Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  The women sat apart, in the corner toward the kitchen, and there seemed to 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 bright eyes. Jean thought she would be a help in that household during the next 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 faced the issue with talk and act not noticeably different from those of ordinary moments.

  At last Jean espied the dark mass of horsemen out in the valley road. They were close together, walking their mounts, and evidently in earnest conversation. After several ineffectual attempts Jean counted eleven 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 his breath. Jacobs said: “By Golly! Come to pay us a call!” The women sat motionless, with dark, strained eyes. The children ceased their play and looked fearfully to their mother.

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

  “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 out toward the adjoining cabin.

  Blaisdell shook his big, hoary head and rumbled out of his bull-like neck, “Wal, now you’re heah, you sheep fellars, what are you goin’ to do aboot it?”

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

  “Jorth!” he swore, harshly.

  Jean had only to look at his father to know that recognition had been like 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 red nose! ... An’, say, damn if one of that gang isn’t Queen, as bad a gun fighter as Texas ever bred. Shore I thought he’d been killed in the Big Bend country. So I heard.... An’ there’s Craig, another respectable sheepman of Grass Valley. Haw-haw! An’, wal, I don’t recognize any more of them.”

  Jean forthwith took the glass and moved it slowly across the faces of that group of horsemen. “Simm Bruce,” he said, instantly. “I see Colter. And, yes, Greaves is there. I’ve seen the man next to him — face like a ham....”

  “Shore that is Craig,” interrupted his father.

  Jean knew the dark face of Lee Jorth by the resemblance it bore to Ellen’s, and the recognition brought a twinge. He thought, too, that he could tell the other Jorths. He asked his father to describe Daggs and then Queen. It was not likely that Jean would fail to know these several 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 the old rancher.

  “Wal, Daggs is wavin’ his hand heah an’ there, like a general aboot to send 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 a hoss 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 fixed upon the horsemen, he tried to grasp at their intention. Daggs pointed to 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 Guy Isbel, who was the horse fancier and trader of the family. His horses were his passion.

  “Looks like they’d do some horse stealin’,” said Jean.

  “Lend me that glass,” demanded Guy, forcefully. He surveyed the band of men for a long moment, then he handed the glass back to Jean.

  “I’m goin’ out there after my bosses,” he declared.

  “No!” exclaimed his father.

  “That gang come to steal an’ not to fight. Can’t you see that? If they meant to fight they’d do it. They’re out there arguin’ about my hosses.”

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

  “Son, I know Daggs,” said his father. “An’ I know Jorth. They’ve come to 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 he came forward.

  The red-haired young wife of Guy Isbel showed no change of her grave face. She had been reared in a stern school. She knew men in times like these. But Jacobs’s wife appealed to him, “Bill, don’t risk your life 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 and saw instantly when the band became aware of Guy’s and Jacobs’s entrance into the pasture. It took only another second then to realize that Daggs and Jorth had deadly intent. Jean saw Daggs slip out of his saddle, rifle in hand. Others of the gang did likewise, until half of them were dismounted.

  “Dad, they’re goin’ to shoot,” called out Jean, sharply. “Yell for Guy and Jacobs. Make them come back.”

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

  Jean screamed piercingly: “Guy! Run! Run!”

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

  Guy Isbel stopped short, and, dropping his gun, he threw up his arms and fell headlong. Jacobs acted as if he had suddenly encountered an invisible blow. He had been hit. Turning, he began to run and ran fast for a few paces. There were more quick, sharp shots. He let go of his rifle. His running broke. Walking, reeling, staggering, he kept on. A hoarse cry came from him. Then a single rifle shot pealed out. Jean heard the bullet strike. Jacobs fell to his knees, then forward on his face.

  Jean Isbel felt himself turned to marble. The suddenness of this tragedy paralyzed him. His gaze remained riveted on those prostrate forms.

  A hand clutched his arm — a shaking woman’s hand, slim and hard and tense.

  “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 from behind him they had seen the tragedy.

  “I asked Bill — not to — go,” faltered the Jacobs woman, and, covering her 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. She had the nerve of a man. She had looked out upon death before.

  “Yes, they’re dead,” she said, bitterly. “An’ how are we goin’ to get their bodies?”

  At this Gaston Isbel seemed to rouse from the cold spel
l that had transfixed him.

  “God, this is hell for our women,” he cried out, hoarsely. “My son — my son! ... Murdered by the Jorths!” Then he swore a terrible oath.

  Jean saw the remainder of the mounted rustlers get off, and then, all of 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 log up,” ordered the father. “Shore we’ve got to look out.”

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

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

  “Let me know when you get a hole in the back wall,” said Jean, and he went through the kitchen and cautiously out another door to slip into a low-roofed, shed-like end of the rambling cabin. This small space was used to store winter firewood. The chinks between the walls had not been filled with adobe clay, and he could see out on three sides. The rustlers were going into the juniper brush. They moved out of sight, and presently reappeared without their horses. It looked to Jean as if they intended to attack the cabins. Then they halted at the edge of the brush and held a long consultation. Jean could see them distinctly, though they were too far distant for him to recognize any particular man. One of them, however, stood and moved apart from the closely massed group. Evidently, from his strides and gestures, he was exhorting his listeners. Jean concluded this was either Daggs or Jorth. Whoever it was had a loud, coarse voice, and this and his actions impressed Jean with a suspicion that the man was under the influence of the bottle.

  Presently Bill Isbel called Jean in a low voice. “Jean, I got the hole made, but we can’t see anyone.”

  “I see them,” Jean replied. “They’re havin’ a powwow. Looks to me like 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 keep watchin’. 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 the rustlers sat down around it. They had brought food and drink. Jean had to utter a grim laugh at their coolness; and he was reminded of many dare-devil deeds known to have been perpetrated by the Hash Knife Gang. Jean was glad of a reprieve. The longer the rustlers put off an attack 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 get to the Isbel cabins in the daytime. Night would be more favorable.

  Twice Bill Isbel came through the kitchen to whisper to Jean. The strain 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 he thought about it. “Eatin’ an’ drinkin’!” ejaculated Bill. “Well, I’ll be — ! 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 mighty careful,” replied Jean, sharply.

  Bill went back muttering to himself. Then followed a long wait, fraught with suspense, during which Jean watched the rustlers regale themselves. The day was hot and still. And the unnatural silence of the cabin was broken now and then by the gay laughter of the children. The sound shocked and haunted Jean. Playing children! Then another sound, so faint he had to strain to hear it, disturbed and saddened him — 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 one man down the slope. They came several hundred yards closer, until Jean, grimly cocking his rifle, muttered to himself that a few more rods closer would mean the end of several of that gang. They knew the range of a rifle well enough, and once more sheered off at right angles with the cabin. When they got even with the line of corrals they stooped down and were lost to Jean’s sight. This fact caused him alarm. They were, of course, crawling up on the cabins. At the end of that line of corrals ran a ditch, the bank of which was high enough to afford cover. Moreover, it ran along in front of the cabins, scarcely a hundred yards, and it was covered with grass and little clumps of brush, from behind which the rustlers could fire into the windows and through the clay chinks without any considerable risk to themselves. As they did not come into sight again, Jean concluded he had discovered their plan. Still, he waited awhile longer, until he saw faint, little clouds of dust rising from behind the far end of the embankment. That discovery made him rush out, and through the kitchen to the large cabin, where his sudden appearance startled the men.

  “Get back out of sight!” he ordered, sharply, and with swift steps he reached the door and closed it. “They’re behind the bank out there by the corrals. An’ they’re goin’ to crawl down the ditch closer to us.... It looks bad. They’ll have grass an’ brush to shoot from. We’ve got to be mighty careful how we peep out.”

  “Ahuh! All right,” replied his father. “You women keep the kids with you 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 his post beside the small window, with his keen eyes vibrating like a compass needle. The movement of a blade of grass, the flight of a grasshopper could not escape his trained sight.

  “Look sharp now!” he called to the other men. “I see dust.... They’re workin’ along almost to that bare spot on the bank.... I saw the tip of a rifle ... a black hat ... more dust. They’re spreadin’ along behind the bank.”

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

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

  Then a tall, hatless and coatless man stepped up in plain sight. The sun 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 of fair hair fly from Daggs’s head. He saw the squirt of red blood. Then quick shots from his comrades rang out. They all hit the swaying body of the rustler. But Jean knew with a terrible thrill that his bullet had killed Daggs before the other three struck. Daggs fell forward, his arms and half his body resting over, the embankment. Then the rustlers dragged him back out of sight. Hoarse shouts rose. A cloud of yellow dust drifted away from the spot.

  “Daggs!” burst out Gaston Isbel. “Jean, you knocked off the top of his haid. I seen that when I was pullin’ trigger. Shore we over heah wasted our shots.”

  “God! he must have been crazy or drunk — to pop up there — an’ brace us that way,” said Blaisdell, breathing hard.

  “Arizona is bad for Texans,” replied Isbel, sardonically. “Shore it’s been too peaceful heah. Rustlers have no practice at fightin’. An’ I reckon 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 a hard drinker, and his father was not immune. Blaisdell, too, drank heavily upon occasions. Jean made a mental note that he would not permit their chances to become impaired by
liquor.

  Rifles began to crack, and puffs of smoke rose all along the embankment for the space of a hundred feet. Bullets whistled through the rude window casing and spattered on the heavy door, and one split the clay between the logs before Jean, narrowly missing him. Another volley followed, then another. The rustlers had repeating rifles and they were emptying their magazines. Jean changed his position. The other men profited by his wise move. The volleys had merged into one continuous rattling roar of rifle shots. Then came a sudden cessation of reports, with silence of relief. The cabin was full of dust, mingled with the smoke from the shots of Jean and his companions. Jean heard the stifled breaths of the children. Evidently they were terror-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 and his comrades followed his example. And they exercised extreme caution when they peeped out.

  “Boys, don’t shoot till you see one,” said Gaston Isbel. “Maybe after a while they’ll get careless. But Jorth will never show himself.”

  The rustlers did not again resort to volleys. One by one, from different angles, they began to shoot, and they were not firing at random. A few bullets came straight in at the windows to pat into the walls; a few others ticked and splintered the edges of the windows; and most of them broke through the clay chinks between the logs. It dawned upon Jean that these dangerous shots were not accident. They were well aimed, and most of them hit low down. The cunning rustlers had some unerring riflemen and they were picking out the vulnerable places all along the front of the cabin. If Jean had not been lying flat he would have been hit twice. Presently he conceived the idea of driving pegs between the logs, high up, and, kneeling on these, he managed to peep out from the upper edge of the window. But this position was awkward and difficult to hold for long.

  He heard a bullet hit one of his comrades. Whoever had been struck never uttered a sound. Jean turned to look. Bill Isbel was holding his shoulder, where red splotches appeared on his shirt. He shook his head at Jean, evidently to make light of the wound. The women and children were lying face down and could not see what was happening. Plain is was that Bill did not want them to know. Blaisdell bound up the bloody shoulder with a scarf.