Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  “I’m all right, Uncle Tad — only tired an’ worried. I—”

  “Tad, how’s your hurt?” interrupted Colter.

  “Reckon I’m easier,” replied Jorth, wearily, “but shore I’m in bad shape. I’m still spittin’ blood. I keep tellin’ Queen that bullet lodged in my lungs — but he says it went through.”

  “Wal, hang on, Tad!” replied Colter, with a cheerfulness Ellen sensed was really indifferent.

  “Oh, what the hell’s the use!” exclaimed Jorth. “It’s all — up with us — Colter!”

  “Wal, shut up, then,” tersely returned Colter. “It ain’t doin’ y’u or us any good to holler.”

  Tad Jorth did not reply to this. Ellen heard his breathing and it did not seem natural. It rasped a little — came hurriedly — then caught in his throat. Then he spat. Ellen shrunk back against the door. He was breathing through blood.

  “Uncle, are y’u in pain?” she asked.

  “Yes, Ellen — it burns like hell,” he said.

  “Oh! I’m sorry.... Isn’t there something I can do?”

  “I reckon not. Queen did all anybody could do for me — now — unless it’s pray.”

  Colter laughed at this — the slow, easy, drawling laugh of a Texan. But Ellen felt pity for this wounded uncle. She had always hated him. He had been a drunkard, a gambler, a waster of her father’s property; and now he was a rustler and a fugitive, lying in pain, perhaps mortally hurt.

  “Yes, uncle — I will pray for y’u,” she said, softly.

  The change in his voice held a note of sadness that she had been quick to catch.

  “Ellen, y’u’re the only good Jorth — in the whole damned lot,” he said. “God! I see it all now.... We’ve dragged y’u to hell!”

  “Yes, Uncle Tad, I’ve shore been dragged some — but not yet — to hell,” she responded, with a break in her voice.

  “Y’u will be — Ellen — unless—”

  “Aw, shut up that kind of gab, will y’u?” broke in Colter, harshly.

  It amazed Ellen that Colter should dominate her uncle, even though he was wounded. Tad Jorth had been the last man to take orders from anyone, much less a rustler of the Hash Knife Gang. This Colter began to loom up in Ellen’s estimate as he loomed physically over her, a lofty figure, dark motionless, somehow menacing.

  “Ellen, has Colter told y’u yet — aboot — aboot Lee an’ Jackson?” inquired the wounded man.

  The pitch-black darkness of the cabin seemed to help fortify Ellen to bear further trouble.

  “Colter told me dad an’ Uncle Jackson would meet us heah,” she rejoined, hurriedly.

  Jorth could be heard breathing in difficulty, and he coughed and spat again, and seemed to hiss.

  “Ellen, he lied to y’u. They’ll never meet us — heah!”

  “Why not?” whispered Ellen.

  “Because — Ellen—” he replied, in husky pants, “your dad an’ — uncle Jackson — are daid — an’ buried!”

  If Ellen suffered a terrible shock it was a blankness, a deadness, and a slow, creeping failure of sense in her knees. They gave way under her and she sank on the grass against the cabin wall. She did not faint nor grow dizzy nor lose her sight, but for a while there was no process of thought in her mind. Suddenly then it was there — the quick, spiritual rending of her heart — followed by a profound emotion of intimate and irretrievable loss — and after that grief and bitter realization.

  An hour later Ellen found strength to go to the fire and partake of the food and drink her body sorely needed.

  Colter and the men waited on her solicitously, and in silence, now and then stealing furtive glances at her from under the shadow of their black sombreros. The dark night settled down like a blanket. There were no stars. The wind moaned fitfully among the pines, and all about that lonely, hidden recess was in harmony with Ellen’s thoughts.

  “Girl, y’u’re shore game,” said Colter, admiringly. “An’ I reckon y’u never got it from the Jorths.”

  “Tad in there — he’s game,” said Queen, in mild protest.

  “Not to my notion,” replied Colter. “Any man can be game when he’s croakin’, with somebody around.... But Lee Jorth an’ Jackson — they always was yellow clear to their gizzards. They was born in Louisiana — not Texas.... Shore they’re no more Texans than I am. Ellen heah, she must have got another strain in her blood.”

  To Ellen their words had no meaning. She rose and asked, “Where can I sleep?”

  “I’ll fetch a light presently an’ y’u can make your bed in there by Tad,” replied Colter.

  “Yes, I’d like that.”

  “Wal, if y’u reckon y’u can coax him to talk you’re shore wrong,” declared Colter, with that cold timbre of voice that struck like steel on Ellen’s nerves. “I cussed him good an’ told him he’d keep his mouth shut. Talkin’ makes him cough an’ that fetches up the blood.... Besides, I reckon I’m the one to tell y’u how your dad an’ uncle got killed. Tad didn’t see it done, an’ he was bad hurt when it happened. Shore all the fellars left have their idee aboot it. But I’ve got it straight.”

  “Colter — tell me now,” cried Ellen.

  “Wal, all right. Come over heah,” he replied, and drew her away from the camp fire, out in the shadow of gloom. “Poor kid! I shore feel bad aboot it.” He put a long arm around her waist and drew her against him. Ellen felt it, yet did not offer any resistance. All her faculties seemed absorbed in a morbid and sad anticipation.

  “Ellen, y’u shore know I always loved y’u — now don’t y ‘u?” he asked, with suppressed breath.

  “No, Colter. It’s news to me — an’ not what I want to heah.”

  “Wal, y’u may as well heah it right now,” he said. “It’s true. An’ what’s more — your dad gave y’u to me before he died.”

  “What! Colter, y’u must be a liar.”

  “Ellen, I swear I’m not lyin’,” he returned, in eager passion. “I was with your dad last an’ heard him last. He shore knew I’d loved y’u for years. An’ he said he’d rather y’u be left in my care than anybody’s.”

  “My father gave me to y’u in marriage!” ejaculated Ellen, in bewilderment.

  Colter’s ready assurance did not carry him over this point. It was evident that her words somewhat surprised and disconcerted him for the moment.

  “To let me marry a rustler — one of the Hash Knife Gang!” exclaimed Ellen, with weary incredulity.

  “Wal, your dad belonged to Daggs’s gang, same as I do,” replied Colter, recovering his cool ardor.

  “No!” cried Ellen.

  “Yes, he shore did, for years,” declared Colter, positively. “Back in Texas. An’ it was your dad that got Daggs to come to Arizona.”

  Ellen tried to fling herself away. But her strength and her spirit were ebbing, and Colter increased the pressure of his arm. All at once she sank limp. Could she escape her fate? Nothing seemed left to fight with or for.

  “All right — don’t hold me — so tight,” she panted. “Now tell me how dad was killed ... an’ who — who—”

  Colter bent over so he could peer into her face. In the darkness Ellen just caught the gleam of his eyes. She felt the virile force of the man in the strain of his body as he pressed her close. It all seemed unreal — a hideous dream — the gloom, the moan of the wind, the weird solitude, and this rustler with hand and will like cold steel.

  “We’d come back to Greaves’s store,” Colter began. “An’ as Greaves was daid we all got free with his liquor. Shore some of us got drunk. Bruce was drunk, an’ Tad in there — he was drunk. Your dad put away more ‘n I ever seen him. But shore he wasn’t exactly drunk. He got one of them weak an’ shaky spells. He cried an’ he wanted some of us to get the Isbels to call off the fightin’.... He shore was ready to call it quits. I reckon the killin’ of Daggs — an’ then the awful way Greaves was cut up by Jean Isbel — took all the fight out of your dad. He said to me, ‘Colter, we’ll take Ellen an’ leave t
his heah country — an’ begin life all over again — where no one knows us.’”

  “Oh, did he really say that? ... Did he — really mean it?” murmured Ellen, with a sob.

  “I’ll swear it by the memory of my daid mother,” protested Colter. “Wal, when night come the Isbels rode down on us in the dark an’ began to shoot. They smashed in the door — tried to burn us out — an’ hollered around for a while. Then they left an’ we reckoned there’d be no more trouble that night. All the same we kept watch. I was the soberest one an’ I bossed the gang. We had some quarrels aboot the drinkin’. Your dad said if we kept it up it ‘d be the end of the Jorths. An’ he planned to send word to the Isbels next mawnin’ that he was ready for a truce. An’ I was to go fix it up with Gaston Isbel. Wal, your dad went to bed in Greaves’s room, an’ a little while later your uncle Jackson went in there, too. Some of the men laid down in the store an’ went to sleep. I kept guard till aboot three in the mawnin’. An’ I got so sleepy I couldn’t hold my eyes open. So I waked up Wells an’ Slater an’ set them on guard, one at each end of the store. Then I laid down on the counter to take a nap.”

  Colter’s low voice, the strain and breathlessness of him, the agitation with which he appeared to be laboring, and especially the simple, matter-of-fact detail of his story, carried absolute conviction to Ellen Jorth. Her vague doubt of him had been created by his attitude toward her. Emotion dominated her intelligence. The images, the scenes called up by Colter’s words, were as true as the gloom of the wild gulch and the loneliness of the night solitude — as true as the strange fact that she lay passive in the arm of a rustler.

  “Wall, after a while I woke up,” went on Colter, clearing his throat. “It was gray dawn. All was as still as death.... An’ somethin’ shore was wrong. Wells an’ Slater had got to drinkin’ again an’ now laid daid drunk or asleep. Anyways, when I kicked them they never moved. Then I heard a moan. It came from the room where your dad an’ uncle was. I went in. It was just light enough to see. Your uncle Jackson was layin’ on the floor — cut half in two — daid as a door nail.... Your dad lay on the bed. He was alive, breathin’ his last.... He says, ‘That half-breed Isbel — knifed us — while we slept!’ ... The winder shutter was open. I seen where Jean Isbel had come in an’ gone out. I seen his moccasin tracks in the dirt outside an’ I seen where he’d stepped in Jackson’s blood an’ tracked it to the winder. Y’u shore can see them bloody tracks yourself, if y’u go back to Greaves’s store.... Your dad was goin’ fast.... He said, ‘Colter — take care of Ellen,’ an’ I reckon he meant a lot by that. He kept sayin’, ‘My God! if I’d only seen Gaston Isbel before it was too late!’ an’ then he raved a little, whisperin’ out of his haid.... An’ after that he died.... I woke up the men, an’ aboot sunup we carried your dad an’ uncle out of town an’ buried them.... An’ them Isbels shot at us while we were buryin’ our daid! That’s where Tad got his hurt.... Then we hit the trail for Jorth’s ranch.... An now, Ellen, that’s all my story. Your dad was ready to bury the hatchet with his old enemy. An’ that Nez Perce Jean Isbel, like the sneakin’ savage he is, murdered your uncle an’ your dad.... Cut him horrible — made him suffer tortures of hell — all for Isbel revenge!”

  When Colter’s husky voice ceased Ellen whispered through lips as cold and still as ice, “Let me go ... leave me — heah — alone!”

  “Why, shore! I reckon I understand,” replied Colter. “I hated to tell y’u. But y’u had to heah the truth aboot that half-breed.... I’ll carry your pack in the cabin an’ unroll your blankets.”

  Releasing her, Colter strode off in the gloom. Like a dead weight, Ellen began to slide until she slipped down full length beside the log. And then she lay in the cool, damp shadow, inert and lifeless so far as outward physical movement was concerned. She saw nothing and felt nothing of the night, the wind, the cold, the falling dew. For the moment or hour she was crushed by despair, and seemed to see herself sinking down and down into a black, bottomless pit, into an abyss where murky tides of blood and furious gusts of passion contended between her body and her soul. Into the stormy blast of hell! In her despair she longed, she ached for death. Born of infidelity, cursed by a taint of evil blood, further cursed by higher instinct for good and happy life, dragged from one lonely and wild and sordid spot to another, never knowing love or peace or joy or home, left to the companionship of violent and vile men, driven by a strange fate to love with unquenchable and insupportable love a’ half-breed, a savage, an Isbel, the hereditary enemy of her people, and at last the ruthless murderer of her father — what in the name of God had she left to live for? Revenge! An eye for an eye! A life for a life! But she could not kill Jean Isbel. Woman’s love could turn to hate, but not the love of Ellen Jorth. He could drag her by the hair in the dust, beat her, and make her a thing to loathe, and cut her mortally in his savage and implacable thirst for revenge — but with her last gasp she would whisper she loved him and that she had lied to him to kill his faith. It was that — his strange faith in her purity — which had won her love. Of all men, that he should be the one to recognize the truth of her, the womanhood yet unsullied — how strange, how terrible, how overpowering! False, indeed, was she to the Jorths! False as her mother had been to an Isbel! This agony and destruction of her soul was the bitter Dead Sea fruit — the sins of her parents visited upon her.

  “I’ll end it all,” she whispered to the night shadows that hovered over her. No coward was she — no fear of pain or mangled flesh or death or the mysterious hereafter could ever stay her. It would be easy, it would be a last thrill, a transport of self-abasement and supreme self-proof of her love for Jean Isbel to kiss the Rim rock where his feet had trod and then fling herself down into the depths. She was the last Jorth. So the wronged Isbels would be avenged.

  “But he would never know — never know — I lied to him!” she wailed to the night wind.

  She was lost — lost on earth and to hope of heaven. She had right neither to live nor to die. She was nothing but a little weed along the trail of life, trampled upon, buried in the mud. She was nothing but a single rotten thread in a tangled web of love and hate and revenge. And she had broken.

  Lower and lower she seemed to sink. Was there no end to this gulf of despair? If Colter had returned he would have found her a rag and a toy — a creature degraded, fit for his vile embrace. To be thrust deeper into the mire — to be punished fittingly for her betrayal of a man’s noble love and her own womanhood — to be made an end of, body, mind, and soul.

  But Colter did not return.

  The wind mourned, the owls hooted, the leaves rustled, the insects whispered their melancholy night song, the camp-fire flickered and faded. Then the wild forestland seemed to close imponderably over Ellen. All that she wailed in her despair, all that she confessed in her abasement, was true, and hard as life could be — but she belonged to nature. If nature had not failed her, had God failed her? It was there — the lonely land of tree and fern and flower and brook, full of wild birds and beasts, where the mossy rocks could speak and the solitude had ears, where she had always felt herself unutterably a part of creation. Thus a wavering spark of hope quivered through the blackness of her soul and gathered light.

  The gloom of the sky, the shifting clouds of dull shade, split asunder to show a glimpse of a radiant star, piercingly white, cold, pure, a steadfast eye of the universe, beyond all understanding and illimitable with its meaning of the past and the present and the future. Ellen watched it until the drifting clouds once more hid it from her strained sight.

  What had that star to do with hell? She might be crushed and destroyed by life, but was there not something beyond? Just to be born, just to suffer, just to die — could that be all? Despair did not loose its hold on Ellen, the strife and pang of her breast did not subside. But with the long hours and the strange closing in of the forest around her and the fleeting glimpse of that wonderful star, with a subtle divination of the meaning of her beating heart and throbb
ing mind, and, lastly, with a voice thundering at her conscience that a man’s faith in a woman must not be greater, nobler, than her faith in God and eternity — with these she checked the dark flight of her soul toward destruction.

  CHAPTER XII

  A CHILL, GRAY, somber dawn was breaking when Ellen dragged herself into the cabin and crept under her blankets, there to sleep the sleep of exhaustion.

  When she awoke the hour appeared to be late afternoon. Sun and sky shone through the sunken and decayed roof of the old cabin. Her uncle, Tad Jorth, lay upon a blanket bed upheld by a crude couch of boughs. The light fell upon his face, pale, lined, cast in a still mold of suffering. He was not dead, for she heard his respiration.

  The floor underneath Ellen’s blankets was bare clay. She and Jorth were alone in this cabin. It contained nothing besides their beds and a rank growth of weeds along the decayed lower logs. Half of the cabin had a rude ceiling of rough-hewn boards which formed a kind of loft. This attic extended through to the adjoining cabin, forming the ceiling of the porch-like space between the two structures. There was no partition. A ladder of two aspen saplings, pegged to the logs, and with braces between for steps, led up to the attic.

  Ellen smelled wood smoke and the odor of frying meat, and she heard the voices of men. She looked out to see that Slater and Somers had joined their party — an addition that might have strengthened it for defense, but did not lend her own situation anything favorable. Somers had always appeared the one best to avoid.

  Colter espied her and called her to “Come an’ feed your pale face.” His comrades laughed, not loudly, but guardedly, as if noise was something to avoid. Nevertheless, they awoke Tad Jorth, who began to toss and moan on the bed.

  Ellen hurried to his side and at once ascertained that he had a high fever and was in a critical condition. Every time he tossed he opened a wound in his right breast, rather high up. For all she could see, nothing had been done for him except the binding of a scarf round his neck and under his arm. This scant bandage had worked loose. Going to the door, she called out: