then, for she frequently visited old John Sprague or came home late to do her own cooking.
It was but a short distance up to Sprague’s cabin, and since she had stopped riding the black horse, Spades, she walked. Spades was accustomed to having grain, and in the mornings he would come down to the ranch and whistle. Ellen had vowed she would never feed the horse and bade Antonio do it. But one morning Antonio was absent. She fed Spades herself. When she laid a hand on him and when he rubbed his nose against her shoulder she was not quite so sure she hated him. “Why should I?” she queried. “A horse cain’t help it if he belongs to—to—” Ellen was not sure of anything except that more and more it grew good to be alone.
A whole day in the lonely forest passed swiftly, yet it left a feeling of long time. She lived by her thoughts. Always the morning was bright, sunny, sweet and fragrant and colorful, and her mood was pensive, wistful, dreamy. And always, just as surely as the hours passed, thought intruded upon her happiness, and thought brought memory, and memory brought shame, and shame brought fight. Sunset after sunset she had dragged herself back to the ranch, sullen and sick and beaten. Yet she never ceased to struggle.
The July storms came, and the forest floor that had been so sear and brown and dry and dusty changed as if by magic. The green grass shot up, the flowers bloomed, and along the canyon beds of lacy ferns swayed in the wind and bent their graceful tips over the amber-colored water. Ellen haunted these cool dells, these pine-shaded, mossy-rocked ravines where the brooks tinkled and the deer came down to drink. She wandered alone. But there grew to be company in the aspens and the music of the little waterfalls. If she could have lived in that solitude always, never returning to the ranch home that reminded her of her name, she could have forgotten and have been happy.
She loved the storms. It was a dry country and she had learned through years to welcome the creamy clouds that rolled from the southwest. They came sailing and clustering and darkening at last to form a great, purple, angry mass that appeared to lodge against the mountain rim and burst into dazzling streaks of lightning and gray palls of rain. Lightning seldom struck near the ranch, but up on the Rim there was never a storm that did not splinter and crash some of the noble pines. During the storm season sheep herders and woodsmen generally did not camp under the pines. Fear of lightning was inborn in the natives, but for Ellen the dazzling white streaks or the tremendous splitting, crackling shock, or the thunderous boom and rumble along the battlements of the Rim had no terrors. A storm eased her breast. Deep in her heart was a hidden gathering storm. And somehow, to be out when the elements were warring, when the earth trembled and the heavens seemed to burst asunder, afforded her strange relief.
The summer days became weeks, and farther and farther they carried Ellen on the wings of solitude and loneliness until she seemed to look back years at the self she had hated. And always, when the dark memory impinged upon peace, she fought and fought until she seemed to be fighting hatred itself. Scorn of scorn and hate of hate! Yet even her battles grew to be dreams. For when the inevitable retrospect brought back Jean Isbel and his love and her cowardly falsehood she would shudder a little and put an unconscious hand to her breast and utterly fail in her fight and drift off down to vague and wistful dreams. The clean and healing forest, with its whispering wind and imperious solitude, had come between Ellen and the meaning of the squalid sheep ranch, with its travesty of home, its tragic owner. And it was coming between her two selves, the one that she had been forced to be and the other that she did not know—the thinker, the dreamer, the romancer, the one who lived in fancy the life she loved.
The summer morning dawned that brought Ellen strange tidings. They must have been created in her sleep, and now were realized in the glorious burst of golden sun, in the sweep of creamy clouds across the blue, in the solemn music of the wind in the pines, in the wild screech of the blue jays and the noble bugle of a stag. These heralded the day as no ordinary day. Something was going to happen to her. She divined it. She felt it. And she trembled. Nothing beautiful, hopeful, wonderful could ever happen to Ellen Jorth. She had been born to disaster, to suffer, to be forgotten, and die alone. Yet all nature about her seemed a magnificent rebuke to her morbidness. The same spirit that came out there with the thick, amber light was in her. She lived, and something in her was stronger than mind.
Ellen went to the door of her cabin, where she flung out her arms, driven to embrace this nameless purport of the morning. And a well-known voice broke in upon her rapture.
“Wal, lass, I like to see you happy an’ I hate myself fer comin’. Because I’ve been to Grass Valley fer two days an’ I’ve got news.”
Old John Sprague stood there, with a smile that did not hide a troubled look.
“Oh! Uncle John! You startled me,” exclaimed Ellen, shocked back to
reality. And slowly she added: “Grass Valley! News?”
She put out an appealing hand, which Sprague quickly took in his own, as if to reassure her.
“Yes, an’ not bad so far as you Jorths are concerned,” he replied. “The first Jorth-Isbel fight has come off…. Reckon you remember makin’ me promise to tell you if I heerd anythin’. Wal, I didn’t wait fer you to come up.”
“So Ellen heard her voice calmly saying. What was this lying calm when there seemed to be a stone hammer at her heart? The first fight—not so bad for the Jorths! Then it had been bad for the Isbels. A sudden, cold stillness fell upon her senses.
“Let’s sit down—outdoors,” Sprague was saying. “Nice an’ sunny this—mornin’. I declare—I’m out of breath. Not used to walkin’. An’ besides, I left Grass Valley, in the night—an’ I’m tired. But excoose me from hangin’ round thet village last night! There was shore—”
“Who—who was killed?” interrupted Ellen, her voice breaking low and deep.
“Guy Isbel an’ Bill Jacobs on the Isbel side, an’ Daggs, Craig, an’ Greaves on your father’s side,” stated Sprague, with something of awed haste.
“Ah!” breathed Ellen, and she relaxed to sink back against the cabin wall.
Sprague seated himself on the log beside her, turning to face her, and he seemed burdened with grave and important matters.
“I heerd a good many conflictin’ stories,” he said, earnestly. “The village folks is all skeered an’ there’s no believin’ their gossip. But I got what happened straight from Jake Evarts. The fight come off day before yestiddy. Your father’s gang rode down to Isbel’s ranch. Daggs was seen to be wantin’ some of the Isbel hosses, so Evarts says. An’ Guy Isbel an’ Jacobs ran out in the pasture. Daggs an’ some others shot them down.”
“Killed them—that way?” put in Ellen, sharply.
“So Evarts says. He was on the ridge an’ swears he seen it all. They killed Guy an’ Jacobs in cold blood. No chance fer their lives—not even to fight! … Wall, hen they surrounded the Isbel cabin. The fight last all thet day an’ all night an’ the next day. Evarts says Guy an’ Jacobs laid out thar all this time. An’ a herd of hogs broke in the pasture an’ was eatin’ the dead bodies …”
“My God!” burst out Ellen. “Uncle John, y’u shore cain’t mean my father wouldn’t stop fightin’ long enough to drive the hogs off an’ bury those daid men?”
“Evarts says they stopped fightin’, all right, but it was to watch the hogs,” declared Sprague. “An’ then, what d’ ye think? The wimminfolks come out—the red-headed one, Guy’s wife, an’ Jacobs’s wife—they drove the hogs away an’ buried their husbands right there in the pasture. Evarts says he seen the graves.”
“It is the women who can teach these bloody Texans a lesson,” declared Ellen, forcibly.
“Wal, Daggs was drunk, an’ he got up from behind where the gang was hidin’, an’ dared the Isbels to come out. They shot him to pieces. An’ thet night someone of the Isbels shot Craig, who was alone on guard…. An’ last—this here’s what I come to tell you—Jean Isbel slipped up in the dark on Greaves an’ knifed him.”
“Why did y’u want to tell me that particularly?” asked Ellen, slowly.
“Because I reckon the facts in the case are queer—an’ because, Ellen, your name was mentioned,” announced Sprague, positively.
“My name—mentioned?” echoed Ellen. Her horror and disgust gave way to a quickening process of thought, a mounting astonishment. “By whom?”
“Jean Isbel,” replied Sprague, as if the name and the fact were momentous.
Ellen sat still as a stone, her hands between her knees. Slowly she felt the blood recede from her face, prickling her kin down below her neck. That name locked her thought.
“Ellen, it’s a mighty queer story—too queer to be a lie,” went on Sprague. “Now you listen! Evarts got this from Ted Meeker. An’ Ted Meeker heerd it from Greaves, who didn’t die till the next day after Jean Isbel knifed him. An’ your dad shot Ted fer tellin’ what he heerd…. No, Greaves wasn’t killed outright. He was cut somethin’ turrible—in two places. They wrapped him all up an’ next day packed him in a wagon back to Grass Valley. Evarts says Ted Meeker was friendly with Greaves an’ went to see him as he was layin’ in his room next to the store. Wal, accordin’ to Meeker’s story, Greaves came to an’ talked. He said he was sittin’ there in the dark, shootin’ occasionally at Isbel’s cabin, when he heerd a rustle behind him in the grass. He knowed someone was crawlin’ on him. But before he could get his gun around he was jumped by what he thought was a grizzly bear. But it was a man. He shut off Greaves’s wind an’ dragged him back in the ditch. An’ he said: ‘Greaves, it’s the half-breed. An’ he’s goin’ to cut you—first for Ellen Jorth! an’ then for Gaston Isbel!’ … Greaves said Jean ripped him with a bowie knife…. An’ thet was all Greaves remembered. He died soon after tellin’ this story. He must hev fought awful hard. Thet second cut Isbel gave him went clear through him…. Some of the gang was thar when Greaves talked, an’ naturally they wondered why Jean Isbel had said ‘first for Ellen Jorth.’ … Somebody remembered thet Greaves had cast a slur on your good name, Ellen. An’ then they had Jean Isbel’s reason fer sayin’ thet to Greaves. It caused a lot of talk. An’ when Simm Bruce busted in some of the gang haw-hawed him an’ said as how he’d get the third cut from Jean Isbel’s bowie. Bruce was half drunk an’ he began to cuss an’ rave about Jean Isbel bein’ in love with his girl…. As bad luck would have it, a couple of more fellars come in an’ asked Meeker questions. He jest got to thet part, ‘Greaves, it’s the half-breed, an’ he’s goin’ to cut you—first for Ellen Jorth,’ when in walked your father! … Then it all had to come out—what Jean Isbel had said an’ done—an’ why. How Greaves had backed Simm Bruce in slurrin’ you!”
Sprague paused to look hard at Ellen.
“Oh! Then—what did dad do?” whispered Ellen.
“He said, ‘By God! half-breed or not, there’s one Isbel who’s a man!’ An’ he killed Bruce on the spot an’ gave Meeker a nasty wound. Somebody grabbed him before he could shoot Meeker again. They threw Meeker out an’ he crawled to a neighbor’s house, where he was when Evarts seen him.”
Ellen felt Sprague’s rough but kindly hand shaking her. “An’ now what do you think of Jean Isbel?” he queried.
A great, unsurmountable wall seemed to obstruct Ellen’s thought. It seemed gray in color. It moved toward her. It was inside her brain.
“I tell you, Ellen Jorth,” declared the old man, “thet Jean Isbel loves you-loves you turribly—an’ he believes you’re good.”
“Oh no—he doesn’t!” faltered Ellen.
“Wal, he jest does.”
“Oh, Uncle John, he cain’t believe that!” she cried.
“Of course he can. He does. You are good—good as gold, Ellen, an’ he knows it…. What a queer deal it all is! Poor devil! To love you thet turribly an’ hev to fight your people! Ellen, your dad had it correct. Isbel or not, he’s a man…. An’ I say what a shame you two are divided by hate. Hate thet you hed nothin’ to do with.” Sprague patted her head and rose to go. “Mebbe thet fight will end the trouble. I reckon it will. Don’t cross bridges till you come to them, Ellen…. I must hurry back now. I didn’t take time to unpack my burros. Come up soon…. An’, say, Ellen, don’t think hard any more of thet Jean Isbel.”
Sprague strode away, and Ellen neither heard nor saw him go. She sat perfectly motionless, yet had a strange sensation of being lifted by invisible and mighty power. It was like movement felt in a dream. She was being impelled upward when her body seemed immovable as stone. When her blood beat down this deadlock of an her physical being and rushed on and on through her veins it gave her an irresistible impulse to fly, to sail through space, to ran and run and ran.
And on the moment the black horse, Spades, coming from the meadow, whinnied at sight of her. Ellen leaped up and ran swiftly, but her feet seemed to be stumbling. She hugge
d the horse and buried her hot face in his mane and clung to him. Then just as violently she rushed for her saddle and bridle and carried the heavy weight as easily as if it had been an empty sack. Throwing them upon him, she buckled and strapped with strong, eager hands. It never occurred to her that she was not dressed to ride. Up she flung herself. And the horse, sensing her spirit, plunged into strong, free gait down the canyon trail.
The ride, the action, the thrill, the sensations of violence were not all she needed. Solitude, the empty aisles of the forest, the far miles of lonely wilderness—were these the added all? Spades took a swinging, rhythmic lope up the winding trail. The wind fanned her hot face. The sting of whipping aspen branches was pleasant. A deep rumble of thunder shook the sultry air. Up beyond the green slope of the canyon massed the creamy clouds, shading darker and darker. Spades loped on the levels, leaped the washes, trotted over the rocky ground, and took to a walk up the long slope. Ellen dropped the reins over the pommel. Her hands could not stay set on anything. They pressed her breast and flew out to caress the white aspens and to tear at the maple leaves, and gather the lavender juniper berries, and came back again to her heart. Her heart that was going to burst or break! As it had swelled, so now it labored. It could not keep pace with her needs. All that was physical, all that was living in her had to be unleashed.
Spades gained the level forest. How the great, brown-green pines seemed to bend their lofty branches over her, protectively, understandingly. Patches of azure-blue sky flashed between the trees. The great white clouds sailed along with her, and shafts of golden sunlight, flecked with gleams of falling pine needles, shone down through the canopy overhead. Away in front of her, up the slow heave of forest land, boomed the heavy thunderbolts along the battlements of the Rim.
Was she riding to escape from herself? For no gait suited her until Spades was running hard and fast through the glades. Then the pressure of dry wind, the thick odor of pine, the flashes of brown and green and gold and blue, the soft, rhythmic thuds of hoofs, the feel of the powerful horse under her, the whip of spruce branches on her muscles contracting and expanding in hard action—all these sensations seemed to quell for the time the mounting cataclysm in her heart.
