Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 544
“Jean, never worry about my conscience,” he said, with a keen look. “Nothin’ would tickle me any more than to get a shot at every damn one of the Jorths.”
That established Colmor’s status in regard to the Jorth-Isbel feud. Jean had no more to say. He respected Ann’s friend and felt poignant sorrow for Ann.
Gaston Isbel called for meat and drink to be set on the table for his guests. When his wishes had been complied with the women took the children into the adjoining cabin and shut the door.
“Hah! Wal, we can eat an’ talk now.”
First the newcomers wanted to hear particulars of what had happened. Blaisdell had told all he knew and had seen, but that was not sufficient. They plied Gaston Isbel with questions. Laboriously and ponderously he rehearsed the experiences of the fight at the ranch, according to his impressions. Bill Isbel was exhorted to talk, but he had of late manifested a sullen and taciturn disposition. In spite of Jean’s vigilance Bill had continued to imbibe red liquor. Then Jean was called upon to relate all he had seen and done. It had been Jean’s intention to keep his mouth shut, first for his own sake and, secondly, because he did not like to talk of his deeds. But when thus appealed to by these somber-faced, intent-eyed men he divined that the more carefully he described the cruelty and baseness of their enemies, and the more vividly he presented his participation in the first fight of the feud the more strongly he would bind these friends to the Isbel cause. So he talked for an hour, beginning with his meeting with Colter up on the Rim and ending with an account of his killing Greaves. His listeners sat through this long narrative with unabated interest and at the close they were leaning forward, breathless and tense.
“Ah! So Greaves got his desserts at last,” exclaimed Gordon.
All the men around the table made comments, and the last, from Blue, was the one that struck Jean forcibly.
“Shore thet was a strange an’ a hell of a way to kill Greaves. Why’d you do thet, Jean?”
“I told you. I wanted to avoid noise an’ I hoped to get more of them.”
Blue nodded his lean, eagle-like head and sat thoughtfully, as if not convinced of anything save Jean’s prowess. After a moment Blue spoke again.
“Then, goin’ back to Jean’s tellin’ aboot trackin’ rustled Cattle, I’ve got this to say. I’ve long suspected thet somebody livin’ right heah in the valley has been drivin’ off cattle an’ dealin’ with rustlers. An’ now I’m shore of it.”
This speech did not elicit the amaze from Gaston Isbel that Jean expected it would.
“You mean Greaves or some of his friends?”
“No. They wasn’t none of them in the cattle business, like we are. Shore we all knowed Greaves was crooked. But what I’m figgerin’ is thet some so-called honest man in our settlement has been makin’ crooked deals.”
Blue was a man of deeds rather than words, and so much strong speech from him, whom everybody knew to be remarkably reliable and keen, made a profound impression upon most of the Isbel faction. But, to Jean’s surprise, his father did not rave. It was Blaisdell who supplied the rage and invective. Bill Isbel, also, was strangely indifferent to this new element in the condition of cattle dealing. Suddenly Jean caught a vague flash of thought, as if he had intercepted the thought of another’s mind, and he wondered — could his brother Bill know anything about this crooked work alluded to by Blue? Dismissing the conjecture, Jean listened earnestly.
“An’ if it’s true it shore makes this difference — we cain’t blame all the rustlin’ on to Jorth,” concluded Blue.
“Wal, it’s not true,” declared Gaston Isbel, roughly. “Jorth an’ his Hash Knife Gang are at the bottom of all the rustlin’ in the valley for years back. An’ they’ve got to be wiped out!”
“Isbel, I reckon we’d all feel better if we talk straight,” replied Blue, coolly. “I’m heah to stand by the Isbels. An’ y’u know what thet means. But I’m not heah to fight Jorth because he may be a rustler. The others may have their own reasons, but mine is this — you once stood by me in Texas when I was needin’ friends. Wal, I’m standin’ by y’u now. Jorth is your enemy, an’ so he is mine.”
Gaston Isbel bowed to this ultimatum, scarcely less agitated than when Esther Isbel had denounced him. His rabid and morbid hate of Jorth had eaten into his heart to take possession there, like the parasite that battened upon the life of its victim. Blue’s steely voice, his cold, gray eyes, showed the unbiased truth of the man, as well as his fidelity to his creed. Here again, but in a different manner, Gaston Isbel had the fact flung at him that other men must suffer, perhaps die, for his hate. And the very soul of the old rancher apparently rose in Passionate revolt against the blind, headlong, elemental strength of his nature. So it seemed to Jean, who, in love and pity that hourly grew, saw through his father. Was it too late? Alas! Gaston Isbel could never be turned back! Yet something was altering his brooding, fixed mind.
“Wal,” said Blaisdell, gruffly, “let’s get down to business.... I’m for havin’ Blue be foreman of this heah outfit, an’ all of us to do as he says.”
Gaston Isbel opposed this selection and indeed resented it. He intended to lead the Isbel faction.
“All right, then. Give us a hunch what we’re goin’ to do,” replied Blaisdell.
“We’re goin’ to ride off on Jorth’s trail — an’ one way or another — kill him — KILL HIM! ... I reckon that’ll end the fight.”
What did old Isbel have in his mind? His listeners shook their heads.
“No,” asserted Blaisdell. “Killin’ Jorth might be the end of your desires, Isbel, but it ‘d never end our fight. We’ll have gone too far.... If we take Jorth’s trail from heah it means we’ve got to wipe out that rustier gang, or stay to the last man.”
“Yes, by God!” exclaimed Fredericks.
“Let’s drink to thet!” said Blue. Strangely they turned to this Texas gunman, instinctively recognizing in him the brain and heart, and the past deeds, that fitted him for the leadership of such a clan. Blue had all in life to lose, and nothing to gain. Yet his spirit was such that he could not lean to all the possible gain of the future, and leave a debt unpaid. Then his voice, his look, his influence were those of a fighter. They all drank with him, even Jean, who hated liquor. And this act of drinking seemed the climax of the council. Preparations were at once begun for their departure on Jorth’s trail.
Jean took but little time for his own needs. A horse, a blanket, a knapsack of meat and bread, a canteen, and his weapons, with all the ammunition he could pack, made up his outfit. He wore his buckskin suit, leggings, and moccasins. Very soon the cavalcade was ready to depart. Jean tried not to watch Bill Isbel say good-by to his children, but it was impossible not to. Whatever Bill was, as a man, he was father of those children, and he loved them. How strange that the little ones seemed to realize the meaning of this good-by? They were grave, somber-eyed, pale up to the last moment, then they broke down and wept. Did they sense that their father would never come back? Jean caught that dark, fatalistic presentiment. Bill Isbel’s convulsed face showed that he also caught it. Jean did not see Bill say good-by to his wife. But he heard her. Old Gaston Isbel forgot to speak to the children, or else could not. He never looked at them. And his good-by to Ann was as if he were only riding to the village for a day. Jean saw woman’s love, woman’s intuition, woman’s grief in her eyes. He could not escape her. “Oh, Jean! oh, brother!” she whispered as she enfolded him. “It’s awful! It’s wrong! Wrong! Wrong! ... Good-by! ... If killing MUST be — see that y’u kill the Jorths! ... Good-by!”
Even in Ann, gentle and mild, the Isbel blood spoke at the last. Jean gave Ann over to the pale-faced Colmor, who took her in his arms. Then Jean fled out to his horse. This cold-blooded devastation of a home was almost more than he could bear. There was love here. What would be left?
Colmor was the last one to come out to the horses. He did not walk erect, nor as one whose sight was clear. Then, as the silent, tense, grim men mounted their horses, Bill Isbel’s eldest child, the boy, appeared in the door. His little form seemed instinct with a force vastly different from grief. His face was the face of an Isbel.
“Daddy — kill ’em all!” he shouted, with a passion all the fiercer for its incongruity to the treble voice.
So the poison had spread from father to son.
CHAPTER IX
HALF A MILE from the Isbel ranch the cavalcade passed the log cabin of Evarts, father of the boy who had tended sheep with Bernardino.
It suited Gaston Isbel to halt here. No need to call! Evarts and his son appeared so quickly as to convince observers that they had been watching.
“Howdy, Jake!” said Isbel. “I’m wantin’ a word with y’u alone.”
“Shore, boss, git down an’ come in,” replied Evarts.
Isbel led him aside, and said something forcible that Jean divined from the very gesture which accompanied it. His father was telling Evarts that he was not to join in the Isbel-Jorth war. Evarts had worked for the Isbels a long time, and his faithfulness, along with something stronger and darker, showed in his rugged face as he stubbornly opposed Isbel. The old man raised his voice: “No, I tell you. An’ that settles it.”
They returned to the horses, and, before mounting, Isbel, as if he remembered something, directed his somber gaze on young Evarts.
“Son, did you bury Bernardino?”
“Dad an’ me went over yestiddy,” replied the lad. “I shore was glad the coyotes hadn’t been round.”
“How aboot the sheep?”
“I left them there. I was goin’ to stay, but bein’ all alone — I got skeered.... The sheep was doin’ fine. Good water an’ some grass. An’ this ain’t time fer varmints to hang round.”
“Jake, keep your eye on that flock,” returned Isbel. “An’ if I shouldn’t happen to come back y’u can call them sheep yours.... I’d like your boy to ride up to the village. Not with us, so anybody would see him. But afterward. We’ll be at Abel Meeker’s.”
Again Jean was confronted with an uneasy premonition as to some idea or plan his father had not shared with his followers. When the cavalcade started on again Jean rode to his father’s side and asked him why he had wanted the Evarts boy to come to Grass Valley. And the old man replied that, as the boy could run to and fro in the village without danger, he might be useful in reporting what was going on at Greaves’s store, where undoubtedly the Jorth gang would hold forth. This appeared reasonable enough, therefore Jean smothered the objection he had meant to make.
The valley road was deserted. When, a mile farther on, the riders passed a group of cabins, just on the outskirts of the village, Jean’s quick eye caught sight of curious and evidently frightened people trying to see while they avoided being seen. No doubt the whole settlement was in a state of suspense and terror. Not unlikely this dark, closely grouped band of horsemen appeared to them as Jorth’s gang had looked to Jean. It was an orderly, trotting march that manifested neither hurry nor excitement. But any Western eye could have caught the singular aspect of such a group, as if the intent of the riders was a visible thing.
Soon they reached the outskirts of the village. Here their approach bad been watched for or had been already reported. Jean saw men, women, children peeping from behind cabins and from half-opened doors. Farther on Jean espied the dark figures of men, slipping out the back way through orchards and gardens and running north, toward the center of the village. Could these be friends of the Jorth crowd, on the way with warnings of the approach of the Isbels? Jean felt convinced of it. He was learning that his father had not been absolutely correct in his estimation of the way Jorth and his followers were regarded by their neighbors. Not improbably there were really many villagers who, being more interested in sheep raising than in cattle, had an honest leaning toward the Jorths. Some, too, no doubt, had leanings that were dishonest in deed if not in sincerity.
Gaston Isbel led his clan straight down the middle of the wide road of Grass Valley until he reached a point opposite Abel Meeker’s cabin. Jean espied the same curiosity from behind Meeker’s door and windows as had been shown all along the road. But presently, at Isbel’s call, the door opened and a short, swarthy man appeared. He carried a rifle.
“Howdy, Gass!” he said. “What’s the good word?”
“Wal, Abel, it’s not good, but bad. An’ it’s shore started,” replied Isbel. “I’m askin’ y’u to let me have your cabin.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll send the folks ‘round to Jim’s,” returned Meeker. “An’ if y’u want me, I’m with y’u, Isbel.”
“Thanks, Abel, but I’m not leadin’ any more kin an’ friends into this heah deal.”
“Wal, jest as y’u say. But I’d like damn bad to jine with y’u.... My brother Ted was shot last night.”
“Ted! Is he daid?” ejaculated Isbel, blankly.
“We can’t find out,” replied Meeker. “Jim says thet Jeff Campbell said thet Ted went into Greaves’s place last night. Greaves allus was friendly to Ted, but Greaves wasn’t thar—”
“No, he shore wasn’t,” interrupted Isbel, with a dark smile, “an’ he never will be there again.”
Meeker nodded with slow comprehension and a shade crossed his face.
“Wal, Campbell claimed he’d heerd from some one who was thar. Anyway, the Jorths were drinkin’ hard, an’ they raised a row with Ted — same old sheep talk an’ somebody shot him. Campbell said Ted was thrown out back, an’ he was shore he wasn’t killed.”
“Ahuh! Wal, I’m sorry, Abel, your family had to lose in this. Maybe Ted’s not bad hurt. I shore hope so.... An’ y’u an’ Jim keep out of the fight, anyway.”
“All right, Isbel. But I reckon I’ll give y’u a hunch. If this heah fight lasts long the whole damn Basin will be in it, on one side or t’other.”
“Abe, you’re talkin’ sense,” broke in Blaisdell. “An’ that’s why we’re up heah for quick action.”
“I heerd y’u got Daggs,” whispered Meeker, as he peered all around.
“Wal, y’u heerd correct,” drawled Blaisdell.
Meeker muttered strong words into his beard. “Say, was Daggs in thet Jorth outfit?”
“He WAS. But he walked right into Jean’s forty-four.... An’ I reckon his carcass would show some more.”
“An’ whar’s Guy Isbel?” demanded Meeker.
“Daid an’ buried, Abel,” replied Gaston Isbel. “An’ now I’d be obliged if y’u ‘ll hurry your folks away, an’ let us have your cabin an’ corral. Have yu got any hay for the hosses?”
“Shore. The barn’s half full,” replied Meeker, as he turned away. “Come on in.”
“No. We’ll wait till you’ve gone.”
When Meeker had gone, Isbel and his men sat their horses and looked about them and spoke low. Their advent had been expected, and the little town awoke to the imminence of the impending battle. Inside Meeker’s house there was the sound of indistinct voices of women and the bustle incident to a hurried vacating.
Across the wide road people were peering out on all sides, some hiding, others walking to and fro, from fence to fence, whispering in little groups. Down the wide road, at the point where it turned, stood Greaves’s fort-like stone house. Low, flat, isolated, with its dark, eye-like windows, it presented a forbidding and sinister aspect. Jean distinctly saw the forms of men, some dark, others in shirt sleeves, come to the wide door and look down the road.
“Wal, I reckon only aboot five hundred good hoss steps are separatin’ us from that outfit,” drawled Blaisdell.
No one replied to his jocularity. Gaston Isbel’s eyes narrowed to a slit in his furrowed face and he kept them fastened upon Greaves’s store. Blue, likewise, had a somber cast of countenance, not, perhaps, any darker nor grimmer than those of his comrades, but more representative of intense preoccupation of mind. The look of him thrilled Jean, who could sense its deadliness, yet could not grasp any more. Altogether, the manner of the villagers and the watchful pacing to and fro of the Jorth followers and the silent, boding front of Isbel and his men summed up for Jean the menace of the moment that must very soon change to a terrible reality.
At a call from Meeker, who stood at the back of the cabin, Gaston Isbel rode into the yard, followed by the others of his party. “Somebody look after the hosses,” ordered Isbel, as he dismounted and took his rifle and pack. “Better leave the saddles on, leastways till we see what’s comin’ off.”
Jean and Bill Isbel led the horses back to the corral. While watering and feeding them, Jean somehow received the impression that Bill was trying to speak, to confide in him, to unburden himself of some load. This peculiarity of Bill’s had become marked when he was perfectly sober. Yet he had never spoken or even begun anything unusual. Upon the present occasion, however, Jean believed that his brother might have gotten rid of his emotion, or whatever it was, had they not been interrupted by Colmor.
“Boys, the old man’s orders are for us to sneak round on three sides of Greaves’s store, keepin’ out of gunshot till we find good cover, an’ then crawl closer an’ to pick off any of Jorth’s gang who shows himself.”
Bill Isbel strode off without a reply to Colmor.
“Well, I don’t think so much of that,” said Jean, ponderingly. “Jorth has lots of friends here. Somebody might pick us off.”
“I kicked, but the old man shut me up. He’s not to be bucked ag’in’ now. Struck me as powerful queer. But no wonder.”
“Maybe he knows best. Did he say anythin’ about what he an’ the rest of them are goin’ to do?”
“Nope. Blue taxed him with that an’ got the same as me. I reckon we’d better try it out, for a while, anyway.”
“Looks like he wants us to keep out of the fight,” replied Jean, thoughtfully. “Maybe, though ... Dad’s no fool. Colmor, you wait here till I get out of sight. I’ll go round an’ come up as close as advisable behind Greaves’s store. You take the right side. An’ keep hid.”
