by Zane Grey
“Does old Sprague live here?” asked Isbel.
“Yes. I expect him back soon…. Did y’u come to see him?”
“No…. Did Sprague tell you anythin’ about the row he saw me in?”
“He—did not,” replied Ellen, lying with stiff lips. She who had sworn she could not lie! She felt the hot blood leaving her heart, mounting in a wave. All her conscious will seemed impelled to deceive. What had she to hide from Jean Isbel? And a still, small voice replied that she had to hide the Ellen Jorth who had waited for him that day, who had spied upon him, who had treasured a gift she could not destroy, who had hugged to her miserable heart the fact that he had fought for her name.
“I’m glad of that,” Isbel was saying, thoughtfully.
“Did you come heah to see me?” interrupted Ellen. She felt that she could not endure this reiterated suggestion of fineness, of consideration in him. She would betray herself—betray what she did not even realize herself. She must force other footing—and that should be the one of strife between the Jorths and Isbels.
“No—honest, I didn’t, Miss Ellen,” he rejoined, humbly. “I’ll tell you, presently, why I came. But it wasn’t to see you…. I don’t deny I wanted … but that’s no matter. You didn’t meet me that day on the Rim.”
“Meet y’u!” she echoed, coldly. “Shore y’u never expected me?”
“Somehow I did,” he replied, with those penetrating eyes on her. “I put somethin’ in your tent that day. Did you find it?”
“Yes,” she replied, with the same casual coldness.
“What did you do with it?”
“I kicked it out, of course,” she replied.
She saw him flinch.
“And you never opened it?”
“Certainly not,” she retorted, as if forced. “Doon’t y’u know anythin’ about—about people? … Shore even if y’u are an Isbel y’u never were born in Texas.”
“Thank God I wasn’t!” he replied. “I was born in a beautiful country of green meadows and deep forests and white rivers, not in a barren desert where men live dry and hard as the cactus. Where I come from men don’t live on hate. They can forgive.”
“Forgive! … Could y’u forgive a Jorth?”
“Yes, I could.”
“Shore that’s easy to say—with the wrongs all on your side,” she declared, bitterly.
“Ellen Jorth, the first wrong was on your side,” retorted Jean, his voice fall. “Your father stole my father’s sweetheart—by lies, by slander, by dishonor, by makin’ terrible love to her in his absence.”
“It’s a lie,” cried Ellen, passionately.
“It is not,” he declared, solemnly.
“Jean Isbel, I say y’u lie!”
“No! I say you’ve been lied to,” he thundered.
The tremendous force of his spirit seemed to fling truth at Ellen. It weakened her.
“But—mother loved dad—best.”
“Yes, afterward. No wonder, poor woman! … But it was the action of your father and your mother that ruined all these lives. You’ve got to know the truth, Ellen Jorth…. All the years of hate have borne their fruit. God Almighty can never save us now. Blood must be spilled. The Jorths and the Isbels can’t live on the same earth…. And you’ve got to know the truth because the worst of this hell falls on you and me.”
The hate that he spoke of alone upheld her.
“Never, Jean Isbel!” she cried. “I’ll never know truth from y’u…. I’ll never share anythin’ with y’u—not even hell.”
Isbel dismounted and stood before her, still holding his bridle reins. The bay horse champed his bit and tossed his head.
“Why do you hate me so?” he asked. “I just happen to be my father’s son. I never harmed you or any of your people. I met you … fell in love with you in a flash—though I never knew it till after…. Why do you hate me so terribly?”
Ellen felt a heavy, stifling pressure within her breast. “Y’u’re an Isbel…. Doon’t speak of love to me.”
“I didn’t intend to. But your—your hate seems unnatural. And we’ll probably never meet again…. I can’t help it. I love you. Love at first sight! Jean Isbel and Ellen Jorth! Strange, isn’t it? … It was all so strange. My meetin’ you so lonely and unhappy, my seein’ you so sweet and beautiful, my thinkin’ you so good in spite of—”
“Shore it was strange,” interrupted Ellen, with scornful laugh. She had found her defense. In hurting him she could hide her own hurt. “Thinking me so good in spite of— Ha-ha! And I said I’d been kissed before!”
“Yes, in spite of everything,” he said.
Ellen could not look at him as he loomed over her. She felt a wild tumult in her heart. All that crowded to her lips for utterance was false.
“Yes—kissed before I met you—and since,” she said, mockingly. “And I laugh at what y’u call love, Jean Isbel.”
“Laugh if you want—but believe it was sweet, honorable—the best in me,” he replied, in deep earnestness.
“Bah!” cried Ellen, with all the force of her pain and shame and hate.
“By Heaven, you must be different from what I thought!” exclaimed Isbel, huskily.
“Shore if I wasn’t, I’d make myself…. Now, Mister Jean Isbel, get on your horse an’ go!”
Something of composure came to Ellen with these words of dismissal, and she glanced up at him with half-veiled eyes. His changed aspect prepared her for some blow.
“That’s a pretty black horse.”
“Yes,” replied Ellen, blankly.
“Do you like him?”
“I—I love him.”
“All right, I’ll give him to you then. He’ll have less work and kinder treatment than if I used him. I’ve got some pretty hard rides ahead of me.”
“Y’u—y’u give—” whispered Ellen, slowly stiffening. “Yes. He’s mine,” replied Isbel. With that he turned to whistle. Spades threw up his head, snorted, and started forward at a trot. He came faster the closer he got, and if ever Ellen saw the joy of a horse at sight of a beloved master she saw it then. Isbel laid a hand on the animal’s neck and caressed him, then, turning back to Ellen, he went on speaking: “I picked him from a lot of fine horses of my father’s. We got along well. My sister Ann rode him a good deal…. He was stolen from our pasture day before yesterday. I took his trail and tracked him up here. Never lost his trail till I got to your ranch, where I had to circle till I picked it up again.”
“Stolen—pasture—tracked him up heah?” echoed Ellen, without any evidence of emotion whatever. Indeed, she seemed to have been turned to stone.
“Trackin’ him was easy. I wish for your sake it ’d been impossible,” he said, bluntly.
“For my sake?” she echoed, in precisely the same tone,
Manifestly that tone irritated Isbel beyond control. He misunderstood it. With a hand far from gentle he pushed her bent head back so he could look into her face.
“Yes, for your sake!” he declared, harshly. “Haven’t you sense enough to see that? … What kind of a game do you think you can play with me?”
“Game I … Game of what?” she asked.
“Why, a—a game of ignorance—innocence—any old game to fool a man who’s tryin’ to be decent.”
This time Ellen mutely looked her dull, blank questioning. And it inflamed Isbel.
“You know your father’s a horse thief!” he thundered.
Outwardly Ellen remained the same. She had been prepared for an unknown and a terrible blow. It had fallen. And her face, her body, her hands, locked with the supreme fortitude of pride and sustained by hate, gave no betrayal of the crashing, thundering ruin within her mind and soul. Motionless she leaned there, meeting the piercing fire of Isbel’s eyes, seeing in them a righteous and terrible scorn. In one flash the naked truth seemed blazed at her. The faith she had fostered died a sudden death. A thousand perplexing problems were solved in a second of whirling, revealing thought.
“Ellen Jorth, yo
u know your father’s in with this Hash Knife Gang of rustlers,” thundered Isbel.
“Shore,” she replied, with the cool, easy, careless defiance of a Texan.
“You know he’s got this Daggs to lead his faction against the Isbels?”
“Shore.”
“You know this talk of sheepmen buckin’ the cattlemen is all a blind?”
“Shore,” reiterated Ellen.
Isbel gazed darkly down upon her. With his anger spent for the moment, he appeared ready to end the interview. But he seemed fascinated by the strange look of her, by the incomprehensible something she emanated. Havoc gleamed in his pale, set face. He shook his dark head and his broad hand went to his breast.
“To think I fell in love with such as you!” he exclaimed, and his other hand swept out in a tragic gesture of helpless pathos and impotence.
The hell Isbel had hinted at now possessed Ellen—body, mind, and soul. Disgraced, scorned by an Isbel! Yet loved by him! In that divination there flamed up a wild, fierce passion to hurt, to rend, to flay, to fling back upon him a stinging agony. Her thought flew upon her like whips. Pride of the Jorths! Pride of the old Texan blue blood! It lay dead at her feet, killed by the scornful words of the last of that family to whom she owed her degradation. Daughter of a horse thief and rustler! Dark and evil and grim set the forces within her, accepting her fate, damning her enemies, true to the blood of the Jorths. The sins of the father must be visited upon the daughter.
“Shore y’u might have had me—that day on the Rim—if y’u hadn’t told your name,” she said, mockingly, and she gazed into his eyes with all the mystery of a woman’s nature.
Isbel’s powerful frame shook as with an ague. “Girl, what do you mean?”
“Shore, I’d have been plumb fond of havin’ y’u make up to me,” she drawled. It possessed her now with irresistible power, this fact of the love he could not help. Some fiendish woman’s satisfaction dwelt in her consciousness of her power to kill the noble, the faithful, the good in him.
“Ellen Jorth, you lie!” he burst out, hoarsely.
“Jean, shore I’d been a toy and a rag for these rustlers long enough. I was tired of them…. I wanted a new lover…. And if y’u hadn’t give yourself away—”
Isbel moved so swiftly that she did not realize his intention until his hard hand smote her mouth. Instantly she tasted the hot, salty blood from a cut lip.
“Shut up, you hussy!” he ordered, roughly. “Have you no shame? … My sister Ann spoke well of you. She made excuses—she pitied you.”
That for Ellen seemed the culminating blow under which she almost sank. But one moment longer could she maintain this unnatural and terrible poise.
“Jean Isbel—go along with y’u,” she said, impatiently. “I’m waiting heah for Simm Bruce!”
At last it was as if she struck his heart. Because of doubt of himself and a stubborn faith in her, his passion and jealousy were not proof against this last stab. Instinctive subtlety inherent in Ellen had prompted the speech that tortured Isbel. How the shock to him rebounded on her! She gasped as he lunged for her, too swift for her to move a hand. One arm crushed round her like a steel band; the other, hard across her breast and neck, forced her head back. Then she tried to wrestle away. But she was utterly powerless. His dark face bent down closer and closer. Suddenly Ellen ceased trying to struggle. She was like a stricken creature paralyzed by the piercing, hypnotic eyes of a snake. Yet in spite of her terror, if he meant death by her, she welcomed it.
“Ellen Jorth, I’m thinkin’ yet—you lie!” he said, low and tense between his teeth.
“No! No!” she screamed, wildly. Her nerve broke there. She could no longer meet those terrible black eyes. Her passionate denial was not only the last of her shameful deceit; it was the woman of her, repudiating herself and him, and all this sickening, miserable situation.
Isbel took her literally. She had convinced him. And the instant held blank horror for Ellen.
“By God—then I’ll have somethin’—of you anyway!” muttered Isbel, thickly.
Ellen saw the blood bulge in his powerful neck. She saw his dark, hard face, strange now, fearful to behold, come lower and lower, till it blurred and obstructed her gaze. She felt the swell and ripple and stretch—then the bind of his muscles, like huge coils of elastic rope. Then with savage rude force his mouth closed on hers. All Ellen’s senses reeled, as if she were swooning. She was suffocating. The spasm passed, and a bursting spurt of blood revived her to acute and terrible consciousness. For the endless period of one moment he held her so that her breast seemed crushed. His kisses burned and braised her lips. And then, shifting violently to her neck, they pressed so hard that she choked under them. It was as if a huge bat had fastened upon her throat.
Suddenly the remorseless binding embraces—the hot and savage kisses—fell away from her. Isbel had let go. She saw him throw up his hands, and stagger back a little, all the while with his piercing gaze on her. His face had been dark purple: now it was white.
“No—Ellen Jorth,” he panted, “I don’t—want any of you—that way.” And suddenly he sank on the log and covered his face with his hands. “What I loved in you—was what I thought—you were.”
Like a wildcat Ellen sprang upon him, beating him with her fists, tearing at his hair, scratching his face, in a blind fury. Isbel made no move to stop her, and her violence spent itself with her strength. She swayed back from him, shaking so that she could scarcely stand.
“Y’u—damned—Isbel!” she gasped, with hoarse passion. “Y’u insulted me!”
“Insulted you?…” laughed Isbel, in bitter scorn. “It couldn’t be done.”
“Oh! … I’ll kill y’u!” she hissed.
Isbel stood up and wiped the red scratches on his face. “Go ahead. There’s my gun,” he said, pointing to his saddle sheath. “Somebody’s got to begin this Jorth-Isbel feud. It’ll be a dirty business. I’m sick of it already…. Kill me! … First blood for Ellen Jorth!”
Suddenly the dark grim tide that had seemed to engulf Ellen’s very soul cooled and receded, leaving her without its false strength. She began to sag. She stared at Isbel’s gun. “Kill him,” whispered the retreating voices of her hate. But she was as powerless as if she were still held in Jean Isbel’s giant embrace.
“I—I want to—kill y’u,” she whispered, “but I cain’t…. Leave me.”
“You’re no Jorth—the same as I’m no Isbel. We oughtn’t be mixed in this deal,” he said, somberly. “I’m sorrier for you than I am for myself…. You’re a girl…. You once had a good mother—a decent home. And this life you’ve led here—mean as it’s been—is nothin’ to what you’ll face now. Damn the men that brought you to this! I’m goin’ to kill some of them.”
With that he mounted and turned away. Ellen called out for him to take his horse. He did not stop nor look back. She called again, but her voice was fainter, and Isbel was now leaving at a trot. Slowly she sagged against the tree, lower and lower. He headed into the trail leading up the canyon. How strange a relief Ellen felt! She watched him ride into the aspens and start up the slope, at last to disappear in the pines. It seemed at the moment that he took with him something which had been hers. A pain in her head dulled the thoughts that wavered to and fro. After he had gone she could not see so well. Her eyes were tired. What had happened to her? There was blood on her hands. Isbel’s blood! She shuddered. Was it an omen? Lower she sank against the tree and closed her eyes.
Old John Sprague did not return. Hours dragged by—dark hours for Ellen Jorth lying prostrate beside the tree, hiding the blue sky and golden sunlight from her eyes. At length the lethargy of despair, the black dull misery wore away; and she gradually returned to a condition of coherent thought.
What had she learned? Sight of the black horse grazing near seemed to prompt the trenchant replies. Spades belonged to Jean Isbel. He had been stolen by her father or by one of her father’s accomplices. Isbel’s vaunted cunning as a tracker
had been no idle boast. Her father was a horse thief, a rustler, a sheepman only as a blind, a consort of Daggs, leader of the Hash Knife Gang. Ellen well remembered the ill repute of that gang, way back in Texas, years ago. Her father had gotten in with this famous band of rustlers to serve his own ends—the extermination of the Isbels. It was all very plain now to Ellen.
“Daughter of a horse thief an’ rustler!” she muttered.
And her thoughts sped back to the days of her girlhood. Only the very early stage of that time had been happy. In the light of Isbel’s revelation the many changes of residence, the sudden moves to unsettled parts of Texas, the periods of poverty and sudden prosperity, all leading to the final journey to this God-forsaken Arizona—these were now seen in their true significance. As far back as she could remember her father had been a crooked man. And her mother had known it. He had dragged her to her ruin. That degradation had killed her. Ellen realized that with poignant sorrow, with a sudden revolt against her father. Had Gaston Isbel truly and dishonestly started her father on his downhill road? Ellen wondered. She hated the Isbels with unutterable and growing hate, yet she had it in her to think, to ponder, to weigh judgments in their behalf. She owed it to something in herself to be fair. But what did it matter who was to blame for the Jorth-Isbel feud? Somehow Ellen was forced to confess that deep in her soul it mattered terribly. To be true to herself—the self that she alone knew—she must have right on her side. If the Jorths were guilty, and she clung to them and their creed, then she would be one of them.
“But I’m not,” she mused, aloud. “My name’s Jorth, an’ I reckon I have bad blood…. But it never came out in me till today. I’ve been honest. I’ve been good—yes, good, as my mother taught me to be—in spite of all…. Shore my pride made me a fool…. An’ now have I any choice to make? I’m a Jorth. I must stick to my father.”
All this summing up, however, did not wholly account for the pang in her breast.
What had she done that day? And the answer beat in her ears like a great throbbing hammer-stroke. In an agony of shame, in the throes of hate, she had perjured herself. She had sworn away her honor. She had basely made herself vile. She had struck ruthlessly at the great heart of a man who loved her. Ah! That thrust had rebounded to leave this dreadful pang in her breast. Loved her? Yes, the strange truth, the insupportable truth! She had to contend now, not with her father and her disgrace, not with the baffling presence of Jean Isbel, but with the mysteries of her own soul. Wonder of all wonders was it that such love had been born for her. Shame worse than all other shame was it that she should kill it by a poisoned lie. By what monstrous motive had she done that? To sting Isbel as he had stung her! But that had been base. Never could she have stopped so low except in a moment of tremendous tumult. If she had done sore injury to Isbel what bad she done to herself? How strange, how tenacious had been his faith in her honor! Could she ever forget? She must forget it. But she could never forget the way he had scorned those vile men in Greaves’s store—the way he had beaten Bruce for defiling her name—the way he had stubbornly denied her own insinuations. She was a woman now. She had learned something of the complexity of a woman’s heart. She could not change nature. And all her passionate being thrilled to the manhood of her defender. But even while she thrilled she acknowledged her hate. It was the contention between the two that caused the pang in her breast. “An’ now what’s left for me?” murmured Ellen. She did not analyze the significance of what had prompted that query. The most incalculable of the day’s disclosures was the wrong she had done herself. “Shore I’m done for, one way or another…. I must stick to Dad…. or kill myself?”