Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 543
The children awoke hungry and noisy, having slept away their fears. The women took advantage of the quiet morning hour to get a hot breakfast.
“Maybe they’ve gone away,” suggested Guy Isbel’s wife, peering out of the window. She had done that several times since daybreak. Jean saw her somber gaze search the pasture until it rested upon the dark, prone shape of her dead husband, lying face down in the grass. Her look worried Jean.
“No, Esther, they’ve not gone yet,” replied Jean. “I’ve seen some of them out there at the edge of the brush.”
Blaisdell was optimistic. He said Jean’s night work would have its effect and that the Jorth contingent would not renew the siege very determinedly. It turned out, however, that Blaisdell was wrong. Directly after sunrise they began to pour volleys from four sides and from closer range. During the night Jorth’s gang had thrown earth banks and constructed log breastworks, from behind which they were now firing. Jean and his comrades could see the flashes of fire and streaks of smoke to such good advantage that they began to return the volleys.
In half an hour the cabin was so full of smoke that Jean could not see the womenfolk in their corner. The fierce attack then abated somewhat, and the firing became more intermittent, and therefore more carefully aimed. A glancing bullet cut a furrow in Blaisdell’s hoary head, making a painful, though not serious wound. It was Esther Isbel who stopped the flow of blood and bound Blaisdell’s head, a task which she performed skillfully and without a tremor. The old Texan could not sit still during this operation. Sight of the blood on his hands, which he tried to rub off, appeared to inflame him to a great degree.
“Isbel, we got to go out thar,” he kept repeating, “an’ kill them all.”
“No, we’re goin’ to stay heah,” replied Gaston Isbel. “Shore I’m lookin’ for Blue an’ Fredericks an’ Gordon to open up out there. They ought to be heah, an’ if they are y’u shore can bet they’ve got the fight sized up.”
Isbel’s hopes did not materialize. The shooting continued without any lull until about midday. Then the Jorth faction stopped.
“Wal, now what’s up?” queried Isbel. “Boys, hold your fire an’ let’s wait.”
Gradually the smoke wafted out of the windows and doors, until the room was once more clear. And at this juncture Esther Isbel came over to take another gaze out upon the meadows. Jean saw her suddenly start violently, then stiffen, with a trembling hand outstretched.
“Look!” she cried.
“Esther, get back,” ordered the old rancher. “Keep away from that window.”
“What the hell!” muttered Blaisdell. “She sees somethin’, or she’s gone dotty.”
Esther seemed turned to stone. “Look! The hogs have broken into the pasture! ... They’ll eat Guy’s body!”
Everyone was frozen with horror at Esther’s statement. Jean took a swift survey of the pasture. A bunch of big black hogs had indeed appeared on the scene and were rooting around in the grass not far from where lay the bodies of Guy Isbel and Jacobs. This herd of hogs belonged to the rancher and was allowed to run wild.
“Jane, those hogs—” stammered Esther Isbel, to the wife of Jacobs. “Come! Look! ... Do y’u know anythin’ about hogs?”
The woman ran to the window and looked out. She stiffened as had Esther.
“Dad, will those hogs — eat human flesh?” queried Jean, breathlessly.
The old man stared out of the window. Surprise seemed to hold him. A completely unexpected situation had staggered him.
“Jean — can you — can you shoot that far?” he asked, huskily.
“To those hogs? No, it’s out of range.”
“Then, by God, we’ve got to stay trapped in heah an’ watch an awful sight,” ejaculated the old man, completely unnerved. “See that break in the fence! ... Jorth’s done that.... To let in the hogs!”
“Aw, Isbel, it’s not so bad as all that,” remonstrated Blaisdell, wagging his bloody head. “Jorth wouldn’t do such a hell-bent trick.”
“It’s shore done.”
“Wal, mebbe the hogs won’t find Guy an’ Jacobs,” returned Blaisdell, weakly. Plain it was that he only hoped for such a contingency and certainly doubted it.
“Look!” cried Esther Isbel, piercingly. “They’re workin’ straight up the pasture!”
Indeed, to Jean it appeared to be the fatal truth. He looked blankly, feeling a little sick. Ann Isbel came to peer out of the window and she uttered a cry. Jacobs’s wife stood mute, as if dazed.
Blaisdell swore a mighty oath. “ —— — ! Isbel, we cain’t stand heah an’ watch them hogs eat our people!”
“Wal, we’ll have to. What else on earth can we do?”
Esther turned to the men. She was white and cold, except her eyes, which resembled gray flames.
“Somebody can run out there an’ bury our dead men,” she said.
“Why, child, it’d be shore death. Y’u saw what happened to Guy an’ Jacobs.... We’ve jest got to bear it. Shore nobody needn’t look out — an’ see.”
Jean wondered if it would be possible to keep from watching. The thing had a horrible fascination. The big hogs were rooting and tearing in the grass, some of them lazy, others nimble, and all were gradually working closer and closer to the bodies. The leader, a huge, gaunt boar, that had fared ill all his life in this barren country, was scarcely fifty feet away from where Guy Isbel lay.
“Ann, get me some of your clothes, an’ a sunbonnet — quick,” said Jean, forced out of his lethargy. “I’ll run out there disguised. Maybe I can go through with it.”
“No!” ordered his father, positively, and with dark face flaming. “Guy an’ Jacobs are dead. We cain’t help them now.”
“But, dad—” pleaded Jean. He had been wrought to a pitch by Esther’s blaze of passion, by the agony in the face of the other woman.
“I tell y’u no!” thundered Gaston Isbel, flinging his arms wide.
“I WILL GO!” cried Esther, her voice ringing.
“You won’t go alone!” instantly answered the wife of Jacobs, repeating unconsciously the words her husband had spoken.
“You stay right heah,” shouted Gaston Isbel, hoarsely.
“I’m goin’,” replied Esther. “You’ve no hold over me. My husband is dead. No one can stop me. I’m goin’ out there to drive those hogs away an’ bury him.”
“Esther, for Heaven’s sake, listen,” replied Isbel. “If y’u show yourself outside, Jorth an’ his gang will kin y’u.”
“They may be mean, but no white men could be so low as that.”
Then they pleaded with her to give up her purpose. But in vain! She pushed them back and ran out through the kitchen with Jacobs’s wife following her. Jean turned to the window in time to see both women run out into the lane. Jean looked fearfully, and listened for shots. But only a loud, “Haw! Haw!” came from the watchers outside. That coarse laugh relieved the tension in Jean’s breast. Possibly the Jorths were not as black as his father painted them. The two women entered an open shed and came forth with a shovel and spade.
“Shore they’ve got to hurry,” burst out Gaston Isbel.
Shifting his gaze, Jean understood the import of his father’s speech. The leader of the hogs had no doubt scented the bodies. Suddenly he espied them and broke into a trot.
“Run, Esther, run!” yelled Jean, with all his might.
That urged the women to flight. Jean began to shoot. The hog reached the body of Guy. Jean’s shots did not reach nor frighten the beast. All the hogs now had caught a scent and went ambling toward their leader. Esther and her companion passed swiftly out of sight behind a corral. Loud and piercingly, with some awful note, rang out their screams. The hogs appeared frightened. The leader lifted his long snout, looked, and turned away. The others had halted. Then they, too, wheeled and ran off.
All was silent then in the cabin and also outside wherever the Jorth faction lay concealed. All eyes manifestly were fixed upon the brave wives. They spaded up the sod and dug a grave for Guy Isbel. For a shroud Esther wrapped him in her shawl. Then they buried him. Next they hurried to the side of Jacobs, who lay some yards away. They dug a grave for him. Mrs. Jacobs took off her outer skirt to wrap round him. Then the two women labored hard to lift him and lower him. Jacobs was a heavy man. When he had been covered his widow knelt beside his grave. Esther went back to the other. But she remained standing and did not look as if she prayed. Her aspect was tragic — that of a woman who had lost father, mother, sisters, brother, and now her husband, in this bloody Arizona land.
The deed and the demeanor of these wives of the murdered men surely must have shamed Jorth and his followers. They did not fire a shot during the ordeal nor give any sign of their presence.
Inside the cabin all were silent, too. Jean’s eyes blurred so that he continually had to wipe them. Old Isbel made no effort to hide his tears. Blaisdell nodded his shaggy head and swallowed hard. The women sat staring into space. The children, in round-eyed dismay, gazed from one to the other of their elders.
“Wal, they’re comin’ back,” declared Isbel, in immense relief. “An’ so help me — Jorth let them bury their daid!”
The fact seemed to have been monstrously strange to Gaston Isbel. When the women entered the old man said, brokenly: “I’m shore glad.... An’ I reckon I was wrong to oppose you ... an’ wrong to say what I did aboot Jorth.”
No one had any chance to reply to Isbel, for the Jorth gang, as if to make up for lost time and surcharged feelings of shame, renewed the attack with such a persistent and furious volleying that the defenders did not risk a return shot. They all had to lie flat next to the lowest log in order to keep from being hit. Bullets rained in through the window. And all the clay between the logs low down was shot away. This fusillade lasted for more than an hour, then gradually the fire diminished on one side and then on the other until it became desultory and finally ceased.
“Ahuh! Shore they’ve shot their bolt,” declared Gaston Isbel.
“Wal, I doon’t know aboot that,” returned Blaisdell, “but they’ve shot a hell of a lot of shells.”
“Listen,” suddenly called Jean. “Somebody’s yellin’.”
“Hey, Isbel!” came in loud, hoarse voice. “Let your women fight for you.”
Gaston Isbel sat up with a start and his face turned livid. Jean needed no more to prove that the derisive voice from outside had belonged to Jorth. The old rancher lunged up to his full height and with reckless disregard of life he rushed to the window. “Jorth,” he roared, “I dare you to meet me — man to man!”
This elicited no answer. Jean dragged his father away from the window. After that a waiting silence ensued, gradually less fraught with suspense. Blaisdell started conversation by saying he believed the fight was over for that particular time. No one disputed him. Evidently Gaston Isbel was loath to believe it. Jean, however, watching at the back of the kitchen, eventually discovered that the Jorth gang had lifted the siege. Jean saw them congregate at the edge of the brush, somewhat lower down than they had been the day before. A team of mules, drawing a wagon, appeared on the road, and turned toward the slope. Saddled horses were led down out of the junipers. Jean saw bodies, evidently of dead men, lifted into the wagon, to be hauled away toward the village. Seven mounted men, leading four riderless horses, rode out into the valley and followed the wagon.
“Dad, they’ve gone,” declared Jean. “We had the best of this fight.... If only Guy an’ Jacobs had listened!”
The old man nodded moodily. He had aged considerably during these two trying days. His hair was grayer. Now that the blaze and glow of the fight had passed he showed a subtle change, a fixed and morbid sadness, a resignation to a fate he had accepted.
The ordinary routine of ranch life did not return for the Isbels. Blaisdell returned home to settle matters there, so that he could devote all his time to this feud. Gaston Isbel sat down to wait for the members of his clan.
The male members of the family kept guard in turn over the ranch that night. And another day dawned. It brought word from Blaisdell that Blue, Fredericks, Gordon, and Colmor were all at his house, on the way to join the Isbels. This news appeared greatly to rejuvenate Gaston Isbel. But his enthusiasm did not last long. Impatient and moody by turns, he paced or moped around the cabin, always looking out, sometimes toward Blaisdell’s ranch, but mostly toward Grass Valley.
It struck Jean as singular that neither Esther Isbel nor Mrs. Jacobs suggested a reburial of their husbands. The two bereaved women did not ask for assistance, but repaired to the pasture, and there spent several hours working over the graves. They raised mounds, which they sodded, and then placed stones at the heads and feet. Lastly, they fenced in the graves.
“I reckon I’ll hitch up an’ drive back home,” said Mrs. Jacobs, when she returned to the cabin. “I’ve much to do an’ plan. Probably I’ll go to my mother’s home. She’s old an’ will be glad to have me.”
“If I had any place to go to I’d sure go,” declared Esther Isbel, bitterly.
Gaston Isbel heard this remark. He raised his face from his hands, evidently both nettled and hurt.
“Esther, shore that’s not kind,” he said.
The red-haired woman — for she did not appear to be a girl any more — halted before his chair and gazed down at him, with a terrible flare of scorn in her gray eyes.
“Gaston Isbel, all I’ve got to say to you is this,” she retorted, with the voice of a man. “Seein’ that you an’ Lee Jorth hate each other, why couldn’t you act like men? ... You damned Texans, with your bloody feuds, draggin’ in every relation, every friend to murder each other! That’s not the way of Arizona men.... We’ve all got to suffer — an’ we women be ruined for life — because YOU had differences with Jorth. If you were half a man you’d go out an’ kill him yourself, an’ not leave a lot of widows an’ orphaned children!”
Jean himself writhed under the lash of her scorn. Gaston Isbel turned a dead white. He could not answer her. He seemed stricken with merciless truth. Slowly dropping his head, he remained motionless, a pathetic and tragic figure; and he did not stir until the rapid beat of hoofs denoted the approach of horsemen. Blaisdell appeared on his white charger, leading a pack animal. And behind rode a group of men, all heavily armed, and likewise with packs.
“Get down an’ come in,” was Isbel’s greeting. “Bill — you look after their packs. Better leave the hosses saddled.”
The booted and spurred riders trooped in, and their demeanor fitted their errand. Jean was acquainted with all of them. Fredericks was a lanky Texan, the color of dust, and he had yellow, clear eyes, like those of a hawk. His mother had been an Isbel. Gordon, too, was related to Jean’s family, though distantly. He resembled an industrious miner more than a prosperous cattleman. Blue was the most striking of the visitors, as he was the most noted. A little, shrunken gray-eyed man, with years of cowboy written all over him, he looked the quiet, easy, cool, and deadly Texan he was reputed to be. Blue’s Texas record was shady, and was seldom alluded to, as unfavorable comment had turned out to be hazardous. He was the only one of the group who did not carry a rifle. But he packed two guns, a habit not often noted in Texans, and almost never in Arizonians.
Colmor, Ann Isbel’s fiance, was the youngest member of the clan, and the one closest to Jean. His meeting with Ann affected Jean powerfully, and brought to a climax an idea that had been developing in Jean’s mind. His sister devotedly loved this lean-faced, keen-eyed Arizonian; and it took no great insight to discover that Colmor reciprocated her affection. They were young. They had long life before them. It seemed to Jean a pity that Colmor should be drawn into this war. Jean watched them, as they conversed apart; and he saw Ann’s hands creep up to Colmor’s breast, and he saw her dark eyes, eloquent, hungry, fearful, lifted with queries her lips did not speak. Jean stepped beside them, and laid an arm over both their shoulders.
“Colmor, for Ann’s sake you’d better back out of this Jorth-Isbel fight,” he whispered.
Colmor looked insulted. “But, Jean, it’s Ann’s father,” he said. “I’m almost one of the family.”
“You’re Ann’s sweetheart, an’, by Heaven, I say you oughtn’t to go with us!” whispered Jean.
“Go — with — you,” faltered Ann.
“Yes. Dad is goin’ straight after Jorth. Can’t you tell that? An’ there ‘ll be one hell of a fight.”
Ann looked up into Colmor’s face with all her soul in her eyes, but she did not speak. Her look was noble. She yearned to guide him right, yet her lips were sealed. And Colmor betrayed the trouble of his soul. The code of men held him bound, and he could not break from it, though he divined in that moment how truly it was wrong.
“Jean, your dad started me in the cattle business,” said Colmor, earnestly. “An’ I’m doin’ well now. An’ when I asked him for Ann he said he’d be glad to have me in the family.... Well, when this talk of fight come up, I asked your dad to let me go in on his side. He wouldn’t hear of it. But after a while, as the time passed an’ he made more enemies, he finally consented. I reckon he needs me now. An’ I can’t back out, not even for Ann.”
“I would if I were you,” replied jean, and knew that he lied.
“Jean, I’m gamblin’ to come out of the fight,” said Colmor, with a smile. He had no morbid fears nor presentiments, such as troubled jean.
“Why, sure — you stand as good a chance as anyone,” rejoined Jean. “It wasn’t that I was worryin’ about so much.”
“What was it, then?” asked Ann, steadily.
“If Andrew DOES come through alive he’ll have blood on his hands,” returned Jean, with passion. “He can’t come through without it.... I’ve begun to feel what it means to have killed my fellow men.... An’ I’d rather your husband an’ the father of your children never felt that.”
Colmor did not take Jean as subtly as Ann did. She shrunk a little. Her dark eyes dilated. But Colmor showed nothing of her spiritual reaction. He was young. He had wild blood. He was loyal to the Isbels.
