by Zane Grey
“By God, Blue! it’s late in the day for such talk,” burst out Blaisdell, in rage and amaze. “But I reckon y’u know what y’u’re talkin’ aboot.... Wal, I shore don’t want to heah it.”
At this juncture Bill Isbel quietly entered the cabin, too late to hear any of Blue’s statement. Jean was positive of that, for as Blue was speaking those last revealing words Bill’s heavy boots had resounded on the gravel path outside. Yet something in Bill’s look or in the way Blue averted his lean face or in the entrance of Bill at that particular moment, or all these together, seemed to Jean to add further mystery to the long secret causes leading up to the Jorth-Isbel war. Did Bill know what Blue knew? Jean had an inkling that he did. And on the moment, so perplexing and bitter, Jean gazed out the door, down the deserted road to where his dead father lay, white-haired and ghastly in the sunlight.
“Blue, you could have kept that to yourself, as well as your real name,” interposed Jean, with bitterness. “It’s too late now for either to do any good.... But I appreciate your friendship for dad, an’ I’m ready to help carry out your plan.”
That decision of Jean’s appeared to put an end to protest or argument from Blaisdell or any of the others. Blue’s fleeting dark smile was one of satisfaction. Then upon most of this group of men seemed to settle a grim restraint. They went out and walked and watched; they came in again, restless and somber. Jean thought that he must have bent his gaze a thousand times down the road to the tragic figure of his father. That sight roused all emotions in his breast, and the one that stirred there most was pity. The pity of it! Gaston Isbel lying face down in the dust of the village street! Patches of blood showed on the back of his vest and one white-sleeved shoulder. He had been shot through. Every time Jean saw this blood he had to stifle a gathering of wild, savage impulses.
Meanwhile the afternoon hours dragged by and the village remained as if its inhabitants had abandoned it. Not even a dog showed on the side road. Jorth and some of his men came out in front of the store and sat on the steps, in close convening groups. Every move they, made seemed significant of their confidence and importance. About sunset they went back into the store, closing door and window shutters. Then Blaisdell called the Isbel faction to have food and drink. Jean felt no hunger. And Blue, who had kept apart from the others, showed no desire to eat. Neither did he smoke, though early in the day he had never been without a cigarette between his lips.
Twilight fell and darkness came. Not a light showed anywhere in the blackness.
“Wal, I reckon it’s aboot time,” said Blue, and he led the way out of the cabin to the back of the lot. Jean strode behind him, carrying his rifle and an ax. Silently the other men followed. Blue turned to the left and led through the field until he came within sight of a dark line of trees.
“Thet’s where the road turns off,” he said to Jean. “An’ heah’s the back of Coleman’s place.... Wal, Jean, good luck!”
Jean felt the grip of a steel-like hand, and in the darkness he caught the gleam of Blue’s eyes. Jean had no response in words for the laconic Blue, but he wrung the hard, thin hand and hurried away in the darkness.
Once alone, his part of the business at hand rushed him into eager thrilling action. This was the sort of work he was fitted to do. In this instance it was important, but it seemed to him that Blue had coolly taken the perilous part. And this cowboy with gray in his thin hair was in reality the great King Fisher! Jean marveled at the fact. And he shivered all over for Jorth. In ten minutes — fifteen, more or less, Jorth would lie gasping bloody froth and sinking down. Something in the dark, lonely, silent, oppressive summer night told Jean this. He strode on swiftly. Crossing the road at a run, he kept on over the ground he had traversed during the afternoon, and in a few moments he stood breathing hard at the edge of the common behind Greaves’s store.
A pin point of light penetrated the blackness. It made Jean’s heart leap. The Jorth contingent were burning the big lamp that hung in the center of Greaves’s store. Jean listened. Loud voices and coarse laughter sounded discord on the melancholy silence of the night. What Blue had called his instinct had surely guided him aright. Death of Gaston Isbel was being celebrated by revel.
In a few moments Jean had regained his breath. Then all his faculties set intensely to the action at hand. He seemed to magnify his hearing and his sight. His movements made no sound. He gained the wagon, where he crouched a moment.
The ground seemed a pale, obscure medium, hardly more real than the gloom above it. Through this gloom of night, which looked thick like a cloud, but was really clear, shone the thin, bright point of light, accentuating the black square that was Greaves’s store. Above this stood a gray line of tree foliage, and then the intensely dark-blue sky studded with white, cold stars.
A hound bayed lonesomely somewhere in the distance. Voices of men sounded more distinctly, some deep and low, others loud, unguarded, with the vacant note of thoughtlessness.
Jean gathered all his forces, until sense of sight and hearing were in exquisite accord with the suppleness and lightness of his movements. He glided on about ten short, swift steps before he halted. That was as far as his piercing eyes could penetrate. If there had been a guard stationed outside the store Jean would have seen him before being seen. He saw the fence, reached it, entered the yard, glided in the dense shadow of the barn until the black square began to loom gray — the color of stone at night. Jean peered through the obscurity. No dark figure of a man showed against that gray wall — only a black patch, which must be the hole in the foundation mentioned. A ray of light now streaked out from the little black window. To the right showed the wide, black door.
Farther on Jean glided silently. Then he halted. There was no guard outside. Jean heard the clink of a cap, the lazy drawl of a Texan, and then a strong, harsh voice — Jorth’s. It strung Jean’s whole being tight and vibrating. Inside he was on fire while cold thrills rippled over his skin. It took tremendous effort of will to hold himself back another instant to listen, to look, to feel, to make sure. And that instant charged him with a mighty current of hot blood, straining, throbbing, damming.
When Jean leaped this current burst. In a few swift bounds he gained his point halfway between door and window. He leaned his rifle against the stone wall. Then he swung the ax. Crash! The window shutter split and rattled to the floor inside. The silence then broke with a hoarse, “What’s thet?”
With all his might Jean swung the heavy ax on the door. Smash! The lower half caved in and banged to the floor. Bright light flared out the hole.
“Look out!” yelled a man, in loud alarm. “They’re batterin’ the back door!”
Jean swung again, high on the splintered door. Crash! Pieces flew inside.
“They’ve got axes,” hoarsely shouted another voice. “Shove the counter ag’in’ the door.”
“No!” thundered a voice of authority that denoted terror as well. “Let them come in. Pull your guns an’ take to cover!”
“They ain’t comin’ in,” was the hoarse reply. “They’ll shoot in on us from the dark.”
“Put out the lamp!” yelled another.
Jean’s third heavy swing caved in part of the upper half of the door. Shouts and curses intermingled with the sliding of benches across the floor and the hard shuffle of boots. This confusion seemed to be split and silenced by a piercing yell, of different caliber, of terrible meaning. It stayed Jean’s swing — caused him to drop the ax and snatch up his rifle.
“DON’T ANYBODY MOVE!”
Like a steel whip this voice cut the silence. It belonged to Blue. Jean swiftly bent to put his eye to a crack in the door. Most of those visible seemed to have been frozen into unnatural positions. Jorth stood rather in front of his men, hatless and coatless, one arm outstretched, and his dark profile set toward a little man just inside the door. This man was Blue. Jean needed only one flashing look at Blue’s face, at his leveled, quivering guns, to understand why he had chosen this trick.
&n
bsp; “Who’re — you?” demanded Jorth, in husky pants.
“Reckon I’m Isbel’s right-hand man,” came the biting reply. “Once tolerable well known in Texas.... KING FISHER!”
The name must have been a guarantee of death. Jorth recognized this outlaw and realized his own fate. In the lamplight his face turned a pale greenish white. His outstretched hand began to quiver down.
Blue’s left gun seemed to leap up and flash red and explode. Several heavy reports merged almost as one. Jorth’s arm jerked limply, flinging his gun. And his body sagged in the middle. His hands fluttered like crippled wings and found their way to his abdomen. His death-pale face never changed its set look nor position toward Blue. But his gasping utterance was one of horrible mortal fury and terror. Then he began to sway, still with that strange, rigid set of his face toward his slayer, until he fell.
His fall broke the spell. Even Blue, like the gunman he was, had paused to watch Jorth in his last mortal action. Jorth’s followers began to draw and shoot. Jean saw Blue’s return fire bring down a huge man, who fell across Jorth’s body. Then Jean, quick as the thought that actuated him, raised his rifle and shot at the big lamp. It burst in a flare. It crashed to the floor. Darkness followed — a blank, thick, enveloping mantle. Then red flashes of guns emphasized the blackness. Inside the store there broke loose a pandemonium of shots, yells, curses, and thudding boots. Jean shoved his rifle barrel inside the door and, holding it low down, he moved it to and fro while he worked lever and trigger until the magazine was empty. Then, drawing his six-shooter, he emptied that. A roar of rifles from the front of the store told Jean that his comrades had entered the fray. Bullets zipped through the door he had broken. Jean ran swiftly round the corner, taking care to sheer off a little to the left, and when he got clear of the building he saw a line of flashes in the middle of the road. Blaisdell and the others were firing into the door of the store. With nimble fingers Jean reloaded his rifle. Then swiftly he ran across the road and down to get behind his comrades. Their shooting had slackened. Jean saw dark forms coming his way.
“Hello, Blaisdell!” he called, warningly.
“That y’u, Jean?” returned the rancher, looming up. “Wal, we wasn’t worried aboot y’u.”
“Blue?” queried Jean, sharply.
A little, dark figure shuffled past Jean. “Howdy, Jean!” said Blue, dryly. “Y’u shore did your part. Reckon I’ll need to be tied up, but I ain’t hurt much.”
“Colmor’s hit,” called the voice of Gordon, a few yards distant. “Help me, somebody!”
Jean ran to help Gordon uphold the swaying Colmor. “Are you hurt — bad?” asked Jean, anxiously. The young man’s head rolled and hung. He was breathing hard and did not reply. They had almost to carry him.
“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.