Tonto Basin, page 20
Colmor was there in the yard, breathing hard, his face working, and in front of him crouched several of the men with rifles ready. The road, to Jean’s flashing glance, was apparently deserted. Blue sat on the doorstep, lighting a cigarette. Then on the moment Blaisdell strode to the door of the cabin. Jean had never seen him look like that.
“Jean … look … down the road,” he said brokenly, and with big hand shaking he pointed down toward Greaves’s store.
Like lightning Jean’s glance shot down—down—down—until it stopped to fix upon the prostrate form of a man, lying in the middle of the road. A man of lengthy build, shirt-sleeved arms flung wide, white head in the dust—dead! Jean’s recognition was as swift as his sight. His father! They had killed him. The Jorths! It was done. His father’s premonition of death had not been false. Then, after these flashing thoughts, came a sense of blankness, momentarily almost oblivion, that gave place to a rending of the heart, that pain Jean had known only at the death of his mother. It passed, this agonizing pang, and its icy pressure yielded to a rushing gust of blood, fiery as hell.
“Who … did it?” whispered Jean.
“Jorth!” replied Blaisdell huskily. “Son, we couldn’t hold him back … we couldn’t. He was like a lion … an’ he throwed his life away! Oh, if it hadn’t been for that, it’d not be so awful. Shore, we come heah to shoot an’ be shot. But not like that. By God, it was murder … murder!”
Jean’s mute lips framed a query easily read.
“Tell him, Blue, I cain’t,” continued Blaisdell, and he tramped back into the cabin.
“Set down, Jean, an’ take things easy,” said Blue calmly. “You know we all reckoned we’d get plugged one way or another in this deal. An’ shore it doesn’t matter much how a fellar gits it. All that ought to bother us is to make shore the other outfit bites the dust … same as your old dad had to.”
Under this man’s tranquil presence, all the more quieting because it seemed to be so deadly sure and cool, Jean felt the uplift of his dark spirit, the acceptance of fatality, the mounting control of faculties that must wait. The little gunman seemed to have about his inert presence something that suggested a rattlesnake’s inherent knowledge of its destructiveness. Jean sat down and wiped his clammy face.
“Jean, your dad reckoned to square accounts with Jorth, an’ save us all,” began Blue, puffing out a cloud of smoke. “But he reckoned too late. Mebbe years ago … or even not long ago … if he’d called Jorth out, man to man, there’d never been any Jorth-Isbel war. Gaston Isbel’s conscience woke too late. Thet’s how I figger it.”
“Hurry. Tell me … how it … happened,” panted Jean.
“Wal, a little while after you all left, I seen your dad writin’ on a leaf he tore out of a book … Meeker’s Bible, as you can see. I thought that was funny. An’ Blaisdell gave me a hunch. Pretty soon along comes young Evarts. The old man calls him out of our hearin’ an’ talks to him. Then I seen him give the boy somethin’, which I afterwards figgered was what he wrote on the leaf out of the Bible. Me an’ Blaisdell both tried to git out of him what that meant. But not a word. I kept watchin’, an’ after while I seen young Evarts slip out the back way. Mebbe half an hour I seen a bare-legged kid cross the road an’ go into Greaves’s store. Then shore I tumbled to your dad. He’d sent a note to Jorth to come out an’ meet him face to face, man to man! Shore it was like readin’ what your dad had wrote. But I didn’t say nothin’ to Blaisdell. I jest watched.”
Blue drawled these last words, as if he enjoyed remembrance of his keen reasoning. A smile wreathed his thin lips. He drew twice on the cigarette and emitted another cloud of smoke. Quite suddenly, then, he changed. He made a rapid gesture—the whip of a hand, significant and passionate, and swift words followed.
“Colonel Lee Jorth stalked out of the store … out into the road … mebbe a hundred steps. Then he halted. He wore his long black coat an’ his wide black hat, an’ he stood like a stone.
“‘What the hell,’ busted out Blaisdell, comin’ out of his trance.
“The rest of us jest looked. I’d forgot your dad, for the minnit. So had all of us. But we remembered soon enough when we seen him stalk out. Everybody had a hunch then. I called him. Blaisdell begged him to come back. All the fellars had a say. No use! Then I shore cussed him an’ told him it was plain as day thet Jorth didn’t hit me like an honest man. I can sense such things. I knew Jorth had a trick up his sleeve. I’ve not been a gunfighter fer nothin’. Your dad had no rifle. He packed his gun at his hip. He jest stalked down that road like a giant, goin’ faster an’ faster, holdin’ his head high. It shore was fine to see him. But I was sick. I heered Blaisdell groan, an’ Fredericks thar cussed somethin’ fierce. When your dad halted, I reckon aboot fifty steps from Jorth … then we all went numb. I heered your dad’s voice … then Jorth’s. They cut like knives. You could shore heah the hate they hed fer each other.”
Blue had grown a little husky. His speech had grown gradually to denote his feeling. Underneath his serenity there was a different order of man.
“I reckon both your dad an’ Jorth went fer their guns at the same time … an even break. But jest as they drew, someone shot a rifle from the store. Must hev’ been a Forty-Five-Seventy. A big gun! The bullet must have hit your dad low down. Aboot the middle. He acted thet way, sinkin’ to his knees. An’ he was wild in shootin’ … so wild that he must hev’ missed. Then he wobbled … an’ Jorth run in a dozen steps, shootin’ fast, till your dad fell over. Jorth run closer, bent over him, an’ then straightened up with an Apache yell, if I ever heered one. An’ then Jorth backed slow … lookin’ all the time … backed to the store, an’ went in.”
Blue’s voice ceased. Jean seemed suddenly released from an impelling magnet that now dropped him to some numb, dizzy depth. Blue’s lean face grew hazy. Then Jean bowed his head in his hands, and sat there, while a slight tremor shook all his muscles at once. He grew deathly cold and deathly sick. This paroxysm slowly wore away, and Jean grew conscious of a dull amazement at the apparent deadness of his spirit. Blaisdell placed a huge kindly hand on his shoulder.
“Brace up, son,” he said, with voice now clear and resonant. “Shore it’s what your dad expected … an’ what we all must look for. If you was goin’ to kill Jorth before … think how god-damned shore you’re goin’ to kill him now.”
“Blaisdell’s talkin’,” put in Blue, and his voice had a cold ring. “Lee Jorth will never see the sun rise ag’in!”
Those calls to the primitive in Jean, to the Indian, were not in vain. But even so, when the dark tide rose in him, there was still a haunting consciousness of the cruelty of this singular doom imposed upon him. Strangely Ellen Jorth’s face emerged back in the depths of his vision, pale, fading, like the face of a spirit floating by.
“Blue,” said Blaisdell, “let’s get Isbel’s body soon as we dare, an’ bury it. Reckon we can right after dark.”
“Shore,” replied Blue. “But you fellars figger thet out. I’m thinkin’ hard. I’ve got somethin’ on my mind.”
Jean grew fascinated by the looks and speech and action of the little gunman. Blue, indeed, had something on his mind, and it boded ill to the men in that dark square stone house down the road. He paced to and fro in the yard, back and forth on the path to the gate, and then he entered the cabin to stalk up and down, faster and faster, until all at once he halted as if struck, flinging up his right arm in a singular fierce gesture.
“Jean, call the men in,” he said tersely.
They all filed in, sinister and silent, with eager faces turned to the little Texan. His dominance showed markedly.
“Gordon, you stand in the door an’ keep your eye peeled,” went on Blue. “Now boys, listen … I’ve thought it all out. This game of manhuntin’ is the same to me as cattle raisin’ is to you. An’ my life in Texas all comes back to me, I reckon, in good stead fer me now. I’m goin’ to kill Lee Jorth! Him first, an’ mebbe his brothers. I had to think of a good many ways before I hit on one I reckon will be shore. It’s got to be shore. Jorth has got to die! Wal, heah’s my plan. Thet Jorth outfit is drinkin’ some, we can gamble on it. They’re not goin’ to leave that store. An’ of course they’ll be expectin’ us to start a fight. I reckon they’ll look fer some such siege as they held ’round Isbel’s ranch. But we shore ain’t goin’ to do thet. I’m goin’ to surprise thet outfit. There’s only one man among them who is dangerous, an’ that’s Queen. I know Queen. But he doesn’t know me. An’ I’m goin’ to finish my job before he gets acquainted with me. After thet, all right.”
Blue paused a moment, his eyes narrowing down, his whole face settling in hard cast of intense preoccupation as if he visualized a scene of extraordinary nature.
“Wal, what’s your trick?” demanded Blaisdell.
“You all know Greaves’s store,” continued Blue. “How them windows have wooden shutters thet keep a light from showin’ outside. Wal, I’m gamblin’ thet, as soon as it’s dark, Jorth’s gang will be celebratin’! They’ll be drinkin’ an’ they’ll have a light, an’ the windows will be shut. They’re not goin’ to worry none aboot us. Thet store is like a fort. It won’t burn. An’ shore they’d never think of us chargin’ them in there. Wal, as soon as it’s dark, we’ll go ’round behind the lots an’ come up jest acrost the road from Greaves’s. I reckon we’d better leave Isbel where he lays till this fight’s over. Mebbe you’ll have more’n him to bury. We’ll crawl behind them bushes in front of Coleman’s yard. An’ heah’s where Jean comes in. He’ll take an axe, an’ his guns, of course, an’ do some of his Injun sneakin’ ’round to the back of Greaves’s store. An’ Jean, you must do a slick job of this. But I reckon it’ll be easy for you. Back there it’ll be dark as pitch fer anyone lookin’ out of the store. An’ I’m figgerin’ you can take your time an’ crawl right up. Now, if you don’t remember how Greaves’s back yard looks, I’ll tell you.”
Here Blue dropped on one knee on the floor, and with a finger he traced a map of Greaves’s barn, and fence, the back door and window, and especially a break in the stone foundation that led into a kind of cellar where Greaves stored wood and other things that could be left outdoors.
“Jean, I take particular pains to show you where this hole is,” said Blue, “because, if the gang runs out, you could duck in there an’ hide. An’ if they run out into the yard … wal, you’d make it a sorry run fer them. When you’ve crawled up close to Greaves’s back door an’ waited long enough to see an’ listen … then you’re to run fast an’ swing your axe smash ag’in’ the winder. Take a quick peep if ya want to. It might help. Then jump quick an’ take a swing at the door. You’ll be standin’ to one side, so, if the gang shoots through the door, they won’t hit you. Bang thet door good an’ hard. Wal, now’s where I come in. When you swing thet axe, I’ll shore run fer the front of the store. Jorth an’ his outfit will be some attentive to thet poundin’ of yours on the back door. So I reckon. An’ they’ll be lookin’ thet way. I’ll run in … yell … an’ throw my guns on Jorth.”
“Humph! Is that all?” ejaculated Blaisdell.
“I reckon thet’s all, an’ I’m fíggerin’ it’s a hell of a lot,” responded Blue dryly. “Thet’s what Jorth will think.”
“Where do we come in?”
“Wal, you all can back me up,” replied Blue dubiously. “You see my plan goes as far as killin’ Jorth an’ mebbe his brothers. Mebbe I’ll get a crack at Queen. But I’ll be shore of Jorth. After thet, all depends. Mebbe it’ll be easy for me to get out. An’ if I do, you fellars will know it an’ can fill that storeroom full of bullets.”
“Wal, Blue, with all due respect to you I shore don’t like your plan,” declared Blaisdell. “Success depends upon too many little things, any one of which might go wrong.”
“Blaisdell, I reckon I know this heah game better than you,” replied Blue. “A gunfighter goes by instinct. This trick will work.”
“But suppose that front door of Greaves’s store is barred,” protested Blaisdell.
“It hasn’t got any bar,” said Blue.
“You’re shore?”
“Yes, I reckon,” replied Blue.
“Hell, man, aren’t you takin’ a terrible chance?” queried Blaisdell.
Blue’s answer to that was a look that brought the blood to Blaisdell’s face. Only then did the rancher really comprehend how the little gunman had taken such desperate chances before and meant to take them now, not with any hope or assurance of escaping with his life, but to live up to his peculiar code of honor.
“Blaisdell, did you ever heah of me in Texas?” he queried dryly.
“Wal, no, Blue, I can’t swear I ever did,” replied the rancher apologetically. “An’ Isbel was always sort of mysterious aboot his acquaintance with you.”
“My last name’s not Blue.”
“A-huh! Wal, what’s it then, if I’m safe to ask?” returned Blaisdell gruffly.
“It’s King Fisher,” replied Blue.
The shock that stiffened Blaisdell must have been communicated to the others. Jean certainly felt amazement and saw the emotion not fully realized, when he found himself face to face with one of the most notorious characters ever known in Texas—an outlaw long supposed to be dead.
“Men, I reckon I’d’ve kept my secret if I’d any idee of comin’ out of this Isbel-Jorth war alive,” said Blue. “But I’m goin’ to cash. I feel it heah.… Isbel was my friend. He saved me from bein’ lynched in Texas. An’ so I’m goin’ to kill Jorth. Now I’ll take it kind of you … if any of you come out of this alive … to tell who I was an’ why I was on the Isbel side. Because this sheep an’ cattle war … this talk of Jorth an’ the Hash Knife Gang … it makes me sick. I know there’s been crooked work on Isbel’s side, too. An’ I never want it on record thet I killed Jorth because he was a rustler.”
“By God, Blue! It’s late in the day for such talk,” burst out Blaisdell in rage and surprise. “But I reckon you know what you’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. At 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 on 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 wide road. Jorth and some of his men came out in front of the store, and sat on the steps, in close conversing groups. Every move they made seemed significant of their confidence and importance. About sunset they went back into the store, closing the door and window shutters. Then Blaisdell called the Isbel faction to have food and drink. Jean felt no hunger. Blue, who had kept apart from the others, showed no desire to eat. Neither did he smoke, although 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 axe. 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 be 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.
