"To The Last Man\n\n\nby\n\nZane Grey\n\n\n\n\n\nFOREWORD\n\nIt was inevitable that in my efforts to write romantic history of the\ngreat West I should at length come to the story of a feud. For long I\nhave steered clear of this rock. But at last I have reached it and\nmust go over it, driven by my desire to chronicle the stirring events\nof pioneer days.\n\nEven to-day it is not possible to travel into the remote corners of the\nWest without seeing the lives of people still affected by a fighting\npast. How can the truth be told about the pioneering of the West if\nthe struggle, the fight, the blood be left out? It cannot be done.\nHow can a novel be stirring and thrilling, as were those times, unless\nit be full of sensation? My long labors have been devoted to making\nstories resemble the times they depict. I have loved the West for its\nvastness, its contrast, its beauty and color and life, for its wildness\nand violence, and for the fact that I have seen how it developed great\nmen and women who died unknown and unsung.\n\nIn this materialistic age, this hard, practical, swift, greedy age of\nrealism, it seems there is no place for writers of romance, no place\nfor romance itself. For many years all the events leading up to the\ngreat war were realistic, and the war itself was horribly realistic,\nand the aftermath is likewise. Romance is only another name for\nidealism; and I contend that life without ideals is not worth living.\nNever in the history of the world were ideals needed so terribly as\nnow. Walter Scott wrote romance; so did Victor Hugo; and likewise\nKipling, Hawthorne, Stevenson. It was Stevenson, particularly, who\nwielded a bludgeon against the realists. People live for the dream in\ntheir hearts. And I have yet to know anyone who has not some secret\ndream, some hope, however dim, some storied wall to look at in the\ndusk, some painted window leading to the soul. How strange indeed to\nfind that the realists have ideals and dreams! To read them one would\nthink their lives held nothing significant. But they love, they hope,\nthey dream, they sacrifice, they struggle on with that dream in their\nhearts just the same as others. We all are dreamers, if not in the\nheavy-lidded wasting of time, then in the meaning of life that makes us\nwork on.\n\nIt was Wordsworth who wrote, \"The world is too much with us\"; and if I\ncould give the secret of my ambition as a novelist in a few words it\nwould be contained in that quotation. My inspiration to write has\nalways come from nature. Character and action are subordinated to\nsetting. In all that I have done I have tried to make people see how\nthe world is too much with them. Getting and spending they lay waste\ntheir powers, with never a breath of the free and wonderful life of the\nopen!\n\nSo I come back to the main point of this foreword, in which I am trying\nto tell why and how I came to write the story of a feud notorious in\nArizona as the Pleasant Valley War.\n\nSome years ago Mr. Harry Adams, a cattleman of Vermajo Park, New\nMexico, told me he had been in the Tonto Basin of Arizona and thought I\nmight find interesting material there concerning this Pleasant Valley\nWar. His version of the war between cattlemen and sheepmen certainly\ndetermined me to look over the ground. My old guide, Al Doyle of\nFlagstaff, had led me over half of Arizona, but never down into that\nwonderful wild and rugged basin between the Mogollon Mesa and the\nMazatzal Mountains. Doyle had long lived on the frontier and his\nversion of the Pleasant Valley War differed markedly from that of Mr.\nAdams. I asked other old timers about it, and their remarks further\nexcited my curiosity.\n\nOnce down there, Doyle and I found the wildest, most rugged, roughest,\nand most remarkable country either of us had visited; and the few\ninhabitants were like the country. I went in ostensibly to hunt bear\nand lion and turkey, but what I really was hunting for was the story of\nthat Pleasant Valley War. I engaged the services of a bear hunter who\nhad three strapping sons as reserved and strange and aloof as he was.\nNo wheel tracks of any kind had ever come within miles of their cabin.\nI spent two wonderful months hunting game and reveling in the beauty\nand grandeur of that Rim Rock country, but I came out knowing no more\nabout the Pleasant Valley War. These Texans and their few neighbors,\nlikewise from Texas, did not talk. But all I saw and felt only\ninspired me the more. This trip was in the fall of 1918.\n\nThe next year I went again with the best horses, outfit, and men the\nDoyles could provide. And this time I did not ask any questions. But I\nrode horses--some of them too wild for me--and packed a rifle many a\nhundred miles, riding sometimes thirty and forty miles a day, and I\nclimbed in and out of the deep canyons, desperately staying at the\nheels of one of those long-legged Texans. I learned the life of those\nbackwoodsmen, but I did not get the story of the Pleasant Valley War.\nI had, however, won the friendship of that hardy people.\n\nIn 1920 I went back with a still larger outfit, equipped to stay as\nlong as I liked. And this time, without my asking it, different\nnatives of the Tonto came to tell me about the Pleasant Valley War. No\ntwo of them agreed on anything concerning it, except that only one of\nthe active participants survived the fighting. Whence comes my title,\nTO THE LAST MAN. Thus I was swamped in a mass of material out of which\nI could only flounder to my own conclusion. Some of the stories told\nme are singularly tempting to a novelist. But, though I believe them\nmyself, I cannot risk their improbability to those who have no idea of\nthe wildness of wild men at a wild time. There really was a terrible\nand bloody feud, perhaps the most deadly and least known in all the\nannals of the West. I saw the ground, the cabins, the graves, all so\ndarkly suggestive of what must have happened.\n\nI never learned the truth of the cause of the Pleasant Valley War, or\nif I did hear it I had no means of recognizing it. All the given\ncauses were plausible and convincing. Strange to state, there is still\nsecrecy and reticence all over the Tonto Basin as to the facts of this\nfeud. Many descendents of those killed are living there now. But no\none likes to talk about it. Assuredly many of the incidents told me\nreally occurred, as, for example, the terrible one of the two women, in\nthe face of relentless enemies, saving the bodies of their dead\nhusbands from being devoured by wild hogs. Suffice it to say that this\nromance is true to my conception of the war, and I base it upon the\nsetting I learned to know and love so well, upon the strange passions\nof primitive people, and upon my instinctive reaction to the facts and\nrumors that I gathered.\n\nZANE GREY.\n AVALON, CALIFORNIA,\n April, 1921\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nAt the end of a dry, uphill ride over barren country Jean Isbel\nunpacked to camp at the edge of the cedars where a little rocky canyon\ngreen with willow and cottonwood, promised water and grass.\n\nHis animals were tired, especially the pack mule that had carried a\nheavy load; and with slow heave of relief they knelt and rolled in the\ndust. Jean experienced something of relief himself as he threw off his\nchaps. He had not been used to hot, dusty, glaring days on the barren\nlands. Stretching his long length beside a tiny rill of clear water\nthat tinkled over the red stones, he drank thirstily. The water was\ncool, but it had an acrid taste--an alkali bite that he did not like.\nNot since he had left Oregon had he tasted clear, sweet, cold water;\nand he missed it just as he longed for the stately shady forests he had\nloved. This wild, endless Arizona land bade fair to earn his hatred.\n\nBy the time he had leisurely completed his tasks twilight had fallen\nand coyotes had begun their barking. Jean listened to the yelps and to\nthe moan of the cool wind in the cedars with a sense of satisfaction\nthat these lonely sounds were familiar. This cedar wood burned into a\npretty fire and the smell of its smoke was newly pleasant.\n\n\"Reckon maybe I'll learn to like Arizona,\" he mused, half aloud. \"But\nI've a hankerin' for waterfalls an' dark-green forests. Must be the\nIndian in me.... Anyway, dad needs me bad, an' I reckon I'm here for\nkeeps.\"\n\nJean threw some cedar branches on the fire, in the light of which he\nopened his father's letter, hoping by repeated reading to grasp more of\nits strange portent. It had been two months in reaching him, coming by\ntraveler, by stage and train, and then by boat, and finally by stage\nagain. Written in lead pencil on a leaf torn from an old ledger, it\nwould have been hard to read even if the writing had been more legible.\n\n\"Dad's writin' was always bad, but I never saw it so shaky,\" said Jean,\nthinking aloud.\n\n\n GRASS VALLY, ARIZONA.\n\n Son Jean,--Come home. Here is your home and here your needed.\n When we left Oregon we all reckoned you would not be long behind.\n But its years now. I am growing old, son, and you was always my\n steadiest boy. Not that you ever was so dam steady. Only your\n wildness seemed more for the woods. You take after mother, and\n your brothers Bill and Guy take after me. That is the red and\n white of it. Your part Indian, Jean, and that Indian I reckon\n I am going to need bad. I am rich in cattle and horses. And my\n range here is the best I ever seen. Lately we have been losing\n stock. But that is not all nor so bad. Sheepmen have moved into\n the Tonto and are grazing down on Grass Vally. Cattlemen and\n sheepmen can never bide in this country. We have bad times ahead.\n Reckon I have more reasons to worry and need you, but you must wait\n to hear that by word of mouth. Whatever your doing, chuck it and\n rustle for Grass Vally so to make here by spring. I am asking you\n to take pains to pack in some guns and a lot of shells. And hide\n them in your outfit. If you meet anyone when your coming down into\n the Tonto, listen more than you talk. And last, son, dont let\n anything keep you in Oregon. Reckon you have a sweetheart, and\n if so fetch her along. With love from your dad,\n\n GASTON ISBEL.\n\n\nJean pondered over this letter. Judged by memory of his father, who\nhad always been self-sufficient, it had been a surprise and somewhat of\na shock. Weeks of travel and reflection had not helped him to grasp\nthe meaning between the lines.\n\n\"Yes, dad's growin' old,\" mused Jean, feeling a warmth and a sadness\nstir in him. \"He must be 'way over sixty. But he never looked old....\nSo he's rich now an' losin' stock, an' goin' to be sheeped off his\nrange. Dad could stand a lot of rustlin', but not much from sheepmen.\"\n\nThe softness that stirred in Jean merged into a cold, thoughtful\nearnestness which had followed every perusal of his father's letter. A\ndark, full current seemed flowing in his veins, and at times he felt it\nswell and heat. It troubled him, making him conscious of a deeper,\nstronger self, opposed to his careless, free, and dreamy nature. No\nties had bound him in Oregon, except love for the great, still forests\nand the thundering rivers; and this love came from his softer side. It\nhad cost him a wrench to leave. And all the way by ship down the coast\nto San Diego and across the Sierra Madres by stage, and so on to this\nlast overland travel by horseback, he had felt a retreating of the self\nthat was tranquil and happy and a dominating of this unknown somber\nself, with its menacing possibilities. Yet despite a nameless regret\nand a loyalty to Oregon, when he lay in his blankets he had to confess\na keen interest in his adventurous future, a keen enjoyment of this\nstark, wild Arizona. It appeared to be a different sky stretching in\ndark, star-spangled dome over him--closer, vaster, bluer. The strong\nfragrance of sage and cedar floated over him with the camp-fire smoke,\nand all seemed drowsily to subdue his thoughts.\n\nAt dawn he rolled out of his blankets and, pulling on his boots, began\nthe day with a zest for the work that must bring closer his calling\nfuture. White, crackling frost and cold, nipping air were the same\nkeen spurs to action that he had known in the uplands of Oregon, yet\nthey were not wholly the same. He sensed an exhilaration similar to\nthe effect of a strong, sweet wine. His horse and mule had fared well\nduring the night, having been much refreshed by the grass and water of\nthe little canyon. Jean mounted and rode into the cedars with gladness\nthat at last he had put the endless leagues of barren land behind him.\n\nThe trail he followed appeared to be seldom traveled. It led,\naccording to the meager information obtainable at the last settlement,\ndirectly to what was called the Rim, and from there Grass Valley could\nbe seen down in the Basin. The ascent of the ground was so gradual\nthat only in long, open stretches could it be seen. But the nature of\nthe vegetation showed Jean how he was climbing. Scant, low, scraggy\ncedars gave place to more numerous, darker, greener, bushier ones, and\nthese to high, full-foliaged, green-berried trees. Sage and grass in\nthe open flats grew more luxuriously. Then came the pinyons, and\npresently among them the checker-barked junipers. Jean hailed the\nfirst pine tree with a hearty slap on the brown, rugged bark. It was a\nsmall dwarf pine struggling to live. The next one was larger, and\nafter that came several, and beyond them pines stood up everywhere\nabove the lower trees. Odor of pine needles mingled with the other dry\nsmells that made the wind pleasant to Jean. In an hour from the first\nline of pines he had ridden beyond the cedars and pinyons into a slowly\nthickening and deepening forest. Underbrush appeared scarce except in\nravines, and the ground in open patches held a bleached grass. Jean's\neye roved for sight of squirrels, birds, deer, or any moving creature.\nIt appeared to be a dry, uninhabited forest. About midday Jean halted\nat a pond of surface water, evidently melted snow, and gave his animals\na drink. He saw a few old deer tracks in the mud and several huge bird\ntracks new to him which he concluded must have been made by wild\nturkeys.\n\nThe trail divided at this pond. Jean had no idea which branch he ought\nto take. \"Reckon it doesn't matter,\" he muttered, as he was about to\nremount. His horse was standing with ears up, looking back along the\ntrail. Then Jean heard a clip-clop of trotting hoofs, and presently\nespied a horseman.\n\nJean made a pretense of tightening his saddle girths while he peered\nover his horse at the approaching rider. All men in this country were\ngoing to be of exceeding interest to Jean Isbel. This man at a\ndistance rode and looked like all the Arizonians Jean had seen, he had\na superb seat in the saddle, and he was long and lean. He wore a huge\nblack sombrero and a soiled red scarf. His vest was open and he was\nwithout a coat.\n\nThe rider came trotting up and halted several paces from Jean\n\n\"Hullo, stranger!\" he said, gruffly.\n\n\"Howdy yourself!\" replied Jean. He felt an instinctive importance in\nthe meeting with the man. Never had sharper eyes flashed over Jean and\nhis outfit. He had a dust-colored, sun-burned face, long, lean, and\nhard, a huge sandy mustache that hid his mouth, and eyes of piercing\nlight intensity. Not very much hard Western experience had passed by\nthis man, yet he was not old, measured by years. When he dismounted\nJean saw he was tall, even for an Arizonian.\n\n\"Seen your tracks back a ways,\" he said, as he slipped the bit to let\nhis horse drink. \"Where bound?\"\n\n\"Reckon I'm lost, all right,\" replied Jean. \"New country for me.\"\n\n\"Shore. I seen thet from your tracks an' your last camp. Wal, where\nwas you headin' for before you got lost?\"\n\nThe query was deliberately cool, with a dry, crisp ring. Jean felt the\nlack of friendliness or kindliness in it.\n\n\"Grass Valley. My name's Isbel,\" he replied, shortly.\n\nThe rider attended to his drinking horse and presently rebridled him;\nthen with long swing of leg he appeared to step into the saddle.\n\n\"Shore I knowed you was Jean Isbel,\" he said. \"Everybody in the Tonto\nhas heerd old Gass Isbel sent fer his boy.\"\n\n\"Well then, why did you ask?\" inquired Jean, bluntly.\n\n\"Reckon I wanted to see what you'd say.\"\n\n\"So? All right. But I'm not carin' very much for what YOU say.\"\n\nTheir glances locked steadily then and each measured the other by the\nintangible conflict of spirit.\n\n\"Shore thet's natural,\" replied the rider. His speech was slow, and\nthe motions of his long, brown hands, as he took a cigarette from his\nvest, kept time with his words. \"But seein' you're one of the Isbels,\nI'll hev my say whether you want it or not. My name's Colter an' I'm\none of the sheepmen Gass Isbel's riled with.\"\n\n\"Colter. Glad to meet you,\" replied Jean. \"An' I reckon who riled my\nfather is goin' to rile me.\"\n\n\"Shore. If thet wasn't so you'd not be an Isbel,\" returned Colter,\nwith a grim little laugh. \"It's easy to see you ain't run into any\nTonto Basin fellers yet. Wal, I'm goin' to tell you thet your old man\ngabbed like a woman down at Greaves's store. Bragged aboot you an' how\nyou could fight an' how you could shoot an' how you could track a hoss\nor a man! Bragged how you'd chase every sheep herder back up on the\nRim.... I'm tellin' you because we want you to git our stand right.\nWe're goin' to run sheep down in Grass Valley.\"\n\n\"Ahuh! Well, who's we?\" queried Jean, curtly.\n\n\"What-at? ... We--I mean the sheepmen rangin' this Rim from Black Butte\nto the Apache country.\"\n\n\"Colter, I'm a stranger in Arizona,\" said Jean, slowly. \"I know little\nabout ranchers or sheepmen. It's true my father sent for me. It's\ntrue, I dare say, that he bragged, for he was given to bluster an'\nblow. An' he's old now. I can't help it if he bragged about me. But\nif he has, an' if he's justified in his stand against you sheepmen, I'm\ngoin' to do my best to live up to his brag.\"\n\n\"I get your hunch. Shore we understand each other, an' thet's a\npowerful help. You take my hunch to your old man,\" replied Colter, as\nhe turned his horse away toward the left. \"Thet trail leadin' south is\nyours. When you come to the Rim you'll see a bare spot down in the\nBasin. Thet 'll be Grass Valley.\"\n\nHe rode away out of sight into the woods. Jean leaned against his\nhorse and pondered. It seemed difficult to be just to this Colter, not\nbecause of his claims, but because of a subtle hostility that emanated\nfrom him. Colter had the hard face, the masked intent, the turn of\nspeech that Jean had come to associate with dishonest men. Even if Jean\nhad not been prejudiced, if he had known nothing of his father's\ntrouble with these sheepmen, and if Colter had met him only to exchange\nglances and greetings, still Jean would never have had a favorable\nimpression. Colter grated upon him, roused an antagonism seldom felt.\n\n\"Heigho!\" sighed the young man, \"Good-by to huntin' an' fishing'! Dad's\ngiven me a man's job.\"\n\nWith that he mounted his horse and started the pack mule into the\nright-hand trail. Walking and trotting, he traveled all afternoon,\ntoward sunset getting into heavy forest of pine. More than one snow\nbank showed white through the green, sheltered on the north slopes of\nshady ravines. And it was upon entering this zone of richer, deeper\nforestland that Jean sloughed off his gloomy forebodings. These\nstately pines were not the giant firs of Oregon, but any lover of the\nwoods could be happy under them. Higher still he climbed until the\nforest spread before and around him like a level park, with thicketed\nravines here and there on each side. And presently that deceitful\nlevel led to a higher bench upon which the pines towered, and were\nmatched by beautiful trees he took for spruce. Heavily barked, with\nregular spreading branches, these conifers rose in symmetrical shape to\nspear the sky with silver plumes. A graceful gray-green moss, waved\nlike veils from the branches. The air was not so dry and it was\ncolder, with a scent and touch of snow. Jean made camp at the first\nlikely site, taking the precaution to unroll his bed some little\ndistance from his fire. Under the softly moaning pines he felt\ncomfortable, having lost the sense of an immeasurable open space\nfalling away from all around him.\n\nThe gobbling of wild turkeys awakened Jean, \"Chuga-lug, chug-a-lug,\nchug-a-lug-chug.\" There was not a great difference between the gobble\nof a wild turkey and that of a tame one. Jean got up, and taking his\nrifle went out into the gray obscurity of dawn to try to locate the\nturkeys. But it was too dark, and finally when daylight came they\nappeared to be gone. The mule had strayed, and, what with finding it\nand cooking breakfast and packing, Jean did not make a very early\nstart. On this last lap of his long journey he had slowed down. He was\nweary of hurrying; the change from weeks in the glaring sun and\ndust-laden wind to this sweet coot darkly green and brown forest was\nvery welcome; he wanted to linger along the shaded trail. This day he\nmade sure would see him reach the Rim. By and by he lost the trail.\nIt had just worn out from lack of use. Every now and then Jean would\ncross an old trail, and as he penetrated deeper into the forest every\ndamp or dusty spot showed tracks of turkey, deer, and bear. The amount\nof bear sign surprised him. Presently his keen nostrils were assailed\nby a smell of sheep, and soon he rode into a broad sheep, trail. From\nthe tracks Jean calculated that the sheep had passed there the day\nbefore.\n\nAn unreasonable antipathy seemed born in him. To be sure he had been\nprepared to dislike sheep, and that was why he was unreasonable. But\non the other hand this band of sheep had left a broad bare swath,\nweedless, grassless, flowerless, in their wake. Where sheep grazed\nthey destroyed. That was what Jean had against them.\n\nAn hour later he rode to the crest of a long parklike slope, where new\ngreen grass was sprouting and flowers peeped everywhere. The pines\nappeared far apart; gnarled oak trees showed rugged and gray against\nthe green wall of woods. A white strip of snow gleamed like a moving\nstream away down in the woods.\n\nJean heard the musical tinkle of bells and the baa-baa of sheep and the\nfaint, sweet bleating of lambs. As he road toward these sounds a dog\nran out from an oak thicket and barked at him. Next Jean smelled a\ncamp fire and soon he caught sight of a curling blue column of smoke,\nand then a small peaked tent. Beyond the clump of oaks Jean\nencountered a Mexican lad carrying a carbine. The boy had a swarthy,\npleasant face, and to Jean's greeting he replied, \"BUENAS DIAS.\" Jean\nunderstood little Spanish, and about all he gathered by his simple\nqueries was that the lad was not alone--and that it was \"lambing time.\"\n\nThis latter circumstance grew noisily manifest. The forest seemed\nshrilly full of incessant baas and plaintive bleats. All about the\ncamp, on the slope, in the glades, and everywhere, were sheep. A few\nwere grazing; many were lying down; most of them were ewes suckling\nwhite fleecy little lambs that staggered on their feet. Everywhere\nJean saw tiny lambs just born. Their pin-pointed bleats pierced the\nheavier baa-baa of their mothers.\n\nJean dismounted and led his horse down toward the camp, where he rather\nexpected to see another and older Mexican, from whom he might get\ninformation. The lad walked with him. Down this way the plaintive\nuproar made by the sheep was not so loud.\n\n\"Hello there!\" called Jean, cheerfully, as he approached the tent. No\nanswer was forthcoming. Dropping his bridle, he went on, rather\nslowly, looking for some one to appear. Then a voice from one side\nstartled him.\n\n\"Mawnin', stranger.\"\n\nA girl stepped out from beside a pine. She carried a rifle. Her face\nflashed richly brown, but she was not Mexican. This fact, and the\nsudden conviction that she had been watching him, somewhat disconcerted\nJean.\n\n\"Beg pardon--miss,\" he floundered. \"Didn't expect, to see a--girl....\nI'm sort of lost--lookin' for the Rim--an' thought I'd find a sheep\nherder who'd show me. I can't savvy this boy's lingo.\"\n\nWhile he spoke it seemed to him an intentness of expression, a strain\nrelaxed from her face. A faint suggestion of hostility likewise\ndisappeared. Jean was not even sure that he had caught it, but there\nhad been something that now was gone.\n\n\"Shore I'll be glad to show y'u,\" she said.\n\n\"Thanks, miss. Reckon I can breathe easy now,\" he replied,\n\n\"It's a long ride from San Diego. Hot an' dusty! I'm pretty tired.\nAn' maybe this woods isn't good medicine to achin' eyes!\"\n\n\"San Diego! Y'u're from the coast?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nJean had doffed his sombrero at sight of her and he still held it,\nrather deferentially, perhaps. It seemed to attract her attention.\n\n\"Put on y'ur hat, stranger.... Shore I can't recollect when any man\nbared his haid to me.\" She uttered a little laugh in which surprise\nand frankness mingled with a tint of bitterness.\n\nJean sat down with his back to a pine, and, laying the sombrero by his\nside, he looked full at her, conscious of a singular eagerness, as if\nhe wanted to verify by close scrutiny a first hasty impression. If\nthere had been an instinct in his meeting with Colter, there was more\nin this. The girl half sat, half leaned against a log, with the shiny\nlittle carbine across her knees. She had a level, curious gaze upon\nhim, and Jean had never met one just like it. Her eyes were rather a\nwide oval in shape, clear and steady, with shadows of thought in their\namber-brown depths. They seemed to look through Jean, and his gaze\ndropped first. Then it was he saw her ragged homespun skirt and a few\ninches of brown, bare ankles, strong and round, and crude worn-out\nmoccasins that failed to hide the shapeliness, of her feet. Suddenly\nshe drew back her stockingless ankles and ill-shod little feet. When\nJean lifted his gaze again he found her face half averted and a stain\nof red in the gold tan of her cheek. That touch of embarrassment\nsomehow removed her from this strong, raw, wild woodland setting. It\nchanged her poise. It detracted from the curious, unabashed, almost\nbold, look that he had encountered in her eyes.\n\n\"Reckon you're from Texas,\" said Jean, presently.\n\n\"Shore am,\" she drawled. She had a lazy Southern voice, pleasant to\nhear. \"How'd y'u-all guess that?\"\n\n\"Anybody can tell a Texan. Where I came from there were a good many\npioneers an' ranchers from the old Lone Star state. I've worked for\nseveral. An', come to think of it, I'd rather hear a Texas girl talk\nthan anybody.\"\n\n\"Did y'u know many Texas girls?\" she inquired, turning again to face\nhim.\n\n\"Reckon I did--quite a good many.\"\n\n\"Did y'u go with them?\"\n\n\"Go with them? Reckon you mean keep company. Why, yes, I guess I\ndid--a little,\" laughed Jean. \"Sometimes on a Sunday or a dance once\nin a blue moon, an' occasionally a ride.\"\n\n\"Shore that accounts,\" said the girl, wistfully.\n\n\"For what?\" asked Jean.\n\n\"Y'ur bein' a gentleman,\" she replied, with force. \"Oh, I've not\nforgotten. I had friends when we lived in Texas.... Three years ago.\nShore it seems longer. Three miserable years in this damned country!\"\n\nThen she bit her lip, evidently to keep back further unwitting\nutterance to a total stranger. And it was that biting of her lip that\ndrew Jean's attention to her mouth. It held beauty of curve and\nfullness and color that could not hide a certain sadness and\nbitterness. Then the whole flashing brown face changed for Jean. He\nsaw that it was young, full of passion and restraint, possessing a\npower which grew on him. This, with her shame and pathos and the fact\nthat she craved respect, gave a leap to Jean's interest.\n\n\"Well, I reckon you flatter me,\" he said, hoping to put her at her ease\nagain. \"I'm only a rough hunter an' fisherman-woodchopper an' horse\ntracker. Never had all the school I needed--nor near enough company of\nnice girls like you.\"\n\n\"Am I nice?\" she asked, quickly.\n\n\"You sure are,\" he replied, smiling.\n\n\"In these rags,\" she demanded, with a sudden flash of passion that\nthrilled him. \"Look at the holes.\" She showed rips and worn-out\nplaces in the sleeves of her buckskin blouse, through which gleamed a\nround, brown arm. \"I sew when I have anythin' to sew with.... Look at\nmy skirt--a dirty rag. An' I have only one other to my name.... Look!\"\nAgain a color tinged her cheeks, most becoming, and giving the lie to\nher action. But shame could not check her violence now. A dammed-up\nresentment seemed to have broken out in flood. She lifted the ragged\nskirt almost to her knees. \"No stockings! No Shoes! ... How can a\ngirl be nice when she has no clean, decent woman's clothes to wear?\"\n\n\"How--how can a girl...\" began Jean. \"See here, miss, I'm beggin' your\npardon for--sort of stirrin' you to forget yourself a little. Reckon I\nunderstand. You don't meet many strangers an' I sort of hit you\nwrong--makin' you feel too much--an' talk too much. Who an' what you\nare is none of my business. But we met.... An' I reckon somethin' has\nhappened--perhaps more to me than to you.... Now let me put you\nstraight about clothes an' women. Reckon I know most women love nice\nthings to wear an' think because clothes make them look pretty that\nthey're nicer or better. But they're wrong. You're wrong. Maybe it 'd\nbe too much for a girl like you to be happy without clothes. But you\ncan be--you axe just as nice, an'--an' fine--an', for all you know, a\ngood deal more appealin' to some men.\"\n\n\"Stranger, y'u shore must excuse my temper an' the show I made of\nmyself,\" replied the girl, with composure. \"That, to say the least,\nwas not nice. An' I don't want anyone thinkin' better of me than I\ndeserve. My mother died in Texas, an' I've lived out heah in this wild\ncountry--a girl alone among rough men. Meetin' y'u to-day makes me see\nwhat a hard lot they are--an' what it's done to me.\"\n\nJean smothered his curiosity and tried to put out of his mind a growing\nsense that he pitied her, liked her.\n\n\"Are you a sheep herder?\" he asked.\n\n\"Shore I am now an' then. My father lives back heah in a canyon. He's\na sheepman. Lately there's been herders shot at. Just now we're short\nan' I have to fill in. But I like shepherdin' an' I love the woods,\nand the Rim Rock an' all the Tonto. If they were all, I'd shore be\nhappy.\"\n\n\"Herders shot at!\" exclaimed Jean, thoughtfully. \"By whom? An' what\nfor?\"\n\n\"Trouble brewin' between the cattlemen down in the Basin an' the\nsheepmen up on the Rim. Dad says there'll shore be hell to pay. I tell\nhim I hope the cattlemen chase him back to Texas.\"\n\n\"Then-- Are you on the ranchers' side?\" queried Jean, trying to\npretend casual interest.\n\n\"No. I'll always be on my father's side,\" she replied, with spirit.\n\"But I'm bound to admit I think the cattlemen have the fair side of the\nargument.\"\n\n\"How so?\"\n\n\"Because there's grass everywhere. I see no sense in a sheepman goin'\nout of his way to surround a cattleman an' sheep off his range. That\nstarted the row. Lord knows how it'll end. For most all of them heah\nare from Texas.\"\n\n\"So I was told,\" replied Jean. \"An' I heard' most all these Texans got\nrun out of Texas. Any truth in that?\"\n\n\"Shore I reckon there is,\" she replied, seriously. \"But, stranger, it\nmight not be healthy for y'u to, say that anywhere. My dad, for one,\nwas not run out of Texas. Shore I never can see why he came heah. He's\naccumulated stock, but he's not rich nor so well off as he was back\nhome.\"\n\n\"Are you goin' to stay here always?\" queried Jean, suddenly.\n\n\"If I do so it 'll be in my grave,\" she answered, darkly. \"But what's\nthe use of thinkin'? People stay places until they drift away. Y'u\ncan never tell.... Well, stranger, this talk is keepin' y'u.\"\n\nShe seemed moody now, and a note of detachment crept into her voice.\nJean rose at once and went for his horse. If this girl did not desire\nto talk further he certainly had no wish to annoy her. His mule had\nstrayed off among the bleating sheep. Jean drove it back and then led\nhis horse up to where the girl stood. She appeared taller and, though\nnot of robust build, she was vigorous and lithe, with something about\nher that fitted the place. Jean was loath to bid her good-by.\n\n\"Which way is the Rim?\" he asked, turning to his saddle girths.\n\n\"South,\" she replied, pointing. \"It's only a mile or so. I'll walk\ndown with y'u.... Suppose y'u're on the way to Grass Valley?\"\n\n\"Yes; I've relatives there,\" he returned. He dreaded her next\nquestion, which he suspected would concern his name. But she did not\nask. Taking up her rifle she turned away. Jean strode ahead to her\nside. \"Reckon if you walk I won't ride.\"\n\nSo he found himself beside a girl with the free step of a Mountaineer.\nHer bare, brown head came up nearly to his shoulder. It was a small,\npretty head, graceful, well held, and the thick hair on it was a shiny,\nsoft brown. She wore it in a braid, rather untidily and tangled, he\nthought, and it was tied with a string of buckskin. Altogether her\napparel proclaimed poverty.\n\nJean let the conversation languish for a little. He wanted to think\nwhat to say presently, and then he felt a rather vague pleasure in\nstalking beside her. Her profile was straight cut and exquisite in\nline. From this side view the soft curve of lips could not be seen.\n\nShe made several attempts to start conversation, all of which Jean\nignored, manifestly to her growing constraint. Presently Jean, having\ndecided what he wanted to say, suddenly began: \"I like this adventure.\nDo you?\"\n\n\"Adventure! Meetin' me in the woods?\" And she laughed the laugh of\nyouth. \"Shore you must be hard up for adventure, stranger.\"\n\n\"Do you like it?\" he persisted, and his eyes searched the half-averted\nface.\n\n\"I might like it,\" she answered, frankly, \"if--if my temper had not\nmade a fool of me. I never meet anyone I care to talk to. Why should\nit not be pleasant to run across some one new--some one strange in this\nheah wild country?\"\n\n\"We are as we are,\" said Jean, simply. \"I didn't think you made a fool\nof yourself. If I thought so, would I want to see you again?\"\n\n\"Do y'u?\" The brown face flashed on him with surprise, with a light he\ntook for gladness. And because he wanted to appear calm and friendly,\nnot too eager, he had to deny himself the thrill of meeting those\nchanging eyes.\n\n\"Sure I do. Reckon I'm overbold on such short acquaintance. But I\nmight not have another chance to tell you, so please don't hold it\nagainst me.\"\n\nThis declaration over, Jean felt relief and something of exultation. He\nhad been afraid he might not have the courage to make it. She walked\non as before, only with her head bowed a little and her eyes downcast.\nNo color but the gold-brown tan and the blue tracery of veins showed in\nher cheeks. He noticed then a slight swelling quiver of her throat;\nand he became alive to its graceful contour, and to how full and\npulsating it was, how nobly it set into the curve of her shoulder.\nHere in her quivering throat was the weakness of her, the evidence of\nher sex, the womanliness that belied the mountaineer stride and the\ngrasp of strong brown hands on a rifle. It had an effect on Jean\ntotally inexplicable to him, both in the strange warmth that stole over\nhim and in the utterance he could not hold back.\n\n\"Girl, we're strangers, but what of that? We've met, an' I tell you it\nmeans somethin' to me. I've known girls for months an' never felt this\nway. I don't know who you are an' I don't care. You betrayed a good\ndeal to me. You're not happy. You're lonely. An' if I didn't want to\nsee you again for my own sake I would for yours. Some things you said\nI'll not forget soon. I've got a sister, an' I know you have no\nbrother. An' I reckon ...\"\n\nAt this juncture Jean in his earnestness and quite without thought\ngrasped her hand. The contact checked the flow of his speech and\nsuddenly made him aghast at his temerity. But the girl did not make\nany effort to withdraw it. So Jean, inhaling a deep breath and trying\nto see through his bewilderment, held on bravely. He imagined he felt\na faint, warm, returning pressure. She was young, she was friendless,\nshe was human. By this hand in his Jean felt more than ever the\nloneliness of her. Then, just as he was about to speak again, she\npulled her hand free.\n\n\"Heah's the Rim,\" she said, in her quaint Southern drawl. \"An' there's\nY'ur Tonto Basin.\"\n\nJean had been intent only upon the girl. He had kept step beside her\nwithout taking note of what was ahead of him. At her words he looked\nup expectantly, to be struck mute.\n\nHe felt a sheer force, a downward drawing of an immense abyss beneath\nhim. As he looked afar he saw a black basin of timbered country, the\ndarkest and wildest he had ever gazed upon, a hundred miles of blue\ndistance across to an unflung mountain range, hazy purple against the\nsky. It seemed to be a stupendous gulf surrounded on three sides by\nbold, undulating lines of peaks, and on his side by a wall so high that\nhe felt lifted aloft on the run of the sky.\n\n\"Southeast y'u see the Sierra Anchas,\" said the girl pointing. \"That\nnotch in the range is the pass where sheep are driven to Phoenix an'\nMaricopa. Those big rough mountains to the south are the Mazatzals.\nRound to the west is the Four Peaks Range. An' y'u're standin' on the\nRim.\"\n\nJean could not see at first just what the Rim was, but by shifting his\ngaze westward he grasped this remarkable phenomenon of nature. For\nleagues and leagues a colossal red and yellow wall, a rampart, a\nmountain-faced cliff, seemed to zigzag westward. Grand and bold were\nthe promontories reaching out over the void. They ran toward the\nwestering sun. Sweeping and impressive were the long lines slanting\naway from them, sloping darkly spotted down to merge into the black\ntimber. Jean had never seen such a wild and rugged manifestation of\nnature's depths and upheavals. He was held mute.\n\n\"Stranger, look down,\" said the girl.\n\nJean's sight was educated to judge heights and depths and distances.\nThis wall upon which he stood sheered precipitously down, so far that\nit made him dizzy to look, and then the craggy broken cliffs merged\ninto red-slided, cedar-greened slopes running down and down into gorges\nchoked with forests, and from which soared up a roar of rushing waters.\nSlope after slope, ridge beyond ridge, canyon merging into canyon--so\nthe tremendous bowl sunk away to its black, deceiving depths, a\nwilderness across which travel seemed impossible.\n\n\"Wonderful!\" exclaimed Jean.\n\n\"Indeed it is!\" murmured the girl. \"Shore that is Arizona. I reckon I\nlove THIS. The heights an' depths--the awfulness of its wilderness!\"\n\n\"An' you want to leave it?\"\n\n\"Yes an' no. I don't deny the peace that comes to me heah. But not\noften do I see the Basin, an' for that matter, one doesn't live on\ngrand scenery.\"\n\n\"Child, even once in a while--this sight would cure any misery, if you\nonly see. I'm glad I came. I'm glad you showed it to me first.\"\n\nShe too seemed under the spell of a vastness and loneliness and beauty\nand grandeur that could not but strike the heart.\n\nJean took her hand again. \"Girl, say you will meet me here,\" he said,\nhis voice ringing deep in his ears.\n\n\"Shore I will,\" she replied, softly, and turned to him. It seemed then\nthat Jean saw her face for the first time. She was beautiful as he had\nnever known beauty. Limned against that scene, she gave it life--wild,\nsweet, young life--the poignant meaning of which haunted yet eluded\nhim. But she belonged there. Her eyes were again searching his, as if\nfor some lost part of herself, unrealized, never known before.\nWondering, wistful, hopeful, glad--they were eyes that seemed surprised,\nto reveal part of her soul.\n\nThen her red lips parted. Their tremulous movement was a magnet to\nJean. An invisible and mighty force pulled him down to kiss them.\nWhatever the spell had been, that rude, unconscious action broke it.\n\nHe jerked away, as if he expected to be struck. \"Girl--I--I\"--he gasped\nin amaze and sudden-dawning contrition--\"I kissed you--but I swear it\nwasn't intentional--I never thought....\"\n\nThe anger that Jean anticipated failed to materialize. He stood,\nbreathing hard, with a hand held out in unconscious appeal. By the\nsame magic, perhaps, that had transfigured her a moment past, she was\nnow invested again by the older character.\n\n\"Shore I reckon my callin' y'u a gentleman was a little previous,\" she\nsaid, with a rather dry bitterness. \"But, stranger, yu're sudden.\"\n\n\"You're not insulted?\" asked Jean, hurriedly.\n\n\"Oh, I've been kissed before. Shore men are all alike.\"\n\n\"They're not,\" he replied, hotly, with a subtle rush of disillusion, a\ndulling of enchantment. \"Don't you class me with other men who've\nkissed you. I wasn't myself when I did it an' I'd have gone on my\nknees to ask your forgiveness.... But now I wouldn't--an' I wouldn't\nkiss you again, either--even if you--you wanted it.\"\n\nJean read in her strange gaze what seemed to him a vague doubt, as if\nshe was questioning him.\n\n\"Miss, I take that back,\" added Jean, shortly. \"I'm sorry. I didn't\nmean to be rude. It was a mean trick for me to kiss you. A girl alone\nin the woods who's gone out of her way to be kind to me! I don't know\nwhy I forgot my manners. An' I ask your pardon.\"\n\nShe looked away then, and presently pointed far out and down into the\nBasin.\n\n\"There's Grass Valley. That long gray spot in the black. It's about\nfifteen miles. Ride along the Rim that way till y'u cross a trail.\nShore y'u can't miss it. Then go down.\"\n\n\"I'm much obliged to you,\" replied Jean, reluctantly accepting what he\nregarded as his dismissal. Turning his horse, he put his foot in the\nstirrup, then, hesitating, he looked across the saddle at the girl. Her\nabstraction, as she gazed away over the purple depths suggested\nloneliness and wistfulness. She was not thinking of that scene spread\nso wondrously before her. It struck Jean she might be pondering a\nsubtle change in his feeling and attitude, something he was conscious\nof, yet could not define.\n\n\"Reckon this is good-by,\" he said, with hesitation.\n\n\"ADIOS, SENOR,\" she replied, facing him again. She lifted the little\ncarbine to the hollow of her elbow and, half turning, appeared ready to\ndepart.\n\n\"Adios means good-by?\" he queried.\n\n\"Yes, good-by till to-morrow or good-by forever. Take it as y'u like.\"\n\n\"Then you'll meet me here day after to-morrow?\" How eagerly he spoke,\non impulse, without a consideration of the intangible thing that had\nchanged him!\n\n\"Did I say I wouldn't?\"\n\n\"No. But I reckoned you'd not care to after--\" he replied, breaking\noff in some confusion.\n\n\"Shore I'll be glad to meet y'u. Day after to-morrow about\nmid-afternoon. Right heah. Fetch all the news from Grass Valley.\"\n\n\"All right. Thanks. That'll be--fine,\" replied Jean, and as he spoke\nhe experienced a buoyant thrill, a pleasant lightness of enthusiasm,\nsuch as always stirred boyishly in him at a prospect of adventure.\nBefore it passed he wondered at it and felt unsure of himself. He\nneeded to think.\n\n\"Stranger shore I'm not recollectin' that y'u told me who y'u are,\" she\nsaid.\n\n\"No, reckon I didn't tell,\" he returned. \"What difference does that\nmake? I said I didn't care who or what you are. Can't you feel the\nsame about me?\"\n\n\"Shore--I felt that way,\" she replied, somewhat non-plussed, with the\nlevel brown gaze steadily on his face. \"But now y'u make me think.\"\n\n\"Let's meet without knowin' any more about each other than we do now.\"\n\n\"Shore. I'd like that. In this big wild Arizona a girl--an' I reckon\na man--feels so insignificant. What's a name, anyhow? Still, people\nan' things have to be distinguished. I'll call y'u 'Stranger' an' be\nsatisfied--if y'u say it's fair for y'u not to tell who y'u are.\"\n\n\"Fair! No, it's not,\" declared Jean, forced to confession. \"My name's\nJean--Jean Isbel.\"\n\n\"ISBEL!\" she exclaimed, with a violent start. \"Shore y'u can't be son\nof old Gass Isbel.... I've seen both his sons.\"\n\n\"He has three,\" replied Jean, with relief, now the secret was out. \"I'm\nthe youngest. I'm twenty-four. Never been out of Oregon till now. On\nmy way--\"\n\nThe brown color slowly faded out of her face, leaving her quite pale,\nwith eyes that began to blaze. The suppleness of her seemed to stiffen.\n\n\"My name's Ellen Jorth,\" she burst out, passionately. \"Does it mean\nanythin' to y'u?\"\n\n\"Never heard it in my life,\" protested Jean. \"Sure I reckoned you\nbelonged to the sheep raisers who 're on the outs with my father.\nThat's why I had to tell you I'm Jean Isbel.... Ellen Jorth. It's\nstrange an' pretty.... Reckon I can be just as good a--a friend to\nyou--\"\n\n\"No Isbel, can ever be a friend to me,\" she said, with bitter coldness.\nStripped of her ease and her soft wistfulness, she stood before him one\ninstant, entirely another girl, a hostile enemy. Then she wheeled and\nstrode off into the woods.\n\nJean, in amaze, in consternation, watched her swiftly draw away with\nher lithe, free step, wanting to follow her, wanting to call to her;\nbut the resentment roused by her suddenly avowed hostility held him\nmute in his tracks. He watched her disappear, and when the\nbrown-and-green wall of forest swallowed the slender gray form he\nfought against the insistent desire to follow her, and fought in vain.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nBut Ellen Jorth's moccasined feet did not leave a distinguishable trail\non the springy pine needle covering of the ground, and Jean could not\nfind any trace of her.\n\nA little futile searching to and fro cooled his impulse and called\npride to his rescue. Returning to his horse, he mounted, rode out\nbehind the pack mule to start it along, and soon felt the relief of\ndecision and action. Clumps of small pines grew thickly in spots on\nthe Rim, making it necessary for him to skirt them; at which times he\nlost sight of the purple basin. Every time he came back to an opening\nthrough which he could see the wild ruggedness and colors and\ndistances, his appreciation of their nature grew on him. Arizona from\nYuma to the Little Colorado had been to him an endless waste of\nwind-scoured, sun-blasted barrenness. This black-forested rock-rimmed\nland of untrodden ways was a world that in itself would satisfy him.\nSome instinct in Jean called for a lonely, wild land, into the\nfastnesses of which he could roam at will and be the other strange self\nthat he had always yearned to be but had never been.\n\nEvery few moments there intruded into his flowing consciousness the\nflashing face of Ellen Jorth, the way she had looked at him, the things\nshe had said. \"Reckon I was a fool,\" he soliloquized, with an acute\nsense of humiliation. \"She never saw how much in earnest I was.\" And\nJean began to remember the circumstances with a vividness that\ndisturbed and perplexed him.\n\nThe accident of running across such a girl in that lonely place might\nbe out of the ordinary--but it had happened. Surprise had made him\ndull. The charm of her appearance, the appeal of her manner, must have\ndrawn him at the very first, but he had not recognized that. Only at\nher words, \"Oh, I've been kissed before,\" had his feelings been checked\nin their heedless progress. And the utterance of them had made a\ndifference he now sought to analyze. Some personality in him, some\nvoice, some idea had begun to defend her even before he was conscious\nthat he had arraigned her before the bar of his judgment. Such defense\nseemed clamoring in him now and he forced himself to listen. He\nwanted, in his hurt pride, to justify his amazing surrender to a sweet\nand sentimental impulse.\n\nHe realized now that at first glance he should have recognized in her\nlook, her poise, her voice the quality he called thoroughbred. Ragged\nand stained apparel did not prove her of a common sort. Jean had known\na number of fine and wholesome girls of good family; and he remembered\nhis sister. This Ellen Jorth was that kind of a girl irrespective of\nher present environment. Jean championed her loyally, even after he\nhad gratified his selfish pride.\n\nIt was then--contending with an intangible and stealing glamour, unreal\nand fanciful, like the dream of a forbidden enchantment--that Jean\narrived at the part in the little woodland drama where he had kissed\nEllen Jorth and had been unrebuked. Why had she not resented his\naction? Dispelled was the illusion he had been dreamily and nobly\nconstructing. \"Oh, I've been kissed before!\" The shock to him now\nexceeded his first dismay. Half bitterly she had spoken, and wholly\nscornful of herself, or of him, or of all men. For she had said all\nmen were alike. Jean chafed under the smart of that, a taunt every\ndecent man hated. Naturally every happy and healthy young man would\nwant to kiss such red, sweet lips. But if those lips had been for\nothers--never for him! Jean reflected that not since childish games\nhad he kissed a girl--until this brown-faced Ellen Jorth came his way.\nHe wondered at it. Moreover, he wondered at the significance he placed\nupon it. After all, was it not merely an accident? Why should he\nremember? Why should he ponder? What was the faint, deep, growing\nthrill that accompanied some of his thoughts?\n\nRiding along with busy mind, Jean almost crossed a well-beaten trail,\nleading through a pine thicket and down over the Rim. Jean's pack mule\nled the way without being driven. And when Jean reached the edge of\nthe bluff one look down was enough to fetch him off his horse. That\ntrail was steep, narrow, clogged with stones, and as full of sharp\ncorners as a crosscut saw. Once on the descent with a packed mule and\na spirited horse, Jean had no time for mind wanderings and very little\nfor occasional glimpses out over the cedar tops to the vast blue hollow\nasleep under a westering sun.\n\nThe stones rattled, the dust rose, the cedar twigs snapped, the little\navalanches of red earth slid down, the iron-shod hoofs rang on the\nrocks. This slope had been narrow at the apex in the Rim where the\ntrail led down a crack, and it widened in fan shape as Jean descended.\nHe zigzagged down a thousand feet before the slope benched into\ndividing ridges. Here the cedars and junipers failed and pines once\nmore hid the sun. Deep ravines were black with brush. From somewhere\nrose a roar of running water, most pleasant to Jean's ears. Fresh deer\nand bear tracks covered old ones made in the trail.\n\nThose timbered ridges were but billows of that tremendous slope that\nnow sheered above Jean, ending in a magnificent yellow wall of rock,\ngreened in niches, stained by weather rust, carved and cracked and\ncaverned. As Jean descended farther the hum of bees made melody, the\nroar of rapid water and the murmur of a rising breeze filled him with\nthe content of the wild. Sheepmen like Colter and wild girls like\nEllen Jorth and all that seemed promising or menacing in his father's\nletter could never change the Indian in Jean. So he thought. Hard\nupon that conclusion rushed another--one which troubled with its\nstinging revelation. Surely these influences he had defied were just\nthe ones to bring out in him the Indian he had sensed but had never\nknown. The eventful day had brought new and bitter food for Jean to\nreflect upon.\n\nThe trail landed him in the bowlder-strewn bed of a wide canyon, where\nthe huge trees stretched a canopy of foliage which denied the sunlight,\nand where a beautiful brook rushed and foamed. Here at last Jean\ntasted water that rivaled his Oregon springs. \"Ah,\" he cried, \"that\nsure is good!\" Dark and shaded and ferny and mossy was this streamway;\nand everywhere were tracks of game, from the giant spread of a grizzly\nbear to the tiny, birdlike imprints of a squirrel. Jean heard familiar\nsounds of deer crackling the dead twigs; and the chatter of squirrels\nwas incessant. This fragrant, cool retreat under the Rim brought back\nto him the dim recesses of Oregon forests. After all, Jean felt that\nhe would not miss anything that he had loved in the Cascades. But what\nwas the vague sense of all not being well with him--the essence of a\nfaint regret--the insistence of a hovering shadow? And then flashed\nagain, etched more vividly by the repetition in memory, a picture of\neyes, of lips--of something he had to forget.\n\nWild and broken as this rolling Basin floor had appeared from the Rim,\nthe reality of traveling over it made that first impression a deceit of\ndistance. Down here all was on a big, rough, broken scale. Jean did\nnot find even a few rods of level ground. Bowlders as huge as houses\nobstructed the stream bed; spruce trees eight feet thick tried to lord\nit over the brawny pines; the ravine was a veritable canyon from which\noccasional glimpses through the foliage showed the Rim as a lofty\nred-tipped mountain peak.\n\nJean's pack mule became frightened at scent of a bear or lion and ran\noff down the rough trail, imperiling Jean's outfit. It was not an easy\ntask to head him off nor, when that was accomplished, to keep him to a\ntrot. But his fright and succeeding skittishness at least made for\nfast traveling. Jean calculated that he covered ten miles under the\nRim before the character of ground and forest began to change.\n\nThe trail had turned southeast. Instead of gorge after gorge,\nred-walled and choked with forest, there began to be rolling ridges,\nsome high; others were knolls; and a thick cedar growth made up for a\nfalling off of pine. The spruce had long disappeared. Juniper\nthickets gave way more and more to the beautiful manzanita; and soon on\nthe south slopes appeared cactus and a scrubby live oak. But for the\nwell-broken trail, Jean would have fared ill through this tough brush.\n\nJean espied several deer, and again a coyote, and what he took to be a\nsmall herd of wild horses. No more turkey tracks showed in the dusty\npatches. He crossed a number of tiny brooklets, and at length came to\na place where the trail ended or merged in a rough road that showed\nevidence of considerable travel. Horses, sheep, and cattle had passed\nalong there that day. This road turned southward, and Jean began to\nhave pleasurable expectations.\n\nThe road, like the trail, led down grade, but no longer at such steep\nangles, and was bordered by cedar and pinyon, jack-pine and juniper,\nmescal and manzanita. Quite sharply, going around a ridge, the road\nled Jean's eye down to a small open flat of marshy, or at least grassy,\nground. This green oasis in the wilderness of red and timbered ridges\nmarked another change in the character of the Basin. Beyond that the\ncountry began to spread out and roll gracefully, its dark-green forest\ninterspersed with grassy parks, until Jean headed into a long, wide\ngray-green valley surrounded by black-fringed hills. His pulses\nquickened here. He saw cattle dotting the expanse, and here and there\nalong the edge log cabins and corrals.\n\nAs a village, Grass Valley could not boast of much, apparently, in the\nway of population. Cabins and houses were widely scattered, as if the\ninhabitants did not care to encroach upon one another. But the one\nstore, built of stone, and stamped also with the characteristic\nisolation, seemed to Jean to be a rather remarkable edifice. Not\nexactly like a fort did it strike him, but if it had not been designed\nfor defense it certainly gave that impression, especially from the\nlong, low side with its dark eye-like windows about the height of a\nman's shoulder. Some rather fine horses were tied to a hitching rail.\nOtherwise dust and dirt and age and long use stamped this Grass Valley\nstore and its immediate environment.\n\nJean threw his bridle, and, getting down, mounted the low porch and\nstepped into the wide open door. A face, gray against the background\nof gloom inside, passed out of sight just as Jean entered. He knew he\nhad been seen. In front of the long, rather low-ceiled store were four\nmen, all absorbed, apparently, in a game of checkers. Two were playing\nand two were looking on. One of these, a gaunt-faced man past middle\nage, casually looked up as Jean entered. But the moment of that casual\nglance afforded Jean time enough to meet eyes he instinctively\ndistrusted. They masked their penetration. They seemed neither curious\nnor friendly. They saw him as if he had been merely thin air.\n\n\"Good evenin',\" said Jean.\n\nAfter what appeared to Jean a lapse of time sufficient to impress him\nwith a possible deafness of these men, the gaunt-faced one said,\n\"Howdy, Isbel!\"\n\nThe tone was impersonal, dry, easy, cool, laconic, and yet it could not\nhave been more pregnant with meaning. Jean's sharp sensibilities\nabsorbed much. None of the slouch-sombreroed, long-mustached\nTexans--for so Jean at once classed them--had ever seen Jean, but they\nknew him and knew that he was expected in Grass Valley. All but the\none who had spoken happened to have their faces in shadow under the\nwide-brimmed black hats. Motley-garbed, gun-belted, dusty-booted, they\ngave Jean the same impression of latent force that he had encountered\nin Colter.\n\n\"Will somebody please tell me where to find my father, Gaston Isbel?\"\ninquired Jean, with as civil a tongue as he could command.\n\nNobody paid the slightest attention. It was the same as if Jean had\nnot spoken. Waiting, half amused, half irritated, Jean shot a rapid\nglance around the store. The place had felt bare; and Jean, peering\nback through gloomy space, saw that it did not contain much. Dry goods\nand sacks littered a long rude counter; long rough shelves divided\ntheir length into stacks of canned foods and empty sections; a low\nshelf back of the counter held a generous burden of cartridge boxes,\nand next to it stood a rack of rifles. On the counter lay open cases\nof plug tobacco, the odor of which was second in strength only to that\nof rum.\n\nJean's swift-roving eye reverted to the men, three of whom were\nabsorbed in the greasy checkerboard. The fourth man was the one who\nhad spoken and he now deigned to look at Jean. Not much flesh was\nthere stretched over his bony, powerful physiognomy. He stroked a lean\nchin with a big mobile hand that suggested more of bridle holding than\nfamiliarity with a bucksaw and plow handle. It was a lazy hand. The\nman looked lazy. If he spoke at all it would be with lazy speech, yet\nJean had not encountered many men to whom he would have accorded more\npotency to stir in him the instinct of self-preservation.\n\n\"Shore,\" drawled this gaunt-faced Texan, \"old Gass lives aboot a mile\ndown heah.\" With slow sweep of the big hand he indicated a general\ndirection to the south; then, appearing to forget his questioner, he\nturned his attention to the game.\n\nJean muttered his thanks and, striding out, he mounted again, and drove\nthe pack mule down the road. \"Reckon I've ran into the wrong folds\nto-day,\" he said. \"If I remember dad right he was a man to make an'\nkeep friends. Somehow I'll bet there's goin' to be hell.\" Beyond the\nstore were some rather pretty and comfortable homes, little ranch\nhouses back in the coves of the hills. The road turned west and Jean\nsaw his first sunset in the Tonto Basin. It was a pageant of purple\nclouds with silver edges, and background of deep rich gold. Presently\nJean met a lad driving a cow. \"Hello, Johnny!\" he said, genially, and\nwith a double purpose. \"My name's Jean Isbel. By Golly! I'm lost in\nGrass Valley. Will you tell me where my dad lives?\"\n\n\"Yep. Keep right on, an' y'u cain't miss him,\" replied the lad, with a\nbright smile. \"He's lookin' fer y'u.\"\n\n\"How do you know, boy?\" queried Jean, warmed by that smile.\n\n\"Aw, I know. It's all over the valley thet y'u'd ride in ter-day.\nShore I wus the one thet tole yer dad an' he give me a dollar.\"\n\n\"Was he glad to hear it?\" asked Jean, with a queer sensation in his\nthroat.\n\n\"Wal, he plumb was.\"\n\n\"An' who told you I was goin' to ride in to-day?\"\n\n\"I heerd it at the store,\" replied the lad, with an air of confidence.\n\"Some sheepmen was talkin' to Greaves. He's the storekeeper. I was\nsettin' outside, but I heerd. A Mexican come down off the Rim ter-day\nan' he fetched the news.\" Here the lad looked furtively around, then\nwhispered. \"An' thet greaser was sent by somebody. I never heerd no\nmore, but them sheepmen looked pretty plumb sour. An' one of them,\ncomin' out, give me a kick, darn him. It shore is the luckedest day\nfer us cowmen.\"\n\n\"How's that, Johnny?\"\n\n\"Wal, that's shore a big fight comin' to Grass Valley. My dad says so\nan' he rides fer yer dad. An' if it comes now y'u'll be heah.\"\n\n\"Ahuh!\" laughed Jean. \"An' what then, boy?\"\n\nThe lad turned bright eyes upward. \"Aw, now, yu'all cain't come thet\non me. Ain't y'u an Injun, Jean Isbel? Ain't y'u a hoss tracker thet\nrustlers cain't fool? Ain't y'u a plumb dead shot? Ain't y'u wuss'ern\na grizzly bear in a rough-an'-tumble? ... Now ain't y'u, shore?\"\n\nJean bade the flattering lad a rather sober good day and rode on his\nway. Manifestly a reputation somewhat difficult to live up to had\npreceded his entry into Grass Valley.\n\nJean's first sight of his future home thrilled him through. It was a\nbig, low, rambling log structure standing well out from a wooded knoll\nat the edge of the valley. Corrals and barns and sheds lay off at the\nback. To the fore stretched broad pastures where numberless cattle and\nhorses grazed. At sunset the scene was one of rich color. Prosperity\nand abundance and peace seemed attendant upon that ranch; lusty voices\nof burros braying and cows bawling seemed welcoming Jean. A hound\nbayed. The first cool touch of wind fanned Jean's cheek and brought a\nfragrance of wood smoke and frying ham.\n\nHorses in the Pasture romped to the fence and whistled at these\nnewcomers. Jean espied a white-faced black horse that gladdened his\nsight. \"Hello, Whiteface! I'll sure straddle you,\" called Jean. Then\nup the gentle slope he saw the tall figure of his father--the same as\nhe had seen him thousands of times, bareheaded, shirt sleeved, striding\nwith long step. Jean waved and called to him.\n\n\"Hi, You Prodigal!\" came the answer. Yes, the voice of his father--and\nJean's boyhood memories flashed. He hurried his horse those last few\nrods. No--dad was not the same. His hair shone gray.\n\n\"Here I am, dad,\" called Jean, and then he was dismounting. A deep,\nquiet emotion settled over him, stilling the hurry, the eagerness, the\npang in his breast.\n\n\"Son, I shore am glad to see you,\" said his father, and wrung his hand.\n\"Wal, wal, the size of you! Shore you've grown, any how you favor your\nmother.\"\n\nJean felt in the iron clasp of hand, in the uplifting of the handsome\nhead, in the strong, fine light of piercing eyes that there was no\ndifference in the spirit of his father. But the old smile could not\nhide lines and shades strange to Jean.\n\n\"Dad, I'm as glad as you,\" replied Jean, heartily. \"It seems long\nwe've been parted, now I see you. Are You well, dad, an' all right?\"\n\n\"Not complainin', son. I can ride all day same as ever,\" he said.\n\"Come. Never mind your hosses. They'll be looked after. Come meet the\nfolks.... Wal, wal, you got heah at last.\"\n\nOn the porch of the house a group awaited Jean's coming, rather\nsilently, he thought. Wide-eyed children were there, very shy and\nwatchful. The dark face of his sister corresponded with the image of\nher in his memory. She appeared taller, more womanly, as she embraced\nhim. \"Oh, Jean, Jean, I'm glad you've come!\" she cried, and pressed\nhim close. Jean felt in her a woman's anxiety for the present as well\nas affection for the past. He remembered his aunt Mary, though he had\nnot seen her for years. His half brothers, Bill and Guy, had changed\nbut little except perhaps to grow lean and rangy. Bill resembled his\nfather, though his aspect was jocular rather than serious. Guy was\nsmaller, wiry, and hard as rock, with snapping eyes in a brown, still\nface, and he had the bow-legs of a cattleman. Both had married in\nArizona. Bill's wife, Kate, was a stout, comely little woman, mother\nof three of the children. The other wife was young, a strapping girl,\nred headed and freckled, with wonderful lines of pain and strength in\nher face. Jean remembered, as he looked at her, that some one had\nwritten him about the tragedy in her life. When she was only a child\nthe Apaches had murdered all her family. Then next to greet Jean were\nthe little children, all shy, yet all manifestly impressed by the\noccasion. A warmth and intimacy of forgotten home emotions flooded\nover Jean. Sweet it was to get home to these relatives who loved him\nand welcomed him with quiet gladness. But there seemed more. Jean was\nquick to see the shadow in the eyes of the women in that household and\nto sense a strange reliance which his presence brought.\n\n\"Son, this heah Tonto is a land of milk an' honey,\" said his father, as\nJean gazed spellbound at the bounteous supper.\n\nJean certainly performed gastronomic feats on this occasion, to the\ndelight of Aunt Mary and the wonder of the children. \"Oh, he's\nstarv-ved to death,\" whispered one of the little boys to his sister.\nThey had begun to warm to this stranger uncle. Jean had no chance to\ntalk, even had he been able to, for the meal-time showed a relaxation\nof restraint and they all tried to tell him things at once. In the\nbright lamplight his father looked easier and happier as he beamed upon\nJean.\n\nAfter supper the men went into an adjoining room that appeared most\ncomfortable and attractive. It was long, and the width of the house,\nwith a huge stone fireplace, low ceiling of hewn timbers and walls of\nthe same, small windows with inside shutters of wood, and home-made\ntable and chairs and rugs.\n\n\"Wal, Jean, do you recollect them shootin'-irons?\" inquired the\nrancher, pointing above the fireplace. Two guns hung on the spreading\ndeer antlers there. One was a musket Jean's father had used in the war\nof the rebellion and the other was a long, heavy, muzzle-loading\nflintlock Kentucky, rifle with which Jean had learned to shoot.\n\n\"Reckon I do, dad,\" replied Jean, and with reverent hands and a rush of\nmemory he took the old gun down.\n\n\"Jean, you shore handle thet old arm some clumsy,\" said Guy Isbel,\ndryly. And Bill added a remark to the effect that perhaps Jean had\nbeen leading a luxurious and tame life back there in Oregon, and then\nadded, \"But I reckon he's packin' that six-shooter like a Texan.\"\n\n\"Say, I fetched a gun or two along with me,\" replied Jean, jocularly.\n\"Reckon I near broke my poor mule's back with the load of shells an'\nguns. Dad, what was the idea askin' me to pack out an arsenal?\"\n\n\"Son, shore all shootin' arms an' such are at a premium in the Tonto,\"\nreplied his father. \"An' I was givin' you a hunch to come loaded.\"\n\nHis cool, drawling voice seemed to put a damper upon the pleasantries.\nRight there Jean sensed the charged atmosphere. His brothers were\nbursting with utterance about to break forth, and his father suddenly\nwore a look that recalled to Jean critical times of days long past. But\nthe entrance of the children and the women folk put an end to\nconfidences. Evidently the youngsters were laboring under subdued\nexcitement. They preceded their mother, the smallest boy in the lead.\nFor him this must have been both a dreadful and a wonderful experience,\nfor he seemed to be pushed forward by his sister and brother and\nmother, and driven by yearnings of his own. \"There now, Lee. Say,\n'Uncle Jean, what did you fetch us?' The lad hesitated for a shy,\nfrightened look at Jean, and then, gaining something from his scrutiny\nof his uncle, he toddled forward and bravely delivered the question of\ntremendous importance.\n\n\"What did I fetch you, hey?\" cried Jean, in delight, as he took the lad\nup on his knee. \"Wouldn't you like to know? I didn't forget, Lee. I\nremembered you all. Oh! the job I had packin' your bundle of\npresents.... Now, Lee, make a guess.\"\n\n\"I dess you fetched a dun,\" replied Lee.\n\n\"A dun!--I'll bet you mean a gun,\" laughed Jean. \"Well, you\nfour-year-old Texas gunman! Make another guess.\"\n\nThat appeared too momentous and entrancing for the other two\nyoungsters, and, adding their shrill and joyous voices to Lee's, they\nbesieged Jean.\n\n\"Dad, where's my pack?\" cried Jean. \"These young Apaches are after my\nscalp.\"\n\n\"Reckon the boys fetched it onto the porch,\" replied the rancher.\n\nGuy Isbel opened the door and went out. \"By golly! heah's three\npacks,\" he called. \"Which one do you want, Jean?\"\n\n\"It's a long, heavy bundle, all tied up,\" replied Jean.\n\nGuy came staggering in under a burden that brought a whoop from the\nyoungsters and bright gleams to the eyes of the women. Jean lost\nnothing of this. How glad he was that he had tarried in San Francisco\nbecause of a mental picture of this very reception in far-off wild\nArizona.\n\nWhen Guy deposited the bundle on the floor it jarred the room. It gave\nforth metallic and rattling and crackling sounds.\n\n\"Everybody stand back an' give me elbow room,\" ordered Jean,\nmajestically. \"My good folks, I want you all to know this is somethin'\nthat doesn't happen often. The bundle you see here weighed about a\nhundred pounds when I packed it on my shoulder down Market Street in\nFrisco. It was stolen from me on shipboard. I got it back in San Diego\nan' licked the thief. It rode on a burro from San Diego to Yuma an'\nonce I thought the burro was lost for keeps. It came up the Colorado\nRiver from Yuma to Ehrenberg an' there went on top of a stage. We got\nchased by bandits an' once when the horses were gallopin' hard it near\nrolled off. Then it went on the back of a pack horse an' helped wear\nhim out. An' I reckon it would be somewhere else now if I hadn't\nfallen in with a freighter goin' north from Phoenix to the Santa Fe\nTrail. The last lap when it sagged the back of a mule was the riskiest\nan' full of the narrowest escapes. Twice my mule bucked off his pack\nan' left my outfit scattered. Worst of all, my precious bundle made the\nmule top heavy comin' down that place back here where the trail seems\nto drop off the earth. There I was hard put to keep sight of my pack.\nSometimes it was on top an' other times the mule. But it got here at\nlast.... An' now I'll open it.\"\n\nAfter this long and impressive harangue, which at least augmented the\nsuspense of the women and worked the children into a frenzy, Jean\nleisurely untied the many knots round the bundle and unrolled it. He\nhad packed that bundle for just such travel as it had sustained. Three\ncloth-bound rifles he laid aside, and with them a long, very heavy\npackage tied between two thin wide boards. From this came the metallic\nclink. \"Oo, I know what dem is!\" cried Lee, breaking the silence of\nsuspense. Then Jean, tearing open a long flat parcel, spread before\nthe mute, rapt-eyed youngsters such magnificent things, as they had\nnever dreamed of--picture books, mouth-harps, dolls, a toy gun and a\ntoy pistol, a wonderful whistle and a fox horn, and last of all a box\nof candy. Before these treasures on the floor, too magical to be\ntouched at first, the two little boys and their sister simply knelt.\nThat was a sweet, full moment for Jean; yet even that was clouded by\nthe something which shadowed these innocent children fatefully born in\na wild place at a wild time. Next Jean gave to his sister the presents\nhe had brought her--beautiful cloth for a dress, ribbons and a bit of\nlace, handkerchiefs and buttons and yards of linen, a sewing case and a\nwhole box of spools of thread, a comb and brush and mirror, and lastly\na Spanish brooch inlaid with garnets. \"There, Ann,\" said Jean, \"I\nconfess I asked a girl friend in Oregon to tell me some things my\nsister might like.\" Manifestly there was not much difference in girls.\nAnn seemed stunned by this munificence, and then awakening, she hugged\nJean in a way that took his breath. She was not a child any more, that\nwas certain. Aunt Mary turned knowing eyes upon Jean. \"Reckon you\ncouldn't have pleased Ann more. She's engaged, Jean, an' where girls\nare in that state these things mean a heap.... Ann, you'll be married\nin that!\" And she pointed to the beautiful folds of material that Ann\nhad spread out.\n\n\"What's this?\" demanded Jean. His sister's blushes were enough to\nconvict her, and they were mightily becoming, too.\n\n\"Here, Aunt Mary,\" went on Jean, \"here's yours, an' here's somethin'\nfor each of my new sisters.\" This distribution left the women as happy\nand occupied, almost, as the children. It left also another package,\nthe last one in the bundle. Jean laid hold of it and, lifting it, he\nwas about to speak when he sustained a little shock of memory. Quite\ndistinctly he saw two little feet, with bare toes peeping out of\nworn-out moccasins, and then round, bare, symmetrical ankles that had\nbeen scratched by brush. Next he saw Ellen Jorth's passionate face as\nshe looked when she had made the violent action so disconcerting to\nhim. In this happy moment the memory seemed farther off than a few\nhours. It had crystallized. It annoyed while it drew him. As a\nresult he slowly laid this package aside and did not speak as he had\nintended to.\n\n\"Dad, I reckon I didn't fetch a lot for you an' the boys,\" continued\nJean. \"Some knives, some pipes an' tobacco. An' sure the guns.\"\n\n\"Shore, you're a regular Santa Claus, Jean,\" replied his father. \"Wal,\nwal, look at the kids. An' look at Mary. An' for the land's sake look\nat Ann! Wal, wal, I'm gettin' old. I'd forgotten the pretty stuff an'\ngimcracks that mean so much to women. We're out of the world heah.\nIt's just as well you've lived apart from us, Jean, for comin' back\nthis way, with all that stuff, does us a lot of good. I cain't say,\nson, how obliged I am. My mind has been set on the hard side of life.\nAn' it's shore good to forget--to see the smiles of the women an' the\njoy of the kids.\"\n\nAt this juncture a tall young man entered the open door. He looked a\nrider. All about him, even his face, except his eyes, seemed old, but\nhis eyes were young, fine, soft, and dark.\n\n\"How do, y'u-all!\" he said, evenly.\n\nAnn rose from her knees. Then Jean did not need to be told who this\nnewcomer was.\n\n\"Jean, this is my friend, Andrew Colmor.\"\n\nJean knew when he met Colmor's grip and the keen flash of his eyes that\nhe was glad Ann had set her heart upon one of their kind. And his\nsecond impression was something akin to the one given him in the road\nby the admiring lad. Colmor's estimate of him must have been a\nmonument built of Ann's eulogies. Jean's heart suffered misgivings.\nCould he live up to the character that somehow had forestalled his\nadvent in Grass Valley? Surely life was measured differently here in\nthe Tonto Basin.\n\nThe children, bundling their treasures to their bosoms, were dragged\noff to bed in some remote part of the house, from which their laughter\nand voices came back with happy significance. Jean forthwith had an\ninterested audience. How eagerly these lonely pioneer people listened\nto news of the outside world! Jean talked until he was hoarse. In\ntheir turn his hearers told him much that had never found place in the\nfew and short letters he had received since he had been left in Oregon.\nNot a word about sheepmen or any hint of rustlers! Jean marked the\nomission and thought all the more seriously of probabilities because\nnothing was said. Altogether the evening was a happy reunion of a\nfamily of which all living members were there present. Jean grasped\nthat this fact was one of significant satisfaction to his father.\n\n\"Shore we're all goin' to live together heah,\" he declared. \"I started\nthis range. I call most of this valley mine. We'll run up a cabin for\nAnn soon as she says the word. An' you, Jean, where's your girl? I\nshore told you to fetch her.\"\n\n\"Dad, I didn't have one,\" replied Jean.\n\n\"Wal, I wish you had,\" returned the rancher. \"You'll go courtin' one\nof these Tonto hussies that I might object to.\"\n\n\"Why, father, there's not a girl in the valley Jean would look twice\nat,\" interposed Ann Isbel, with spirit.\n\nJean laughed the matter aside, but he had an uneasy memory. Aunt Mary\naverred, after the manner of relatives, that Jean would play havoc\namong the women of the settlement. And Jean retorted that at least one\nmember of the Isbels; should hold out against folly and fight and love\nand marriage, the agents which had reduced the family to these few\npresent. \"I'll be the last Isbel to go under,\" he concluded.\n\n\"Son, you're talkin' wisdom,\" said his father. \"An' shore that reminds\nme of the uncle you're named after. Jean Isbel! ... Wal, he was my\nyoungest brother an' shore a fire-eater. Our mother was a French\ncreole from Louisiana, an' Jean must have inherited some of his\nfightin' nature from her. When the war of the rebellion started Jean\nan' I enlisted. I was crippled before we ever got to the front. But\nJean went through three Years before he was killed. His company had\norders to fight to the last man. An' Jean fought an' lived long enough\njust to be that last man.\"\n\nAt length Jean was left alone with his father.\n\n\"Reckon you're used to bunkin' outdoors?\" queried the rancher, rather\nabruptly.\n\n\"Most of the time,\" replied Jean.\n\n\"Wal, there's room in the house, but I want you to sleep out. Come get\nyour beddin' an' gun. I'll show you.\"\n\nThey went outside on the porch, where Jean shouldered his roll of\ntarpaulin and blankets. His rifle, in its saddle sheath, leaned\nagainst the door. His father took it up and, half pulling it out,\nlooked at it by the starlight. \"Forty-four, eh? Wal, wal, there's\nshore no better, if a man can hold straight.\" At the moment a big gray\ndog trotted up to sniff at Jean. \"An' heah's your bunkmate, Shepp.\nHe's part lofer, Jean. His mother was a favorite shepherd dog of mine.\nHis father was a big timber wolf that took us two years to kill. Some\nbad wolf packs runnin' this Basin.\"\n\nThe night was cold and still, darkly bright under moon and stars; the\nsmell of hay seemed to mingle with that of cedar. Jean followed his\nfather round the house and up a gentle slope of grass to the edge of\nthe cedar line. Here several trees with low-sweeping thick branches\nformed a dense, impenetrable shade.\n\n\"Son, your uncle Jean was scout for Liggett, one of the greatest rebels\nthe South had,\" said the rancher. \"An' you're goin' to be scout for\nthe Isbels of Tonto. Reckon you'll find it 'most as hot as your uncle\ndid.... Spread your bed inside. You can see out, but no one can see\nyou. Reckon there's been some queer happenin's 'round heah lately. If\nShepp could talk he'd shore have lots to tell us. Bill an' Guy have\nbeen sleepin' out, trailin' strange hoss tracks, an' all that. But\nshore whoever's been prowlin' around heah was too sharp for them. Some\nbad, crafty, light-steppin' woodsmen 'round heah, Jean.... Three\nmawnin's ago, just after daylight, I stepped out the back door an' some\none of these sneaks I'm talkin' aboot took a shot at me. Missed my\nhead a quarter of an inch! To-morrow I'll show you the bullet hole in\nthe doorpost. An' some of my gray hairs that 're stickin' in it!\"\n\n\"Dad!\" ejaculated Jean, with a hand outstretched. \"That's awful! You\nfrighten me.\"\n\n\"No time to be scared,\" replied his father, calmly. \"They're shore\ngoin' to kill me. That's why I wanted you home.... In there with you,\nnow! Go to sleep. You shore can trust Shepp to wake you if he gets\nscent or sound.... An' good night, my son. I'm sayin' that I'll rest\neasy to-night.\"\n\nJean mumbled a good night and stood watching his father's shining white\nhead move away under the starlight. Then the tall, dark form vanished,\na door closed, and all was still. The dog Shepp licked Jean's hand.\nJean felt grateful for that warm touch. For a moment he sat on his\nroll of bedding, his thought still locked on the shuddering revelation\nof his father's words, \"They're shore goin' to kill me.\" The shock of\ninaction passed. Jean pushed his pack in the dark opening and,\ncrawling inside, he unrolled it and made his bed.\n\nWhen at length he was comfortably settled for the night he breathed a\nlong sigh of relief. What bliss to relax! A throbbing and burning of\nhis muscles seemed to begin with his rest. The cool starlit night, the\nsmell of cedar, the moan of wind, the silence--an were real to his\nsenses. After long weeks of long, arduous travel he was home. The\nwarmth of the welcome still lingered, but it seemed to have been\npierced by an icy thrust. What lay before him? The shadow in the eyes\nof his aunt, in the younger, fresher eyes of his sister--Jean connected\nthat with the meaning of his father's tragic words. Far past was the\nmorning that had been so keen, the breaking of camp in the sunlit\nforest, the riding down the brown aisles under the pines, the music of\nbleating lambs that had called him not to pass by. Thought of Ellen\nJorth recurred. Had he met her only that morning? She was up there in\nthe forest, asleep under the starlit pines. Who was she? What was her\nstory? That savage fling of her skirt, her bitter speech and\npassionate flaming face--they haunted Jean. They were crystallizing\ninto simpler memories, growing away from his bewilderment, and\ntherefore at once sweeter and more doubtful. \"Maybe she meant\ndifferently from what I thought,\" Jean soliloquized. \"Anyway, she was\nhonest.\" Both shame and thrill possessed him at the recall of an\ninsidious idea--dare he go back and find her and give her the last\npackage of gifts he had brought from the city? What might they mean to\npoor, ragged, untidy, beautiful Ellen Jorth? The idea grew on Jean.\nIt could not be dispelled. He resisted stubbornly. It was bound to go\nto its fruition. Deep into his mind had sunk an impression of her\nneed--a material need that brought spirit and pride to abasement. From\none picture to another his memory wandered, from one speech and act of\nhers to another, choosing, selecting, casting aside, until clear and\nsharp as the stars shone the words, \"Oh, I've been kissed before!\"\nThat stung him now. By whom? Not by one man, but by several, by many,\nshe had meant. Pshaw! he had only been sympathetic and drawn by a\nstrange girl in the woods. To-morrow he would forget. Work there was\nfor him in Grass Valley. And he reverted uneasily to the remarks of\nhis father until at last sleep claimed him.\n\nA cold nose against his cheek, a low whine, awakened Jean. The big dog\nShepp was beside him, keen, wary, intense. The night appeared far\nadvanced toward dawn. Far away a cock crowed; the near-at-hand one\nanswered in clarion voice. \"What is it, Shepp?\" whispered Jean, and he\nsat up. The dog smelled or heard something suspicious to his nature,\nbut whether man or animal Jean could not tell.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nThe morning star, large, intensely blue-white, magnificent in its\ndominance of the clear night sky, hung over the dim, dark valley\nramparts. The moon had gone down and all the other stars were wan, pale\nghosts.\n\nPresently the strained vacuum of Jean's ears vibrated to a low roar of\nmany hoofs. It came from the open valley, along the slope to the\nsouth. Shepp acted as if he wanted the word to run. Jean laid a hand\non the dog. \"Hold on, Shepp,\" he whispered. Then hauling on his boots\nand slipping into his coat Jean took his rifle and stole out into the\nopen. Shepp appeared to be well trained, for it was evident that he\nhad a strong natural tendency to run off and hunt for whatever had\nroused him. Jean thought it more than likely that the dog scented an\nanimal of some kind. If there were men prowling around the ranch\nShepp, might have been just as vigilant, but it seemed to Jean that the\ndog would have shown less eagerness to leave him, or none at all.\n\nIn the stillness of the morning it took Jean a moment to locate the\ndirection of the wind, which was very light and coming from the south.\nIn fact that little breeze had borne the low roar of trampling hoofs.\nJean circled the ranch house to the right and kept along the slope at\nthe edge of the cedars. It struck him suddenly how well fitted he was\nfor work of this sort. All the work he had ever done, except for his\nfew years in school, had been in the open. All the leisure he had ever\nbeen able to obtain had been given to his ruling passion for hunting\nand fishing. Love of the wild had been born in Jean. At this moment\nhe experienced a grim assurance of what his instinct and his training\nmight accomplish if directed to a stern and daring end. Perhaps his\nfather understood this; perhaps the old Texan had some little reason\nfor his confidence.\n\nEvery few paces Jean halted to listen. All objects, of course, were\nindistinguishable in the dark-gray obscurity, except when he came close\nupon them. Shepp showed an increasing eagerness to bolt out into the\nvoid. When Jean had traveled half a mile from the house he heard a\nscattered trampling of cattle on the run, and farther out a low\nstrangled bawl of a calf. \"Ahuh!\" muttered Jean. \"Cougar or some\nvarmint pulled down that calf.\" Then he discharged his rifle in the\nair and yelled with all his might. It was necessary then to yell again\nto hold Shepp back.\n\nThereupon Jean set forth down the valley, and tramped out and across\nand around, as much to scare away whatever had been after the stock as\nto look for the wounded calf. More than once he heard cattle moving\naway ahead of him, but he could not see them. Jean let Shepp go,\nhoping the dog would strike a trail. But Shepp neither gave tongue nor\ncame back. Dawn began to break, and in the growing light Jean searched\naround until at last he stumbled over a dead calf, lying in a little\nbare wash where water ran in wet seasons. Big wolf tracks showed in\nthe soft earth. \"Lofers,\" said Jean, as he knelt and just covered one\ntrack with his spread hand. \"We had wolves in Oregon, but not as big\nas these.... Wonder where that half-wolf dog, Shepp, went. Wonder if\nhe can be trusted where wolves are concerned. I'll bet not, if there's\na she-wolf runnin' around.\"\n\nJean found tracks of two wolves, and he trailed them out of the wash,\nthen lost them in the grass. But, guided by their direction, he went\non and climbed a slope to the cedar line, where in the dusty patches he\nfound the tracks again. \"Not scared much,\" he muttered, as he noted\nthe slow trotting tracks. \"Well, you old gray lofers, we're goin' to\nclash.\" Jean knew from many a futile hunt that wolves were the wariest\nand most intelligent of wild animals in the quest. From the top of a\nlow foothill he watched the sun rise; and then no longer wondered why\nhis father waxed eloquent over the beauty and location and luxuriance\nof this grassy valley. But it was large enough to make rich a good\nmany ranchers. Jean tried to restrain any curiosity as to his father's\ndealings in Grass Valley until the situation had been made clear.\n\nMoreover, Jean wanted to love this wonderful country. He wanted to be\nfree to ride and hunt and roam to his heart's content; and therefore he\ndreaded hearing his father's claims. But Jean threw off forebodings.\nNothing ever turned out so badly as it presaged. He would think the\nbest until certain of the worst. The morning was gloriously bright,\nand already the frost was glistening wet on the stones. Grass Valley\nshone like burnished silver dotted with innumerable black spots. Burros\nwere braying their discordant messages to one another; the colts were\nromping in the fields; stallions were whistling; cows were bawling. A\ncloud of blue smoke hung low over the ranch house, slowly wafting away\non the wind. Far out in the valley a dark group of horsemen were\nriding toward the village. Jean glanced thoughtfully at them and\nreflected that he seemed destined to harbor suspicion of all men new\nand strange to him. Above the distant village stood the darkly green\nfoothills leading up to the craggy slopes, and these ending in the Rim,\na red, black-fringed mountain front, beautiful in the morning sunlight,\nlonely, serene, and mysterious against the level skyline. Mountains,\nranges, distances unknown to Jean, always called to him--to come, to\nseek, to explore, to find, but no wild horizon ever before beckoned to\nhim as this one. And the subtle vague emotion that had gone to sleep\nwith him last night awoke now hauntingly. It took effort to dispel the\ndesire to think, to wonder.\n\nUpon his return to the house, he went around on the valley side, so as\nto see the place by light of day. His father had built for permanence;\nand evidently there had been three constructive periods in the history\nof that long, substantial, picturesque log house. But few nails and\nlittle sawed lumber and no glass had been used. Strong and skillful\nhands, axes and a crosscut saw, had been the prime factors in erecting\nthis habitation of the Isbels.\n\n\"Good mawnin', son,\" called a cheery voice from the porch. \"Shore\nwe-all heard you shoot; an' the crack of that forty-four was as welcome\nas May flowers.\"\n\nBill Isbel looked up from a task over a saddle girth and inquired\npleasantly if Jean ever slept of nights. Guy Isbel laughed and there\nwas warm regard in the gaze he bent on Jean.\n\n\"You old Indian!\" he drawled, slowly. \"Did you get a bead on anythin'?\"\n\n\"No. I shot to scare away what I found to be some of your lofers,\"\nreplied Jean. \"I heard them pullin' down a calf. An' I found tracks\nof two whoppin' big wolves. I found the dead calf, too. Reckon the\nmeat can be saved. Dad, you must lose a lot of stock here.\"\n\n\"Wal, son, you shore hit the nail on the haid,\" replied the rancher.\n\"What with lions an' bears an' lofers--an' two-footed lofers of another\nbreed--I've lost five thousand dollars in stock this last year.\"\n\n\"Dad! You don't mean it!\" exclaimed Jean, in astonishment. To him that\nsum represented a small fortune.\n\n\"I shore do,\" answered his father.\n\nJean shook his head as if he could not understand such an enormous loss\nwhere there were keen able-bodied men about. \"But that's awful, dad.\nHow could it happen? Where were your herders an' cowboys? An' Bill an'\nGuy?\"\n\nBill Isbel shook a vehement fist at Jean and retorted in earnest,\nhaving manifestly been hit in a sore spot. \"Where was me an' Guy, huh?\nWal, my Oregon brother, we was heah, all year, sleepin' more or less\naboot three hours out of every twenty-four--ridin' our boots off--an'\nwe couldn't keep down that loss.\"\n\n\"Jean, you-all have a mighty tumble comin' to you out heah,\" said Guy,\ncomplacently.\n\n\"Listen, son,\" spoke up the rancher. \"You want to have some hunches\nbefore you figure on our troubles. There's two or three packs of\nlofers, an' in winter time they are hell to deal with. Lions thick as\nbees, an' shore bad when the snow's on. Bears will kill a cow now an'\nthen. An' whenever an' old silvertip comes mozyin' across from the\nMazatzals he kills stock. I'm in with half a dozen cattlemen. We all\nwork together, an' the whole outfit cain't keep these vermints down.\nThen two years ago the Hash Knife Gang come into the Tonto.\"\n\n\"Hash Knife Gang? What a pretty name!\" replied Jean. \"Who're they?\"\n\n\"Rustlers, son. An' shore the real old Texas brand. The old Lone Star\nState got too hot for them, an' they followed the trail of a lot of\nother Texans who needed a healthier climate. Some two hundred Texans\naround heah, Jean, an' maybe a matter of three hundred inhabitants in\nthe Tonto all told, good an' bad. Reckon it's aboot half an' half.\"\n\nA cheery call from the kitchen interrupted the conversation of the men.\n\n\"You come to breakfast.\"\n\nDuring the meal the old rancher talked to Bill and Guy about the day's\norder of work; and from this Jean gathered an idea of what a big cattle\nbusiness his father conducted. After breakfast Jean's brothers\nmanifested keen interest in the new rifles. These were unwrapped and\ncleaned and taken out for testing. The three rifles were forty-four\ncalibre Winchesters, the kind of gun Jean had found most effective. He\ntried them out first, and the shots he made were satisfactory to him\nand amazing to the others. Bill had used an old Henry rifle. Guy did\nnot favor any particular rifle. The rancher pinned his faith to the\nfamous old single-shot buffalo gun, mostly called needle gun. \"Wal,\nreckon I'd better stick to mine. Shore you cain't teach an old dog new\ntricks. But you boys may do well with the forty-fours. Pack 'em on\nyour saddles an' practice when you see a coyote.\"\n\nJean found it difficult to convince himself that this interest in guns\nand marksmanship had any sinister propulsion back of it. His father\nand brothers had always been this way. Rifles were as important to\npioneers as plows, and their skillful use was an achievement every\nfrontiersman tried to attain. Friendly rivalry had always existed\namong the members of the Isbel family: even Ann Isbel was a good shot.\nBut such proficiency in the use of firearms--and life in the open that\nwas correlative with it--had not dominated them as it had Jean. Bill\nand Guy Isbel were born cattlemen--chips of the old block. Jean began\nto hope that his father's letter was an exaggeration, and particularly\nthat the fatalistic speech of last night, \"they are goin' to kill me,\"\nwas just a moody inclination to see the worst side. Still, even as Jean\ntried to persuade himself of this more hopeful view, he recalled many\nreferences to the peculiar reputation of Texans for gun-throwing, for\nfeuds, for never-ending hatreds. In Oregon the Isbels had lived among\nindustrious and peaceful pioneers from all over the States; to be sure,\nthe life had been rough and primitive, and there had been fights on\noccasions, though no Isbel had ever killed a man. But now they had\nbecome fixed in a wilder and sparsely settled country among men of\ntheir own breed. Jean was afraid his hopes had only sentiment to\nfoster them. Nevertheless, be forced back a strange, brooding, mental\nstate and resolutely held up the brighter side. Whatever the evil\nconditions existing in Grass Valley, they could be met with\nintelligence and courage, with an absolute certainty that it was\ninevitable they must pass away. Jean refused to consider the old,\nfatal law that at certain wild times and wild places in the West\ncertain men had to pass away to change evil conditions.\n\n\"Wal, Jean, ride around the range with the boys,\" said the rancher.\n\"Meet some of my neighbors, Jim Blaisdell, in particular. Take a look\nat the cattle. An' pick out some hosses for yourself.\"\n\n\"I've seen one already,\" declared Jean, quickly. \"A black with white\nface. I'll take him.\"\n\n\"Shore you know a hoss. To my eye he's my pick. But the boys don't\nagree. Bill 'specially has degenerated into a fancier of pitchin'\nhosses. Ann can ride that black. You try him this mawnin'.... An',\nson, enjoy yourself.\"\n\nTrue to his first impression, Jean named the black horse Whiteface and\nfell in love with him before ever he swung a leg over him. Whiteface\nappeared spirited, yet gentle. He had been trained instead of being\nbroken. Of hard hits and quirts and spurs he had no experience. He\nliked to do what his rider wanted him to do.\n\nA hundred or more horses grazed in the grassy meadow, and as Jean rode\non among them it was a pleasure to see stallions throw heads and ears\nup and whistle or snort. Whole troops of colts and two-year-olds raced\nwith flying tails and manes.\n\nBeyond these pastures stretched the range, and Jean saw the gray-green\nexpanse speckled by thousands of cattle. The scene was inspiring.\nJean's brothers led him all around, meeting some of the herders and\nriders employed on the ranch, one of whom was a burly, grizzled man\nwith eyes reddened and narrowed by much riding in wind and sun and\ndust. His name was Evans and he was father of the lad whom Jean had met\nnear the village. Everts was busily skinning the calf that had been\nkilled by the wolves. \"See heah, y'u Jean Isbel,\" said Everts, \"it\nshore was aboot time y'u come home. We-all heahs y'u hev an eye fer\ntracks. Wal, mebbe y'u can kill Old Gray, the lofer thet did this job.\nHe's pulled down nine calves as' yearlin's this last two months thet I\nknow of. An' we've not hed the spring round-up.\"\n\nGrass Valley widened to the southeast. Jean would have been backward\nabout estimating the square miles in it. Yet it was not vast acreage\nso much as rich pasture that made it such a wonderful range. Several\nranches lay along the western slope of this section. Jean was informed\nthat open parks and swales, and little valleys nestling among the\nfoothills, wherever there was water and grass, had been settled by\nranchers. Every summer a few new families ventured in.\n\nBlaisdell struck Jean as being a lionlike type of Texan, both in his\nbroad, bold face, his huge head with its upstanding tawny hair like a\nmane, and in the speech and force that betokened the nature of his\nheart. He was not as old as Jean's father. He had a rolling voice,\nwith the same drawling intonation characteristic of all Texans, and\nblue eyes that still held the fire of youth. Quite a marked contrast\nhe presented to the lean, rangy, hard-jawed, intent-eyed men Jean had\nbegun to accept as Texans.\n\nBlaisdell took time for a curious scrutiny and study of Jean, that,\nfrank and kindly as it was, and evidently the adjustment of impressions\ngotten from hearsay, yet bespoke the attention of one used to judging\nmen for himself, and in this particular case having reasons of his own\nfor so doing.\n\n\"Wal, you're like your sister Ann,\" said Blaisdell. \"Which you may\ntake as a compliment, young man. Both of you favor your mother. But\nyou're an Isbel. Back in Texas there are men who never wear a glove on\ntheir right hands, an' shore I reckon if one of them met up with you\nsudden he'd think some graves had opened an' he'd go for his gun.\"\n\nBlaisdell's laugh pealed out with deep, pleasant roll. Thus he planted\nin Jean's sensitive mind a significant thought-provoking idea about the\npast-and-gone Isbels.\n\nHis further remarks, likewise, were exceedingly interesting to Jean.\nThe settling of the Tonto Basin by Texans was a subject often in\ndispute. His own father had been in the first party of adventurous\npioneers who had traveled up from the south to cross over the Reno Pass\nof the Mazatzals into the Basin. \"Newcomers from outside get\nimpressions of the Tonto accordin' to the first settlers they meet,\"\ndeclared Blaisdell. \"An' shore it's my belief these first impressions\nnever change, just so strong they are! Wal, I've heard my father say\nthere were men in his wagon train that got run out of Texas, but he\nswore he wasn't one of them. So I reckon that sort of talk held good\nfor twenty years, an' for all the Texans who emigrated, except, of\ncourse, such notorious rustlers as Daggs an' men of his ilk. Shore\nwe've got some bad men heah. There's no law. Possession used to mean\nmore than it does now. Daggs an' his Hash Knife Gang have begun to\nhold forth with a high hand. No small rancher can keep enough stock to\npay for his labor.\"\n\nAt the time of which Blaisdell spoke there were not many sheepmen and\ncattlemen in the Tonto, considering its vast area. But these, on\naccount of the extreme wildness of the broken country, were limited to\nthe comparatively open Grass Valley and its adjacent environs.\nNaturally, as the inhabitants increased and stock raising grew in\nproportion the grazing and water rights became matters of extreme\nimportance. Sheepmen ran their flocks up on the Rim in summer time and\ndown into the Basin in winter time. A sheepman could throw a few\nthousand sheep round a cattleman's ranch and ruin him. The range was\nfree. It was as fair for sheepmen to graze their herds anywhere as it\nwas for cattlemen. This of course did not apply to the few acres of\ncultivated ground that a rancher could call his own; but very few\ncattle could have been raised on such limited area. Blaisdell said\nthat the sheepmen were unfair because they could have done just as\nwell, though perhaps at more labor, by keeping to the ridges and\nleaving the open valley and little flats to the ranchers. Formerly\nthere had been room enough for all; now the grazing ranges were being\nencroached upon by sheepmen newly come to the Tonto. To Blaisdell's\nway of thinking the rustler menace was more serious than the\nsheeping-off of the range, for the simple reason that no cattleman knew\nexactly who the rustlers were and for the more complex and significant\nreason that the rustlers did not steal sheep.\n\n\"Texas was overstocked with bad men an' fine steers,\" concluded\nBlaisdell. \"Most of the first an' some of the last have struck the\nTonto. The sheepmen have now got distributin' points for wool an'\nsheep at Maricopa an' Phoenix. They're shore waxin' strong an' bold.\"\n\n\"Ahuh! ... An' what's likely to come of this mess?\" queried Jean.\n\n\"Ask your dad,\" replied Blaisdell.\n\n\"I will. But I reckon I'd be obliged for your opinion.\"\n\n\"Wal, short an' sweet it's this: Texas cattlemen will never allow the\nrange they stocked to be overrun by sheepmen.\"\n\n\"Who's this man Greaves?\" went on Jean. \"Never run into anyone like\nhim.\"\n\n\"Greaves is hard to figure. He's a snaky customer in deals. But he\nseems to be good to the poor people 'round heah. Says he's from\nMissouri. Ha-ha! He's as much Texan as I am. He rode into the Tonto\nwithout even a pack to his name. An' presently he builds his stone\nhouse an' freights supplies in from Phoenix. Appears to buy an' sell a\ngood deal of stock. For a while it looked like he was steerin' a\nmiddle course between cattlemen an' sheepmen. Both sides made a\nrendezvous of his store, where he heard the grievances of each. Laterly\nhe's leanin' to the sheepmen. Nobody has accused him of that yet. But\nit's time some cattleman called his bluff.\"\n\n\"Of course there are honest an' square sheepmen in the Basin?\" queried\nJean.\n\n\"Yes, an' some of them are not unreasonable. But the new fellows that\ndropped in on us the last few year--they're the ones we're goin' to\nclash with.\"\n\n\"This--sheepman, Jorth?\" went on Jean, in slow hesitation, as if\ncompelled to ask what he would rather not learn.\n\n\"Jorth must be the leader of this sheep faction that's harryin' us\nranchers. He doesn't make threats or roar around like some of them.\nBut he goes on raisin' an' buyin' more an' more sheep. An' his herders\nhave been grazin' down all around us this winter. Jorth's got to be\nreckoned with.\"\n\n\"Who is he?\"\n\n\"Wal, I don't know enough to talk aboot. Your dad never said so, but I\nthink he an' Jorth knew each other in Texas years ago. I never saw\nJorth but once. That was in Greaves's barroom. Your dad an' Jorth met\nthat day for the first time in this country. Wal, I've not known men\nfor nothin'. They just stood stiff an' looked at each other. Your dad\nwas aboot to draw. But Jorth made no sign to throw a gun.\"\n\nJean saw the growing and weaving and thickening threads of a tangle\nthat had already involved him. And the sudden pang of regret he\nsustained was not wholly because of sympathies with his own people.\n\n\"The other day back up in the woods on the Rim I ran into a sheepman\nwho said his name was Colter. Who is he?\n\n\"Colter? Shore he's a new one. What'd he look like?\"\n\nJean described Colter with a readiness that spoke volumes for the\nvividness of his impressions.\n\n\"I don't know him,\" replied Blaisdell. \"But that only goes to prove my\ncontention--any fellow runnin' wild in the woods can say he's a\nsheepman.\"\n\n\"Colter surprised me by callin' me by my name,\" continued Jean. \"Our\nlittle talk wasn't exactly friendly. He said a lot about my bein' sent\nfor to run sheep herders out of the country.\"\n\n\"Shore that's all over,\" replied Blaisdell, seriously. \"You're a\nmarked man already.\"\n\n\"What started such rumor?\"\n\n\"Shore you cain't prove it by me. But it's not taken as rumor. It's\ngot to the sheepmen as hard as bullets.\"\n\n\"Ahuh! That accunts for Colter's seemin' a little sore under the\ncollar. Well, he said they were goin' to run sheep over Grass Valley,\nan' for me to take that hunch to my dad.\"\n\nBlaisdell had his chair tilted back and his heavy boots against a post\nof the porch. Down he thumped. His neck corded with a sudden rush of\nblood and his eyes changed to blue fire.\n\n\"The hell he did!\" he ejaculated, in furious amaze.\n\nJean gauged the brooding, rankling hurt of this old cattleman by his\nsudden break from the cool, easy Texan manner. Blaisdell cursed under\nhis breath, swung his arms violently, as if to throw a last doubt or\nhope aside, and then relapsed to his former state. He laid a brown\nhand on Jean's knee.\n\n\"Two years ago I called the cards,\" he said, quietly. \"It means a\nGrass Valley war.\"\n\nNot until late that afternoon did Jean's father broach the subject\nuppermost in his mind. Then at an opportune moment he drew Jean away\ninto the cedars out of sight.\n\n\"Son, I shore hate to make your home-comin' unhappy,\" he said, with\nevidence of agitation, \"but so help me God I have to do it!\"\n\n\"Dad, you called me Prodigal, an' I reckon you were right. I've\nshirked my duty to you. I'm ready now to make up for it,\" replied\nJean, feelingly.\n\n\"Wal, wal, shore thats fine-spoken, my boy.... Let's set down heah an'\nhave a long talk. First off, what did Jim Blaisdell tell you?\"\n\nBriefly Jean outlined the neighbor rancher's conversation. Then Jean\nrecounted his experience with Colter and concluded with Blaisdell's\nreception of the sheepman's threat. If Jean expected to see his father\nrise up like a lion in his wrath he made a huge mistake. This news of\nColter and his talk never struck even a spark from Gaston Isbel.\n\n\"Wal,\" he began, thoughtfully, \"reckon there are only two points in\nJim's talk I need touch on. There's shore goin' to be a Grass Valley\nwar. An' Jim's idea of the cause of it seems to be pretty much the\nsame as that of all the other cattlemen. It 'll go down a black blot\non the history page of the Tonto Basin as a war between rival sheepmen\nan' cattlemen. Same old fight over water an' grass! ... Jean, my son,\nthat is wrong. It 'll not be a war between sheepmen an' cattlemen. But\na war of honest ranchers against rustlers maskin' as sheep-raisers! ...\nMind you, I don't belittle the trouble between sheepmen an' cattlemen\nin Arizona. It's real an' it's vital an' it's serious. It 'll take law\nan' order to straighten out the grazin' question. Some day the\ngovernment will keep sheep off of cattle ranges.... So get things right\nin your mind, my son. You can trust your dad to tell the absolute\ntruth. In this fight that 'll wipe out some of the Isbels--maybe all\nof them--you're on the side of justice an' right. Knowin' that, a man\ncan fight a hundred times harder than he who knows he is a liar an' a\nthief.\"\n\nThe old rancher wiped his perspiring face and breathed slowly and\ndeeply. Jean sensed in him the rise of a tremendous emotional strain.\nWonderingly he watched the keen lined face. More than material worries\nwere at the root of brooding, mounting thoughts in his father's eyes.\n\n\"Now next take what Jim said aboot your comin' to chase these\nsheep-herders out of the valley.... Jean, I started that talk. I had my\ntricky reasons. I know these greaser sheep-herders an' I know the\nrespect Texans have for a gunman. Some say I bragged. Some say I'm an\nold fool in his dotage, ravin' aboot a favorite son. But they are\npeople who hate me an' are afraid. True, son, I talked with a purpose,\nbut shore I was mighty cold an' steady when I did it. My feelin' was\nthat you'd do what I'd do if I were thirty years younger. No, I\nreckoned you'd do more. For I figured on your blood. Jean, you're\nIndian, an' Texas an' French, an' you've trained yourself in the Oregon\nwoods. When you were only a boy, few marksmen I ever knew could beat\nyou, an' I never saw your equal for eye an' ear, for trackin' a hoss,\nfor all the gifts that make a woodsman.... Wal, rememberin' this an'\nseein' the trouble ahaid for the Isbels, I just broke out whenever I\nhad a chance. I bragged before men I'd reason to believe would take my\nwords deep. For instance, not long ago I missed some stock, an',\nhappenin' into Greaves's place one Saturday night, I shore talked loud.\nHis barroom was full of men an' some of them were in my black book.\nGreaves took my talk a little testy. He said. 'Wal, Gass, mebbe you're\nright aboot some of these cattle thieves livin' among us, but ain't\nthey jest as liable to be some of your friends or relatives as Ted\nMeeker's or mine or any one around heah?' That was where Greaves an'\nme fell out. I yelled at him: 'No, by God, they're not! My record heah\nan' that of my people is open. The least I can say for you, Greaves,\nan' your crowd, is that your records fade away on dim trails.' Then he\nsaid, nasty-like, 'Wal, if you could work out all the dim trails in the\nTonto you'd shore be surprised.' An' then I roared. Shore that was\nthe chance I was lookin' for. I swore the trails he hinted of would be\ntracked to the holes of the rustlers who made them. I told him I had\nsent for you an' when you got heah these slippery, mysterious thieves,\nwhoever they were, would shore have hell to pay. Greaves said he hoped\nso, but he was afraid I was partial to my Indian son. Then we had hot\nwords. Blaisdell got between us. When I was leavin' I took a partin'\nfling at him. 'Greaves, you ought to know the Isbels, considerin'\nyou're from Texas. Maybe you've got reasons for throwin' taunts at my\nclaims for my son Jean. Yes, he's got Indian in him an' that 'll be\nthe worse for the men who will have to meet him. I'm tellin' you,\nGreaves, Jean Isbel is the black sheep of the family. If you ride down\nhis record you'll find he's shore in line to be another Poggin, or\nReddy Kingfisher, or Hardin', or any of the Texas gunmen you ought to\nremember.... Greaves, there are men rubbin' elbows with you right heah\nthat my Indian son is goin' to track down!'\"\n\nJean bent his head in stunned cognizance of the notoriety with which\nhis father had chosen to affront any and all Tonto Basin men who were\nunder the ban of his suspicion. What a terrible reputation and trust\nto have saddled upon him! Thrills and strange, heated sensations\nseemed to rush together inside Jean, forming a hot ball of fire that\nthreatened to explode. A retreating self made feeble protests. He saw\nhis own pale face going away from this older, grimmer man.\n\n\"Son, if I could have looked forward to anythin' but blood spillin' I'd\nnever have given you such a name to uphold,\" continued the rancher.\n\"What I'm goin' to tell you now is my secret. My other sons an' Ann\nhave never heard it. Jim Blaisdell suspects there's somethin' strange,\nbut he doesn't know. I'll shore never tell anyone else but you. An'\nyou must promise to keep my secret now an' after I am gone.\"\n\n\"I promise,\" said Jean.\n\n\"Wal, an' now to get it out,\" began his father, breathing hard. His\nface twitched and his hands clenched. \"The sheepman heah I have to\nreckon with is Lee Jorth, a lifelong enemy of mine. We were born in\nthe same town, played together as children, an' fought with each other\nas boys. We never got along together. An' we both fell in love with\nthe same girl. It was nip an' tuck for a while. Ellen Sutton belonged\nto one of the old families of the South. She was a beauty, an' much\ncourted, an' I reckon it was hard for her to choose. But I won her an'\nwe became engaged. Then the war broke out. I enlisted with my brother\nJean. He advised me to marry Ellen before I left. But I would not.\nThat was the blunder of my life. Soon after our partin' her letters\nceased to come. But I didn't distrust her. That was a terrible time\nan' all was confusion. Then I got crippled an' put in a hospital. An'\nin aboot a year I was sent back home.\"\n\nAt this juncture Jean refrained from further gaze at his father's face.\n\n\"Lee Jorth had gotten out of goin' to war,\" went on the rancher, in\nlower, thicker voice. \"He'd married my sweetheart, Ellen.... I knew\nthe story long before I got well. He had run after her like a hound\nafter a hare.... An' Ellen married him. Wal, when I was able to get\naboot I went to see Jorth an' Ellen. I confronted them. I had to know\nwhy she had gone back on me. Lee Jorth hadn't changed any with all his\ngood fortune. He'd made Ellen believe in my dishonor. But, I reckon,\nlies or no lies, Ellen Sutton was faithless. In my absence he had won\nher away from me. An' I saw that she loved him as she never had me. I\nreckon that killed all my generosity. If she'd been imposed upon an'\nweaned away by his lies an' had regretted me a little I'd have\nforgiven, perhaps. But she worshiped him. She was his slave. An' I,\nwal, I learned what hate was.\n\n\"The war ruined the Suttons, same as so many Southerners. Lee Jorth\nwent in for raisin' cattle. He'd gotten the Sutton range an' after a\nfew years he began to accumulate stock. In those days every cattleman\nwas a little bit of a thief. Every cattleman drove in an' branded\ncalves he couldn't swear was his. Wal, the Isbels were the strongest\ncattle raisers in that country. An' I laid a trap for Lee Jorth,\ncaught him in the act of brandin' calves of mine I'd marked, an' I\nproved him a thief. I made him a rustler. I ruined him. We met once.\nBut Jorth was one Texan not strong on the draw, at least against an\nIsbel. He left the country. He had friends an' relatives an' they\nstarted him at stock raisin' again. But he began to gamble an' he got\nin with a shady crowd. He went from bad to worse an' then he came back\nhome. When I saw the change in proud, beautiful Ellen Sutton, an' how\nshe still worshiped Jorth, it shore drove me near mad between pity an'\nhate.... Wal, I reckon in a Texan hate outlives any other feelin'.\nThere came a strange turn of the wheel an' my fortunes changed. Like\nmost young bloods of the day, I drank an' gambled. An' one night I run\nacross Jorth an' a card-sharp friend. He fleeced me. We quarreled.\nGuns were thrown. I killed my man.... Aboot that period the Texas\nRangers had come into existence.... An', son, when I said I never was\nrun out of Texas I wasn't holdin' to strict truth. I rode out on a\nhoss.\n\n\"I went to Oregon. There I married soon, an' there Bill an' Guy were\nborn. Their mother did not live long. An' next I married your mother,\nJean. She had some Indian blood, which, for all I could see, made her\nonly the finer. She was a wonderful woman an' gave me the only\nhappiness I ever knew. You remember her, of course, an' those home\ndays in Oregon. I reckon I made another great blunder when I moved to\nArizona. But the cattle country had always called me. I had heard of\nthis wild Tonto Basin an' how Texans were settlin' there. An' Jim\nBlaisdell sent me word to come--that this shore was a garden spot of\nthe West. Wal, it is. An' your mother was gone--\n\n\"Three years ago Lee Jorth drifted into the Tonto. An', strange to me,\nalong aboot a year or so after his comin' the Hash Knife Gang rode up\nfrom Texas. Jorth went in for raisin' sheep. Along with some other\nsheepmen he lives up in the Rim canyons. Somewhere back in the wild\nbrakes is the hidin' place of the Hash Knife Gang. Nobody but me, I\nreckon, associates Colonel Jorth, as he's called, with Daggs an' his\ngang. Maybe Blaisdell an' a few others have a hunch. But that's no\nmatter. As a sheepman Jorth has a legitimate grievance with the\ncattlemen. But what could be settled by a square consideration for the\ngood of all an' the future Jorth will never settle. He'll never settle\nbecause he is now no longer an honest man. He's in with Daggs. I\ncain't prove this, son, but I know it. I saw it in Jorth's face when I\nmet him that day with Greaves. I saw more. I shore saw what he is up\nto. He'd never meet me at an even break. He's dead set on usin' this\nsheep an' cattle feud to ruin my family an' me, even as I ruined him.\nBut he means more, Jean. This will be a war between Texans, an' a\nbloody war. There are bad men in this Tonto--some of the worst that\ndidn't get shot in Texas. Jorth will have some of these fellows....\nNow, are we goin' to wait to be sheeped off our range an' to be\nmurdered from ambush?\"\n\n\"No, we are not,\" replied Jean, quietly.\n\n\"Wal, come down to the house,\" said the rancher, and led the way\nwithout speaking until he halted by the door. There he placed his\nfinger on a small hole in the wood at about the height of a man's head.\nJean saw it was a bullet hole and that a few gray hairs stuck to its\nedges. The rancher stepped closer to the door-post, so that his head\nwas within an inch of the wood. Then he looked at Jean with eyes in\nwhich there glinted dancing specks of fire, like wild sparks.\n\n\"Son, this sneakin' shot at me was made three mawnin's ago. I\nrecollect movin' my haid just when I heard the crack of a rifle. Shore\nwas surprised. But I got inside quick.\"\n\nJean scarcely heard the latter part of this speech. He seemed doubled\nup inwardly, in hot and cold convulsions of changing emotion. A\nterrible hold upon his consciousness was about to break and let go. The\nfirst shot had been fired and he was an Isbel. Indeed, his father had\nmade him ten times an Isbel. Blood was thick. His father did not\nspeak to dull ears. This strife of rising tumult in him seemed the\neffect of years of calm, of peace in the woods, of dreamy waiting for\nhe knew not what. It was the passionate primitive life in him that had\nawakened to the call of blood ties.\n\n\"That's aboot all, son,\" concluded the rancher. \"You understand now\nwhy I feel they're goin' to kill me. I feel it heah.\" With solemn\ngesture he placed his broad hand over his heart. \"An', Jean, strange\nwhispers come to me at night. It seems like your mother was callin' or\ntryin' to warn me. I cain't explain these queer whispers. But I know\nwhat I know.\"\n\n\"Jorth has his followers. You must have yours,\" replied Jean, tensely.\n\n\"Shore, son, an' I can take my choice of the best men heah,\" replied\nthe rancher, with pride. \"But I'll not do that. I'll lay the deal\nbefore them an' let them choose. I reckon it 'll not be a long-winded\nfight. It 'll be short an bloody, after the way of Texans. I'm\nlookin' to you, Jean, to see that an Isbel is the last man!\"\n\n\"My God--dad! is there no other way? Think of my sister Ann--of my\nbrothers' wives--of--of other women! Dad, these damned Texas feuds are\ncruel, horrible!\" burst out Jean, in passionate protest.\n\n\"Jean, would it be any easier for our women if we let these men shoot\nus down in cold blood?\"\n\n\"Oh no--no, I see, there's no hope of--of.... But, dad, I wasn't\nthinkin' about myself. I don't care. Once started I'll--I'll be what\nyou bragged I was. Only it's so hard to-to give in.\"\n\nJean leaned an arm against the side of the cabin and, bowing his face\nover it, he surrendered to the irresistible contention within his\nbreast. And as if with a wrench that strange inward hold broke. He let\ndown. He went back. Something that was boyish and hopeful--and in its\nplace slowly rose the dark tide of his inheritance, the savage instinct\nof self-preservation bequeathed by his Indian mother, and the fierce,\nfeudal blood lust of his Texan father.\n\nThen as he raised himself, gripped by a sickening coldness in his\nbreast, he remembered Ellen Jorth's face as she had gazed dreamily down\noff the Rim--so soft, so different, with tremulous lips, sad, musing,\nwith far-seeing stare of dark eyes, peering into the unknown, the\ninstinct of life still unlived. With confused vision and nameless pain\nJean thought of her.\n\n\"Dad, it's hard on--the--the young folks,\" he said, bitterly. \"The\nsins of the father, you know. An' the other side. How about Jorth?\nHas he any children?\"\n\nWhat a curious gleam of surprise and conjecture Jean encountered in his\nfather's gaze!\n\n\"He has a daughter. Ellen Jorth. Named after her mother. The first\ntime I saw Ellen Jorth I thought she was a ghost of the girl I had\nloved an' lost. Sight of her was like a blade in my side. But the\nlooks of her an' what she is--they don't gibe. Old as I am, my\nheart--Bah! Ellen Jorth is a damned hussy!\"\n\nJean Isbel went off alone into the cedars. Surrender and resignation\nto his father's creed should have ended his perplexity and worry. His\ninstant and burning resolve to be as his father had represented him\nshould have opened his mind to slow cunning, to the craft of the\nIndian, to the development of hate. But there seemed to be an\nobstacle. A cloud in the way of vision. A face limned on his memory.\n\nThose damning words of his father's had been a shock--how little or\ngreat he could not tell. Was it only a day since he had met Ellen\nJorth? What had made all the difference? Suddenly like a breath the\nfragrance of her hair came back to him. Then the sweet coolness of her\nlips! Jean trembled. He looked around him as if he were pursued or\nsurrounded by eyes, by instincts, by fears, by incomprehensible things.\n\n\"Ahuh! That must be what ails me,\" he muttered. \"The look of her--an'\nthat kiss--they've gone hard me. I should never have stopped to talk.\nAn' I'm to kill her father an' leave her to God knows what.\"\n\nSomething was wrong somewhere. Jean absolutely forgot that within the\nhour he had pledged his manhood, his life to a feud which could be\nblotted out only in blood. If he had understood himself he would have\nrealized that the pledge was no more thrilling and unintelligible in\nits possibilities than this instinct which drew him irresistibly.\n\n\"Ellen Jorth! So--my dad calls her a damned hussy! So--that explains\nthe--the way she acted--why she never hit me when I kissed her. An'\nher words, so easy an' cool-like. Hussy? That means she's bad--bad!\nScornful of me--maybe disappointed because my kiss was innocent! It\nwas, I swear. An' all she said: 'Oh, I've been kissed before.'\"\n\nJean grew furious with himself for the spreading of a new sensation in\nhis breast that seemed now to ache. Had he become infatuated, all in a\nday, with this Ellen Jorth? Was he jealous of the men who had the\nprivilege of her kisses? No! But his reply was hot with shame, with\nuncertainty. The thing that seemed wrong was outside of himself. A\nblunder was no crime. To be attracted by a pretty girl in the\nwoods--to yield to an impulse was no disgrace, nor wrong. He had been\nfoolish over a girl before, though not to such a rash extent. Ellen\nJorth had stuck in his consciousness, and with her a sense of regret.\n\nThen swiftly rang his father's bitter words, the revealing: \"But the\nlooks of her an' what she is--they don't gibe!\" In the import of these\nwords hid the meaning of the wrong that troubled him. Broodingly he\npondered over them.\n\n\"The looks of her. Yes, she was pretty. But it didn't dawn on me at\nfirst. I--I was sort of excited. I liked to look at her, but didn't\nthink.\" And now consciously her face was called up, infinitely sweet\nand more impelling for the deliberate memory. Flash of brown skin,\nsmooth and clear; level gaze of dark, wide eyes, steady, bold,\nunseeing; red curved lips, sad and sweet; her strong, clean, fine face\nrose before Jean, eager and wistful one moment, softened by dreamy\nmusing thought, and the next stormily passionate, full of hate, full of\nlonging, but the more mysterious and beautiful.\n\n\"She looks like that, but she's bad,\" concluded Jean, with bitter\nfinality. \"I might have fallen in love with Ellen Jorth if--if she'd\nbeen different.\"\n\nBut the conviction forced upon Jean did not dispel the haunting memory\nof her face nor did it wholly silence the deep and stubborn voice of\nhis consciousness. Later that afternoon he sought a moment with his\nsister.\n\n\"Ann, did you ever meet Ellen Jorth?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yes, but not lately,\" replied Ann.\n\n\"Well, I met her as I was ridin' along yesterday. She was herdin'\nsheep,\" went on Jean, rapidly. \"I asked her to show me the way to the\nRim. An' she walked with me a mile or so. I can't say the meetin' was\nnot interestin', at least to me.... Will you tell me what you know\nabout her?\"\n\n\"Sure, Jean,\" replied his sister, with her dark eyes fixed wonderingly\nand kindly on his troubled face. \"I've heard a great deal, but in this\nTonto Basin I don't believe all I hear. What I know I'll tell you. I\nfirst met Ellen Jorth two years ago. We didn't know each other's names\nthen. She was the prettiest girl I ever saw. I liked her. She liked\nme. She seemed unhappy. The next time we met was at a round-up.\nThere were other girls with me and they snubbed her. But I left them\nand went around with her. That snub cut her to the heart. She was\nlonely. She had no friends. She talked about herself--how she hated\nthe people, but loved Arizona. She had nothin' fit to wear. I didn't\nneed to be told that she'd been used to better things. Just when it\nlooked as if we were goin' to be friends she told me who she was and\nasked me my name. I told her. Jean, I couldn't have hurt her more if\nI'd slapped her face. She turned white. She gasped. And then she ran\noff. The last time I saw her was about a year ago. I was ridin' a\nshort-cut trail to the ranch where a friend lived. And I met Ellen\nJorth ridin' with a man I'd never seen. The trail was overgrown and\nshady. They were ridin' close and didn't see me right off. The man\nhad his arm round her. She pushed him away. I saw her laugh. Then he\ngot hold of her again and was kissin' her when his horse shied at sight\nof mine. They rode by me then. Ellen Jorth held her head high and\nnever looked at me.\"\n\n\"Ann, do you think she's a bad girl?\" demanded Jean, bluntly.\n\n\"Bad? Oh, Jean!\" exclaimed Ann, in surprise and embarrassment.\n\n\"Dad said she was a damned hussy.\"\n\n\"Jean, dad hates the Jorths.\"\n\n\"Sister, I'm askin' you what you think of Ellen Jorth. Would you be\nfriends with her if you could?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Then you don't believe she's bad.\"\n\n\"No. Ellen Jorth is lonely, unhappy. She has no mother. She lives\nalone among rough men. Such a girl can't keep men from handlin' her\nand kissin' her. Maybe she's too free. Maybe she's wild. But she's\nhonest, Jean. You can trust a woman to tell. When she rode past me\nthat day her face was white and proud. She was a Jorth and I was an\nIsbel. She hated herself--she hated me. But no bad girl could look\nlike that. She knows what's said of her all around the valley. But she\ndoesn't care. She'd encourage gossip.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Ann,\" replied Jean, huskily. \"Please keep this--this\nmeetin' of mine with her all to yourself, won't you?\"\n\n\"Why, Jean, of course I will.\"\n\nJean wandered away again, peculiarly grateful to Ann for reviving and\nupholding something in him that seemed a wavering part of the best of\nhim--a chivalry that had demanded to be killed by judgment of a\nrighteous woman. He was conscious of an uplift, a gladdening of his\nspirit. Yet the ache remained. More than that, he found himself\nplunged deeper into conjecture, doubt. Had not the Ellen Jorth\nincident ended? He denied his father's indictment of her and accepted\nthe faith of his sister. \"Reckon that's aboot all, as dad says,\" he\nsoliloquized. Yet was that all? He paced under the cedars. He watched\nthe sun set. He listened to the coyotes. He lingered there after the\ncall for supper; until out of the tumult of his conflicting emotions\nand ponderings there evolved the staggering consciousness that he must\nsee Ellen Jorth again.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nEllen Jorth hurried back into the forest, hotly resentful of the\naccident that had thrown her in contact with an Isbel.\n\nDisgust filled her--disgust that she had been amiable to a member of\nthe hated family that had ruined her father. The surprise of this\nmeeting did not come to her while she was under the spell of stronger\nfeeling. She walked under the trees, swiftly, with head erect, looking\nstraight before her, and every step seemed a relief.\n\nUpon reaching camp, her attention was distracted from herself. Pepe,\nthe Mexican boy, with the two shepherd dogs, was trying to drive sheep\ninto a closer bunch to save the lambs from coyotes. Ellen loved the\nfleecy, tottering little lambs, and at this season she hated all the\nprowling beast of the forest. From this time on for weeks the flock\nwould be besieged by wolves, lions, bears, the last of which were often\nbold and dangerous. The old grizzlies that killed the ewes to eat only\nthe milk-bags were particularly dreaded by Ellen. She was a good shot\nwith a rifle, but had orders from her father to let the bears alone.\nFortunately, such sheep-killing bears were but few, and were left to be\nhunted by men from the ranch. Mexican sheep herders could not be\ndepended upon to protect their flocks from bears. Ellen helped Pepe\ndrive in the stragglers, and she took several shots at coyotes skulking\nalong the edge of the brush. The open glade in the forest was\nfavorable for herding the sheep at night, and the dogs could be\ndepended upon to guard the flock, and in most cases to drive predatory\nbeasts away.\n\nAfter this task, which brought the time to sunset, Ellen had supper to\ncook and eat. Darkness came, and a cool night wind set in. Here and\nthere a lamb bleated plaintively. With her work done for the day,\nEllen sat before a ruddy camp fire, and found her thoughts again\ncentering around the singular adventure that had befallen her.\nDisdainfully she strove to think of something else. But there was\nnothing that could dispel the interest of her meeting with Jean Isbel.\nThereupon she impatiently surrendered to it, and recalled every word\nand action which she could remember. And in the process of this\nmeditation she came to an action of hers, recollection of which brought\nthe blood tingling to her neck and cheeks, so unusually and burningly\nthat she covered them with her hands. \"What did he think of me?\" she\nmused, doubtfully. It did not matter what he thought, but she could\nnot help wondering. And when she came to the memory of his kiss she\nsuffered more than the sensation of throbbing scarlet cheeks.\nScornfully and bitterly she burst out, \"Shore he couldn't have thought\nmuch good of me.\"\n\nThe half hour following this reminiscence was far from being pleasant.\nProud, passionate, strong-willed Ellen Jorth found herself a victim of\nconflicting emotions. The event of the day was too close. She could\nnot understand it. Disgust and disdain and scorn could not make this\nmeeting with Jean Isbel as if it had never been. Pride could not\nefface it from her mind. The more she reflected, the harder she tried\nto forget, the stronger grew a significance of interest. And when a\nhint of this dawned upon her consciousness she resented it so forcibly\nthat she lost her temper, scattered the camp fire, and went into the\nlittle teepee tent to roll in her blankets.\n\nThus settled snug and warm for the night, with a shepherd dog curled at\nthe opening of her tent, she shut her eyes and confidently bade sleep\nend her perplexities. But sleep did not come at her invitation. She\nfound herself wide awake, keenly sensitive to the sputtering of the\ncamp fire, the tinkling of bells on the rams, the bleating of lambs,\nthe sough of wind in the pines, and the hungry sharp bark of coyotes\noff in the distance. Darkness was no respecter of her pride. The\nlonesome night with its emphasis of solitude seemed to induce clamoring\nand strange thoughts, a confusing ensemble of all those that had\nannoyed her during the daytime. Not for long hours did sheer weariness\nbring her to slumber.\n\nEllen awakened late and failed of her usual alacrity. Both Pepe and\nthe shepherd dog appeared to regard her with surprise and solicitude.\nEllen's spirit was low this morning; her blood ran sluggishly; she had\nto fight a mournful tendency to feel sorry for herself. And at first\nshe was not very successful. There seemed to be some kind of pleasure\nin reveling in melancholy which her common sense told her had no reason\nfor existence. But states of mind persisted in spite of common sense.\n\n\"Pepe, when is Antonio comin' back?\" she asked.\n\nThe boy could not give her a satisfactory answer. Ellen had willingly\ntaken the sheep herder's place for a few days, but now she was\nimpatient to go home. She looked down the green-and-brown aisles of\nthe forest until she was tired. Antonio did not return. Ellen spent\nthe day with the sheep; and in the manifold task of caring for a\nthousand new-born lambs she forgot herself. This day saw the end of\nlambing-time for that season. The forest resounded to a babel of baas\nand bleats. When night came she was glad to go to bed, for what with\nloss of sleep, and weariness she could scarcely keep her eyes open.\n\nThe following morning she awakened early, bright, eager, expectant,\nfull of bounding life, strangely aware of the beauty and sweetness of\nthe scented forest, strangely conscious of some nameless stimulus to\nher feelings.\n\nNot long was Ellen in associating this new and delightful variety of\nsensations with the fact that Jean Isbel had set to-day for his ride up\nto the Rim to see her. Ellen's joyousness fled; her smiles faded. The\nspring morning lost its magic radiance.\n\n\"Shore there's no sense in my lyin' to myself,\" she soliloquized,\nthoughtfully. \"It's queer of me--feelin' glad aboot him--without\nknowin'. Lord! I must be lonesome! To be glad of seein' an Isbel,\neven if he is different!\"\n\nSoberly she accepted the astounding reality. Her confidence died with\nher gayety; her vanity began to suffer. And she caught at her\nadmission that Jean Isbel was different; she resented it in amaze; she\nridiculed it; she laughed at her naive confession. She could arrive at\nno conclusion other than that she was a weak-minded, fluctuating,\ninexplicable little fool.\n\nBut for all that she found her mind had been made up for her, without\nconsent or desire, before her will had been consulted; and that\ninevitably and unalterably she meant to see Jean Isbel again. Long she\nbattled with this strange decree. One moment she won a victory over,\nthis new curious self, only to lose it the next. And at last out of her\nconflict there emerged a few convictions that left her with some shreds\nof pride. She hated all Isbels, she hated any Isbel, and particularly\nshe hated Jean Isbel. She was only curious--intensely curious to see\nif he would come back, and if he did come what he would do. She wanted\nonly to watch him from some covert. She would not go near him, not let\nhim see her or guess of her presence.\n\nThus she assuaged her hurt vanity--thus she stifled her miserable\ndoubts.\n\nLong before the sun had begun to slant westward toward the\nmid-afternoon Jean Isbel had set as a meeting time Ellen directed her\nsteps through the forest to the Rim. She felt ashamed of her\neagerness. She had a guilty conscience that no strange thrills could\nsilence. It would be fun to see him, to watch him, to let him wait for\nher, to fool him.\n\nLike an Indian, she chose the soft pine-needle mats to tread upon, and\nher light-moccasined feet left no trace. Like an Indian also she made\na wide detour, and reached the Rim a quarter of a mile west of the spot\nwhere she had talked with Jean Isbel; and here, turning east, she took\ncare to step on the bare stones. This was an adventure, seemingly the\nfirst she had ever had in her life. Assuredly she had never before\ncome directly to the Rim without halting to look, to wonder, to\nworship. This time she scarcely glanced into the blue abyss. All\nabsorbed was she in hiding her tracks. Not one chance in a thousand\nwould she risk. The Jorth pride burned even while the feminine side of\nher dominated her actions. She had some difficult rocky points to\ncross, then windfalls to round, and at length reached the covert she\ndesired. A rugged yellow point of the Rim stood somewhat higher than\nthe spot Ellen wanted to watch. A dense thicket of jack pines grew to\nthe very edge. It afforded an ambush that even the Indian eyes Jean\nIsbel was credited with could never penetrate. Moreover, if by\naccident she made a noise and excited suspicion, she could retreat\nunobserved and hide in the huge rocks below the Rim, where a ferret\ncould not locate her.\n\nWith her plan decided upon, Ellen had nothing to do but wait, so she\nrepaired to the other side of the pine thicket and to the edge of the\nRim where she could watch and listen. She knew that long before she\nsaw Isbel she would hear his horse. It was altogether unlikely that he\nwould come on foot.\n\n\"Shore, Ellen Jorth, y'u're a queer girl,\" she mused. \"I reckon I\nwasn't well acquainted with y'u.\"\n\nBeneath her yawned a wonderful deep canyon, rugged and rocky with but\nfew pines on the north slope, thick with dark green timber on the south\nslope. Yellow and gray crags, like turreted castles, stood up out of\nthe sloping forest on the side opposite her. The trees were all sharp,\nspear pointed. Patches of light green aspens showed strikingly against\nthe dense black. The great slope beneath Ellen was serrated with\nnarrow, deep gorges, almost canyons in themselves. Shadows alternated\nwith clear bright spaces. The mile-wide mouth of the canyon opened\nupon the Basin, down into a world of wild timbered ranges and ravines,\nvalleys and hills, that rolled and tumbled in dark-green waves to the\nSierra Anchas.\n\nBut for once Ellen seemed singularly unresponsive to this panorama of\nwildness and grandeur. Her ears were like those of a listening deer,\nand her eyes continually reverted to the open places along the Rim. At\nfirst, in her excitement, time flew by. Gradually, however, as the sun\nmoved westward, she began to be restless. The soft thud of dropping\npine cones, the rustling of squirrels up and down the shaggy-barked\nspruces, the cracking of weathered bits of rock, these caught her keen\nears many times and brought her up erect and thrilling. Finally she\nheard a sound which resembled that of an unshod hoof on stone.\nStealthily then she took her rifle and slipped back through the pine\nthicket to the spot she had chosen. The little pines were so close\ntogether that she had to crawl between their trunks. The ground was\ncovered with a soft bed of pine needles, brown and fragrant. In her\nhurry she pricked her ungloved hand on a sharp pine cone and drew the\nblood. She sucked the tiny wound. \"Shore I'm wonderin' if that's a\nbad omen,\" she muttered, darkly thoughtful. Then she resumed her\nsinuous approach to the edge of the thicket, and presently reached it.\n\nEllen lay flat a moment to recover her breath, then raised herself on\nher elbows. Through an opening in the fringe of buck brush she could\nplainly see the promontory where she had stood with Jean Isbel, and\nalso the approaches by which he might come. Rather nervously she\nrealized that her covert was hardly more than a hundred feet from the\npromontory. It was imperative that she be absolutely silent. Her eyes\nsearched the openings along the Rim. The gray form of a deer crossed\none of these, and she concluded it had made the sound she had heard.\nThen she lay down more comfortably and waited. Resolutely she held, as\nmuch as possible, to her sensorial perceptions. The meaning of Ellen\nJorth lying in ambush just to see an Isbel was a conundrum she refused\nto ponder in the present. She was doing it, and the physical act had\nits fascination. Her ears, attuned to all the sounds of the lonely\nforest, caught them and arranged them according to her knowledge of\nwoodcraft.\n\nA long hour passed by. The sun had slanted to a point halfway between\nthe zenith and the horizon. Suddenly a thought confronted Ellen Jorth:\n\"He's not comin',\" she whispered. The instant that idea presented\nitself she felt a blank sense of loss, a vague regret--something that\nmust have been disappointment. Unprepared for this, she was held by\nsurprise for a moment, and then she was stunned. Her spirit, swift and\nrebellious, had no time to rise in her defense. She was a lonely,\nguilty, miserable girl, too weak for pride to uphold, too fluctuating\nto know her real self. She stretched there, burying her face in the\npine needles, digging her fingers into them, wanting nothing so much as\nthat they might hide her. The moment was incomprehensible to Ellen,\nand utterly intolerable. The sharp pine needles, piercing her wrists\nand cheeks, and her hot heaving breast, seemed to give her exquisite\nrelief.\n\nThe shrill snort of a horse sounded near at hand. With a shock Ellen's\nbody stiffened. Then she quivered a little and her feelings underwent\nswift change. Cautiously and noiselessly she raised herself upon her\nelbows and peeped through the opening in the brush. She saw a man\ntying a horse to a bush somewhat back from the Rim. Drawing a rifle\nfrom its saddle sheath he threw it in the hollow of his arm and walked\nto the edge of the precipice. He gazed away across the Basin and\nappeared lost in contemplation or thought. Then he turned to look back\ninto the forest, as if he expected some one.\n\nEllen recognized the lithe figure, the dark face so like an Indian's.\nIt was Isbel. He had come. Somehow his coming seemed wonderful and\nterrible. Ellen shook as she leaned on her elbows. Jean Isbel, true\nto his word, in spite of her scorn, had come back to see her. The fact\nseemed monstrous. He was an enemy of her father. Long had range rumor\nbeen bandied from lip to lip--old Gass Isbel had sent for his Indian\nson to fight the Jorths. Jean Isbel--son of a Texan--unerring\nshot--peerless tracker--a bad and dangerous man! Then there flashed\nover Ellen a burning thought--if it were true, if he was an enemy of\nher father's, if a fight between Jorth and Isbel was inevitable, she\nought to kill this Jean Isbel right there in his tracks as he boldly\nand confidently waited for her. Fool he was to think she would come.\nEllen sank down and dropped her head until the strange tremor of her\narms ceased. That dark and grim flash of thought retreated. She had\nnot come to murder a man from ambush, but only to watch him, to try to\nsee what he meant, what he thought, to allay a strange curiosity.\n\nAfter a while she looked again. Isbel was sitting on an upheaved\nsection of the Rim, in a comfortable position from which he could watch\nthe openings in the forest and gaze as well across the west curve of\nthe Basin to the Mazatzals. He had composed himself to wait. He was\nclad in a buckskin suit, rather new, and it certainly showed off to\nadvantage, compared with the ragged and soiled apparel Ellen\nremembered. He did not look so large. Ellen was used to the long,\nlean, rangy Arizonians and Texans. This man was built differently. He\nhad the widest shoulders of any man she had ever seen, and they made\nhim appear rather short. But his lithe, powerful limbs proved he was\nnot short. Whenever he moved the muscles rippled. His hands were\nclasped round a knee--brown, sinewy hands, very broad, and fitting the\nthick muscular wrists. His collar was open, and he did not wear a\nscarf, as did the men Ellen knew. Then her intense curiosity at last\nbrought her steady gaze to Jean Isbel's head and face. He wore a cap,\nevidently of some thin fur. His hair was straight and short, and in\ncolor a dead raven black. His complexion was dark, clear tan, with no\ntrace of red. He did not have the prominent cheek bones nor the\nhigh-bridged nose usual with white men who were part Indian. Still he\nhad the Indian look. Ellen caught that in the dark, intent, piercing\neyes, in the wide, level, thoughtful brows, in the stern impassiveness\nof his smooth face. He had a straight, sharp-cut profile.\n\nEllen whispered to herself: \"I saw him right the other day. Only, I'd\nnot admit it.... The finest-lookin' man I ever saw in my life is a\ndamned Isbel! Was that what I come out heah for?\"\n\nShe lowered herself once more and, folding her arms under her breast,\nshe reclined comfortably on them, and searched out a smaller peephole\nfrom which she could spy upon Isbel. And as she watched him the new\nand perplexing side of her mind waxed busier. Why had he come back?\nWhat did he want of her? Acquaintance, friendship, was impossible for\nthem. He had been respectful, deferential toward her, in a way that\nhad strangely pleased, until the surprising moment when he had kissed\nher. That had only disrupted her rather dreamy pleasure in a situation\nshe had not experienced before. All the men she had met in this wild\ncountry were rough and bold; most of them had wanted to marry her, and,\nfailing that, they had persisted in amorous attentions not particularly\nflattering or honorable. They were a bad lot. And contact with them\nhad dulled some of her sensibilities. But this Jean Isbel had seemed a\ngentleman. She struggled to be fair, trying to forget her antipathy,\nas much to understand herself as to give him due credit. True, he had\nkissed her, crudely and forcibly. But that kiss had not been an\ninsult. Ellen's finer feeling forced her to believe this. She\nremembered the honest amaze and shame and contrition with which he had\nfaced her, trying awkwardly to explain his bold act. Likewise she\nrecalled the subtle swift change in him at her words, \"Oh, I've been\nkissed before!\" She was glad she had said that. Still--was she glad,\nafter all?\n\nShe watched him. Every little while he shifted his gaze from the blue\ngulf beneath him to the forest. When he turned thus the sun shone on\nhis face and she caught the piercing gleam of his dark eyes. She saw,\ntoo, that he was listening. Watching and listening for her! Ellen had\nto still a tumult within her. It made her feel very young, very shy,\nvery strange. All the while she hated him because he manifestly\nexpected her to come. Several times he rose and walked a little way\ninto the woods. The last time he looked at the westering sun and shook\nhis head. His confidence had gone. Then he sat and gazed down into\nthe void. But Ellen knew he did not see anything there. He seemed an\nimage carved in the stone of the Rim, and he gave Ellen a singular\nimpression of loneliness and sadness. Was he thinking of the miserable\nbattle his father had summoned him to lead--of what it would cost--of\nits useless pain and hatred? Ellen seemed to divine his thoughts. In\nthat moment she softened toward him, and in her soul quivered and\nstirred an intangible something that was like pain, that was too deep\nfor her understanding. But she felt sorry for an Isbel until the old\npride resurged. What if he admired her? She remembered his interest,\nthe wonder and admiration, the growing light in his eyes. And it had\nnot been repugnant to her until he disclosed his name. \"What's in a\nname?\" she mused, recalling poetry learned in her girlhood. \"'A rose\nby any other name would smell as sweet'.... He's an Isbel--yet he might\nbe splendid--noble.... Bah! he's not--and I'd hate him anyhow.\"\n\nAll at once Ellen felt cold shivers steal over her. Isbel's piercing\ngaze was directed straight at her hiding place. Her heart stopped\nbeating. If he discovered her there she felt that she would die of\nshame. Then she became aware that a blue jay was screeching in a pine\nabove her, and a red squirrel somewhere near was chattering his shrill\nannoyance. These two denizens of the woods could be depended upon to\nespy the wariest hunter and make known his presence to their kind.\nEllen had a moment of more than dread. This keen-eyed, keen-eared\nIndian might see right through her brushy covert, might hear the\nthrobbing of her heart. It relieved her immeasurably to see him turn\naway and take to pacing the promontory, with his head bowed and his\nhands behind his back. He had stopped looking off into the forest.\nPresently he wheeled to the west, and by the light upon his face Ellen\nsaw that the time was near sunset. Turkeys were beginning to gobble\nback on the ridge.\n\nIsbel walked to his horse and appeared to be untying something from the\nback of his saddle. When he came back Ellen saw that he carried a\nsmall package apparently wrapped in paper. With this under his arm he\nstrode off in the direction of Ellen's camp and soon disappeared in the\nforest.\n\nFor a little while Ellen lay there in bewilderment. If she had made\nconjectures before, they were now multiplied. Where was Jean Isbel\ngoing? Ellen sat up suddenly. \"Well, shore this heah beats me,\" she\nsaid. \"What did he have in that package? What was he goin' to do with\nit?\"\n\nIt took no little will power to hold her there when she wanted to steal\nafter him through the woods and find out what he meant. But his\nreputation influenced even her and she refused to pit her cunning in\nthe forest against his. It would be better to wait until he returned\nto his horse. Thus decided, she lay back again in her covert and gave\nher mind over to pondering curiosity. Sooner than she expected she\nespied Isbel approaching through the forest, empty handed. He had not\ntaken his rifle. Ellen averted her glance a moment and thrilled to see\nthe rifle leaning against a rock. Verily Jean Isbel had been far\nremoved from hostile intent that day. She watched him stride swiftly\nup to his horse, untie the halter, and mount. Ellen had an impression\nof his arrowlike straight figure, and sinuous grace and ease. Then he\nlooked back at the promontory, as if to fix a picture of it in his\nmind, and rode away along the Rim. She watched him out of sight. What\nailed her? Something was wrong with her, but she recognized only relief.\n\nWhen Isbel had been gone long enough to assure Ellen that she might\nsafely venture forth she crawled through the pine thicket to the Rim on\nthe other side of the point. The sun was setting behind the Black\nRange, shedding a golden glory over the Basin. Westward the zigzag Rim\nreached like a streamer of fire into the sun. The vast promontories\njutted out with blazing beacon lights upon their stone-walled faces.\nDeep down, the Basin was turning shadowy dark blue, going to sleep for\nthe night.\n\nEllen bent swift steps toward her camp. Long shafts of gold preceded\nher through the forest. Then they paled and vanished. The tips of\npines and spruces turned gold. A hoarse-voiced old turkey gobbler was\nbooming his chug-a-lug from the highest ground, and the softer chick of\nhen turkeys answered him. Ellen was almost breathless when she\narrived. Two packs and a couple of lop-eared burros attested to the\nfact of Antonio's return. This was good news for Ellen. She heard the\nbleat of lambs and tinkle of bells coming nearer and nearer. And she\nwas glad to feel that if Isbel had visited her camp, most probably it\nwas during the absence of the herders.\n\nThe instant she glanced into her tent she saw the package Isbel had\ncarried. It lay on her bed. Ellen stared blankly. \"The--the\nimpudence of him!\" she ejaculated. Then she kicked the package out of\nthe tent. Words and action seemed to liberate a dammed-up hot fury.\nShe kicked the package again, and thought she would kick it into the\nsmoldering camp-fire. But somehow she stopped short of that. She left\nthe thing there on the ground.\n\nPepe and Antonio hove in sight, driving in the tumbling woolly flock.\nEllen did not want them to see the package, so with contempt for\nherself, and somewhat lessening anger, she kicked it back into the\ntent. What was in it? She peeped inside the tent, devoured by\ncuriosity. Neat, well wrapped and tied packages like that were not\noften seen in the Tonto Basin. Ellen decided she would wait until\nafter supper, and at a favorable moment lay it unopened on the fire.\nWhat did she care what it contained? Manifestly it was a gift. She\nargued that she was highly incensed with this insolent Isbel who had\nthe effrontery to approach her with some sort of present.\n\nIt developed that the usually cheerful Antonio had returned taciturn\nand gloomy. All Ellen could get out of him was that the job of sheep\nherder had taken on hazards inimical to peace-loving Mexicans. He had\nheard something he would not tell. Ellen helped prepare the supper and\nshe ate in silence. She had her own brooding troubles. Antonio\npresently told her that her father had said she was not to start back\nhome after dark. After supper the herders repaired to their own tents,\nleaving Ellen the freedom of her camp-fire. Wherewith she secured the\npackage and brought it forth to burn. Feminine curiosity rankled\nstrong in her breast. Yielding so far as to shake the parcel and press\nit, and finally tear a corner off the paper, she saw some words written\nin lead pencil. Bending nearer the blaze, she read, \"For my sister\nAnn.\" Ellen gazed at the big, bold hand-writing, quite legible and\nfairly well done. Suddenly she tore the outside wrapper completely\noff. From printed words on the inside she gathered that the package\nhad come from a store in San Francisco. \"Reckon he fetched home a lot\nof presents for his folks--the kids--and his sister,\" muttered Ellen.\n\"That was nice of him. Whatever this is he shore meant it for sister\nAnn.... Ann Isbel. Why, she must be that black-eyed girl I met and\nliked so well before I knew she was an Isbel.... His sister!\"\n\nWhereupon for the second time Ellen deposited the fascinating package\nin her tent. She could not burn it up just then. She had other\nemotions besides scorn and hate. And memory of that soft-voiced,\nkind-hearted, beautiful Isbel girl checked her resentment. \"I wonder\nif he is like his sister,\" she said, thoughtfully. It appeared to be\nan unfortunate thought. Jean Isbel certainly resembled his sister.\n\"Too bad they belong to the family that ruined dad.\"\n\nEllen went to bed without opening the package or without burning it.\nAnd to her annoyance, whatever way she lay she appeared to touch this\nstrange package. There was not much room in the little tent. First\nshe put it at her head beside her rifle, but when she turned over her\ncheek came in contact with it. Then she felt as if she had been stung.\nShe moved it again, only to touch it presently with her hand. Next she\nflung it to the bottom of her bed, where it fell upon her feet, and\nwhatever way she moved them she could not escape the pressure of this\nundesirable and mysterious gift.\n\nBy and by she fell asleep, only to dream that the package was a\ncaressing hand stealing about her, feeling for hers, and holding it\nwith soft, strong clasp. When she awoke she had the strangest\nsensation in her right palm. It was moist, throbbing, hot, and the\nfeel of it on her cheek was strangely thrilling and comforting. She lay\nawake then. The night was dark and still. Only a low moan of wind in\nthe pines and the faint tinkle of a sheep bell broke the serenity. She\nfelt very small and lonely lying there in the deep forest, and, try how\nshe would, it was impossible to think the same then as she did in the\nclear light of day. Resentment, pride, anger--these seemed abated now.\nIf the events of the day had not changed her, they had at least brought\nup softer and kinder memories and emotions than she had known for long.\nNothing hurt and saddened her so much as to remember the gay, happy\ndays of her childhood, her sweet mother, her, old home. Then her\nthought returned to Isbel and his gift. It had been years since anyone\nhad made her a gift. What could this one be? It did not matter. The\nwonder was that Jean Isbel should bring it to her and that she could be\nperturbed by its presence. \"He meant it for his sister and so he\nthought well of me,\" she said, in finality.\n\nMorning brought Ellen further vacillation. At length she rolled the\nobnoxious package inside her blankets, saying that she would wait until\nshe got home and then consign it cheerfully to the flames. Antonio tied\nher pack on a burro. She did not have a horse, and therefore had to\nwalk the several miles, to her father's ranch.\n\nShe set off at a brisk pace, leading the burro and carrying her rifle.\nAnd soon she was deep in the fragrant forest. The morning was clear\nand cool, with just enough frost to make the sunlit grass sparkle as if\nwith diamonds. Ellen felt fresh, buoyant, singularly full of, life.\nHer youth would not be denied. It was pulsing, yearning. She hummed\nan old Southern tune and every step seemed one of pleasure in action,\nof advance toward some intangible future happiness. All the unknown of\nlife before her called. Her heart beat high in her breast and she\nwalked as one in a dream. Her thoughts were swift-changing, intimate,\ndeep, and vague, not of yesterday or to-day, nor of reality.\n\nThe big, gray, white-tailed squirrels crossed ahead of her on the\ntrail, scampered over the piny ground to hop on tree trunks, and there\nthey paused to watch her pass. The vociferous little red squirrels\nbarked and chattered at her. From every thicket sounded the gobble of\nturkeys. The blue jays squalled in the tree tops. A deer lifted its\nhead from browsing and stood motionless, with long ears erect, watching\nher go by.\n\nThus happily and dreamily absorbed, Ellen covered the forest miles and\nsoon reached the trail that led down into the wild brakes of Chevelon\nCanyon. It was rough going and less conducive to sweet wanderings of\nmind. Ellen slowly lost them. And then a familiar feeling assailed\nher, one she never failed to have upon returning to her father's\nranch--a reluctance, a bitter dissatisfaction with her home, a loyal\nstruggle against the vague sense that all was not as it should be.\n\nAt the head of this canyon in a little, level, grassy meadow stood a\nrude one-room log shack, with a leaning red-stone chimney on the\noutside. This was the abode of a strange old man who had long lived\nthere. His name was John Sprague and his occupation was raising\nburros. No sheep or cattle or horses did he own, not even a dog.\nRumor had said Sprague was a prospector, one of the many who had\nsearched that country for the Lost Dutchman gold mine. Sprague knew\nmore about the Basin and Rim than any of the sheepmen or ranchers.\nFrom Black Butte to the Cibique and from Chevelon Butte to Reno Pass he\nknew every trail, canyon, ridge, and spring, and could find his way to\nthem on the darkest night. His fame, however, depended mostly upon the\nfact that he did nothing but raise burros, and would raise none but\nblack burros with white faces. These burros were the finest bred in all\nthe Basin and were in great demand. Sprague sold a few every year. He\nhad made a present of one to Ellen, although he hated to part with\nthem. This old man was Ellen's one and only friend.\n\nUpon her trip out to the Rim with the sheep, Uncle John, as Ellen\ncalled him, had been away on one of his infrequent visits to Grass\nValley. It pleased her now to see a blue column of smoke lazily\nlifting from the old chimney and to hear the discordant bray of burros.\nAs she entered the clearing Sprague saw her from the door of his shack.\n\n\"Hello, Uncle John!\" she called.\n\n\"Wal, if it ain't Ellen!\" he replied, heartily. \"When I seen thet\nwhite-faced jinny I knowed who was leadin' her. Where you been, girl?\"\n\nSprague was a little, stoop-shouldered old man, with grizzled head and\nface, and shrewd gray eyes that beamed kindly on her over his ruddy\ncheeks. Ellen did not like the tobacco stain on his grizzled beard nor\nthe dirty, motley, ragged, ill-smelling garb he wore, but she had\nceased her useless attempts to make him more cleanly.\n\n\"I've been herdin' sheep,\" replied Ellen. \"And where have y'u been,\nuncle? I missed y'u on the way over.\"\n\n\"Been packin' in some grub. An' I reckon I stayed longer in Grass\nValley than I recollect. But thet was only natural, considerin'--\"\n\n\"What?\" asked Ellen, bluntly, as the old man paused.\n\nSprague took a black pipe out of his vest pocket and began rimming the\nbowl with his fingers. The glance he bent on Ellen was thoughtful and\nearnest, and so kind that she feared it was pity. Ellen suddenly\nburned for news from the village.\n\n\"Wal, come in an' set down, won't you?\" he asked.\n\n\"No, thanks,\" replied Ellen, and she took a seat on the chopping block.\n\"Tell me, uncle, what's goin' on down in the Valley?\"\n\n\"Nothin' much yet--except talk. An' there's a heap of thet.\"\n\n\"Humph! There always was talk,\" declared Ellen, contemptuously. \"A\nnasty, gossipy, catty hole, that Grass Valley!\"\n\n\"Ellen, thar's goin' to be war--a bloody war in the ole Tonto Basin,\"\nwent on Sprague, seriously.\n\n\"War! ... Between whom?\"\n\n\"The Isbels an' their enemies. I reckon most people down thar, an'\nsure all the cattlemen, air on old Gass's side. Blaisdell, Gordon,\nFredericks, Blue--they'll all be in it.\"\n\n\"Who are they goin' to fight?\" queried Ellen, sharply.\n\n\"Wal, the open talk is thet the sheepmen are forcin' this war. But\nthar's talk not so open, an' I reckon not very healthy for any man to\nwhisper hyarbouts.\"\n\n\"Uncle John, y'u needn't be afraid to tell me anythin',\" said Ellen.\n\"I'd never give y'u away. Y'u've been a good friend to me.\"\n\n\"Reckon I want to be, Ellen,\" he returned, nodding his shaggy head. \"It\nain't easy to be fond of you as I am an' keep my mouth shet.... I'd\nlike to know somethin'. Hev you any relatives away from hyar thet you\ncould go to till this fight's over?\"\n\n\"No. All I have, so far as I know, are right heah.\"\n\n\"How aboot friends?\"\n\n\"Uncle John, I have none,\" she said, sadly, with bowed head.\n\n\"Wal, wal, I'm sorry. I was hopin' you might git away.\"\n\nShe lifted her face. \"Shore y'u don't think I'd run off if my dad got\nin a fight?\" she flashed.\n\n\"I hope you will.\"\n\n\"I'm a Jorth,\" she said, darkly, and dropped her head again.\n\nSprague nodded gloomily. Evidently he was perplexed and worried, and\nstrongly swayed by affection for her.\n\n\"Would you go away with me?\" he asked. \"We could pack over to the\nMazatzals an' live thar till this blows over.\"\n\n\"Thank y'u, Uncle John. Y'u're kind and good. But I'll stay with my\nfather. His troubles are mine.\"\n\n\"Ahuh! ... Wal, I might hev reckoned so.... Ellen, how do you stand on\nthis hyar sheep an' cattle question?\"\n\n\"I think what's fair for one is fair for another. I don't like sheep\nas much as I like cattle. But that's not the point. The range is\nfree. Suppose y'u had cattle and I had sheep. I'd feel as free to run\nmy sheep anywhere as y'u were to ran your cattle.\"\n\n\"Right. But what if you throwed your sheep round my range an' sheeped\noff the grass so my cattle would hev to move or starve?\"\n\n\"Shore I wouldn't throw my sheep round y'ur range,\" she declared,\nstoutly.\n\n\"Wal, you've answered half of the question. An' now supposin' a lot of\nmy cattle was stolen by rustlers, but not a single one of your sheep.\nWhat 'd you think then?\"\n\n\"I'd shore think rustlers chose to steal cattle because there was no\nprofit in stealin' sheep.\"\n\n\"Egzactly. But wouldn't you hev a queer idee aboot it?\"\n\n\"I don't know. Why queer? What 're y'u drivin' at, Uncle John?\"\n\n\"Wal, wouldn't you git kind of a hunch thet the rustlers was--say a\nleetle friendly toward the sheepmen?\"\n\nEllen felt a sudden vibrating shock. The blood rushed to her temples.\nTrembling all over, she rose.\n\n\"Uncle John!\" she cried.\n\n\"Now, girl, you needn't fire up thet way. Set down an' don't--\"\n\n\"Dare y'u insinuate my father has--\"\n\n\"Ellen, I ain't insinuatin' nothin',\" interrupted the old man. \"I'm\njest askin' you to think. Thet's all. You're 'most grown into a young\nwoman now. An' you've got sense. Thar's bad times ahead, Ellen. An' I\nhate to see you mix in them.\"\n\n\"Oh, y'u do make me think,\" replied Ellen, with smarting tears in her\neyes. \"Y'u make me unhappy. Oh, I know my dad is not liked in this\ncattle country. But it's unjust. He happened to go in for sheep\nraising. I wish he hadn't. It was a mistake. Dad always was a\ncattleman till we came heah. He made enemies--who--who ruined him. And\neverywhere misfortune crossed his trail.... But, oh, Uncle John, my dad\nis an honest man.\"\n\n\"Wal, child, I--I didn't mean to--to make you cry,\" said the old man,\nfeelingly, and he averted his troubled gaze. \"Never mind what I said.\nI'm an old meddler. I reckon nothin' I could do or say would ever\nchange what's goin' to happen. If only you wasn't a girl! ... Thar I\ngo ag'in. Ellen, face your future an' fight your way. All youngsters\nhev to do thet. An' it's the right kind of fight thet makes the right\nkind of man or woman. Only you must be sure to find yourself. An' by\nthet I mean to find the real, true, honest-to-God best in you an' stick\nto it an' die fightin' for it. You're a young woman, almost, an' a\nblamed handsome one. Which means you'll hev more trouble an' a harder\nfight. This country ain't easy on a woman when once slander has marked\nher.\n\n\"What do I care for the talk down in that Basin?\" returned Ellen. \"I\nknow they think I'm a hussy. I've let them think it. I've helped them\nto.\"\n\n\"You're wrong, child,\" said Sprague, earnestly. \"Pride an' temper! You\nmust never let anyone think bad of you, much less help them to.\"\n\n\"I hate everybody down there,\" cried Ellen, passionately. \"I hate them\nso I'd glory in their thinkin' me bad.... My mother belonged to the\nbest blood in Texas. I am her daughter. I know WHO AND WHAT I AM.\nThat uplifts me whenever I meet the sneaky, sly suspicions of these\nBasin people. It shows me the difference between them and me. That's\nwhat I glory in.\"\n\n\"Ellen, you're a wild, headstrong child,\" rejoined the old man, in\nsevere tones. \"Word has been passed ag'in' your good name--your\nhonor.... An' hevn't you given cause fer thet?\"\n\nEllen felt her face blanch and all her blood rush back to her heart in\nsickening force. The shock of his words was like a stab from a cold\nblade. If their meaning and the stem, just light of the old man's\nglance did not kill her pride and vanity they surely killed her\ngirlishness. She stood mute, staring at him, with her brown, trembling\nhands stealing up toward her bosom, as if to ward off another and a\nmortal blow.\n\n\"Ellen!\" burst out Sprague, hoarsely. \"You mistook me. Aw, I didn't\nmean--what you think, I swear.... Ellen, I'm old an' blunt. I ain't\nused to wimmen. But I've love for you, child, an' respect, jest the\nsame as if you was my own.... An' I KNOW you're good.... Forgive me....\nI meant only hevn't you been, say, sort of--careless?\"\n\n\"Care-less?\" queried Ellen, bitterly and low.\n\n\"An' powerful thoughtless an'--an' blind--lettin' men kiss you an'\nfondle you--when you're really a growed-up woman now?\"\n\n\"Yes--I have,\" whispered Ellen.\n\n\"Wal, then, why did you let them?\n\n\"I--I don't know.... I didn't think. The men never let me\nalone--never--never! I got tired everlastingly pushin' them away. And\nsometimes--when they were kind--and I was lonely for something I--I\ndidn't mind if one or another fooled round me. I never thought. It\nnever looked as y'u have made it look.... Then--those few times ridin'\nthe trail to Grass Valley--when people saw me--then I guess I\nencouraged such attentions.... Oh, I must be--I am a shameless little\nhussy!\"\n\n\"Hush thet kind of talk,\" said the old man, as he took her hand.\n\"Ellen, you're only young an' lonely an' bitter. No mother--no\nfriends--no one but a lot of rough men! It's a wonder you hev kept\nyourself good. But now your eyes are open, Ellen. They're brave an'\nbeautiful eyes, girl, an' if you stand by the light in them you will\ncome through any trouble. An' you'll be happy. Don't ever forgit\nthat. Life is hard enough, God knows, but it's unfailin' true in the\nend to the man or woman who finds the best in them an' stands by it.\"\n\n\"Uncle John, y'u talk so--so kindly. Yu make me have hope. There\nseemed really so little for me to live for--hope for.... But I'll never\nbe a coward again--nor a thoughtless fool. I'll find some good in\nme--or make some--and never fail it, come what will. I'll remember\nyour words. I'll believe the future holds wonderful things for me....\nI'm only eighteen. Shore all my life won't be lived heah. Perhaps\nthis threatened fight over sheep and cattle will blow over....\nSomewhere there must be some nice girl to be a friend--a sister to\nme.... And maybe some man who'd believe, in spite of all they say--that\nI'm not a hussy.\"\n\n\"Wal, Ellen, you remind me of what I was wantin' to tell you when you\njust got here.... Yestiddy I heerd you called thet name in a barroom.\nAn' thar was a fellar thar who raised hell. He near killed one man an'\nmade another plumb eat his words. An' he scared thet crowd stiff.\"\n\nOld John Sprague shook his grizzled head and laughed, beaming upon\nEllen as if the memory of what he had seen had warmed his heart.\n\n\"Was it--y'u?\" asked Ellen, tremulously.\n\n\"Me? Aw, I wasn't nowhere. Ellen, this fellar was quick as a cat in\nhis actions an' his words was like lightnin'.'\n\n\"Who? she whispered.\n\n\"Wal, no one else but a stranger jest come to these parts--an Isbel,\ntoo. Jean Isbel.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" exclaimed Ellen, faintly.\n\n\"In a barroom full of men--almost all of them in sympathy with the\nsheep crowd--most of them on the Jorth side--this Jean Isbel resented\nan insult to Ellen Jorth.\"\n\n\"No!\" cried Ellen. Something terrible was happening to her mind or her\nheart.\n\n\"Wal, he sure did,\" replied the old man, \"an' it's goin' to be good fer\nyou to hear all about it.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nOld John Sprague launched into his narrative with evident zest.\n\n\"I hung round Greaves' store most of two days. An' I heerd a heap.\nSome of it was jest plain ole men's gab, but I reckon I got the drift\nof things concernin' Grass Valley. Yestiddy mornin' I was packin' my\nburros in Greaves' back yard, takin' my time carryin' out supplies from\nthe store. An' as last when I went in I seen a strange fellar was\nthar. Strappin' young man--not so young, either--an' he had on\nbuckskin. Hair black as my burros, dark face, sharp eyes--you'd took\nhim fer an Injun. He carried a rifle--one of them new forty-fours--an'\nalso somethin' wrapped in paper thet he seemed partickler careful\nabout. He wore a belt round his middle an' thar was a bowie-knife in\nit, carried like I've seen scouts an' Injun fighters hev on the\nfrontier in the 'seventies. That looked queer to me, an' I reckon to\nthe rest of the crowd thar. No one overlooked the big six-shooter he\npacked Texas fashion. Wal, I didn't hev no idee this fellar was an\nIsbel until I heard Greaves call him thet.\n\n\"'Isbel,' said Greaves, 'reckon your money's counterfeit hyar. I cain't\nsell you anythin'.'\n\n\"'Counterfeit? Not much,' spoke up the young fellar, an' he flipped\nsome gold twenties on the bar, where they rung like bells. 'Why not?\nAin't this a store? I want a cinch strap.'\n\n\"Greaves looked particular sour thet mornin'. I'd been watchin' him\nfer two days. He hedn't hed much sleep, fer I hed my bed back of the\nstore, an' I heerd men come in the night an' hev long confabs with him.\nWhatever was in the wind hedn't pleased him none. An' I calkilated\nthet young Isbel wasn't a sight good fer Greaves' sore eyes, anyway.\nBut he paid no more attention to Isbel. Acted jest as if he hedn't\nheerd Isbel say he wanted a cinch strap.\n\n\"I stayed inside the store then. Thar was a lot of fellars I'd seen,\nan' some I knowed. Couple of card games goin', an' drinkin', of\ncourse. I soon gathered thet the general atmosphere wasn't friendly to\nJean Isbel. He seen thet quick enough, but he didn't leave. Between\nyou an' me I sort of took a likin' to him. An' I sure watched him as\nclose as I could, not seemin' to, you know. Reckon they all did the\nsame, only you couldn't see it. It got jest about the same as if Isbel\nhedn't been in thar, only you knowed it wasn't really the same. Thet\nwas how I got the hunch the crowd was all sheepmen or their friends.\nThe day before I'd heerd a lot of talk about this young Isbel, an' what\nhe'd come to Grass Valley fer, an' what a bad hombre he was. An' when\nI seen him I was bound to admit he looked his reputation.\n\n\"Wal, pretty soon in come two more fellars, an' I knowed both of them.\nYou know them, too, I'm sorry to say. Fer I'm comin' to facts now thet\nwill shake you. The first fellar was your father's Mexican foreman,\nLorenzo, and the other was Simm Bruce. I reckon Bruce wasn't drunk,\nbut he'd sure been lookin' on red licker. When he seen Isbel darn me\nif he didn't swell an' bustle all up like a mad ole turkey gobbler.\n\n\"'Greaves,' he said, 'if thet fellar's Jean Isbel I ain't hankerin' fer\nthe company y'u keep.' An' he made no bones of pointin' right at\nIsbel. Greaves looked up dry an' sour an' he bit out spiteful-like:\n'Wal, Simm, we ain't hed a hell of a lot of choice in this heah matter.\nThet's Jean Isbel shore enough. Mebbe you can persuade him thet his\ncompany an' his custom ain't wanted round heah!'\n\n\"Jean Isbel set on the counter an took it all in, but he didn't say\nnothin'. The way he looked at Bruce was sure enough fer me to see thet\nthar might be a surprise any minnit. I've looked at a lot of men in my\nday, an' can sure feel events comin'. Bruce got himself a stiff drink\nan' then he straddles over the floor in front of Isbel.\n\n\"'Air you Jean Isbel, son of ole Gass Isbel?' asked Bruce, sort of\nlolling back an' givin' a hitch to his belt.\n\n\"'Yes sir, you've identified me,' said Isbel, nice an' polite.\n\n\"'My name's Bruce. I'm rangin' sheep heahaboots, an' I hev interest in\nKurnel Lee Jorth's bizness.'\n\n\"'Hod do, Mister Bruce,' replied Isbel, very civil ant cool as you\nplease. Bruce hed an eye fer the crowd thet was now listenin' an'\nwatchin'. He swaggered closer to Isbel.\n\n\"'We heerd y'u come into the Tonto Basin to run us sheepmen off the\nrange. How aboot thet?'\n\n\"'Wal, you heerd wrong,' said Isbel, quietly. 'I came to work fer my\nfather. Thet work depends on what happens.'\n\n\"Bruce began to git redder of face, an' he shook a husky hand in front\nof Isbel. 'I'll tell y'u this heah, my Nez Perce Isbel--' an' when he\nsort of choked fer more wind Greaves spoke up, 'Simm, I shore reckon\nthet Nez Perce handle will stick.' An' the crowd haw-hawed. Then Bruce\ngot goin' ag'in. 'I'll tell y'u this heah, Nez Perce. Thar's been\nenough happen already to run y'u out of Arizona.'\n\n\"'Wal, you don't say! What, fer instance?, asked Isbel, quick an'\nsarcastic.\n\n\"Thet made Bruce bust out puffin' an' spittin': 'Wha-tt, fer instance?\nHuh! Why, y'u darn half-breed, y'u'll git run out fer makin' up to\nEllen Jorth. Thet won't go in this heah country. Not fer any Isbel.'\n\n\"'You're a liar,' called Isbel, an' like a big cat he dropped off the\ncounter. I heerd his moccasins pat soft on the floor. An' I bet to\nmyself thet he was as dangerous as he was quick. But his voice an' his\nlooks didn't change even a leetle.\n\n\"'I'm not a liar,' yelled Bruce. 'I'll make y'u eat thet. I can prove\nwhat I say.... Y'u was seen with Ellen Jorth--up on the Rim--day before\nyestiddy. Y'u was watched. Y'u was with her. Y'u made up to her.\nY'u grabbed her an' kissed her! ... An' I'm heah to say, Nez Perce,\nthet y'u're a marked man on this range.'\n\n\"'Who saw me?' asked Isbel, quiet an' cold. I seen then thet he'd\nturned white in the face.\n\n\"'Yu cain't lie out of it,' hollered Bruce, wavin' his hands. 'We got\ny'u daid to rights. Lorenzo saw y'u--follered y'u--watched y'u.'\nBruce pointed at the grinnin' greaser. 'Lorenzo is Kurnel Jorth's\nforeman. He seen y'u maulin' of Ellen Jorth. An' when he tells the\nKurnel an' Tad Jorth an' Jackson Jorth! ... Haw! Haw! Haw! Why, hell\n'd be a cooler place fer yu then this heah Tonto.'\n\n\"Greaves an' his gang hed come round, sure tickled clean to thar\ngizzards at this mess. I noticed, howsomever, thet they was Texans\nenough to keep back to one side in case this Isbel started any\naction.... Wal, Isbel took a look at Lorenzo. Then with one swift grab\nhe jerked the little greaser off his feet an' pulled him close.\nLorenzo stopped grinnin'. He began to look a leetle sick. But it was\nplain he hed right on his side.\n\n\"'You say you saw me?' demanded Isbel.\n\n\"'Si, senor,' replied Lorenzo.\n\n\"What did you see?'\n\n\"'I see senor an' senorita. I hide by manzanita. I see senorita like\ngrande senor ver mooch. She like senor keese. She--'\n\n\"Then Isbel hit the little greaser a back-handed crack in the mouth.\nSure it was a crack! Lorenzo went over the counter backward an' landed\nlike a pack load of wood. An' he didn't git up.\n\n\"'Mister Bruce,' said Isbel, 'an' you fellars who heerd thet lyin'\ngreaser, I did meet Ellen Jorth. An' I lost my head. I 'I kissed\nher.... But it was an accident. I meant no insult. I apologized--I\ntried to explain my crazy action.... Thet was all. The greaser lied.\nEllen Jorth was kind enough to show me the trail. We talked a little.\nThen--I suppose--because she was young an' pretty an' sweet--I lost my\nhead. She was absolutely innocent. Thet damned greaser told a\nbare-faced lie when he said she liked me. The fact was she despised\nme. She said so. An' when she learned I was Jean Isbel she turned her\nback on me an' walked away.\"'\n\nAt this point of his narrative the old man halted as if to impress\nEllen not only with what just had been told, but particularly with what\nwas to follow. The reciting of this tale had evidently given Sprague\nan unconscious pleasure. He glowed. He seemed to carry the burden of\na secret that he yearned to divulge. As for Ellen, she was deadlocked\nin breathless suspense. All her emotions waited for the end. She\nbegged Sprague to hurry.\n\n\"Wal, I wish I could skip the next chapter an' hev only the last to\ntell,\" rejoined the old man, and he put a heavy, but solicitous, hand\nupon hers.... Simm Bruce haw-hawed loud an' loud.... 'Say, Nez Perce,'\nhe calls out, most insolent-like, 'we air too good sheepmen heah to hev\nthe wool pulled over our eyes. We shore know what y'u meant by Ellen\nJorth. But y'u wasn't smart when y'u told her y'u was Jean Isbel! ...\nHaw-haw!'\n\n\"Isbel flashed a strange, surprised look from the red-faced Bruce to\nGreaves and to the other men. I take it he was wonderin' if he'd heerd\nright or if they'd got the same hunch thet 'd come to him. An' I reckon\nhe determined to make sure.\n\n\"'Why wasn't I smart?' he asked.\n\n\"'Shore y'u wasn't smart if y'u was aimin' to be one of Ellen Jorth's\nlovers,' said Bruce, with a leer. 'Fer if y'u hedn't give y'urself\naway y'u could hev been easy enough.'\n\n\"Thar was no mistakin' Bruce's meanin' an' when he got it out some of\nthe men thar laughed. Isbel kept lookin' from one to another of them.\nThen facin' Greaves, he said, deliberately: 'Greaves, this drunken\nBruce is excuse enough fer a show-down. I take it that you are\nsheepmen, an' you're goin' on Jorth's side of the fence in the matter\nof this sheep rangin'.'\n\n\"'Wal, Nez Perce, I reckon you hit plumb center,' said Greaves, dryly.\nHe spread wide his big hands to the other men, as if to say they'd\nmight as well own the jig was up.\n\n\"'All right. You're Jorth's backers. Have any of you a word to say in\nEllen Jorth's defense? I tell you the Mexican lied. Believin' me or\nnot doesn't matter. But this vile-mouthed Bruce hinted against thet\ngirl's honor.'\n\n\"Ag'in some of the men laughed, but not so noisy, an' there was a\nnervous shufflin' of feet. Isbel looked sort of queer. His neck had a\nbulge round his collar. An' his eyes was like black coals of fire.\nGreaves spread his big hands again, as if to wash them of this part of\nthe dirty argument.\n\n\"'When it comes to any wimmen I pass--much less play a hand fer a\nwildcat like Jorth's gurl,' said Greaves, sort of cold an' thick.\n'Bruce shore ought to know her. Accordin' to talk heahaboots an' what\nHE says, Ellen Jorth has been his gurl fer two years.'\n\n\"Then Isbel turned his attention to Bruce an' I fer one begun to shake\nin my boots.\n\n\"'Say thet to me!' he called.\n\n\"'Shore she's my gurl, an' thet's why Im a-goin' to hev y'u run off\nthis range.'\n\n\"Isbel jumped at Bruce. 'You damned drunken cur! You vile-mouthed\nliar! ... I may be an Isbel, but by God you cain't slander thet girl to\nmy face! ... Then he moved so quick I couldn't see what he did. But I\nheerd his fist hit Bruce. It sounded like an ax ag'in' a beef. Bruce\nfell clear across the room. An' by Jinny when he landed Isbel was\nthar. As Bruce staggered up, all bloody-faced, bellowin' an' spittin'\nout teeth Isbel eyed Greaves's crowd an' said: 'If any of y'u make a\nmove it 'll mean gun-play.' Nobody moved, thet's sure. In fact, none\nof Greaves's outfit was packin' guns, at least in sight. When Bruce got\nall the way up--he's a tall fellar--why Isbel took a full swing at him\nan' knocked him back across the room ag'in' the counter. Y'u know when\na fellar's hurt by the way he yells. Bruce got thet second smash right\non his big red nose.... I never seen any one so quick as Isbel. He\nvaulted over thet counter jest the second Bruce fell back on it, an'\nthen, with Greaves's gang in front so he could catch any moves of\ntheirs, he jest slugged Bruce right an' left, an' banged his head on\nthe counter. Then as Bruce sunk limp an' slipped down, lookin' like a\nbloody sack, Isbel let him fall to the floor. Then he vaulted back\nover the counter. Wipin' the blood off his hands, he throwed his\nkerchief down in Bruce's face. Bruce wasn't dead or bad hurt. He'd\njest been beaten bad. He was moanin' an' slobberin'. Isbel kicked him,\nnot hard, but jest sort of disgustful. Then he faced thet crowd.\n'Greaves, thet's what I think of your Simm Bruce. Tell him next time\nhe sees me to run or pull a gun.' An' then Isbel grabbed his rifle an'\npackage off the counter an' went out. He didn't even look back. I\nseen him nount his horse an' ride away.... Now, girl, what hev you to\nsay?\"\n\nEllen could only say good-by and the word was so low as to be almost\ninaudible. She ran to her burro. She could not see very clearly\nthrough tear-blurred eyes, and her shaking fingers were all thumbs. It\nseemed she had to rush away--somewhere, anywhere--not to get away from\nold John Sprague, but from herself--this palpitating, bursting self\nwhose feet stumbled down the trail. All--all seemed ended for her.\nThat interminable story! It had taken so long. And every minute of it\nshe had been helplessly torn asunder by feelings she had never known\nshe possessed. This Ellen Jorth was an unknown creature. She sobbed\nnow as she dragged the burro down the canyon trail. She sat down only\nto rise. She hurried only to stop. Driven, pursued, barred, she had\nno way to escape the flaying thoughts, no time or will to repudiate\nthem. The death of her girlhood, the rending aside of a veil of maiden\nmystery only vaguely instinctively guessed, the barren, sordid truth of\nher life as seen by her enlightened eyes, the bitter realization of the\nvileness of men of her clan in contrast to the manliness and chivalry\nof an enemy, the hard facts of unalterable repute as created by slander\nand fostered by low minds, all these were forces in a cataclysm that\nhad suddenly caught her heart and whirled her through changes immense\nand agonizing, to bring her face to face with reality, to force upon\nher suspicion and doubt of all she had trusted, to warn her of the\ndark, impending horror of a tragic bloody feud, and lastly to teach her\nthe supreme truth at once so glorious and so terrible--that she could\nnot escape the doom of womanhood.\n\nAbout noon that day Ellen Jorth arrived at the Knoll, which was the\nlocation of her father's ranch. Three canyons met there to form a\nlarger one. The knoll was a symmetrical hill situated at the mouth of\nthe three canyons. It was covered with brush and cedars, with here and\nthere lichened rocks showing above the bleached grass. Below the Knoll\nwas a wide, grassy flat or meadow through which a willow-bordered\nstream cut its rugged boulder-strewn bed. Water flowed abundantly at\nthis season, and the deep washes leading down from the slopes attested\nto the fact of cloudbursts and heavy storms. This meadow valley was\ndotted with horses and cattle, and meandered away between the timbered\nslopes to lose itself in a green curve. A singular feature of this\ncanyon was that a heavy growth of spruce trees covered the slope facing\nnorthwest; and the opposite slope, exposed to the sun and therefore\nless snowbound in winter, held a sparse growth of yellow pines. The\nranch house of Colonel Jorth stood round the rough corner of the largest\nof the three canyons, and rather well hidden, it did not obtrude its\nrude and broken-down log cabins, its squalid surroundings, its black\nmud-holes of corrals upon the beautiful and serene meadow valley.\n\nEllen Jorth approached her home slowly, with dragging, reluctant steps;\nand never before in the three unhappy years of her existence there had\nthe ranch seemed so bare, so uncared for, so repugnant to her. As she\nhad seen herself with clarified eyes, so now she saw her home. The\ncabin that Ellen lived in with her father was a single-room structure\nwith one door and no windows. It was about twenty feet square. The\nhuge, ragged, stone chimney had been built on the outside, with the\nwide open fireplace set inside the logs. Smoke was rising from the\nchimney. As Ellen halted at the door and began unpacking her burro she\nheard the loud, lazy laughter of men. An adjoining log cabin had been\nbuilt in two sections, with a wide roofed hall or space between them.\nThe door in each cabin faced the other, and there was a tall man\nstanding in one. Ellen recognized Daggs, a neighbor sheepman, who\nevidently spent more time with her father than at his own home,\nwherever that was. Ellen had never seen it. She heard this man drawl,\n\"Jorth, heah's your kid come home.\"\n\nEllen carried her bed inside the cabin, and unrolled it upon a couch\nbuilt of boughs in the far corner. She had forgotten Jean Isbel's\npackage, and now it fell out under her sight. Quickly she covered it.\nA Mexican woman, relative of Antonio, and the only servant about the\nplace, was squatting Indian fashion before the fireplace, stirring a\npot of beans. She and Ellen did not get along well together, and few\nwords ever passed between them. Ellen had a canvas curtain stretched\nupon a wire across a small triangular corner, and this afforded her a\nlittle privacy. Her possessions were limited in number. The crude\nsquare table she had constructed herself. Upon it was a little\nold-fashioned walnut-framed mirror, a brush and comb, and a dilapidated\nebony cabinet which contained odds and ends the sight of which always\nbrought a smile of derisive self-pity to her lips. Under the table\nstood an old leather trunk. It had come with her from Texas, and\ncontained clothing and belongings of her mother's. Above the couch on\npegs hung her scant wardrobe. A tiny shelf held several worn-out books.\n\nWhen her father slept indoors, which was seldom except in winter, he\noccupied a couch in the opposite corner. A rude cupboard had been\nbuilt against the logs next to the fireplace. It contained supplies\nand utensils. Toward the center, somewhat closer to the door, stood a\ncrude table and two benches. The cabin was dark and smelled of smoke,\nof the stale odors of past cooked meals, of the mustiness of dry,\nrotting timber. Streaks of light showed through the roof where the\nrough-hewn shingles had split or weathered. A strip of bacon hung upon\none side of the cupboard, and upon the other a haunch of venison.\nEllen detested the Mexican woman because she was dirty. The inside of\nthe cabin presented the same unkempt appearance usual to it after Ellen\nhad been away for a few days. Whatever Ellen had lost during the\nretrogression of the Jorths, she had kept her habits of cleanliness,\nand straightway upon her return she set to work.\n\nThe Mexican woman sullenly slouched away to her own quarters outside\nand Ellen was left to the satisfaction of labor. Her mind was as busy\nas her hands. As she cleaned and swept and dusted she heard from time\nto time the voices of men, the clip-clop of shod horses, the bellow of\ncattle. And a considerable time elapsed before she was disturbed.\n\nA tall shadow darkened the doorway.\n\n\"Howdy, little one!\" said a lazy, drawling voice. \"So y'u-all got\nhome?\"\n\nEllen looked up. A superbly built man leaned against the doorpost.\nLike most Texans, he was light haired and light eyed. His face was\nlined and hard. His long, sandy mustache hid his mouth and drooped\nwith a curl. Spurred, booted, belted, packing a heavy gun low down on\nhis hip, he gave Ellen an entirely new impression. Indeed, she was\nseeing everything strangely.\n\n\"Hello, Daggs!\" replied Ellen. \"Where's my dad?\"\n\n\"He's playin' cairds with Jackson an' Colter. Shore's playin' bad,\ntoo, an' it's gone to his haid.\"\n\n\"Gamblin'?\" queried Ellen.\n\n\"Mah child, when'd Kurnel Jorth ever play for fun?\" said Daggs, with a\nlazy laugh. \"There's a stack of gold on the table. Reckon yo' uncle\nJackson will win it. Colter's shore out of luck.\"\n\nDaggs stepped inside. He was graceful and slow. His long' spurs\nclinked. He laid a rather compelling hand on Ellen's shoulder.\n\n\"Heah, mah gal, give us a kiss,\" he said.\n\n\"Daggs, I'm not your girl,\" replied Ellen as she slipped out from under\nhis hand.\n\nThen Daggs put his arm round her, not with violence or rudeness, but\nwith an indolent, affectionate assurance, at once bold and\nself-contained. Ellen, however, had to exert herself to get free of\nhim, and when she had placed the table between them she looked him\nsquare in the eyes.\n\n\"Daggs, y'u keep your paws off me,\" she said.\n\n\"Aw, now, Ellen, I ain't no bear,\" he remonstrated. \"What's the\nmatter, kid?\"\n\n\"I'm not a kid. And there's nothin' the matter. Y'u're to keep your\nhands to yourself, that's all.\"\n\nHe tried to reach her across the table, and his movements were lazy and\nslow, like his smile. His tone was coaxing.\n\n\"Mah dear, shore you set on my knee just the other day, now, didn't\nyou?\"\n\nEllen felt the blood sting her cheeks.\n\n\"I was a child,\" she returned.\n\n\"Wal, listen to this heah grown-up young woman. All in a few days! ...\nDoon't be in a temper, Ellen.... Come, give us a kiss.\"\n\nShe deliberately gazed into his eyes. Like the eyes of an eagle, they\nwere clear and hard, just now warmed by the dalliance of the moment,\nbut there was no light, no intelligence in them to prove he understood\nher. The instant separated Ellen immeasurably from him and from all of\nhis ilk.\n\n\"Daggs, I was a child,\" she said. \"I was lonely--hungry for\naffection--I was innocent. Then I was careless, too, and thoughtless\nwhen I should have known better. But I hardly understood y'u men. I\nput such thoughts out of my mind. I know now--know what y'u mean--what\ny'u have made people believe I am.\"\n\n\"Ahuh! Shore I get your hunch,\" he returned, with a change of tone.\n\"But I asked you to marry me?\"\n\n\"Yes y'u did. The first day y'u got heah to my dad's house. And y'u\nasked me to marry y'u after y'u found y'u couldn't have your way with\nme. To y'u the one didn't mean any more than the other.\"\n\n\"Shore I did more than Simm Bruce an' Colter,\" he retorted. \"They never\nasked you to marry.\"\n\n\"No, they didn't. And if I could respect them at all I'd do it because\nthey didn't ask me.\"\n\n\"Wal, I'll be dog-goned!\" ejaculated Daggs, thoughtfully, as he stroked\nhis long mustache.\n\n\"I'll say to them what I've said to y'u,\" went on Ellen. \"I'll tell\ndad to make y'u let me alone. I wouldn't marry one of y'u--y'u loafers\nto save my life. I've my suspicions about y'u. Y'u're a bad lot.\"\n\nDaggs changed subtly. The whole indolent nonchalance of the man\nvanished in an instant.\n\n\"Wal, Miss Jorth, I reckon you mean we're a bad lot of sheepmen?\" he\nqueried, in the cool, easy speech of a Texan.\n\n\"No,\" flashed Ellen. \"Shore I don't say sheepmen. I say y'u're a BAD\nLOT.\"\n\n\"Oh, the hell you say!\" Daggs spoke as he might have spoken to a man;\nthen turning swiftly on his heel he left her. Outside he encountered\nEllen's father. She heard Daggs speak: \"Lee, your little wildcat is\nshore heah. An' take mah hunch. Somebody has been talkin' to her.\"\n\n\"Who has?\" asked her father, in his husky voice. Ellen knew at once\nthat he had been drinking.\n\n\"Lord only knows,\" replied Daggs. \"But shore it wasn't any friends of\nours.\"\n\n\"We cain't stop people's tongues,\" said Jorth, resignedly\n\n\"Wal, I ain't so shore,\" continued Daggs, with his slow, cool laugh.\n\"Reckon I never yet heard any daid men's tongues wag.\"\n\nThen the musical tinkle of his spurs sounded fainter. A moment later\nEllen's father entered the cabin. His dark, moody face brightened at\nsight of her. Ellen knew she was the only person in the world left for\nhim to love. And she was sure of his love. Her very presence always\nmade him different. And through the years, the darker their\nmisfortunes, the farther he slipped away from better days, the more she\nloved him.\n\n\"Hello, my Ellen!\" he said, and he embraced her. When he had been\ndrinking he never kissed her. \"Shore I'm glad you're home. This heah\nhole is bad enough any time, but when you're gone it's black.... I'm\nhungry.\"\n\nEllen laid food and drink on the table; and for a little while she did\nnot look directly at him. She was concerned about this new searching\npower of her eyes. In relation to him she vaguely dreaded it.\n\nLee Jorth had once been a singularly handsome man. He was tall, but\ndid not have the figure of a horseman. His dark hair was streaked with\ngray, and was white over his ears. His face was sallow and thin, with\ndeep lines. Under his round, prominent, brown eyes, like deadened\nfurnaces, were blue swollen welts. He had a bitter mouth and weak\nchin, not wholly concealed by gray mustache and pointed beard. He wore\na long frock coat and a wide-brimmed sombrero, both black in color, and\nso old and stained and frayed that along with the fashion of them they\nbetrayed that they had come from Texas with him. Jorth always\npersisted in wearing a white linen shirt, likewise a relic of his\nSouthern prosperity, and to-day it was ragged and soiled as usual.\n\nEllen watched her father eat and waited for him to speak. It occured\nto her strangely that he never asked about the sheep or the new-born\nlambs. She divined with a subtle new woman's intuition that he cared\nnothing for his sheep.\n\n\"Ellen, what riled Daggs?\" inquired her father, presently. \"He shore\nhad fire in his eye.\"\n\nLong ago Ellen had betrayed an indignity she had suffered at the hands\nof a man. Her father had nearly killed him. Since then she had taken\ncare to keep her troubles to herself. If her father had not been blind\nand absorbed in his own brooding he would have seen a thousand things\nsufficient to inflame his Southern pride and temper.\n\n\"Daggs asked me to marry him again and I said he belonged to a bad\nlot,\" she replied.\n\nJorth laughed in scorn. \"Fool! My God! Ellen, I must have dragged you\nlow--that every damned ru--er--sheepman--who comes along thinks he can\nmarry you.\"\n\nAt the break in his words, the incompleted meaning, Ellen dropped her\neyes. Little things once never noted by her were now come to have a\nfascinating significance.\n\n\"Never mind, dad,\" she replied. \"They cain't marry me.\"\n\n\"Daggs said somebody had been talkin' to you. How aboot that?\"\n\n\"Old John Sprague has just gotten back from Grass Valley,\" said Ellen.\n\"I stopped in to see him. Shore he told me all the village gossip.\"\n\n\"Anythin' to interest me?\" he queried, darkly.\n\n\"Yes, dad, I'm afraid a good deal,\" she said, hesitatingly. Then in\naccordance with a decision Ellen had made she told him of the rumored\nwar between sheepmen and cattlemen; that old Isbel had Blaisdell,\nGordon, Fredericks, Blue and other well-known ranchers on his side;\nthat his son Jean Isbel had come from Oregon with a wonderful\nreputation as fighter and scout and tracker; that it was no secret how\nColonel Lee Jorth was at the head of the sheepmen; that a bloody war\nwas sure to come.\n\n\"Hah!\" exclaimed Jorth, with a stain of red in his sallow cheek.\n\"Reckon none of that is news to me. I knew all that.\"\n\nEllen wondered if he had heard of her meeting with Jean Isbel. If not\nhe would hear as soon as Simm Bruce and Lorenzo came back. She decided\nto forestall them.\n\n\"Dad, I met Jean Isbel. He came into my camp. Asked the way to the\nRim. I showed him. We--we talked a little. And shore were gettin'\nacquainted when--when he told me who he was. Then I left him--hurried\nback to camp.\"\n\n\"Colter met Isbel down in the woods,\" replied Jorth, ponderingly. \"Said\nhe looked like an Indian--a hard an' slippery customer to reckon with.\"\n\n\"Shore I guess I can indorse what Colter said,\" returned Ellen, dryly.\nShe could have laughed aloud at her deceit. Still she had not lied.\n\n\"How'd this heah young Isbel strike you?\" queried her father, suddenly\nglancing up at her.\n\nEllen felt the slow, sickening, guilty rise of blood in her face. She\nwas helpless to stop it. But her father evidently never saw it. He was\nlooking at her without seeing her.\n\n\"He--he struck me as different from men heah,\" she stammered.\n\n\"Did Sprague tell you aboot this half-Indian Isbel--aboot his\nreputation?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Did he look to you like a real woodsman?\"\n\n\"Indeed he did. He wore buckskin. He stepped quick and soft. He\nacted at home in the woods. He had eyes black as night and sharp as\nlightnin'. They shore saw about all there was to see.\"\n\nJorth chewed at his mustache and lost himself in brooding thought.\n\n\"Dad, tell me, is there goin' to be a war?\" asked Ellen, presently.\n\nWhat a red, strange, rolling flash blazed in his eyes! His body jerked.\n\n\"Shore. You might as well know.\"\n\n\"Between sheepmen and cattlemen?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"With y'u, dad, at the haid of one faction and Gaston Isbel the other?\"\n\n\"Daughter, you have it correct, so far as you go.\"\n\n\"Oh! ... Dad, can't this fight be avoided?\"\n\n\"You forget you're from Texas,\" he replied.\n\n\"Cain't it be helped?\" she repeated, stubbornly.\n\n\"No!\" he declared, with deep, hoarse passion.\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Wal, we sheepmen are goin' to run sheep anywhere we like on the range.\nAn' cattlemen won't stand for that.\"\n\n\"But, dad, it's so foolish,\" declared Ellen, earnestly. \"Y'u sheepmen\ndo not have to run sheep over the cattle range.\"\n\n\"I reckon we do.\"\n\n\"Dad, that argument doesn't go with me. I know the country. For years\nto come there will be room for both sheep and cattle without\noverrunnin'. If some of the range is better in water and grass, then\nwhoever got there first should have it. That shore is only fair. It's\ncommon sense, too.\"\n\n\"Ellen, I reckon some cattle people have been prejudicin' you,\" said\nJorth, bitterly.\n\n\"Dad!\" she cried, hotly.\n\nThis had grown to be an ordeal for Jorth. He seemed a victim of\ncontending tides of feeling. Some will or struggle broke within him\nand the change was manifest. Haggard, shifty-eyed, with wabbling chin,\nhe burst into speech.\n\n\"See heah, girl. You listen. There's a clique of ranchers down in the\nBasin, all those you named, with Isbel at their haid. They have\nresented sheepmen comin' down into the valley. They want it all to\nthemselves. That's the reason. Shore there's another. All the Isbels\nare crooked. They're cattle an' horse thieves--have been for years.\nGaston Isbel always was a maverick rustler. He's gettin' old now an'\nrich, so he wants to cover his tracks. He aims to blame this cattle\nrustlin' an' horse stealin' on to us sheepmen, an' run us out of the\ncountry.\"\n\nGravely Ellen Jorth studied her father's face, and the newly found\ntruth-seeing power of her eyes did not fail her. In part, perhaps in\nall, he was telling lies. She shuddered a little, loyally battling\nagainst the insidious convictions being brought to fruition. Perhaps\nin his brooding over his failures and troubles he leaned toward false\njudgments. Ellen could not attach dishonor to her father's motives or\nspeeches. For long, however, something about him had troubled her,\nperplexed her. Fearfully she believed she was coming to some\nrevelation, and, despite her keen determination to know, she found\nherself shrinking.\n\n\"Dad, mother told me before she died that the Isbels had ruined you,\"\nsaid Ellen, very low. It hurt her so to see her father cover his face\nthat she could hardly go on. \"If they ruined you they ruined all of\nus. I know what we had once--what we lost again and again--and I see\nwhat we are come to now. Mother hated the Isbels. She taught me to\nhate the very name. But I never knew how they ruined you--or why--or\nwhen. And I want to know now.\"\n\nThen it was not the face of a liar that Jorth disclosed. The present\nwas forgotten. He lived in the past. He even seemed younger 'in the\nrevivifying flash of hate that made his face radiant. The lines burned\nout. Hate gave him back the spirit of his youth.\n\n\"Gaston Isbel an' I were boys together in Weston, Texas,\" began Jorth,\nin swift, passionate voice. \"We went to school together. We loved the\nsame girl--your mother. When the war broke out she was engaged to\nIsbel. His family was rich. They influenced her people. But she\nloved me. When Isbel went to war she married me. He came back an'\nfaced us. God! I'll never forget that. Your mother confessed her\nunfaithfulness--by Heaven! She taunted him with it. Isbel accused me\nof winnin' her by lies. But she took the sting out of that.\n\n\"Isbel never forgave her an' he hounded me to ruin. He made me out a\ncard-sharp, cheatin' my best friends. I was disgraced. Later he\ntangled me in the courts--he beat me out of property--an' last by\nconvictin' me of rustlin' cattle he run me out of Texas.\"\n\nBlack and distorted now, Jorth's face was a spectacle to make Ellen\nsick with a terrible passion of despair and hate. The truth of her\nfather's ruin and her own were enough. What mattered all else? Jorth\nbeat the table with fluttering, nerveless hands that seemed all the\nmore significant for their lack of physical force.\n\n\"An' so help me God, it's got to be wiped out in blood!\" he hissed.\n\nThat was his answer to the wavering and nobility of Ellen. And she in\nher turn had no answer to make. She crept away into the corner behind\nthe curtain, and there on her couch in the semidarkness she lay with\nstrained heart, and a resurging, unconquerable tumult in her mind. And\nshe lay there from the middle of that afternoon until the next morning.\n\nWhen she awakened she expected to be unable to rise--she hoped she\ncould not--but life seemed multiplied in her, and inaction was\nimpossible. Something young and sweet and hopeful that had been in her\ndid not greet the sun this morning. In their place was a woman's\npassion to learn for herself, to watch events, to meet what must come,\nto survive.\n\nAfter breakfast, at which she sat alone, she decided to put Isbel's\npackage out of the way, so that it would not be subjecting her to\ncontinual annoyance. The moment she picked it up the old curiosity\nassailed her.\n\n\"Shore I'll see what it is, anyway,\" she muttered, and with swift hands\nshe opened the package. The action disclosed two pairs of fine, soft\nshoes, of a style she had never seen, and four pairs of stockings, two\nof strong, serviceable wool, and the others of a finer texture. Ellen\nlooked at them in amaze. Of all things in the world, these would have\nbeen the last she expected to see. And, strangely, they were what she\nwanted and needed most. Naturally, then, Ellen made the mistake of\ntaking them in her hands to feel their softness and warmth.\n\n\"Shore! He saw my bare legs! And he brought me these presents he'd\nintended for his sister.... He was ashamed for me--sorry for me.... And\nI thought he looked at me bold-like, as I'm used to be looked at heah!\nIsbel or not, he's shore...\"\n\nBut Ellen Jorth could not utter aloud the conviction her intelligence\ntried to force upon her.\n\n\"It'd be a pity to burn them,\" she mused. \"I cain't do it. Sometime I\nmight send them to Ann Isbel.\"\n\nWhereupon she wrapped them up again and hid them in the bottom of the\nold trunk, and slowly, as she lowered the lid, looking darkly, blankly\nat the wall, she whispered: \"Jean Isbel! ... I hate him!\"\n\nLater when Ellen went outdoors she carried her rifle, which was unusual\nfor her, unless she intended to go into the woods.\n\nThe morning was sunny and warm. A group of shirt-sleeved men lounged\nin the hall and before the porch of the double cabin. Her father was\npacing up and down, talking forcibly. Ellen heard his hoarse voice. As\nshe approached he ceased talking and his listeners relaxed their\nattention. Ellen's glance ran over them swiftly--Daggs, with his\nsuperb head, like that of a hawk, uncovered to the sun; Colter with his\nlowered, secretive looks, his sand-gray lean face; Jackson Jorth, her\nuncle, huge, gaunt, hulking, with white in his black beard and hair,\nand the fire of a ghoul in his hollow eyes; Tad Jorth, another brother\nof her father's, younger, red of eye and nose, a weak-chinned drinker\nof rum. Three other limber-legged Texans lounged there, partners of\nDaggs, and they were sun-browned, light-haired, blue-eyed men\nsingularly alike in appearance, from their dusty high-heeled boots to\ntheir broad black sombreros. They claimed to be sheepmen. All Ellen\ncould be sure of was that Rock Wells spent most of his time there,\ndoing nothing but look for a chance to waylay her; Springer was a\ngambler; and the third, who answered to the strange name of Queen, was\na silent, lazy, watchful-eyed man who never wore a glove on his right\nhand and who never was seen without a gun within easy reach of that\nhand.\n\n\"Howdy, Ellen. Shore you ain't goin' to say good mawnin' to this heah\nbad lot?\" drawled Daggs, with good-natured sarcasm.\n\n\"Why, shore! Good morning, y'u hard-working industrious MANANA sheep\nraisers,\" replied Ellen, coolly.\n\nDaggs stared. The others appeared taken back by a greeting so foreign\nfrom any to which they were accustomed from her. Jackson Jorth let out\na gruff haw-haw. Some of them doffed their sombreros, and Rock Wells\nmanaged a lazy, polite good morning. Ellen's father seemed most\nsignificantly struck by her greeting, and the least amused.\n\n\"Ellen, I'm not likin' your talk,\" he said, with a frown.\n\n\"Dad, when y'u play cards don't y'u call a spade a spade?\"\n\n\"Why, shore I do.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm calling spades spades.\"\n\n\"Ahuh!\" grunted Jorth, furtively dropping his eyes. \"Where you goin'\nwith your gun? I'd rather you hung round heah now.\"\n\n\"Reckon I might as well get used to packing my gun all the time,\"\nreplied Ellen. \"Reckon I'll be treated more like a man.\"\n\nThen the event Ellen had been expecting all morning took place. Simm\nBruce and Lorenzo rode around the slope of the Knoll and trotted toward\nthe cabin. Interest in Ellen was relegated to the background.\n\n\"Shore they're bustin' with news,\" declared Daggs.\n\n\"They been ridin' some, you bet,\" remarked another.\n\n\"Huh!\" exclaimed Jorth. \"Bruce shore looks queer to me.\"\n\n\"Red liquor,\" said Tad Jorth, sententiously. \"You-all know the brand\nGreaves hands out.\"\n\n\"Naw, Simm ain't drunk,\" said Jackson Jorth. \"Look at his bloody\nshirt.\"\n\nThe cool, indolent interest of the crowd vanished at the red color\npointed out by Jackson Jorth. Daggs rose in a single springy motion to\nhis lofty height. The face Bruce turned to Jorth was swollen and\nbruised, with unhealed cuts. Where his right eye should have been\nshowed a puffed dark purple bulge. His other eye, however, gleamed\nwith hard and sullen light. He stretched a big shaking hand toward\nJorth.\n\n\"Thet Nez Perce Isbel beat me half to death,\" he bellowed.\n\nJorth stared hard at the tragic, almost grotesque figure, at the\nbattered face. But speech failed him. It was Daggs who answered Bruce.\n\n\"Wal, Simm, I'll be damned if you don't look it.\"\n\n\"Beat you! What with?\" burst out Jorth, explosively.\n\n\"I thought he was swingin' an ax, but Greaves swore it was his fists,\"\nbawled Bruce, in misery and fury.\n\n\"Where was your gun?\" queried Jorth, sharply.\n\n\"Gun? Hell!\" exclaimed Bruce, flinging wide his arms. \"Ask Lorenzo. He\nhad a gun. An' he got a biff in the jaw before my turn come. Ask him?\"\n\nAttention thus directed to the Mexican showed a heavy discolored\nswelling upon the side of his olive-skinned face. Lorenzo looked only\nserious.\n\n\"Hah! Speak up,\" shouted Jorth, impatiently.\n\n\"Senor Isbel heet me ver quick,\" replied Lorenzo, with expressive\ngesture. \"I see thousand stars--then moocho black--all like night.\"\n\nAt that some of Daggs's men lolled back with dry crisp laughter.\nDaggs's hard face rippled with a smile. But there was no humor in\nanything for Colonel Jorth.\n\n\"Tell us what come off. Quick!\" he ordered. \"Where did it happen?\nWhy? Who saw it? What did you do?\"\n\nBruce lapsed into a sullen impressiveness. \"Wal, I happened in\nGreaves's store an' run into Jean Isbel. Shore was lookin' fer him. I\nhad my mind made up what to do, but I got to shootin' off my gab\ninstead of my gun. I called him Nez Perce--an' I throwed all thet talk\nin his face about old Gass Isbel sendin' fer him---an' I told him he'd\ngit run out of the Tonto. Reckon I was jest warmin' up.... But then it\nall happened. He slugged Lorenzo jest one. An' Lorenzo slid\npeaceful-like to bed behind the counter. I hadn't time to think of\nthrowin' a gun before he whaled into me. He knocked out two of my\nteeth. An' I swallered one of them.\"\n\nEllen stood in the background behind three of the men and in the\nshadow. She did not join in the laugh that followed Bruce's remarks.\nShe had known that he would lie. Uncertain yet of her reaction to\nthis, but more bitter and furious as he revealed his utter baseness,\nshe waited for more to be said.\n\n\"Wal, I'll be doggoned,\" drawled Daggs.\n\n\"What do you make of this kind of fightin'?\" queried Jorth,\n\n\"Darn if I know,\" replied Daggs in perplexity. \"Shore an' sartin it's\nnot the way of a Texan. Mebbe this young Isbel really is what old Gass\nswears he is. Shore Bruce ain't nothin' to give an edge to a real gun\nfighter. Looks to me like Isbel bluffed Greaves an' his gang an'\nlicked your men without throwin' a gun.\"\n\n\"Maybe Isbel doesn't want the name of drawin' first blood,\" suggested\nJorth.\n\n\"That 'd be like Gass,\" spoke up Rock Wells, quietly. \"I onct rode fer\nGass in Texas.\"\n\n\"Say, Bruce,\" said Daggs, \"was this heah palaverin' of yours an' Jean\nIsbel's aboot the old stock dispute? Aboot his father's range an'\nwater? An' partickler aboot, sheep?\"\n\n\"Wal--I--I yelled a heap,\" declared Bruce, haltingly, \"but I don't\nrecollect all I said--I was riled.... Shore, though it was the same old\nargyment thet's been fetchin' us closer an' closer to trouble.\"\n\nDaggs removed his keen hawklike gaze from Bruce. \"Wal, Jorth, all I'll\nsay is this. If Bruce is tellin' the truth we ain't got a hell of a\nlot to fear from this young Isbel. I've known a heap of gun fighters\nin my day. An' Jean Isbel don't ran true to class. Shore there never\nwas a gunman who'd risk cripplin' his right hand by sluggin' anybody.\"\n\n\"Wal,\" broke in Bruce, sullenly. \"You-all can take it daid straight or\nnot. I don't give a damn. But you've shore got my hunch thet Nez\nPerce Isbel is liable to handle any of you fellars jest as he did me,\nan' jest as easy. What's more, he's got Greaves figgered. An' you-all\nknow thet Greaves is as deep in--\"\n\n\"Shut up that kind of gab,\" demanded Jorth, stridently. \"An' answer\nme. Was the row in Greaves's barroom aboot sheep?\"\n\n\"Aw, hell! I said so, didn't I?\" shouted Bruce, with a fierce uplift\nof his distorted face.\n\nEllen strode out from the shadow of the tall men who had obscured her.\n\n\"Bruce, y'u're a liar,\" she said, bitingly.\n\nThe surprise of her sudden appearance seemed to root Bruce to the spot.\nAll but the discolored places on his face turned white. He held his\nbreath a moment, then expelled it hard. His effort to recover from the\nshock was painfully obvious. He stammered incoherently.\n\n\"Shore y'u're more than a liar, too,\" cried Ellen, facing him with\nblazing eyes. And the rifle, gripped in both hands, seemed to declare\nher intent of menace. \"That row was not about sheep.... Jean Isbel\ndidn't beat y'u for anythin' about sheep.... Old John Sprague was in\nGreaves's store. He heard y'u. He saw Jean Isbel beat y'u as y'u\ndeserved.... An' he told ME!\"\n\nEllen saw Bruce shrink in fear of his life; and despite her fury she\nwas filled with disgust that he could imagine she would have his blood\non her hands. Then she divined that Bruce saw more in the gathering\nstorm in her father's eyes than he had to fear from her.\n\n\"Girl, what the hell are y'u sayin'?\" hoarsely called Jorth, in dark\namaze.\n\n\"Dad, y'u leave this to me,\" she retorted.\n\nDaggs stepped beside Jorth, significantly on his right side. \"Let her\nalone Lee,\" he advised, coolly. \"She's shore got a hunch on Bruce.\"\n\n\"Simm Bruce, y'u cast a dirty slur on my name,\" cried Ellen,\npassionately.\n\nIt was then that Daggs grasped Jorth's right arm and held it tight,\n\"Jest what I thought,\" he said. \"Stand still, Lee. Let's see the kid\nmake him showdown.\"\n\n\"That's what jean Isbel beat y'u for,\" went on Ellen. \"For slandering\na girl who wasn't there.... Me! Y'u rotten liar!\"\n\n\"But, Ellen, it wasn't all lies,\" said Bruce, huskily. \"I was half\ndrunk--an' horrible jealous.... You know Lorenzo seen Isbel kissin'\nyou. I can prove thet.\"\n\nEllen threw up her head and a scarlet wave of shame and wrath flooded\nher face.\n\n\"Yes,\" she cried, ringingly. \"He saw Jean Isbel kiss me. Once! ... An'\nit was the only decent kiss I've had in years. He meant no insult. I\ndidn't know who he was. An' through his kiss I learned a difference\nbetween men.... Y'u made Lorenzo lie. An' if I had a shred of good\nname left in Grass Valley you dishonored it.... Y'u made him think I\nwas your girl! Damn y'u! I ought to kill y'u.... Eat your words\nnow--take them back--or I'll cripple y'u for life!\"\n\nEllen lowered the cocked rifle toward his feet.\n\n\"Shore, Ellen, I take back--all I said,\" gulped Bruce. He gazed at the\nquivering rifle barrel and then into the face of Ellen's father.\nInstinct told him where his real peril lay.\n\nHere the cool and tactful Daggs showed himself master of the situation.\n\n\"Heah, listen!\" he called. \"Ellen, I reckon Bruce was drunk an' out of\nhis haid. He's shore ate his words. Now, we don't want any cripples\nin this camp. Let him alone. Your dad got me heah to lead the Jorths,\nan' that's my say to you.... Simm, you're shore a low-down lyin'\nrascal. Keep away from Ellen after this or I'll bore you myself....\nJorth, it won't be a bad idee for you to forget you're a Texan till you\ncool off. Let Bruce stop some Isbel lead. Shore the Jorth-Isbel war\nis aboot on, an' I reckon we'd be smart to believe old Gass's talk\naboot his Nez Perce son.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nFrom this hour Ellen Jorth bent all of her lately awakened intelligence\nand will to the only end that seemed to hold possible salvation for\nher. In the crisis sure to come she did not want to be blind or weak.\nDreaming and indolence, habits born in her which were often a comfort\nto one as lonely as she, would ill fit her for the hard test she\ndivined and dreaded. In the matter of her father's fight she must\nstand by him whatever the issue or the outcome; in what pertained to\nher own principles, her womanhood, and her soul she stood absolutely\nalone.\n\nTherefore, Ellen put dreams aside, and indolence of mind and body\nbehind her. Many tasks she found, and when these were done for a day\nshe kept active in other ways, thus earning the poise and peace of\nlabor.\n\nJorth rode off every day, sometimes with one or two of the men, often\nwith a larger number. If he spoke of such trips to Ellen it was to\ngive an impression of visiting the ranches of his neighbors or the\nvarious sheep camps. Often he did not return the day he left. When he\ndid get back he smelled of rum and appeared heavy from need of sleep.\nHis horses were always dust and sweat covered. During his absences\nEllen fell victim to anxious dread until he returned. Daily he grew\ndarker and more haggard of face, more obsessed by some impending fate.\nOften he stayed up late, haranguing with the men in the dim-lit cabin,\nwhere they drank and smoked, but seldom gambled any more. When the men\ndid not gamble something immediate and perturbing was on their minds.\nEllen had not yet lowered herself to the deceit and suspicion of\neavesdropping, but she realized that there was a climax approaching in\nwhich she would deliberately do so.\n\nIn those closing May days Ellen learned the significance of many things\nthat previously she had taken as a matter of course. Her father did\nnot run a ranch. There was absolutely no ranching done, and little\nwork. Often Ellen had to chop wood herself. Jorth did not possess a\nplow. Ellen was bound to confess that the evidence of this lack\ndumfounded her. Even old John Sprague raised some hay, beets, turnips.\nJorth's cattle and horses fared ill during the winter. Ellen\nremembered how they used to clean up four-inch oak saplings and aspens.\nMany of them died in the snow. The flocks of sheep, however, were\ndriven down into the Basin in the fall, and across the Reno Pass to\nPhoenix and Maricopa.\n\nEllen could not discover a fence post on the ranch, nor a piece of salt\nfor the horses and cattle, nor a wagon, nor any sign of a\nsheep-shearing outfit. She had never seen any sheep sheared. Ellen\ncould never keep track of the many and different horses running loose\nand hobbled round the ranch. There were droves of horses in the woods,\nand some of them wild as deer. According to her long-established\nunderstanding, her father and her uncles were keen on horse trading and\nbuying.\n\nThen the many trails leading away from the Jorth ranch--these grew to\nhave a fascination for Ellen; and the time came when she rode out on\nthem to see for herself where they led. The sheep ranch of Daggs,\nsupposed to be only a few miles across the ridges, down in Bear Canyon,\nnever materialized at all for Ellen. This circumstance so interested\nher that she went up to see her friend Sprague and got him to direct\nher to Bear Canyon, so that she would be sure not to miss it. And she\nrode from the narrow, maple-thicketed head of it near the Rim down all\nits length. She found no ranch, no cabin, not even a corral in Bear\nCanyon. Sprague said there was only one canyon by that name. Daggs\nhad assured her of the exact location on his place, and so had her\nfather. Had they lied? Were they mistaken in the canyon? There were\nmany canyons, all heading up near the Rim, all running and widening\ndown for miles through the wooded mountain, and vastly different from\nthe deep, short, yellow-walled gorges that cut into the Rim from the\nBasin side. Ellen investigated the canyons within six or eight miles of\nher home, both to east and to west. All she discovered was a couple of\nold log cabins, long deserted. Still, she did not follow out all the\ntrails to their ends. Several of them led far into the deepest,\nroughest, wildest brakes of gorge and thicket that she had seen. No\ncattle or sheep had ever been driven over these trails.\n\nThis riding around of Ellen's at length got to her father's ears. Ellen\nexpected that a bitter quarrel would ensue, for she certainly would\nrefuse to be confined to the camp; but her father only asked her to\nlimit her riding to the meadow valley, and straightway forgot all about\nit. In fact, his abstraction one moment, his intense nervousness the\nnext, his harder drinking and fiercer harangues with the men, grew to\nbe distressing for Ellen. They presaged his further deterioration and\nthe ever-present evil of the growing feud.\n\nOne day Jorth rode home in the early morning, after an absence of two\nnights. Ellen heard the clip-clop of, horses long before she saw them.\n\n\"Hey, Ellen! Come out heah,\" called her father.\n\nEllen left her work and went outside. A stranger had ridden in with\nher father, a young giant whose sharp-featured face appeared marked by\nferret-like eyes and a fine, light, fuzzy beard. He was long, loose\njointed, not heavy of build, and he had the largest hands and feet\nEllen bad ever seen. Next Ellen espied a black horse they had\nevidently brought with them. Her father was holding a rope halter. At\nonce the black horse struck Ellen as being a beauty and a thoroughbred.\n\n\"Ellen, heah's a horse for you,\" said Jorth, with something of pride.\n\"I made a trade. Reckon I wanted him myself, but he's too gentle for\nme an' maybe a little small for my weight.\"\n\nDelight visited Ellen for the first time in many days. Seldom had she\nowned a good horse, and never one like this.\n\n\"Oh, dad!\" she exclaimed, in her gratitude.\n\n\"Shore he's yours on one condition,\" said her father.\n\n\"What's that?\" asked Ellen, as she laid caressing hands on the restless\nhorse.\n\n\"You're not to ride him out of the canyon.\"\n\n\"Agreed.... All daid black, isn't he, except that white face? What's\nhis name, dad?\n\n\"I forgot to ask,\" replied Jorth, as he began unsaddling his own horse.\n\"Slater, what's this heah black's name?\"\n\nThe lanky giant grinned. \"I reckon it was Spades.\"\n\n\"Spades?\" ejaculated Ellen, blankly. \"What a name! ... Well, I guess\nit's as good as any. He's shore black.\"\n\n\"Ellen, keep him hobbled when you're not ridin' him,\" was her father's\nparting advice as he walked off with the stranger.\n\nSpades was wet and dusty and his satiny skin quivered. He had fine,\ndark, intelligent eyes that watched Ellen's every move. She knew how\nher father and his friends dragged and jammed horses through the woods\nand over the rough trails. It did not take her long to discover that\nthis horse had been a pet. Ellen cleaned his coat and brushed him and\nfed him. Then she fitted her bridle to suit his head and saddled him.\nHis evident response to her kindness assured her that he was gentle, so\nshe mounted and rode him, to discover he had the easiest gait she had\never experienced. He walked and trotted to suit her will, but when\nleft to choose his own gait he fell into a graceful little pace that\nwas very easy for her. He appeared quite ready to break into a run at\nher slightest bidding, but Ellen satisfied herself on this first ride\nwith his slower gaits.\n\n\"Spades, y'u've shore cut out my burro Jinny,\" said Ellen, regretfully.\n\"Well, I reckon women are fickle.\"\n\nNext day she rode up the canyon to show Spades to her friend John\nSprague. The old burro breeder was not at home. As his door was open,\nhowever, and a fire smoldering, Ellen concluded he would soon return.\nSo she waited. Dismounting, she left Spades free to graze on the new\ngreen grass that carpeted the ground. The cabin and little level\nclearing accentuated the loneliness and wildness of the forest. Ellen\nalways liked it here and had once been in the habit of visiting the old\nman often. But of late she had stayed away, for the reason that\nSprague's talk and his news and his poorly hidden pity depressed her.\n\nPresently she heard hoof beats on the hard, packed trail leading down\nthe canyon in the direction from which she had come. Scarcely likely\nwas it that Sprague should return from this direction. Ellen thought\nher father had sent one of the herders for her. But when she caught a\nglimpse of the approaching horseman, down in the aspens, she failed to\nrecognize him. After he had passed one of the openings she heard his\nhorse stop. Probably the man had seen her; at least she could not\notherwise account for his stopping. The glimpse she had of him had\ngiven her the impression that he was bending over, peering ahead in the\ntrail, looking for tracks. Then she heard the rider come on again,\nmore slowly this time. At length the horse trotted out into the\nopening, to be hauled up short. Ellen recognized the buckskin-clad\nfigure, the broad shoulders, the dark face of Jean Isbel.\n\nEllen felt prey to the strangest quaking sensation she had ever\nsuffered. It took violence of her new-born spirit to subdue that\nfeeling.\n\nIsbel rode slowly across the clearing toward her. For Ellen his\napproach seemed singularly swift--so swift that her surprise, dismay,\nconjecture, and anger obstructed her will. The outwardly calm and cold\nEllen Jorth was a travesty that mocked her--that she felt he would\ndiscern.\n\nThe moment Isbel drew close enough for Ellen to see his face she\nexperienced a strong, shuddering repetition of her first shock of\nrecognition. He was not the same. The light, the youth was gone.\nThis, however, did not cause her emotion. Was it not a sudden\ntransition of her nature to the dominance of hate? Ellen seemed to\nfeel the shadow of her unknown self standing with her.\n\nIsbel halted his horse. Ellen had been standing near the trunk of a\nfallen pine and she instinctively backed against it. How her legs\ntrembled! Isbel took off his cap and crushed it nervously in his bare,\nbrown hand.\n\n\"Good mornin', Miss Ellen!\" he said.\n\nEllen did not return his greeting, but queried, almost breathlessly,\n\"Did y'u come by our ranch?\"\n\n\"No. I circled,\" he replied.\n\n\"Jean Isbel! What do y'u want heah?\" she demanded.\n\n\"Don't you know?\" he returned. His eyes were intensely black and\npiercing. They seemed to search Ellen's very soul. To meet their gaze\nwas an ordeal that only her rousing fury sustained.\n\nEllen felt on her lips a scornful allusion to his half-breed Indian\ntraits and the reputation that had preceded him. But she could not\nutter it.\n\n\"No,\" she replied.\n\n\"It's hard to call a woman a liar,\" he returned, bitterly. But you\nmust be--seein' you're a Jorth.\n\n\"Liar! Not to y'u, Jean Isbel,\" she retorted. \"I'd not lie to y'u to\nsave my life.\"\n\nHe studied her with keen, sober, moody intent. The dark fire of his\neyes thrilled her.\n\n\"If that's true, I'm glad,\" he said.\n\n\"Shore it's true. I've no idea why y'u came heah.\"\n\nEllen did have a dawning idea that she could not force into oblivion.\nBut if she ever admitted it to her consciousness, she must fail in the\ncontempt and scorn and fearlessness she chose to throw in this man's\nface.\n\n\"Does old Sprague live here?\" asked Isbel.\n\n\"Yes. I expect him back soon.... Did y'u come to see him?\"\n\n\"No.... Did Sprague tell you anythin' about the row he saw me in?\"\n\n\"He--did not,\" replied Ellen, lying with stiff lips. She who had sworn\nshe could not lie! She felt the hot blood leaving her heart, mounting\nin a wave. All her conscious will seemed impelled to deceive. What\nhad she to hide from Jean Isbel? And a still, small voice replied that\nshe had to hide the Ellen Jorth who had waited for him that day, who\nhad spied upon him, who had treasured a gift she could not destroy, who\nhad hugged to her miserable heart the fact that he had fought for her\nname.\n\n\"I'm glad of that,\" Isbel was saying, thoughtfully.\n\n\"Did you come heah to see me?\" interrupted Ellen. She felt that she\ncould not endure this reiterated suggestion of fineness, of\nconsideration in him. She would betray herself--betray what she did\nnot even realize herself. She must force other footing--and that\nshould be the one of strife between the Jorths and Isbels.\n\n\"No--honest, I didn't, Miss Ellen,\" he rejoined, humbly. \"I'll tell\nyou, presently, why I came. But it wasn't to see you.... I don't deny\nI wanted ... but that's no matter. You didn't meet me that day on the\nRim.\"\n\n\"Meet y'u!\" she echoed, coldly. \"Shore y'u never expected me?\"\n\n\"Somehow I did,\" he replied, with those penetrating eyes on her. \"I put\nsomethin' in your tent that day. Did you find it?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she replied, with the same casual coldness.\n\n\"What did you do with it?\"\n\n\"I kicked it out, of course,\" she replied.\n\nShe saw him flinch.\n\n\"And you never opened it?\"\n\n\"Certainly not,\" she retorted, as if forced. \"Doon't y'u know anythin'\nabout--about people? ... Shore even if y'u are an Isbel y'u never were\nborn in Texas.\"\n\n\"Thank God I wasn't!\" he replied. \"I was born in a beautiful country\nof green meadows and deep forests and white rivers, not in a barren\ndesert where men live dry and hard as the cactus. Where I come from\nmen don't live on hate. They can forgive.\"\n\n\"Forgive! ... Could y'u forgive a Jorth?\"\n\n\"Yes, I could.\"\n\n\"Shore that's easy to say--with the wrongs all on your side,\" she\ndeclared, bitterly.\n\n\"Ellen Jorth, the first wrong was on your side,\" retorted Jean, his\nvoice fall. \"Your father stole my father's sweetheart--by lies, by\nslander, by dishonor, by makin' terrible love to her in his absence.\"\n\n\"It's a lie,\" cried Ellen, passionately.\n\n\"It is not,\" he declared, solemnly.\n\n\"Jean Isbel, I say y'u lie!\"\n\n\"No! I say you've been lied to,\" he thundered.\n\nThe tremendous force of his spirit seemed to fling truth at Ellen. It\nweakened her.\n\n\"But--mother loved dad--best.\"\n\n\"Yes, afterward. No wonder, poor woman! ... But it was the action of\nyour father and your mother that ruined all these lives. You've got to\nknow the truth, Ellen Jorth.... All the years of hate have borne their\nfruit. God Almighty can never save us now. Blood must be spilled.\nThe Jorths and the Isbels can't live on the same earth.... And you've\ngot to know the truth because the worst of this hell falls on you and\nme.\"\n\nThe hate that he spoke of alone upheld her.\n\n\"Never, Jean Isbel!\" she cried. \"I'll never know truth from y'u....\nI'll never share anythin' with y'u--not even hell.\"\n\nIsbel dismounted and stood before her, still holding his bridle reins.\nThe bay horse champed his bit and tossed his head.\n\n\"Why do you hate me so?\" he asked. \"I just happen to be my father's\nson. I never harmed you or any of your people. I met you ... fell in\nlove with you in a flash--though I never knew it till after.... Why do\nyou hate me so terribly?\"\n\nEllen felt a heavy, stifling pressure within her breast. \"Y'u're an\nIsbel.... Doon't speak of love to me.\"\n\n\"I didn't intend to. But your--your hate seems unnatural. And we'll\nprobably never meet again.... I can't help it. I love you. Love at\nfirst sight! Jean Isbel and Ellen Jorth! Strange, isn't it? ... It\nwas all so strange. My meetin' you so lonely and unhappy, my seein'\nyou so sweet and beautiful, my thinkin' you so good in spite of--\"\n\n\"Shore it was strange,\" interrupted Ellen, with scornful laugh. She had\nfound her defense. In hurting him she could hide her own hurt.\n\"Thinking me so good in spite of-- Ha-ha! And I said I'd been kissed\nbefore!\"\n\n\"Yes, in spite of everything,\" he said.\n\nEllen could not look at him as he loomed over her. She felt a wild\ntumult in her heart. All that crowded to her lips for utterance was\nfalse.\n\n\"Yes--kissed before I met you--and since,\" she said, mockingly. \"And I\nlaugh at what y'u call love, Jean Isbel.\"\n\n\"Laugh if you want--but believe it was sweet, honorable--the best in\nme,\" he replied, in deep earnestness.\n\n\"Bah!\" cried Ellen, with all the force of her pain and shame and hate.\n\n\"By Heaven, you must be different from what I thought!\" exclaimed\nIsbel, huskily.\n\n\"Shore if I wasn't, I'd make myself.... Now, Mister Jean Isbel, get on\nyour horse an' go!\"\n\nSomething of composure came to Ellen with these words of dismissal, and\nshe glanced up at him with half-veiled eyes. His changed aspect\nprepared her for some blow.\n\n\"That's a pretty black horse.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied Ellen, blankly.\n\n\"Do you like him?\"\n\n\"I--I love him.\"\n\n\"All right, I'll give him to you then. He'll have less work and kinder\ntreatment than if I used him. I've got some pretty hard rides ahead of\nme.\"\n\n\"Y'u--y'u give--\" whispered Ellen, slowly stiffening. \"Yes. He's\nmine,\" replied Isbel. With that he turned to whistle. Spades threw up\nhis head, snorted, and started forward at a trot. He came faster the\ncloser he got, and if ever Ellen saw the joy of a horse at sight of a\nbeloved master she saw it then. Isbel laid a hand on the animal's neck\nand caressed him, then, turning back to Ellen, he went on speaking: \"I\npicked him from a lot of fine horses of my father's. We got along\nwell. My sister Ann rode him a good deal.... He was stolen from our\npasture day before yesterday. I took his trail and tracked him up\nhere. Never lost his trail till I got to your ranch, where I had to\ncircle till I picked it up again.\"\n\n\"Stolen--pasture--tracked him up heah?\" echoed Ellen, without any\nevidence of emotion whatever. Indeed, she seemed to have been turned\nto stone.\n\n\"Trackin' him was easy. I wish for your sake it 'd been impossible,\"\nhe said, bluntly.\n\n\"For my sake?\" she echoed, in precisely the same tone,\n\nManifestly that tone irritated Isbel beyond control. He misunderstood\nit. With a hand far from gentle he pushed her bent head back so he\ncould look into her face.\n\n\"Yes, for your sake!\" he declared, harshly. \"Haven't you sense enough\nto see that? ... What kind of a game do you think you can play with me?\"\n\n\"Game I ... Game of what?\" she asked.\n\n\"Why, a--a game of ignorance--innocence--any old game to fool a man\nwho's tryin' to be decent.\"\n\nThis time Ellen mutely looked her dull, blank questioning. And it\ninflamed Isbel.\n\n\"You know your father's a horse thief!\" he thundered.\n\nOutwardly Ellen remained the same. She had been prepared for an\nunknown and a terrible blow. It had fallen. And her face, her body,\nher hands, locked with the supreme fortitude of pride and sustained by\nhate, gave no betrayal of the crashing, thundering ruin within her mind\nand soul. Motionless she leaned there, meeting the piercing fire of\nIsbel's eyes, seeing in them a righteous and terrible scorn. In one\nflash the naked truth seemed blazed at her. The faith she had fostered\ndied a sudden death. A thousand perplexing problems were solved in a\nsecond of whirling, revealing thought.\n\n\"Ellen Jorth, you know your father's in with this Hash Knife Gang of\nrustlers,\" thundered Isbel.\n\n\"Shore,\" she replied, with the cool, easy, careless defiance of a Texan.\n\n\"You know he's got this Daggs to lead his faction against the Isbels?\"\n\n\"Shore.\"\n\n\"You know this talk of sheepmen buckin' the cattlemen is all a blind?\"\n\n\"Shore,\" reiterated Ellen.\n\nIsbel gazed darkly down upon her. With his anger spent for the moment,\nhe appeared ready to end the interview. But he seemed fascinated by\nthe strange look of her, by the incomprehensible something she\nemanated. Havoc gleamed in his pale, set face. He shook his dark head\nand his broad hand went to his breast.\n\n\"To think I fell in love with such as you!\" he exclaimed, and his other\nhand swept out in a tragic gesture of helpless pathos and impotence.\n\nThe hell Isbel had hinted at now possessed Ellen--body, mind, and soul.\nDisgraced, scorned by an Isbel! Yet loved by him! In that divination\nthere flamed up a wild, fierce passion to hurt, to rend, to flay, to\nfling back upon him a stinging agony. Her thought flew upon her like\nwhips. Pride of the Jorths! Pride of the old Texan blue blood! It\nlay dead at her feet, killed by the scornful words of the last of that\nfamily to whom she owed her degradation. Daughter of a horse thief and\nrustler! Dark and evil and grim set the forces within her, accepting\nher fate, damning her enemies, true to the blood of the Jorths. The\nsins of the father must be visited upon the daughter.\n\n\"Shore y'u might have had me--that day on the Rim--if y'u hadn't told\nyour name,\" she said, mockingly, and she gazed into his eyes with all\nthe mystery of a woman's nature.\n\nIsbel's powerful frame shook as with an ague. \"Girl, what do you mean?\"\n\n\"Shore, I'd have been plumb fond of havin' y'u make up to me,\" she\ndrawled. It possessed her now with irresistible power, this fact of\nthe love he could not help. Some fiendish woman's satisfaction dwelt\nin her consciousness of her power to kill the noble, the faithful, the\ngood in him.\n\n\"Ellen Jorth, you lie!\" he burst out, hoarsely.\n\n\"Jean, shore I'd been a toy and a rag for these rustlers long enough. I\nwas tired of them.... I wanted a new lover.... And if y'u hadn't give\nyourself away--\"\n\nIsbel moved so swiftly that she did not realize his intention until his\nhard hand smote her mouth. Instantly she tasted the hot, salty blood\nfrom a cut lip.\n\n\"Shut up, you hussy!\" he ordered, roughly. \"Have you no shame? ... My\nsister Ann spoke well of you. She made excuses--she pitied you.\"\n\nThat for Ellen seemed the culminating blow under which she almost sank.\nBut one moment longer could she maintain this unnatural and terrible\npoise.\n\n\"Jean Isbel--go along with y'u,\" she said, impatiently. \"I'm waiting\nheah for Simm Bruce!\"\n\nAt last it was as if she struck his heart. Because of doubt of himself\nand a stubborn faith in her, his passion and jealousy were not proof\nagainst this last stab. Instinctive subtlety inherent in Ellen had\nprompted the speech that tortured Isbel. How the shock to him\nrebounded on her! She gasped as he lunged for her, too swift for her\nto move a hand. One arm crushed round her like a steel band; the\nother, hard across her breast and neck, forced her head back. Then she\ntried to wrestle away. But she was utterly powerless. His dark face\nbent down closer and closer. Suddenly Ellen ceased trying to struggle.\nShe was like a stricken creature paralyzed by the piercing, hypnotic\neyes of a snake. Yet in spite of her terror, if he meant death by her,\nshe welcomed it.\n\n\"Ellen Jorth, I'm thinkin' yet--you lie!\" he said, low and tense\nbetween his teeth.\n\n\"No! No!\" she screamed, wildly. Her nerve broke there. She could no\nlonger meet those terrible black eyes. Her passionate denial was not\nonly the last of her shameful deceit; it was the woman of her,\nrepudiating herself and him, and all this sickening, miserable\nsituation.\n\nIsbel took her literally. She had convinced him. And the instant held\nblank horror for Ellen.\n\n\"By God--then I'll have somethin'--of you anyway!\" muttered Isbel,\nthickly.\n\nEllen saw the blood bulge in his powerful neck. She saw his dark, hard\nface, strange now, fearful to behold, come lower and lower, till it\nblurred and obstructed her gaze. She felt the swell and ripple and\nstretch--then the bind of his muscles, like huge coils of elastic rope.\nThen with savage rude force his mouth closed on hers. All Ellen's\nsenses reeled, as if she were swooning. She was suffocating. The\nspasm passed, and a bursting spurt of blood revived her to acute and\nterrible consciousness. For the endless period of one moment he held\nher so that her breast seemed crushed. His kisses burned and braised\nher lips. And then, shifting violently to her neck, they pressed so\nhard that she choked under them. It was as if a huge bat had fastened\nupon her throat.\n\nSuddenly the remorseless binding embraces--the hot and savage\nkisses--fell away from her. Isbel had let go. She saw him throw up\nhis hands, and stagger back a little, all the while with his piercing\ngaze on her. His face had been dark purple: now it was white.\n\n\"No--Ellen Jorth,\" he panted, \"I don't--want any of you--that way.\" And\nsuddenly he sank on the log and covered his face with his hands. \"What\nI loved in you--was what I thought--you were.\"\n\nLike a wildcat Ellen sprang upon him, beating him with her fists,\ntearing at his hair, scratching his face, in a blind fury. Isbel made\nno move to stop her, and her violence spent itself with her strength.\nShe swayed back from him, shaking so that she could scarcely stand.\n\n\"Y'u--damned--Isbel!\" she gasped, with hoarse passion. \"Y'u insulted\nme!\"\n\n\"Insulted you?...\" laughed Isbel, in bitter scorn. \"It couldn't be\ndone.\"\n\n\"Oh! ... I'll KILL y'u!\" she hissed.\n\nIsbel stood up and wiped the red scratches on his face. \"Go ahead.\nThere's my gun,\" he said, pointing to his saddle sheath. \"Somebody's\ngot to begin this Jorth-Isbel feud. It'll be a dirty business. I'm\nsick of it already.... Kill me! ... First blood for Ellen Jorth!\"\n\nSuddenly the dark grim tide that had seemed to engulf Ellen's very soul\ncooled and receded, leaving her without its false strength. She began\nto sag. She stared at Isbel's gun. \"Kill him,\" whispered the\nretreating voices of her hate. But she was as powerless as if she were\nstill held in Jean Isbel's giant embrace.\n\n\"I--I want to--kill y'u,\" she whispered, \"but I cain't.... Leave me.\"\n\n\"You're no Jorth--the same as I'm no Isbel. We oughtn't be mixed in\nthis deal,\" he said, somberly. \"I'm sorrier for you than I am for\nmyself.... You're a girl.... You once had a good mother--a decent home.\nAnd this life you've led here--mean as it's been--is nothin' to what\nyou'll face now. Damn the men that brought you to this! I'm goin' to\nkill some of them.\"\n\nWith that he mounted and turned away. Ellen called out for him to take\nhis horse. He did not stop nor look back. She called again, but her\nvoice was fainter, and Isbel was now leaving at a trot. Slowly she\nsagged against the tree, lower and lower. He headed into the trail\nleading up the canyon. How strange a relief Ellen felt! She watched\nhim ride into the aspens and start up the slope, at last to disappear\nin the pines. It seemed at the moment that he took with him something\nwhich had been hers. A pain in her head dulled the thoughts that\nwavered to and fro. After he had gone she could not see so well. Her\neyes were tired. What had happened to her? There was blood on her\nhands. Isbel's blood! She shuddered. Was it an omen? Lower she sank\nagainst the tree and closed her eyes.\n\nOld John Sprague did not return. Hours dragged by--dark hours for\nEllen Jorth lying prostrate beside the tree, hiding the blue sky and\ngolden sunlight from her eyes. At length the lethargy of despair, the\nblack dull misery wore away; and she gradually returned to a condition\nof coherent thought.\n\nWhat had she learned? Sight of the black horse grazing near seemed to\nprompt the trenchant replies. Spades belonged to Jean Isbel. He had\nbeen stolen by her father or by one of her father's accomplices.\nIsbel's vaunted cunning as a tracker had been no idle boast. Her\nfather was a horse thief, a rustler, a sheepman only as a blind, a\nconsort of Daggs, leader of the Hash Knife Gang. Ellen well remembered\nthe ill repute of that gang, way back in Texas, years ago. Her father\nhad gotten in with this famous band of rustlers to serve his own\nends--the extermination of the Isbels. It was all very plain now to\nEllen.\n\n\"Daughter of a horse thief an' rustler!\" she muttered.\n\nAnd her thoughts sped back to the days of her girlhood. Only the very\nearly stage of that time had been happy. In the light of Isbel's\nrevelation the many changes of residence, the sudden moves to unsettled\nparts of Texas, the periods of poverty and sudden prosperity, all\nleading to the final journey to this God-forsaken Arizona--these were\nnow seen in their true significance. As far back as she could remember\nher father had been a crooked man. And her mother had known it. He\nhad dragged her to her ruin. That degradation had killed her. Ellen\nrealized that with poignant sorrow, with a sudden revolt against her\nfather. Had Gaston Isbel truly and dishonestly started her father on\nhis downhill road? Ellen wondered. She hated the Isbels with\nunutterable and growing hate, yet she had it in her to think, to\nponder, to weigh judgments in their behalf. She owed it to something\nin herself to be fair. But what did it matter who was to blame for the\nJorth-Isbel feud? Somehow Ellen was forced to confess that deep in her\nsoul it mattered terribly. To be true to herself--the self that she\nalone knew--she must have right on her side. If the Jorths were\nguilty, and she clung to them and their creed, then she would be one of\nthem.\n\n\"But I'm not,\" she mused, aloud. \"My name's Jorth, an' I reckon I have\nbad blood.... But it never came out in me till to-day. I've been\nhonest. I've been good--yes, GOOD, as my mother taught me to be--in\nspite of all.... Shore my pride made me a fool.... An' now have I any\nchoice to make? I'm a Jorth. I must stick to my father.\"\n\nAll this summing up, however, did not wholly account for the pang in\nher breast.\n\nWhat had she done that day? And the answer beat in her ears like a\ngreat throbbing hammer-stroke. In an agony of shame, in the throes of\nhate, she had perjured herself. She had sworn away her honor. She had\nbasely made herself vile. She had struck ruthlessly at the great heart\nof a man who loved her. Ah! That thrust had rebounded to leave this\ndreadful pang in her breast. Loved her? Yes, the strange truth, the\ninsupportable truth! She had to contend now, not with her father and\nher disgrace, not with the baffling presence of Jean Isbel, but with\nthe mysteries of her own soul. Wonder of all wonders was it that such\nlove had been born for her. Shame worse than all other shame was it\nthat she should kill it by a poisoned lie. By what monstrous motive\nhad she done that? To sting Isbel as he had stung her! But that had\nbeen base. Never could she have stopped so low except in a moment of\ntremendous tumult. If she had done sore injury to Isbel what bad she\ndone to herself? How strange, how tenacious had been his faith in her\nhonor! Could she ever forget? She must forget it. But she could\nnever forget the way he had scorned those vile men in Greaves's\nstore--the way he had beaten Bruce for defiling her name--the way he\nhad stubbornly denied her own insinuations. She was a woman now. She\nhad learned something of the complexity of a woman's heart. She could\nnot change nature. And all her passionate being thrilled to the\nmanhood of her defender. But even while she thrilled she acknowledged\nher hate. It was the contention between the two that caused the pang in\nher breast. \"An' now what's left for me?\" murmured Ellen. She did not\nanalyze the significance of what had prompted that query. The most\nincalculable of the day's disclosures was the wrong she had done\nherself. \"Shore I'm done for, one way or another.... I must stick to\nDad.... or kill myself?\"\n\nEllen rode Spades back to the ranch. She rode like the wind. When she\nswung out of the trail into the open meadow in plain sight of the ranch\nher appearance created a commotion among the loungers before the cabin.\nShe rode Spades at a full run.\n\n\"Who's after you?\" yelled her father, as she pulled the black to a\nhalt. Jorth held a rifle. Daggs, Colter, the other Jorths were there,\nlikewise armed, and all watchful, strung with expectancy.\n\n\"Shore nobody's after me,\" replied Ellen. \"Cain't I run a horse round\nheah without being chased?\"\n\nJorth appeared both incensed and relieved.\n\n\"Hah! ... What you mean, girl, runnin' like a streak right down on us?\nYou're actin' queer these days, an' you look queer. I'm not likin' it.\"\n\n\"Reckon these are queer times--for the Jorths,\" replied Ellen,\nsarcastically.\n\n\"Daggs found strange horse tracks crossin' the meadow,\" said her\nfather. \"An' that worried us. Some one's been snoopin' round the\nranch. An' when we seen you runnin' so wild we shore thought you was\nbein' chased.\"\n\n\"No. I was only trying out Spades to see how fast he could run,\"\nreturned Ellen. \"Reckon when we do get chased it'll take some running\nto catch me.\"\n\n\"Haw! Haw!\" roared Daggs. \"It shore will, Ellen.\"\n\n\"Girl, it's not only your runnin' an' your looks that's queer,\"\ndeclared Jorth, in dark perplexity. \"You talk queer.\"\n\n\"Shore, dad, y'u're not used to hearing spades called spades,\" said\nEllen, as she dismounted.\n\n\"Humph!\" ejaculated her father, as if convinced of the uselessness of\ntrying to understand a woman. \"Say, did you see any strange horse\ntracks?\"\n\n\"I reckon I did. And I know who made them.\"\n\nJorth stiffened. All the men behind him showed a sudden intensity of\nsuspense.\n\n\"Who?\" demanded Jorth.\n\n\"Shore it was Jean Isbel,\" replied Ellen, coolly. \"He came up heah\ntracking his black horse.\"\n\n\"Jean--Isbel--trackin'--his--black horse,\" repeated her father.\n\n\"Yes. He's not overrated as a tracker, that's shore.\"\n\nBlank silence ensued. Ellen cast a slow glance over her father and the\nothers, then she began to loosen the cinches of her saddle. Presently\nJorth burst the silence with a curse, and Daggs followed with one of\nhis sardonic laughs.\n\n\"Wal, boss, what did I tell you?\" he drawled.\n\nJorth strode to Ellen, and, whirling her around with a strong hand, he\nheld her facing him.\n\n\"Did y'u see Isbel?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied Ellen, just as sharply as her father had asked.\n\n\"Did y'u talk to him?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"What did he want up heah?\"\n\n\"I told y'u. He was tracking the black horse y'u stole.\"\n\nJorth's hand and arm dropped limply. His sallow face turned a livid\nhue. Amaze merged into discomfiture and that gave place to rage. He\nraised a hand as if to strike Ellen. And suddenly Daggs's long arm\nshot out to clutch Jorth's wrist. Wrestling to free himself, Jorth\ncursed under his breath. \"Let go, Daggs,\" he shouted, stridently. \"Am\nI drunk that you grab me?\"\n\n\"Wal, y'u ain't drunk, I reckon,\" replied the rustler, with sarcasm.\n\"But y'u're shore some things I'll reserve for your private ear.\"\n\nJorth gained a semblance of composure. But it was evident that he\nlabored under a shock.\n\n\"Ellen, did Jean Isbel see this black horse?\"\n\n\"Yes. He asked me how I got Spades an' I told him.\"\n\n\"Did he say Spades belonged to him?\"\n\n\"Shore I reckon he, proved it. Y'u can always tell a horse that loves\nits master.\"\n\n\"Did y'u offer to give Spades back?\"\n\n\"Yes. But Isbel wouldn't take him.\"\n\n\"Hah! ... An' why not?\"\n\n\"He said he'd rather I kept him. He was about to engage in a dirty,\nblood-spilling deal, an' he reckoned he'd not be able to care for a\nfine horse.... I didn't want Spades. I tried to make Isbel take him.\nBut he rode off.... And that's all there is to that.\"\n\n\"Maybe it's not,\" replied Jorth, chewing his mustache and eying Ellen\nwith dark, intent gaze. \"Y'u've met this Isbel twice.\"\n\n\"It wasn't any fault of mine,\" retorted Ellen.\n\n\"I heah he's sweet on y'u. How aboot that?\"\n\nEllen smarted under the blaze of blood that swept to neck and cheek and\ntemple. But it was only memory which fired this shame. What her\nfather and his crowd might think were matters of supreme indifference.\nYet she met his suspicious gaze with truthful blazing eyes.\n\n\"I heah talk from Bruce an' Lorenzo,\" went on her father. \"An' Daggs\nheah--\"\n\n\"Daggs nothin'!\" interrupted that worthy. \"Don't fetch me in. I said\nnothin' an' I think nothin'.\"\n\n\"Yes, Jean Isbel was sweet on me, dad ... but he will never be again,\"\nreturned Ellen, in low tones. With that she pulled her saddle off\nSpades and, throwing it over her shoulder, she walked off to her cabin.\n\nHardly had she gotten indoors when her father entered.\n\n\"Ellen, I didn't know that horse belonged to Isbel,\" he began, in the\nswift, hoarse, persuasive voice so familiar to Ellen. \"I swear I\ndidn't. I bought him--traded with Slater for him.... Honest to God, I\nnever had any idea he was stolen! ... Why, when y'u said 'that horse\ny'u stole,' I felt as if y'u'd knifed me....\"\n\nEllen sat at the table and listened while her father paced to and fro\nand, by his restless action and passionate speech, worked himself into\na frenzy. He talked incessantly, as if her silence was condemnatory\nand as if eloquence alone could convince her of his honesty. It seemed\nthat Ellen saw and heard with keener faculties than ever before. He had\na terrible thirst for her respect. Not so much for her love, she\ndivined, but that she would not see how he had fallen!\n\nShe pitied him with all her heart. She was all he had, as he was all\nthe world to her. And so, as she gave ear to his long, illogical\nrigmarole of argument and defense, she slowly found that her pity and\nher love were making vital decisions for her. As of old, in poignant\nmoments, her father lapsed at last into a denunciation of the Isbels\nand what they had brought him to. His sufferings were real, at least,\nin Ellen's presence. She was the only link that bound him to long-past\nhappier times. She was her mother over again--the woman who had\nbetrayed another man for him and gone with him to her ruin and death.\n\n\"Dad, don't go on so,\" said Ellen, breaking in upon her father's rant.\n\"I will be true to y'u--as my mother was.... I am a Jorth. Your place\nis my place--your fight is my fight.... Never speak of the past to me\nagain. If God spares us through this feud we will go away and begin\nall over again, far off where no one ever heard of a Jorth.... If we're\nnot spared we'll at least have had our whack at these damned Isbels.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nDuring June Jean Isbel did not ride far away from Grass Valley.\n\nAnother attempt had been made upon Gaston Isbel's life. Another\ncowardly shot had been fired from ambush, this time from a pine thicket\nbordering the trail that led to Blaisdell's ranch. Blaisdell heard\nthis shot, so near his home was it fired. No trace of the hidden foe\ncould be found. The 'ground all around that vicinity bore a carpet of\npine needles which showed no trace of footprints. The supposition was\nthat this cowardly attempt had been perpetrated, or certainly\ninstigated, by the Jorths. But there was no proof. And Gaston Isbel\nhad other enemies in the Tonto Basin besides the sheep clan. The old\nman raged like a lion about this sneaking attack on him. And his\nfriend Blaisdell urged an immediate gathering of their kin and friends.\n\"Let's quit ranchin' till this trouble's settled,\" he declared. \"Let's\narm an' ride the trails an' meet these men half-way.... It won't help\nour side any to wait till you're shot in the back.\" More than one of\nIsbel's supporters offered the same advice.\n\n\"No; we'll wait till we know for shore,\" was the stubborn cattleman's\nreply to all these promptings.\n\n\"Know! Wal, hell! Didn't Jean find the black hoss up at Jorth's\nranch?\" demanded Blaisdell. \"What more do we want?\"\n\n\"Jean couldn't swear Jorth stole the black.\"\n\n\"Wal, by thunder, I can swear to it!\" growled Blaisdell. \"An' we're\nlosin' cattle all the time. Who's stealin' 'em?\"\n\n\"We've always lost cattle ever since we started ranchin' heah.\"\n\n\"Gas, I reckon yu want Jorth to start this fight in the open.\"\n\n\"It'll start soon enough,\" was Isbel's gloomy reply.\n\nJean had not failed altogether in his tracking of lost or stolen\ncattle. Circumstances had been against him, and there was something\nbaffling about this rustling. The summer storms set in early, and it\nhad been his luck to have heavy rains wash out fresh tracks that he\nmight have followed. The range was large and cattle were everywhere.\nSometimes a loss was not discovered for weeks. Gaston Isbel's sons\nwere now the only men left to ride the range. Two of his riders had\nquit because of the threatened war, and Isbel had let another go. So\nthat Jean did not often learn that cattle had been stolen until their\ntracks were old. Added to that was the fact that this Grass Valley\ncountry was covered with horse tracks and cattle tracks. The rustlers,\nwhoever they were, had long been at the game, and now that there was\nreason for them to show their cunning they did it.\n\nEarly in July the hot weather came. Down on the red ridges of the\nTonto it was hot desert. The nights were cool, the early mornings were\npleasant, but the day was something to endure. When the white cumulus\nclouds rolled up out of the southwest, growing larger and thicker and\ndarker, here and there coalescing into a black thundercloud, Jean\nwelcomed them. He liked to see the gray streamers of rain hanging down\nfrom a canopy of black, and the roar of rain on the trees as it\napproached like a trampling army was always welcome. The grassy flats,\nthe red ridges, the rocky slopes, the thickets of manzanita and scrub\noak and cactus were dusty, glaring, throat-parching places under the\nhot summer sun. Jean longed for the cool heights of the Rim, the shady\npines, the dark sweet verdure under the silver spruces, the tinkle and\nmurmur of the clear rills. He often had another longing, too, which he\nbitterly stifled.\n\nJean's ally, the keen-nosed shepherd clog, had disappeared one day, and\nhad never returned. Among men at the ranch there was a difference of\nopinion as to what had happened to Shepp. The old rancher thought he\nhad been poisoned or shot; Bill and Guy Isbel believed he had been\nstolen by sheep herders, who were always stealing dogs; and Jean\ninclined to the conviction that Shepp had gone off with the timber\nwolves. The fact was that Shepp did not return, and Jean missed him.\n\nOne morning at dawn Jean heard the cattle bellowing and trampling out\nin the valley; and upon hurrying to a vantage point he was amazed to\nsee upward of five hundred steers chasing a lone wolf. Jean's father\nhad seen such a spectacle as this, but it was a new one for Jean. The\nwolf was a big gray and black fellow, rangy and powerful, and until he\ngot the steers all behind him he was rather hard put to it to keep out\nof their way. Probably he had dogged the herd, trying to sneak in and\npull down a yearling, and finally the steers had charged him. Jean kept\nalong the edge of the valley in the hope they would chase him within\nrange of a rifle. But the wary wolf saw Jean and sheered off,\ngradually drawing away from his pursuers.\n\nJean returned to the house for his breakfast, and then set off across\nthe valley. His father owned one small flock of sheep that had not yet\nbeen driven up on the Rim, where all the sheep in the country were run\nduring the hot, dry summer down on the Tonto. Young Evarts and a\nMexican boy named Bernardino had charge of this flock. The regular\nMexican herder, a man of experience, had given up his job; and these\nboys were not equal to the task of risking the sheep up in the enemies'\nstronghold.\n\nThis flock was known to be grazing in a side draw, well up from Grass\nValley, where the brush afforded some protection from the sun, and\nthere was good water and a little feed. Before Jean reached his\ndestination he heard a shot. It was not a rifle shot, which fact\ncaused Jean a little concern. Evarts and Bernardino had rifles, but,\nto his knowledge, no small arms. Jean rode up on one of the\nblack-brushed conical hills that rose on the south side of Grass\nValley, and from there he took a sharp survey of the country. At first\nhe made out only cattle, and bare meadowland, and the low encircling\nridges and hills. But presently up toward the head of the valley he\ndescried a bunch of horsemen riding toward the village. He could not\ntell their number. That dark moving mass seemed to Jean to be instinct\nwith life, mystery, menace. Who were they? It was too far for him to\nrecognize horses, let alone riders. They were moving fast, too.\n\nJean watched them out of sight, then turned his horse downhill again,\nand rode on his quest. A number of horsemen like that was a very\nunusual sight around Grass Valley at any time. What then did it\nportend now? Jean experienced a little shock of uneasy dread that was\na new sensation for him. Brooding over this he proceeded on his way,\nat length to turn into the draw where the camp of the sheep-herders was\nlocated. Upon coming in sight of it he heard a hoarse shout. Young\nEvarts appeared running frantically out of the brush. Jean urged his\nhorse into a run and soon covered the distance between them. Evarts\nappeared beside himself with terror.\n\n\"Boy! what's the matter?\" queried Jean, as he dismounted, rifle in\nhand, peering quickly from Evarts's white face to the camp, and all\naround.\n\n\"Ber-nardino! Ber-nardino!\" gasped the boy, wringing his hands and\npointing.\n\nJean ran the few remaining rods to the sheep camp. He saw the little\nteepee, a burned-out fire, a half-finished meal--and then the Mexican\nlad lying prone on the ground, dead, with a bullet hole in his ghastly\nface. Near him lay an old six-shooter.\n\n\"Whose gun is that?\" demanded Jean, as he picked it up.\n\n\"Ber-nardino's,\" replied Evarts, huskily. \"He--he jest got it--the\nother day.\"\n\n\"Did he shoot himself accidentally?\"\n\n\"Oh no! No! He didn't do it--atall.\"\n\n\"Who did, then?\"\n\n\"The men--they rode up--a gang-they did it,\" panted Evarts.\n\n\"Did you know who they were?\"\n\n\"No. I couldn't tell. I saw them comin' an' I was skeered. Bernardino\nhad gone fer water. I run an' hid in the brush. I wanted to yell, but\nthey come too close.... Then I heerd them talkin'. Bernardino come\nback. They 'peared friendly-like. Thet made me raise up, to look. An'\nI couldn't see good. I heerd one of them ask Bernardino to let him see\nhis gun. An' Bernardino handed it over. He looked at the gun an'\nhaw-hawed, an' flipped it up in the air, an' when it fell back in his\nhand it--it went off bang! ... An' Bernardino dropped.... I hid down\nclose. I was skeered stiff. I heerd them talk more, but not what they\nsaid. Then they rode away.... An' I hid there till I seen y'u comin'.\"\n\n\"Have you got a horse?\" queried Jean, sharply.\n\n\"No. But I can ride one of Bernardino's burros.\"\n\n\"Get one. Hurry over to Blaisdell. Tell him to send word to Blue and\nGordon and Fredericks to ride like the devil to my father's ranch.\nHurry now!\"\n\nYoung Evarts ran off without reply. Jean stood looking down at the\nlimp and pathetic figure of the Mexican boy. \"By Heaven!\" he\nexclaimed, grimly \"the Jorth-Isbel war is on! ... Deliberate,\ncold-blooded murder! I'll gamble Daggs did this job. He's been given\nthe leadership. He's started it.... Bernardino, greaser or not, you\nwere a faithful lad, and you won't go long unavenged.\"\n\nJean had no time to spare. Tearing a tarpaulin out of the teepee he\ncovered the lad with it and then ran for, his horse. Mounting, he\ngalloped down the draw, over the little red ridges, out into the\nvalley, where he put his horse to a run.\n\nAction changed the sickening horror that sight of Bernardino had\nengendered. Jean even felt a strange, grim relief. The long, dragging\ndays of waiting were over. Jorth's gang had taken the initiative.\nBlood had begun to flow. And it would continue to flow now till the\nlast man of one faction stood over the dead body of the last man of the\nother. Would it be a Jorth or an Isbel? \"My instinct was right,\" he\nmuttered, aloud. \"That bunch of horses gave me a queer feelin'.\" Jean\ngazed all around the grassy, cattle-dotted valley he was crossing so\nswiftly, and toward the village, but he did not see any sign of the\ndark group of riders. They had gone on to Greaves's store, there, no\ndoubt, to drink and to add more enemies of the Isbels to their gang.\nSuddenly across Jean's mind flashed a thought of Ellen Jorth. \"What\n'll become of her? ... What 'll become of all the women? My sister?\n... The little ones?\"\n\nNo one was in sight around the ranch. Never had it appeared more\npeaceful and pastoral to Jean. The grazing cattle and horses in the\nforeground, the haystack half eaten away, the cows in the fenced\npasture, the column of blue smoke lazily ascending, the cackle of hens,\nthe solid, well-built cabins--all these seemed to repudiate Jean's\nhaste and his darkness of mind. This place was, his father's farm.\nThere was not a cloud in the blue, summer sky.\n\nAs Jean galloped up the lane some one saw him from the door, and then\nBill and Guy and their gray-headed father came out upon the porch. Jean\nsaw how he' waved the womenfolk back, and then strode out into the\nlane. Bill and Guy reached his side as Jean pulled his heaving horse\nto a halt. They all looked at Jean, swiftly and intently, with a\nlittle, hard, fiery gleam strangely identical in the eyes of each.\nProbably before a word was spoken they knew what to expect.\n\n\"Wal, you shore was in a hurry,\" remarked the father.\n\n\"What the hell's up?\" queried Bill, grimly.\n\nGuy Isbel remained silent and it was he who turned slightly pale. Jean\nleaped off his horse.\n\n\"Bernardino has just been killed--murdered with his own gun.\"\n\nGaston Isbel seemed to exhale a long-dammed, bursting breath that let\nhis chest sag. A terrible deadly glint, pale and cold as sunlight on\nice, grew slowly to dominate his clear eyes.\n\n\"A-huh!\" ejaculated Bill Isbel, hoarsely.\n\nNot one of the three men asked who had done the killing. They were\nsilent a moment, motionless, locked in the secret seclusion of their\nown minds. Then they listened with absorption to Jean's brief story.\n\n\"Wal, that lets us in,\" said his father. \"I wish we had more time.\nReckon I'd done better to listen to you boys an' have my men close at\nhand. Jacobs happened to ride over. That makes five of us besides the\nwomen.\"\n\n\"Aw, dad, you don't reckon they'll round us up heah?\" asked Guy Isbel.\n\n\"Boys, I always feared they might,\" replied the old man. \"But I never\nreally believed they'd have the nerve. Shore I ought to have figgered\nDaggs better. This heah secret bizness an' shootin' at us from ambush\nlooked aboot Jorth's size to me. But I reckon now we'll have to fight\nwithout our friends.\"\n\n\"Let them come,\" said Jean. \"I sent for Blaisdell, Blue, Gordon, and\nFredericks. Maybe they'll get here in time. But if they don't it\nneedn't worry us much. We can hold out here longer than Jorth's gang\ncan hang around. We'll want plenty of water, wood, and meat in the\nhouse.\"\n\n\"Wal, I'll see to that,\" rejoined his father. \"Jean, you go out close\nby, where you can see all around, an' keep watch.\"\n\n\"Who's goin' to tell the women?\" asked Guy Isbel.\n\nThe silence that momentarily ensued was an eloquent testimony to the\nhardest and saddest aspect of this strife between men. The\ninevitableness of it in no wise detracted from its sheer uselessness.\nMen from time immemorial had hated, and killed one another, always to\nthe misery and degradation of their women. Old Gaston Isbel showed\nthis tragic realization in his lined face.\n\n\"Wal, boys, I'll tell the women,\" he said. \"Shore you needn't worry\nnone aboot them. They'll be game.\"\n\nJean rode away to an open knoll a short distance from the house, and\nhere he stationed himself to watch all points. The cedared ridge back\nof the ranch was the one approach by which Jorth's gang might come\nclose without being detected, but even so, Jean could see them and ride\nto the house in time to prevent a surprise. The moments dragged by,\nand at the end of an hour Jean was in hopes that Blaisdell would soon\ncome. These hopes were well founded. Presently he heard a clatter of\nhoofs on hard ground to the south, and upon wheeling to look he saw the\nfriendly neighbor coming fast along the road, riding a big white horse.\nBlaisdell carried a rifle in his hand, and the sight of him gave Jean a\nglow of warmth. He was one of the Texans who would stand by the Isbels\nto the last man. Jean watched him ride to the house--watched the\nmeeting between him and his lifelong friend. There floated out to Jean\nold Blaisdell's roar of rage.\n\nThen out on the green of Grass Valley, where a long, swelling plain\nswept away toward the village, there appeared a moving dark patch. A\nbunch of horses! Jean's body gave a slight start--the shock of sudden\npropulsion of blood through all his veins. Those horses bore riders.\nThey were coming straight down the open valley, on the wagon road to\nIsbel's ranch. No subterfuge nor secrecy nor sneaking in that advance!\nA hot thrill ran over Jean.\n\n\"By Heaven! They mean business!\" he muttered. Up to the last moment\nhe had unconsciously hoped Jorth's gang would not come boldly like\nthat. The verifications of all a Texan's inherited instincts left no\ndoubts, no hopes, no illusions--only a grim certainty that this was not\nconjecture nor probability, but fact. For a moment longer Jean watched\nthe slowly moving dark patch of horsemen against the green background,\nthen he hurried back to the ranch. His father saw him coming--strode\nout as before.\n\n\"Dad--Jorth is comin',\" said Jean, huskily. How he hated to be forced\nto tell his father that! The boyish love of old had flashed up.\n\n\"Whar?\" demanded the old man, his eagle gaze sweeping the horizon.\n\n\"Down the road from Grass Valley. You can't see from here.\"\n\n\"Wal, come in an' let's get ready.\"\n\nIsbel's house had not been constructed with the idea of repelling an\nattack from a band of Apaches. The long living room of the main cabin\nwas the one selected for defense and protection. This room had two\nwindows and a door facing the lane, and a door at each end, one of\nwhich opened into the kitchen and the other into an adjoining and\nlater-built cabin. The logs of this main cabin were of large size, and\nthe doors and window coverings were heavy, affording safer protection\nfrom bullets than the other cabins.\n\nWhen Jean went in he seemed to see a host of white faces lifted to him.\nHis sister Ann, his two sisters-in-law, the children, all mutely\nwatched him with eyes that would haunt him.\n\n\"Wal, Blaisdell, Jean says Jorth an' his precious gang of rustlers are\non the way heah,\" announced the rancher.\n\n\"Damn me if it's not a bad day fer Lee Jorth!\" declared Blaisdell.\n\n\"Clear off that table,\" ordered Isbel, \"an' fetch out all the guns an'\nshells we got.\"\n\nOnce laid upon the table these presented a formidable arsenal, which\nconsisted of the three new .44 Winchesters that Jean had brought with\nhim from the coast; the enormous buffalo, or so-called \"needle\" gun,\nthat Gaston Isbel had used for years; a Henry rifle which Blaisdell had\nbrought, and half a dozen six-shooters. Piles and packages of\nammunition littered the table.\n\n\"Sort out these heah shells,\" said Isbel. \"Everybody wants to get hold\nof his own.\"\n\nJacobs, the neighbor who was present, was a thick-set, bearded man,\nrather jovial among those lean-jawed Texans. He carried a .44 rifle of\nan old pattern. \"Wal, boys, if I'd knowed we was in fer some fun I'd\nhev fetched more shells. Only got one magazine full. Mebbe them new\n.44's will fit my gun.\"\n\nIt was discovered that the ammunition Jean had brought in quantity\nfitted Jacob's rifle, a fact which afforded peculiar satisfaction to\nall the men present.\n\n\"Wal, shore we're lucky,\" declared Gaston Isbel.\n\nThe women sat apart, in the corner toward the kitchen, and there seemed\nto be a strange fascination for them in the talk and action of the men.\nThe wife of Jacobs was a little woman, with homely face and very bright\neyes. Jean thought she would be a help in that household during the\nnext doubtful hours.\n\nEvery moment Jean would go to the window and peer out down the road.\nHis companions evidently relied upon him, for no one else looked out.\nNow that the suspense of days and weeks was over, these Texans faced\nthe issue with talk and act not noticeably different from those of\nordinary moments.\n\nAt last Jean espied the dark mass of horsemen out in the valley road.\nThey were close together, walking their mounts, and evidently in\nearnest conversation. After several ineffectual attempts Jean counted\neleven horses, every one of which he was sure bore a rider.\n\n\"Dad, look out!\" called Jean.\n\nGaston Isbel strode to the door and stood looking, without a word.\n\nThe other men crowded to the windows. Blaisdell cursed under his\nbreath. Jacobs said: \"By Golly! Come to pay us a call!\" The women\nsat motionless, with dark, strained eyes. The children ceased their\nplay and looked fearfully to their mother.\n\nWhen just out of rifle shot of the cabins the band of horsemen halted\nand lined up in a half circle, all facing the ranch. They were close\nenough for Jean to see their gestures, but he could not recognize any\nof their faces. It struck him singularly that not one of them wore a\nmask.\n\n\"Jean, do you know any of them?\" asked his father\n\n\"No, not yet. They're too far off.\"\n\n\"Dad, I'll get your old telescope,\" said Guy Isbel, and he ran out\ntoward the adjoining cabin.\n\nBlaisdell shook his big, hoary head and rumbled out of his bull-like\nneck, \"Wal, now you're heah, you sheep fellars, what are you goin' to\ndo aboot it?\"\n\nGuy Isbel returned with a yard-long telescope, which he passed to his\nfather. The old man took it with shaking hands and leveled it.\nSuddenly it was as if he had been transfixed; then he lowered the\nglass, shaking violently, and his face grew gray with an exceeding\nbitter wrath.\n\n\"Jorth!\" he swore, harshly.\n\nJean had only to look at his father to know that recognition had been\nlike a mortal shock. It passed. Again the rancher leveled the glass.\n\n\"Wal, Blaisdell, there's our old Texas friend, Daggs,\" he drawled,\ndryly. \"An' Greaves, our honest storekeeper of Grass Valley. An'\nthere's Stonewall Jackson Jorth. An' Tad Jorth, with the same old red\nnose! ... An', say, damn if one of that gang isn't Queen, as bad a gun\nfighter as Texas ever bred. Shore I thought he'd been killed in the\nBig Bend country. So I heard.... An' there's Craig, another\nrespectable sheepman of Grass Valley. Haw-haw! An', wal, I don't\nrecognize any more of them.\"\n\nJean forthwith took the glass and moved it slowly across the faces of\nthat group of horsemen. \"Simm Bruce,\" he said, instantly. \"I see\nColter. And, yes, Greaves is there. I've seen the man next to\nhim--face like a ham....\"\n\n\"Shore that is Craig,\" interrupted his father.\n\nJean knew the dark face of Lee Jorth by the resemblance it bore to\nEllen's, and the recognition brought a twinge. He thought, too, that\nhe could tell the other Jorths. He asked his father to describe Daggs\nand then Queen. It was not likely that Jean would fail to know these\nseveral men in the future. Then Blaisdell asked for the telescope and,\nwhen he got through looking and cursing, he passed it on to others,\nwho, one by one, took a long look, until finally it came back to the\nold rancher.\n\n\"Wal, Daggs is wavin' his hand heah an' there, like a general aboot to\nsend out scouts. Haw-haw! ... An' 'pears to me he's not overlookin'\nour hosses. Wal, that's natural for a rustler. He'd have to steal a\nhoss or a steer before goin' into a fight or to dinner or to a funeral.\"\n\n\"It 'll be his funeral if he goes to foolin' 'round them hosses,\"\ndeclared Guy Isbel, peering anxiously out of the door.\n\n\"Wal, son, shore it 'll be somebody's funeral,\" replied his father.\n\nJean paid but little heed to the conversation. With sharp eyes fixed\nupon the horsemen, he tried to grasp at their intention. Daggs pointed\nto the horses in the pasture lot that lay between him and the house.\nThese animals were the best on the range and belonged mostly to Guy\nIsbel, who was the horse fancier and trader of the family. His horses\nwere his passion.\n\n\"Looks like they'd do some horse stealin',\" said Jean.\n\n\"Lend me that glass,\" demanded Guy, forcefully. He surveyed the band\nof men for a long moment, then he handed the glass back to Jean.\n\n\"I'm goin' out there after my bosses,\" he declared.\n\n\"No!\" exclaimed his father.\n\n\"That gang come to steal an' not to fight. Can't you see that? If they\nmeant to fight they'd do it. They're out there arguin' about my\nhosses.\"\n\nGuy picked up his rifle. He looked sullenly determined and the gleam\nin his eye was one of fearlessness.\n\n\"Son, I know Daggs,\" said his father. \"An' I know Jorth. They've come\nto kill us. It 'll be shore death for y'u to go out there.\"\n\n\"I'm goin', anyhow. They can't steal my hosses out from under my eyes.\nAn' they ain't in range.\"\n\n\"Wal, Guy, you ain't goin' alone,\" spoke up Jacobs, cheerily, as he\ncame forward.\n\nThe red-haired young wife of Guy Isbel showed no change of her grave\nface. She had been reared in a stern school. She knew men in times\nlike these. But Jacobs's wife appealed to him, \"Bill, don't risk your\nlife for a horse or two.\"\n\nJacobs laughed and answered, \"Not much risk,\" and went out with Guy.\nTo Jean their action seemed foolhardy. He kept a keen eye on them and\nsaw instantly when the band became aware of Guy's and Jacobs's entrance\ninto the pasture. It took only another second then to realize that\nDaggs and Jorth had deadly intent. Jean saw Daggs slip out of his\nsaddle, rifle in hand. Others of the gang did likewise, until half of\nthem were dismounted.\n\n\"Dad, they're goin' to shoot,\" called out Jean, sharply. \"Yell for Guy\nand Jacobs. Make them come back.\"\n\nThe old man shouted; Bill Isbel yelled; Blaisdell lifted his stentorian\nvoice.\n\nJean screamed piercingly: \"Guy! Run! Run!\"\n\nBut Guy Isbel and his companion strode on into the pasture, as if they\nhad not heard, as if no menacing horse thieves were within miles. They\nhad covered about a quarter of the distance across the pasture, and\nwere nearing the horses, when Jean saw red flashes and white puffs of\nsmoke burst out from the front of that dark band of rustlers. Then\nfollowed the sharp, rattling crack of rifles.\n\nGuy Isbel stopped short, and, dropping his gun, he threw up his arms\nand fell headlong. Jacobs acted as if he had suddenly encountered an\ninvisible blow. He had been hit. Turning, he began to run and ran\nfast for a few paces. There were more quick, sharp shots. He let go\nof his rifle. His running broke. Walking, reeling, staggering, he\nkept on. A hoarse cry came from him. Then a single rifle shot pealed\nout. Jean heard the bullet strike. Jacobs fell to his knees, then\nforward on his face.\n\nJean Isbel felt himself turned to marble. The suddenness of this\ntragedy paralyzed him. His gaze remained riveted on those prostrate\nforms.\n\nA hand clutched his arm--a shaking woman's hand, slim and hard and\ntense.\n\n\"Bill's--killed!\" whispered a broken voice. \"I was watchin'....\nThey're both dead!\"\n\nThe wives of Jacobs and Guy Isbel had slipped up behind Jean and from\nbehind him they had seen the tragedy.\n\n\"I asked Bill--not to--go,\" faltered the Jacobs woman, and, covering\nher face with her hands, she groped back to the corner of the cabin,\nwhere the other women, shaking and white, received her in their arms.\nGuy Isbel's wife stood at the window, peering over Jean's shoulder. She\nhad the nerve of a man. She had looked out upon death before.\n\n\"Yes, they're dead,\" she said, bitterly. \"An' how are we goin' to get\ntheir bodies?\"\n\nAt this Gaston Isbel seemed to rouse from the cold spell that had\ntransfixed him.\n\n\"God, this is hell for our women,\" he cried out, hoarsely. \"My son--my\nson! ... Murdered by the Jorths!\" Then he swore a terrible oath.\n\nJean saw the remainder of the mounted rustlers get off, and then, all\nof them leading their horses, they began to move around to the left.\n\n\"Dad, they're movin' round,\" said Jean.\n\n\"Up to some trick,\" declared Bill Isbel.\n\n\"Bill, you make a hole through the back wall, say aboot the fifth log\nup,\" ordered the father. \"Shore we've got to look out.\"\n\nThe elder son grasped a tool and, scattering the children, who had been\nplaying near the back corner, he began to work at the point designated.\nThe little children backed away with fixed, wondering, grave eyes. The\nwomen moved their chairs, and huddled together as if waiting and\nlistening.\n\nJean watched the rustlers until they passed out of his sight. They had\nmoved toward the sloping, brushy ground to the north and west of the\ncabins.\n\n\"Let me know when you get a hole in the back wall,\" said Jean, and he\nwent through the kitchen and cautiously out another door to slip into a\nlow-roofed, shed-like end of the rambling cabin. This small space was\nused to store winter firewood. The chinks between the walls had not\nbeen filled with adobe clay, and he could see out on three sides. The\nrustlers were going into the juniper brush. They moved out of sight,\nand presently reappeared without their horses. It looked to Jean as if\nthey intended to attack the cabins. Then they halted at the edge of\nthe brush and held a long consultation. Jean could see them\ndistinctly, though they were too far distant for him to recognize any\nparticular man. One of them, however, stood and moved apart from the\nclosely massed group. Evidently, from his strides and gestures, he was\nexhorting his listeners. Jean concluded this was either Daggs or\nJorth. Whoever it was had a loud, coarse voice, and this and his\nactions impressed Jean with a suspicion that the man was under the\ninfluence of the bottle.\n\nPresently Bill Isbel called Jean in a low voice. \"Jean, I got the hole\nmade, but we can't see anyone.\"\n\n\"I see them,\" Jean replied. \"They're havin' a powwow. Looks to me\nlike either Jorth or Daggs is drunk. He's arguin' to charge us, an'\nthe rest of the gang are holdin' back.... Tell dad, an' all of you keep\nwatchin'. I'll let you know when they make a move.\"\n\nJorth's gang appeared to be in no hurry to expose their plan of battle.\nGradually the group disintegrated a little; some of them sat down;\nothers walked to and fro. Presently two of them went into the brush,\nprobably back to the horses. In a few moments they reappeared,\ncarrying a pack. And when this was deposited on the ground all the\nrustlers sat down around it. They had brought food and drink. Jean\nhad to utter a grim laugh at their coolness; and he was reminded of\nmany dare-devil deeds known to have been perpetrated by the Hash Knife\nGang. Jean was glad of a reprieve. The longer the rustlers put off an\nattack the more time the allies of the Isbels would have to get here.\nRather hazardous, however, would it be now for anyone to attempt to get\nto the Isbel cabins in the daytime. Night would be more favorable.\n\nTwice Bill Isbel came through the kitchen to whisper to Jean. The\nstrain in the large room, from which the rustlers could not be seen,\nmust have been great. Jean told him all he had seen and what he\nthought about it. \"Eatin' an' drinkin'!\" ejaculated Bill. \"Well, I'll\nbe--! That 'll jar the old man. He wants to get the fight over.\n\n\"Tell him I said it'll be over too quick--for us--unless are mighty\ncareful,\" replied Jean, sharply.\n\nBill went back muttering to himself. Then followed a long wait,\nfraught with suspense, during which Jean watched the rustlers regale\nthemselves. The day was hot and still. And the unnatural silence of\nthe cabin was broken now and then by the gay laughter of the children.\nThe sound shocked and haunted Jean. Playing children! Then another\nsound, so faint he had to strain to hear it, disturbed and saddened\nhim--his father's slow tread up and down the cabin floor, to and fro,\nto and fro. What must be in his father's heart this day!\n\nAt length the rustlers rose and, with rifles in hand, they moved as one\nman down the slope. They came several hundred yards closer, until\nJean, grimly cocking his rifle, muttered to himself that a few more\nrods closer would mean the end of several of that gang. They knew the\nrange of a rifle well enough, and once more sheered off at right angles\nwith the cabin. When they got even with the line of corrals they\nstooped down and were lost to Jean's sight. This fact caused him\nalarm. They were, of course, crawling up on the cabins. At the end of\nthat line of corrals ran a ditch, the bank of which was high enough to\nafford cover. Moreover, it ran along in front of the cabins, scarcely\na hundred yards, and it was covered with grass and little clumps of\nbrush, from behind which the rustlers could fire into the windows and\nthrough the clay chinks without any considerable risk to themselves. As\nthey did not come into sight again, Jean concluded he had discovered\ntheir plan. Still, he waited awhile longer, until he saw faint, little\nclouds of dust rising from behind the far end of the embankment. That\ndiscovery made him rush out, and through the kitchen to the large\ncabin, where his sudden appearance startled the men.\n\n\"Get back out of sight!\" he ordered, sharply, and with swift steps he\nreached the door and closed it. \"They're behind the bank out there by\nthe corrals. An' they're goin' to crawl down the ditch closer to\nus.... It looks bad. They'll have grass an' brush to shoot from. We've\ngot to be mighty careful how we peep out.\"\n\n\"Ahuh! All right,\" replied his father. \"You women keep the kids with\nyou in that corner. An' you all better lay down flat.\"\n\nBlaisdell, Bill Isbel, and the old man crouched at the large window,\npeeping through cracks in the rough edges of the logs. Jean took his\npost beside the small window, with his keen eyes vibrating like a\ncompass needle. The movement of a blade of grass, the flight of a\ngrasshopper could not escape his trained sight.\n\n\"Look sharp now!\" he called to the other men. \"I see dust.... They're\nworkin' along almost to that bare spot on the bank.... I saw the tip of\na rifle ... a black hat ... more dust. They're spreadin' along behind\nthe bank.\"\n\nLoud voices, and then thick clouds of yellow dust, coming from behind\nthe highest and brushiest line of the embankment, attested to the truth\nof Jean's observation, and also to a reckless disregard of danger.\n\nSuddenly Jean caught a glint of moving color through the fringe of\nbrush. Instantly he was strung like a whipcord.\n\nThen a tall, hatless and coatless man stepped up in plain sight. The\nsun shone on his fair, ruffled hair. Daggs!\n\n\"Hey, you -- -- Isbels!\" he bawled, in magnificent derisive boldness.\n\"Come out an' fight!\"\n\nQuick as lightning Jean threw up his rifle and fired. He saw tufts of\nfair hair fly from Daggs's head. He saw the squirt of red blood. Then\nquick shots from his comrades rang out. They all hit the swaying body\nof the rustler. But Jean knew with a terrible thrill that his bullet\nhad killed Daggs before the other three struck. Daggs fell forward,\nhis arms and half his body resting over, the embankment. Then the\nrustlers dragged him back out of sight. Hoarse shouts rose. A cloud of\nyellow dust drifted away from the spot.\n\n\"Daggs!\" burst out Gaston Isbel. \"Jean, you knocked off the top of his\nhaid. I seen that when I was pullin' trigger. Shore we over heah\nwasted our shots.\"\n\n\"God! he must have been crazy or drunk--to pop up there--an' brace us\nthat way,\" said Blaisdell, breathing hard.\n\n\"Arizona is bad for Texans,\" replied Isbel, sardonically. \"Shore it's\nbeen too peaceful heah. Rustlers have no practice at fightin'. An' I\nreckon Daggs forgot.\"\n\n\"Daggs made as crazy a move as that of Guy an' Jacobs,\" spoke up Jean.\n\"They were overbold, an' he was drunk. Let them be a lesson to us.\"\n\nJean had smelled whisky upon his entrance to this cabin. Bill was a\nhard drinker, and his father was not immune. Blaisdell, too, drank\nheavily upon occasions. Jean made a mental note that he would not\npermit their chances to become impaired by liquor.\n\nRifles began to crack, and puffs of smoke rose all along the embankment\nfor the space of a hundred feet. Bullets whistled through the rude\nwindow casing and spattered on the heavy door, and one split the clay\nbetween the logs before Jean, narrowly missing him. Another volley\nfollowed, then another. The rustlers had repeating rifles and they\nwere emptying their magazines. Jean changed his position. The other\nmen profited by his wise move. The volleys had merged into one\ncontinuous rattling roar of rifle shots. Then came a sudden cessation\nof reports, with silence of relief. The cabin was full of dust,\nmingled with the smoke from the shots of Jean and his companions. Jean\nheard the stifled breaths of the children. Evidently they were\nterror-stricken, but they did not cry out. The women uttered no sound.\n\nA loud voice pealed from behind the embankment.\n\n\"Come out an' fight! Do you Isbels want to be killed like sheep?\"\n\nThis sally gained no reply. Jean returned to his post by the window and\nhis comrades followed his example. And they exercised extreme caution\nwhen they peeped out.\n\n\"Boys, don't shoot till you see one,\" said Gaston Isbel. \"Maybe after\na while they'll get careless. But Jorth will never show himself.\"\n\nThe rustlers did not again resort to volleys. One by one, from\ndifferent angles, they began to shoot, and they were not firing at\nrandom. A few bullets came straight in at the windows to pat into the\nwalls; a few others ticked and splintered the edges of the windows; and\nmost of them broke through the clay chinks between the logs. It dawned\nupon Jean that these dangerous shots were not accident. They were well\naimed, and most of them hit low down. The cunning rustlers had some\nunerring riflemen and they were picking out the vulnerable places all\nalong the front of the cabin. If Jean had not been lying flat he would\nhave been hit twice. Presently he conceived the idea of driving pegs\nbetween the logs, high up, and, kneeling on these, he managed to peep\nout from the upper edge of the window. But this position was awkward\nand difficult to hold for long.\n\nHe heard a bullet hit one of his comrades. Whoever had been struck\nnever uttered a sound. Jean turned to look. Bill Isbel was holding\nhis shoulder, where red splotches appeared on his shirt. He shook his\nhead at Jean, evidently to make light of the wound. The women and\nchildren were lying face down and could not see what was happening.\nPlain is was that Bill did not want them to know. Blaisdell bound up\nthe bloody shoulder with a scarf.\n\nSteady firing from the rustlers went on, at the rate of one shot every\nfew minutes. The Isbels did not return these. Jean did not fire again\nthat afternoon. Toward sunset, when the besiegers appeared to grow\nrestless or careless, Blaisdell fired at something moving behind the\nbrush; and Gaston Isbel's huge buffalo gun boomed out.\n\n\"Wal, what 're they goin' to do after dark, an' what 're WE goin' to\ndo?\" grumbled Blaisdell.\n\n\"Reckon they'll never charge us,\" said Gaston.\n\n\"They might set fire to the cabins,\" added Bill Isbel. He appeared to\nbe the gloomiest of the Isbel faction. There was something on his mind.\n\n\"Wal, the Jorths are bad, but I reckon they'd not burn us alive,\"\nreplied Blaisdell.\n\n\"Hah!\" ejaculated Gaston Isbel. \"Much you know aboot Lee Jorth. He\nwould skin me alive an' throw red-hot coals on my raw flesh.\"\n\nSo they talked during the hour from sunset to dark. Jean Isbel had\nlittle to say. He was revolving possibilities in his mind. Darkness\nbrought a change in the attack of the rustlers. They stationed men at\nfour points around the cabins; and every few minutes one of these\noutposts would fire. These bullets embedded themselves in the logs,\ncausing but little anxiety to the Isbels.\n\n\"Jean, what you make of it?\" asked the old rancher.\n\n\"Looks to me this way,\" replied Jean. \"They're set for a long fight.\nThey're shootin' just to let us know they're on the watch.\"\n\n\"Ahuh! Wal, what 're you goin' to do aboot it?\"\n\n\"I'm goin' out there presently.\"\n\nGaston Isbel grunted his satisfaction at this intention of Jean's.\n\nAll was pitch dark inside the cabin. The women had water and food at\nhand. Jean kept a sharp lookout from his window while he ate his\nsupper of meat, bread, and milk. At last the children, worn out by the\nlong day, fell asleep. The women whispered a little in their corner.\n\nAbout nine o'clock Jean signified his intention of going out to\nreconnoitre.\n\n\"Dad, they've got the best of us in the daytime,\" he said, \"but not\nafter dark.\"\n\nJean buckled on a belt that carried shells, a bowie knife, and\nrevolver, and with rifle in hand he went out through the kitchen to the\nyard. The night was darker than usual, as some of the stars were hidden\nby clouds. He leaned against the log cabin, waiting for his eyes to\nbecome perfectly adjusted to the darkness. Like an Indian, Jean could\nsee well at night. He knew every point around cabins and sheds and\ncorrals, every post, log, tree, rock, adjacent to the ranch. After\nperhaps a quarter of an hour watching, during which time several shots\nwere fired from behind the embankment and one each from the rustlers at\nthe other locations, Jean slipped out on his quest.\n\nHe kept in the shadow of the cabin walls, then the line of orchard\ntrees, then a row of currant bushes. Here, crouching low, he halted to\nlook and listen. He was now at the edge of the open ground, with the\ngently rising slope before him. He could see the dark patches of cedar\nand juniper trees. On the north side of the cabin a streak of fire\nflashed in the blackness, and a shot rang out. Jean heard the bullet\nbit the cabin. Then silence enfolded the lonely ranch and the darkness\nlay like a black blanket. A low hum of insects pervaded the air. Dull\nsheets of lightning illumined the dark horizon to the south. Once Jean\nheard voices, but could not tell from which direction they came. To\nthe west of him then flared out another rifle shot. The bullet\nwhistled down over Jean to thud into the cabin.\n\nJean made a careful study of the obscure, gray-black open before him\nand then the background to his rear. So long as he kept the dense\nshadows behind him he could not be seen. He slipped from behind his\ncovert and, gliding with absolutely noiseless footsteps, he gained the\nfirst clump of junipers. Here he waited patiently and motionlessly for\nanother round of shots from the rustlers. After the second shot from\nthe west side Jean sheered off to the right. Patches of brush, clumps\nof juniper, and isolated cedars covered this slope, affording Jean a\nperfect means for his purpose, which was to make a detour and come up\nbehind the rustler who was firing from that side. Jean climbed to the\ntop of the ridge, descended the opposite slope, made his turn to the\nleft, and slowly worked up behind the point near where he expected to\nlocate the rustler. Long habit in the open, by day and night, rendered\nhis sense of direction almost as perfect as sight itself. The first\nflash of fire he saw from this side proved that he had come straight up\ntoward his man. Jean's intention was to crawl up on this one of the\nJorth gang and silently kill him with a knife. If the plan worked\nsuccessfully, Jean meant to work round to the next rustler. Laying\naside his rifle, he crawled forward on hands and knees, making no more\nsound than a cat. His approach was slow. He had to pick his way, be\ncareful not to break twigs nor rattle stones. His buckskin garments\nmade no sound against the brush. Jean located the rustler sitting on\nthe top of the ridge in the center of an open space. He was alone.\nJean saw the dull-red end of the cigarette he was smoking. The ground\non the ridge top was rocky and not well adapted for Jean's purpose. He\nhad to abandon the idea of crawling up on the rustler. Whereupon, Jean\nturned back, patiently and slowly, to get his rifle.\n\nUpon securing it he began to retrace his course, this time more slowly\nthan before, as he was hampered by the rifle. But he did not make the\nslightest sound, and at length he reached the edge of the open ridge\ntop, once more to espy the dark form of the rustler silhouetted against\nthe sky. The distance was not more than fifty yards.\n\nAs Jean rose to his knee and carefully lifted his rifle round to avoid\nthe twigs of a juniper he suddenly experienced another emotion besides\nthe one of grim, hard wrath at the Jorths. It was an emotion that\nsickened him, made him weak internally, a cold, shaking, ungovernable\nsensation. Suppose this man was Ellen Jorth's father! Jean lowered\nthe rifle. He felt it shake over his knee. He was trembling all over.\nThe astounding discovery that he did not want to kill Ellen's\nfather--that he could not do it--awakened Jean to the despairing nature\nof his love for her. In this grim moment of indecision, when he knew\nhis Indian subtlety and ability gave him a great advantage over the\nJorths, he fully realized his strange, hopeless, and irresistible love\nfor the girl. He made no attempt to deny it any longer. Like the\nnight and the lonely wilderness around him, like the inevitableness of\nthis Jorth-Isbel feud, this love of his was a thing, a fact, a reality.\nHe breathed to his own inward ear, to his soul--he could not kill Ellen\nJorth's father. Feud or no feud, Isbel or not, he could not\ndeliberately do it. And why not? There was no answer. Was he not\nfaithless to his father? He had no hope of ever winning Ellen Jorth.\nHe did not want the love of a girl of her character. But he loved her.\nAnd his struggle must be against the insidious and mysterious growth of\nthat passion. It swayed him already. It made him a coward. Through\nhis mind and heart swept the memory of Ellen Jorth, her beauty and\ncharm, her boldness and pathos, her shame and her degradation. And the\nsweetness of her outweighed the boldness. And the mystery of her\narrayed itself in unquenchable protest against her acknowledged shame.\nJean lifted his face to the heavens, to the pitiless white stars, to\nthe infinite depths of the dark-blue sky. He could sense the fact of\nhis being an atom in the universe of nature. What was he, what was his\nrevengeful father, what were hate and passion and strife in comparison\nto the nameless something, immense and everlasting, that he sensed in\nthis dark moment?\n\nBut the rustlers--Daggs--the Jorths--they had killed his brother\nGuy--murdered him brutally and ruthlessly. Guy had been a playmate of\nJean's--a favorite brother. Bill had been secretive and selfish. Jean\nhad never loved him as he did Guy. Guy lay dead down there on the\nmeadow. This feud had begun to run its bloody course. Jean steeled his\nnerve. The hot blood crept back along his veins. The dark and\nmasterful tide of revenge waved over him. The keen edge of his mind\nthen cut out sharp and trenchant thoughts. He must kill when and where\nhe could. This man could hardly be Ellen Jorth's father. Jorth would\nbe with the main crowd, directing hostilities. Jean could shoot this\nrustler guard and his shot would be taken by the gang as the regular\none from their comrade. Then swiftly Jean leveled his rifle, covered\nthe dark form, grew cold and set, and pressed the trigger. After the\nreport he rose and wheeled away. He did not look nor listen for the\nresult of his shot. A clammy sweat wet his face, the hollow of his\nhands, his breast. A horrible, leaden, thick sensation oppressed his\nheart. Nature had endowed him with Indian gifts, but the exercise of\nthem to this end caused a revolt in his soul.\n\nNevertheless, it was the Isbel blood that dominated him. The wind blew\ncool on his face. The burden upon his shoulders seemed to lift. The\nclamoring whispers grew fainter in his ears. And by the time he had\nretraced his cautious steps back to the orchard all his physical being\nwas strung to the task at hand. Something had come between his\nreflective self and this man of action.\n\nCrossing the lane, he took to the west line of sheds, and passed beyond\nthem into the meadow. In the grass he crawled silently away to the\nright, using the same precaution that had actuated him on the slope,\nonly here he did not pause so often, nor move so slowly. Jean aimed to\ngo far enough to the right to pass the end of the embankment behind\nwhich the rustlers had found such efficient cover. This ditch had been\nmade to keep water, during spring thaws and summer storms, from pouring\noff the slope to flood the corrals.\n\nJean miscalculated and found he had come upon the embankment somewhat\nto the left of the end, which fact, however, caused him no uneasiness.\nHe lay there awhile to listen. Again he heard voices. After a time a\nshot pealed out. He did not see the flash, but he calculated that it\nhad come from the north side of the cabins.\n\nThe next quarter of an hour discovered to Jean that the nearest guard\nwas firing from the top of the embankment, perhaps a hundred yards\ndistant, and a second one was performing the same office from a point\napparently only a few yards farther on. Two rustlers close together!\nJean had not calculated upon that. For a little while he pondered on\nwhat was best to do, and at length decided to crawl round behind them,\nand as close as the situation made advisable.\n\nHe found the ditch behind the embankment a favorable path by which to\nstalk these enemies. It was dry and sandy, with borders of high weeds.\nThe only drawback was that it was almost impossible for him to keep\nfrom brushing against the dry, invisible branches of the weeds. To\noffset this he wormed his way like a snail, inch by inch, taking a long\ntime before he caught sight of the sitting figure of a man, black\nagainst the dark-blue sky. This rustler had fired his rifle three\ntimes during Jean's slow approach. Jean watched and listened a few\nmoments, then wormed himself closer and closer, until the man was\nwithin twenty steps of him.\n\nJean smelled tobacco smoke, but could see no light of pipe or\ncigarette, because the fellow's back was turned.\n\n\"Say, Ben,\" said this man to his companion sitting hunched up a few\nyards distant, \"shore it strikes me queer thet Somers ain't shootin'\nany over thar.\"\n\nJean recognized the dry, drawling voice of Greaves, and the shock of it\nseemed to contract the muscles of his whole thrilling body, like that\nof a panther about to spring.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\"Was shore thinkin' thet same,\" said the other man. \"An', say, didn't\nthet last shot sound too sharp fer Somers's forty-five?\"\n\n\"Come to think of it, I reckon it did,\" replied Greaves.\n\n\"Wal, I'll go around over thar an' see.\"\n\nThe dark form of the rustler slipped out of sight over the embankment.\n\n\"Better go slow an' careful,\" warned Greaves. \"An' only go close\nenough to call Somers.... Mebbe thet damn half-breed Isbel is comin'\nsome Injun on us.\"\n\nJean heard the soft swish of footsteps through wet grass. Then all was\nstill. He lay flat, with his cheek on the sand, and he had to look\nahead and upward to make out the dark figure of Greaves on the bank.\nOne way or another he meant to kill Greaves, and he had the will power\nto resist the strongest gust of passion that had ever stormed his\nbreast. If he arose and shot the rustler, that act would defeat his\nplan of slipping on around upon the other outposts who were firing at\nthe cabins. Jean wanted to call softly to Greaves, \"You're right about\nthe half-breed!\" and then, as he wheeled aghast, to kill him as he\nmoved. But it suited Jean to risk leaping upon the man. Jean did not\nwaste time in trying to understand the strange, deadly instinct that\ngripped him at the moment. But he realized then he had chosen the most\nperilous plan to get rid of Greaves.\n\nJean drew a long, deep breath and held it. He let go of his rifle. He\nrose, silently as a lifting shadow. He drew the bowie knife. Then with\nlight, swift bounds he glided up the bank. Greaves must have heard a\nrustling--a soft, quick pad of moccasin, for he turned with a start.\nAnd that instant Jean's left arm darted like a striking snake round\nGreaves's neck and closed tight and hard. With his right hand free,\nholding the knife, Jean might have ended the deadly business in just\none move. But when his bared arm felt the hot, bulging neck something\nterrible burst out of the depths of him. To kill this enemy of his\nfather's was not enough! Physical contact had unleashed the savage\nsoul of the Indian. Yet there was more, and as Jean gave the straining\nbody a tremendous jerk backward, he felt the same strange thrill, the\ndark joy that he had known when his fist had smashed the face of Simm\nBruce. Greaves had leered--he had corroborated Bruce's vile\ninsinuation about Ellen Jorth. So it was more than hate that actuated\nJean Isbel.\n\nGreaves was heavy and powerful. He whirled himself, feet first, over\nbackward, in a lunge like that of a lassoed steer. But Jean's hold\nheld. They rolled down the bank into the sandy ditch, and Jean landed\nuppermost, with his body at right angles with that of his adversary.\n\n\"Greaves, your hunch was right,\" hissed Jean. \"It's the half-breed....\nAn' I'm goin' to cut you--first for Ellen Jorth--an' then for Gaston\nIsbel!\"\n\nJean gazed down into the gleaming eyes. Then his right arm whipped the\nbig blade. It flashed. It fell. Low down, as far as Jean could\nreach, it entered Greaves's body.\n\nAll the heavy, muscular frame of Greaves seemed to contract and burst.\nHis spring was that of an animal in terror and agony. It was so\ntremendous that it broke Jean's hold. Greaves let out a strangled yell\nthat cleared, swelling wildly, with a hideous mortal note. He wrestled\nfree. The big knife came out. Supple and swift, he got to his, knees.\nHe had his gun out when Jean reached him again. Like a bear Jean\nenveloped him. Greaves shot, but he could not raise the gun, nor twist\nit far enough. Then Jean, letting go with his right arm, swung the\nbowie. Greaves's strength went out in an awful, hoarse cry. His gun\nboomed again, then dropped from his hand. He swayed. Jean let go.\nAnd that enemy of the Isbels sank limply in the ditch. Jean's eyes\nroved for his rifle and caught the starlit gleam of it. Snatching it\nup, he leaped over the embankment and ran straight for the cabins.\nFrom all around yells of the Jorth faction attested to their excitement\nand fury.\n\nA fence loomed up gray in the obscurity. Jean vaulted it, darted\nacross the lane into the shadow of the corral, and soon gained the\nfirst cabin. Here he leaned to regain his breath. His heart pounded\nhigh and seemed too large for his breast. The hot blood beat and\nsurged all over his body. Sweat poured off him. His teeth were\nclenched tight as a vise, and it took effort on his part to open his\nmouth so he could breathe more freely and deeply. But these physical\nsensations were as nothing compared to the tumult of his mind. Then the\ninstinct, the spell, let go its grip and he could think. He had avenged\nGuy, he had depleted the ranks of the Jorths, he had made good the brag\nof his father, all of which afforded him satisfaction. But these\nthoughts were not accountable for all that he felt, especially for the\nbittersweet sting of the fact that death to the defiler of Ellen Jorth\ncould not efface the doubt, the regret which seemed to grow with the\nhours.\n\nGroping his way into the woodshed, he entered the kitchen and, calling\nlow, he went on into the main cabin.\n\n\"Jean! Jean!\" came his father's shaking voice.\n\n\"Yes, I'm back,\" replied Jean.\n\n\"Are--you--all right?\"\n\n\"Yes. I think I've got a bullet crease on my leg. I didn't know I had\nit till now.... It's bleedin' a little. But it's nothin'.\"\n\nJean heard soft steps and some one reached shaking hands for him. They\nbelonged to his sister Ann. She embraced him. Jean felt the heave and\nthrob of her breast.\n\n\"Why, Ann, I'm not hurt,\" he said, and held her close. \"Now you lie\ndown an' try to sleep.\"\n\nIn the black darkness of the cabin Jean led her back to the corner and\nhis heart was full. Speech was difficult, because the very touch of\nAnn's hands had made him divine that the success of his venture in no\nwise changed the plight of the women.\n\n\"Wal, what happened out there?\" demanded Blaisdell.\n\n\"I got two of them,\" replied Jean. \"That fellow who was shootin' from\nthe ridge west. An' the other was Greaves.\"\n\n\"Hah!\" exclaimed his father.\n\n\"Shore then it was Greaves yellin',\" declared Blaisdell. \"By God, I\nnever heard such yells! Whad 'd you do, Jean?\"\n\n\"I knifed him. You see, I'd planned to slip up on one after another.\nAn' I didn't want to make noise. But I didn't get any farther than\nGreaves.\"\n\n\"Wal, I reckon that 'll end their shootin' in the dark,\" muttered\nGaston Isbel. \"We've got to be on the lookout for somethin'\nelse--fire, most likely.\"\n\nThe old rancher's surmise proved to be partially correct. Jorth's\nfaction ceased the shooting. Nothing further was seen or heard from\nthem. But this silence and apparent break in the siege were harder to\nbear than deliberate hostility. The long, dark hours dragged by. The\nmen took turns watching and resting, but none of them slept. At last\nthe blackness paled and gray dawn stole out of the east. The sky turned\nrose over the distant range and daylight came.\n\nThe children awoke hungry and noisy, having slept away their fears. The\nwomen took advantage of the quiet morning hour to get a hot breakfast.\n\n\"Maybe they've gone away,\" suggested Guy Isbel's wife, peering out of\nthe window. She had done that several times since daybreak. Jean saw\nher somber gaze search the pasture until it rested upon the dark, prone\nshape of her dead husband, lying face down in the grass. Her look\nworried Jean.\n\n\"No, Esther, they've not gone yet,\" replied Jean. \"I've seen some of\nthem out there at the edge of the brush.\"\n\nBlaisdell was optimistic. He said Jean's night work would have its\neffect and that the Jorth contingent would not renew the siege very\ndeterminedly. It turned out, however, that Blaisdell was wrong.\nDirectly after sunrise they began to pour volleys from four sides and\nfrom closer range. During the night Jorth's gang had thrown earth\nbanks and constructed log breastworks, from behind which they were now\nfiring. Jean and his comrades could see the flashes of fire and\nstreaks of smoke to such good advantage that they began to return the\nvolleys.\n\nIn half an hour the cabin was so full of smoke that Jean could not see\nthe womenfolk in their corner. The fierce attack then abated somewhat,\nand the firing became more intermittent, and therefore more carefully\naimed. A glancing bullet cut a furrow in Blaisdell's hoary head,\nmaking a painful, though not serious wound. It was Esther Isbel who\nstopped the flow of blood and bound Blaisdell's head, a task which she\nperformed skillfully and without a tremor. The old Texan could not sit\nstill during this operation. Sight of the blood on his hands, which he\ntried to rub off, appeared to inflame him to a great degree.\n\n\"Isbel, we got to go out thar,\" he kept repeating, \"an' kill them all.\"\n\n\"No, we're goin' to stay heah,\" replied Gaston Isbel. \"Shore I'm\nlookin' for Blue an' Fredericks an' Gordon to open up out there. They\nought to be heah, an' if they are y'u shore can bet they've got the\nfight sized up.\"\n\nIsbel's hopes did not materialize. The shooting continued without any\nlull until about midday. Then the Jorth faction stopped.\n\n\"Wal, now what's up?\" queried Isbel. \"Boys, hold your fire an' let's\nwait.\"\n\nGradually the smoke wafted out of the windows and doors, until the room\nwas once more clear. And at this juncture Esther Isbel came over to\ntake another gaze out upon the meadows. Jean saw her suddenly start\nviolently, then stiffen, with a trembling hand outstretched.\n\n\"Look!\" she cried.\n\n\"Esther, get back,\" ordered the old rancher. \"Keep away from that\nwindow.\"\n\n\"What the hell!\" muttered Blaisdell. \"She sees somethin', or she's\ngone dotty.\"\n\nEsther seemed turned to stone. \"Look! The hogs have broken into the\npasture! ... They'll eat Guy's body!\"\n\nEveryone was frozen with horror at Esther's statement. Jean took a\nswift survey of the pasture. A bunch of big black hogs had indeed\nappeared on the scene and were rooting around in the grass not far from\nwhere lay the bodies of Guy Isbel and Jacobs. This herd of hogs\nbelonged to the rancher and was allowed to run wild.\n\n\"Jane, those hogs--\" stammered Esther Isbel, to the wife of Jacobs.\n\"Come! Look! ... Do y'u know anythin' about hogs?\"\n\nThe woman ran to the window and looked out. She stiffened as had\nEsther.\n\n\"Dad, will those hogs--eat human flesh?\" queried Jean, breathlessly.\n\nThe old man stared out of the window. Surprise seemed to hold him. A\ncompletely unexpected situation had staggered him.\n\n\"Jean--can you--can you shoot that far?\" he asked, huskily.\n\n\"To those hogs? No, it's out of range.\"\n\n\"Then, by God, we've got to stay trapped in heah an' watch an awful\nsight,\" ejaculated the old man, completely unnerved. \"See that break\nin the fence! ... Jorth's done that.... To let in the hogs!\"\n\n\"Aw, Isbel, it's not so bad as all that,\" remonstrated Blaisdell,\nwagging his bloody head. \"Jorth wouldn't do such a hell-bent trick.\"\n\n\"It's shore done.\"\n\n\"Wal, mebbe the hogs won't find Guy an' Jacobs,\" returned Blaisdell,\nweakly. Plain it was that he only hoped for such a contingency and\ncertainly doubted it.\n\n\"Look!\" cried Esther Isbel, piercingly. \"They're workin' straight up\nthe pasture!\"\n\nIndeed, to Jean it appeared to be the fatal truth. He looked blankly,\nfeeling a little sick. Ann Isbel came to peer out of the window and\nshe uttered a cry. Jacobs's wife stood mute, as if dazed.\n\nBlaisdell swore a mighty oath. \"-- -- --! Isbel, we cain't stand heah\nan' watch them hogs eat our people!\"\n\n\"Wal, we'll have to. What else on earth can we do?\"\n\nEsther turned to the men. She was white and cold, except her eyes,\nwhich resembled gray flames.\n\n\"Somebody can run out there an' bury our dead men,\" she said.\n\n\"Why, child, it'd be shore death. Y'u saw what happened to Guy an'\nJacobs.... We've jest got to bear it. Shore nobody needn't look\nout--an' see.\"\n\nJean wondered if it would be possible to keep from watching. The thing\nhad a horrible fascination. The big hogs were rooting and tearing in\nthe grass, some of them lazy, others nimble, and all were gradually\nworking closer and closer to the bodies. The leader, a huge, gaunt\nboar, that had fared ill all his life in this barren country, was\nscarcely fifty feet away from where Guy Isbel lay.\n\n\"Ann, get me some of your clothes, an' a sunbonnet--quick,\" said Jean,\nforced out of his lethargy. \"I'll run out there disguised. Maybe I\ncan go through with it.\"\n\n\"No!\" ordered his father, positively, and with dark face flaming. \"Guy\nan' Jacobs are dead. We cain't help them now.\"\n\n\"But, dad--\" pleaded Jean. He had been wrought to a pitch by Esther's\nblaze of passion, by the agony in the face of the other woman.\n\n\"I tell y'u no!\" thundered Gaston Isbel, flinging his arms wide.\n\n\"I WILL GO!\" cried Esther, her voice ringing.\n\n\"You won't go alone!\" instantly answered the wife of Jacobs, repeating\nunconsciously the words her husband had spoken.\n\n\"You stay right heah,\" shouted Gaston Isbel, hoarsely.\n\n\"I'm goin',\" replied Esther. \"You've no hold over me. My husband is\ndead. No one can stop me. I'm goin' out there to drive those hogs\naway an' bury him.\"\n\n\"Esther, for Heaven's sake, listen,\" replied Isbel. \"If y'u show\nyourself outside, Jorth an' his gang will kin y'u.\"\n\n\"They may be mean, but no white men could be so low as that.\"\n\nThen they pleaded with her to give up her purpose. But in vain! She\npushed them back and ran out through the kitchen with Jacobs's wife\nfollowing her. Jean turned to the window in time to see both women run\nout into the lane. Jean looked fearfully, and listened for shots. But\nonly a loud, \"Haw! Haw!\" came from the watchers outside. That coarse\nlaugh relieved the tension in Jean's breast. Possibly the Jorths were\nnot as black as his father painted them. The two women entered an open\nshed and came forth with a shovel and spade.\n\n\"Shore they've got to hurry,\" burst out Gaston Isbel.\n\nShifting his gaze, Jean understood the import of his father's speech.\nThe leader of the hogs had no doubt scented the bodies. Suddenly he\nespied them and broke into a trot.\n\n\"Run, Esther, run!\" yelled Jean, with all his might.\n\nThat urged the women to flight. Jean began to shoot. The hog reached\nthe body of Guy. Jean's shots did not reach nor frighten the beast.\nAll the hogs now had caught a scent and went ambling toward their\nleader. Esther and her companion passed swiftly out of sight behind a\ncorral. Loud and piercingly, with some awful note, rang out their\nscreams. The hogs appeared frightened. The leader lifted his long\nsnout, looked, and turned away. The others had halted. Then they,\ntoo, wheeled and ran off.\n\nAll was silent then in the cabin and also outside wherever the Jorth\nfaction lay concealed. All eyes manifestly were fixed upon the brave\nwives. They spaded up the sod and dug a grave for Guy Isbel. For a\nshroud Esther wrapped him in her shawl. Then they buried him. Next\nthey hurried to the side of Jacobs, who lay some yards away. They dug\na grave for him. Mrs. Jacobs took off her outer skirt to wrap round\nhim. Then the two women labored hard to lift him and lower him. Jacobs\nwas a heavy man. When he had been covered his widow knelt beside his\ngrave. Esther went back to the other. But she remained standing and\ndid not look as if she prayed. Her aspect was tragic--that of a woman\nwho had lost father, mother, sisters, brother, and now her husband, in\nthis bloody Arizona land.\n\nThe deed and the demeanor of these wives of the murdered men surely\nmust have shamed Jorth and his followers. They did not fire a shot\nduring the ordeal nor give any sign of their presence.\n\nInside the cabin all were silent, too. Jean's eyes blurred so that he\ncontinually had to wipe them. Old Isbel made no effort to hide his\ntears. Blaisdell nodded his shaggy head and swallowed hard. The women\nsat staring into space. The children, in round-eyed dismay, gazed from\none to the other of their elders.\n\n\"Wal, they're comin' back,\" declared Isbel, in immense relief. \"An' so\nhelp me--Jorth let them bury their daid!\"\n\nThe fact seemed to have been monstrously strange to Gaston Isbel. When\nthe women entered the old man said, brokenly: \"I'm shore glad.... An' I\nreckon I was wrong to oppose you ... an' wrong to say what I did aboot\nJorth.\"\n\nNo one had any chance to reply to Isbel, for the Jorth gang, as if to\nmake up for lost time and surcharged feelings of shame, renewed the\nattack with such a persistent and furious volleying that the defenders\ndid not risk a return shot. They all had to lie flat next to the\nlowest log in order to keep from being hit. Bullets rained in through\nthe window. And all the clay between the logs low down was shot away.\nThis fusillade lasted for more than an hour, then gradually the fire\ndiminished on one side and then on the other until it became desultory\nand finally ceased.\n\n\"Ahuh! Shore they've shot their bolt,\" declared Gaston Isbel.\n\n\"Wal, I doon't know aboot that,\" returned Blaisdell, \"but they've shot\na hell of a lot of shells.\"\n\n\"Listen,\" suddenly called Jean. \"Somebody's yellin'.\"\n\n\"Hey, Isbel!\" came in loud, hoarse voice. \"Let your women fight for\nyou.\"\n\nGaston Isbel sat up with a start and his face turned livid. Jean\nneeded no more to prove that the derisive voice from outside had\nbelonged to Jorth. The old rancher lunged up to his full height and\nwith reckless disregard of life he rushed to the window. \"Jorth,\" he\nroared, \"I dare you to meet me--man to man!\"\n\nThis elicited no answer. Jean dragged his father away from the window.\nAfter that a waiting silence ensued, gradually less fraught with\nsuspense. Blaisdell started conversation by saying he believed the\nfight was over for that particular time. No one disputed him.\nEvidently Gaston Isbel was loath to believe it. Jean, however,\nwatching at the back of the kitchen, eventually discovered that the\nJorth gang had lifted the siege. Jean saw them congregate at the edge\nof the brush, somewhat lower down than they had been the day before. A\nteam of mules, drawing a wagon, appeared on the road, and turned toward\nthe slope. Saddled horses were led down out of the junipers. Jean saw\nbodies, evidently of dead men, lifted into the wagon, to be hauled away\ntoward the village. Seven mounted men, leading four riderless horses,\nrode out into the valley and followed the wagon.\n\n\"Dad, they've gone,\" declared Jean. \"We had the best of this fight....\nIf only Guy an' Jacobs had listened!\"\n\nThe old man nodded moodily. He had aged considerably during these two\ntrying days. His hair was grayer. Now that the blaze and glow of the\nfight had passed he showed a subtle change, a fixed and morbid sadness,\na resignation to a fate he had accepted.\n\nThe ordinary routine of ranch life did not return for the Isbels.\nBlaisdell returned home to settle matters there, so that he could\ndevote all his time to this feud. Gaston Isbel sat down to wait for\nthe members of his clan.\n\nThe male members of the family kept guard in turn over the ranch that\nnight. And another day dawned. It brought word from Blaisdell that\nBlue, Fredericks, Gordon, and Colmor were all at his house, on the way\nto join the Isbels. This news appeared greatly to rejuvenate Gaston\nIsbel. But his enthusiasm did not last long. Impatient and moody by\nturns, he paced or moped around the cabin, always looking out,\nsometimes toward Blaisdell's ranch, but mostly toward Grass Valley.\n\nIt struck Jean as singular that neither Esther Isbel nor Mrs. Jacobs\nsuggested a reburial of their husbands. The two bereaved women did not\nask for assistance, but repaired to the pasture, and there spent\nseveral hours working over the graves. They raised mounds, which they\nsodded, and then placed stones at the heads and feet. Lastly, they\nfenced in the graves.\n\n\"I reckon I'll hitch up an' drive back home,\" said Mrs. Jacobs, when\nshe returned to the cabin. \"I've much to do an' plan. Probably I'll\ngo to my mother's home. She's old an' will be glad to have me.\"\n\n\"If I had any place to go to I'd sure go,\" declared Esther Isbel,\nbitterly.\n\nGaston Isbel heard this remark. He raised his face from his hands,\nevidently both nettled and hurt.\n\n\"Esther, shore that's not kind,\" he said.\n\nThe red-haired woman--for she did not appear to be a girl any\nmore--halted before his chair and gazed down at him, with a terrible\nflare of scorn in her gray eyes.\n\n\"Gaston Isbel, all I've got to say to you is this,\" she retorted, with\nthe voice of a man. \"Seein' that you an' Lee Jorth hate each other,\nwhy couldn't you act like men? ... You damned Texans, with your bloody\nfeuds, draggin' in every relation, every friend to murder each other!\nThat's not the way of Arizona men.... We've all got to suffer--an' we\nwomen be ruined for life--because YOU had differences with Jorth. If\nyou were half a man you'd go out an' kill him yourself, an' not leave a\nlot of widows an' orphaned children!\"\n\nJean himself writhed under the lash of her scorn. Gaston Isbel turned\na dead white. He could not answer her. He seemed stricken with\nmerciless truth. Slowly dropping his head, he remained motionless, a\npathetic and tragic figure; and he did not stir until the rapid beat of\nhoofs denoted the approach of horsemen. Blaisdell appeared on his\nwhite charger, leading a pack animal. And behind rode a group of men,\nall heavily armed, and likewise with packs.\n\n\"Get down an' come in,\" was Isbel's greeting. \"Bill--you look after\ntheir packs. Better leave the hosses saddled.\"\n\nThe booted and spurred riders trooped in, and their demeanor fitted\ntheir errand. Jean was acquainted with all of them. Fredericks was a\nlanky Texan, the color of dust, and he had yellow, clear eyes, like\nthose of a hawk. His mother had been an Isbel. Gordon, too, was\nrelated to Jean's family, though distantly. He resembled an\nindustrious miner more than a prosperous cattleman. Blue was the most\nstriking of the visitors, as he was the most noted. A little, shrunken\ngray-eyed man, with years of cowboy written all over him, he looked the\nquiet, easy, cool, and deadly Texan he was reputed to be. Blue's Texas\nrecord was shady, and was seldom alluded to, as unfavorable comment had\nturned out to be hazardous. He was the only one of the group who did\nnot carry a rifle. But he packed two guns, a habit not often noted in\nTexans, and almost never in Arizonians.\n\nColmor, Ann Isbel's fiance, was the youngest member of the clan, and\nthe one closest to Jean. His meeting with Ann affected Jean\npowerfully, and brought to a climax an idea that had been developing in\nJean's mind. His sister devotedly loved this lean-faced, keen-eyed\nArizonian; and it took no great insight to discover that Colmor\nreciprocated her affection. They were young. They had long life before\nthem. It seemed to Jean a pity that Colmor should be drawn into this\nwar. Jean watched them, as they conversed apart; and he saw Ann's\nhands creep up to Colmor's breast, and he saw her dark eyes, eloquent,\nhungry, fearful, lifted with queries her lips did not speak. Jean\nstepped beside them, and laid an arm over both their shoulders.\n\n\"Colmor, for Ann's sake you'd better back out of this Jorth-Isbel\nfight,\" he whispered.\n\nColmor looked insulted. \"But, Jean, it's Ann's father,\" he said. \"I'm\nalmost one of the family.\"\n\n\"You're Ann's sweetheart, an', by Heaven, I say you oughtn't to go with\nus!\" whispered Jean.\n\n\"Go--with--you,\" faltered Ann.\n\n\"Yes. Dad is goin' straight after Jorth. Can't you tell that? An'\nthere 'll be one hell of a fight.\"\n\nAnn looked up into Colmor's face with all her soul in her eyes, but she\ndid not speak. Her look was noble. She yearned to guide him right,\nyet her lips were sealed. And Colmor betrayed the trouble of his soul.\nThe code of men held him bound, and he could not break from it, though\nhe divined in that moment how truly it was wrong.\n\n\"Jean, your dad started me in the cattle business,\" said Colmor,\nearnestly. \"An' I'm doin' well now. An' when I asked him for Ann he\nsaid he'd be glad to have me in the family.... Well, when this talk of\nfight come up, I asked your dad to let me go in on his side. He\nwouldn't hear of it. But after a while, as the time passed an' he made\nmore enemies, he finally consented. I reckon he needs me now. An' I\ncan't back out, not even for Ann.\"\n\n\"I would if I were you,\" replied jean, and knew that he lied.\n\n\"Jean, I'm gamblin' to come out of the fight,\" said Colmor, with a\nsmile. He had no morbid fears nor presentiments, such as troubled jean.\n\n\"Why, sure--you stand as good a chance as anyone,\" rejoined Jean. \"It\nwasn't that I was worryin' about so much.\"\n\n\"What was it, then?\" asked Ann, steadily.\n\n\"If Andrew DOES come through alive he'll have blood on his hands,\"\nreturned Jean, with passion. \"He can't come through without it....\nI've begun to feel what it means to have killed my fellow men.... An'\nI'd rather your husband an' the father of your children never felt\nthat.\"\n\nColmor did not take Jean as subtly as Ann did. She shrunk a little.\nHer dark eyes dilated. But Colmor showed nothing of her spiritual\nreaction. He was young. He had wild blood. He was loyal to the\nIsbels.\n\n\"Jean, never worry about my conscience,\" he said, with a keen look.\n\"Nothin' would tickle me any more than to get a shot at every damn one\nof the Jorths.\"\n\nThat established Colmor's status in regard to the Jorth-Isbel feud.\nJean had no more to say. He respected Ann's friend and felt poignant\nsorrow for Ann.\n\nGaston Isbel called for meat and drink to be set on the table for his\nguests. When his wishes had been complied with the women took the\nchildren into the adjoining cabin and shut the door.\n\n\"Hah! Wal, we can eat an' talk now.\"\n\nFirst the newcomers wanted to hear particulars of what had happened.\nBlaisdell had told all he knew and had seen, but that was not\nsufficient. They plied Gaston Isbel with questions. Laboriously and\nponderously he rehearsed the experiences of the fight at the ranch,\naccording to his impressions. Bill Isbel was exhorted to talk, but he\nhad of late manifested a sullen and taciturn disposition. In spite of\nJean's vigilance Bill had continued to imbibe red liquor. Then Jean was\ncalled upon to relate all he had seen and done. It had been Jean's\nintention to keep his mouth shut, first for his own sake and, secondly,\nbecause he did not like to talk of his deeds. But when thus appealed\nto by these somber-faced, intent-eyed men he divined that the more\ncarefully he described the cruelty and baseness of their enemies, and\nthe more vividly he presented his participation in the first fight of\nthe feud the more strongly he would bind these friends to the Isbel\ncause. So he talked for an hour, beginning with his meeting with\nColter up on the Rim and ending with an account of his killing Greaves.\nHis listeners sat through this long narrative with unabated interest\nand at the close they were leaning forward, breathless and tense.\n\n\"Ah! So Greaves got his desserts at last,\" exclaimed Gordon.\n\nAll the men around the table made comments, and the last, from Blue,\nwas the one that struck Jean forcibly.\n\n\"Shore thet was a strange an' a hell of a way to kill Greaves. Why'd\nyou do thet, Jean?\"\n\n\"I told you. I wanted to avoid noise an' I hoped to get more of them.\"\n\nBlue nodded his lean, eagle-like head and sat thoughtfully, as if not\nconvinced of anything save Jean's prowess. After a moment Blue spoke\nagain.\n\n\"Then, goin' back to Jean's tellin' aboot trackin' rustled Cattle, I've\ngot this to say. I've long suspected thet somebody livin' right heah\nin the valley has been drivin' off cattle an' dealin' with rustlers.\nAn' now I'm shore of it.\"\n\nThis speech did not elicit the amaze from Gaston Isbel that Jean\nexpected it would.\n\n\"You mean Greaves or some of his friends?\"\n\n\"No. They wasn't none of them in the cattle business, like we are.\nShore we all knowed Greaves was crooked. But what I'm figgerin' is\nthet some so-called honest man in our settlement has been makin'\ncrooked deals.\"\n\nBlue was a man of deeds rather than words, and so much strong speech\nfrom him, whom everybody knew to be remarkably reliable and keen, made\na profound impression upon most of the Isbel faction. But, to Jean's\nsurprise, his father did not rave. It was Blaisdell who supplied the\nrage and invective. Bill Isbel, also, was strangely indifferent to\nthis new element in the condition of cattle dealing. Suddenly Jean\ncaught a vague flash of thought, as if he had intercepted the thought\nof another's mind, and he wondered--could his brother Bill know\nanything about this crooked work alluded to by Blue? Dismissing the\nconjecture, Jean listened earnestly.\n\n\"An' if it's true it shore makes this difference--we cain't blame all\nthe rustlin' on to Jorth,\" concluded Blue.\n\n\"Wal, it's not true,\" declared Gaston Isbel, roughly. \"Jorth an' his\nHash Knife Gang are at the bottom of all the rustlin' in the valley for\nyears back. An' they've got to be wiped out!\"\n\n\"Isbel, I reckon we'd all feel better if we talk straight,\" replied\nBlue, coolly. \"I'm heah to stand by the Isbels. An' y'u know what\nthet means. But I'm not heah to fight Jorth because he may be a\nrustler. The others may have their own reasons, but mine is this--you\nonce stood by me in Texas when I was needin' friends. Wal, I'm\nstandin' by y'u now. Jorth is your enemy, an' so he is mine.\"\n\nGaston Isbel bowed to this ultimatum, scarcely less agitated than when\nEsther Isbel had denounced him. His rabid and morbid hate of Jorth had\neaten into his heart to take possession there, like the parasite that\nbattened upon the life of its victim. Blue's steely voice, his cold,\ngray eyes, showed the unbiased truth of the man, as well as his\nfidelity to his creed. Here again, but in a different manner, Gaston\nIsbel had the fact flung at him that other men must suffer, perhaps\ndie, for his hate. And the very soul of the old rancher apparently\nrose in Passionate revolt against the blind, headlong, elemental\nstrength of his nature. So it seemed to Jean, who, in love and pity\nthat hourly grew, saw through his father. Was it too late? Alas!\nGaston Isbel could never be turned back! Yet something was altering\nhis brooding, fixed mind.\n\n\"Wal,\" said Blaisdell, gruffly, \"let's get down to business.... I'm for\nhavin' Blue be foreman of this heah outfit, an' all of us to do as he\nsays.\"\n\nGaston Isbel opposed this selection and indeed resented it. He intended\nto lead the Isbel faction.\n\n\"All right, then. Give us a hunch what we're goin' to do,\" replied\nBlaisdell.\n\n\"We're goin' to ride off on Jorth's trail--an' one way or another--kill\nhim--KILL HIM! ... I reckon that'll end the fight.\"\n\nWhat did old Isbel have in his mind? His listeners shook their heads.\n\n\"No,\" asserted Blaisdell. \"Killin' Jorth might be the end of your\ndesires, Isbel, but it 'd never end our fight. We'll have gone too\nfar.... If we take Jorth's trail from heah it means we've got to wipe\nout that rustier gang, or stay to the last man.\"\n\n\"Yes, by God!\" exclaimed Fredericks.\n\n\"Let's drink to thet!\" said Blue. Strangely they turned to this Texas\ngunman, instinctively recognizing in him the brain and heart, and the\npast deeds, that fitted him for the leadership of such a clan. Blue\nhad all in life to lose, and nothing to gain. Yet his spirit was such\nthat he could not lean to all the possible gain of the future, and\nleave a debt unpaid. Then his voice, his look, his influence were\nthose of a fighter. They all drank with him, even Jean, who hated\nliquor. And this act of drinking seemed the climax of the council.\nPreparations were at once begun for their departure on Jorth's trail.\n\nJean took but little time for his own needs. A horse, a blanket, a\nknapsack of meat and bread, a canteen, and his weapons, with all the\nammunition he could pack, made up his outfit. He wore his buckskin\nsuit, leggings, and moccasins. Very soon the cavalcade was ready to\ndepart. Jean tried not to watch Bill Isbel say good-by to his\nchildren, but it was impossible not to. Whatever Bill was, as a man,\nhe was father of those children, and he loved them. How strange that\nthe little ones seemed to realize the meaning of this good-by? They\nwere grave, somber-eyed, pale up to the last moment, then they broke\ndown and wept. Did they sense that their father would never come back?\nJean caught that dark, fatalistic presentiment. Bill Isbel's convulsed\nface showed that he also caught it. Jean did not see Bill say good-by\nto his wife. But he heard her. Old Gaston Isbel forgot to speak to\nthe children, or else could not. He never looked at them. And his\ngood-by to Ann was as if he were only riding to the village for a day.\nJean saw woman's love, woman's intuition, woman's grief in her eyes. He\ncould not escape her. \"Oh, Jean! oh, brother!\" she whispered as she\nenfolded him. \"It's awful! It's wrong! Wrong! Wrong! ... Good-by!\n... If killing MUST be--see that y'u kill the Jorths! ... Good-by!\"\n\nEven in Ann, gentle and mild, the Isbel blood spoke at the last. Jean\ngave Ann over to the pale-faced Colmor, who took her in his arms. Then\nJean fled out to his horse. This cold-blooded devastation of a home\nwas almost more than he could bear. There was love here. What would be\nleft?\n\nColmor was the last one to come out to the horses. He did not walk\nerect, nor as one whose sight was clear. Then, as the silent, tense,\ngrim men mounted their horses, Bill Isbel's eldest child, the boy,\nappeared in the door. His little form seemed instinct with a force\nvastly different from grief. His face was the face of an Isbel.\n\n\"Daddy--kill 'em all!\" he shouted, with a passion all the fiercer for\nits incongruity to the treble voice.\n\nSo the poison had spread from father to son.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nHalf a mile from the Isbel ranch the cavalcade passed the log cabin of\nEvarts, father of the boy who had tended sheep with Bernardino.\n\nIt suited Gaston Isbel to halt here. No need to call! Evarts and his\nson appeared so quickly as to convince observers that they had been\nwatching.\n\n\"Howdy, Jake!\" said Isbel. \"I'm wantin' a word with y'u alone.\"\n\n\"Shore, boss, git down an' come in,\" replied Evarts.\n\nIsbel led him aside, and said something forcible that Jean divined from\nthe very gesture which accompanied it. His father was telling Evarts\nthat he was not to join in the Isbel-Jorth war. Evarts had worked for\nthe Isbels a long time, and his faithfulness, along with something\nstronger and darker, showed in his rugged face as he stubbornly opposed\nIsbel. The old man raised his voice: \"No, I tell you. An' that\nsettles it.\"\n\nThey returned to the horses, and, before mounting, Isbel, as if he\nremembered something, directed his somber gaze on young Evarts.\n\n\"Son, did you bury Bernardino?\"\n\n\"Dad an' me went over yestiddy,\" replied the lad. \"I shore was glad\nthe coyotes hadn't been round.\"\n\n\"How aboot the sheep?\"\n\n\"I left them there. I was goin' to stay, but bein' all alone--I got\nskeered.... The sheep was doin' fine. Good water an' some grass. An'\nthis ain't time fer varmints to hang round.\"\n\n\"Jake, keep your eye on that flock,\" returned Isbel. \"An' if I\nshouldn't happen to come back y'u can call them sheep yours.... I'd\nlike your boy to ride up to the village. Not with us, so anybody would\nsee him. But afterward. We'll be at Abel Meeker's.\"\n\nAgain Jean was confronted with an uneasy premonition as to some idea or\nplan his father had not shared with his followers. When the cavalcade\nstarted on again Jean rode to his father's side and asked him why he\nhad wanted the Evarts boy to come to Grass Valley. And the old man\nreplied that, as the boy could run to and fro in the village without\ndanger, he might be useful in reporting what was going on at Greaves's\nstore, where undoubtedly the Jorth gang would hold forth. This appeared\nreasonable enough, therefore Jean smothered the objection he had meant\nto make.\n\nThe valley road was deserted. When, a mile farther on, the riders\npassed a group of cabins, just on the outskirts of the village, Jean's\nquick eye caught sight of curious and evidently frightened people\ntrying to see while they avoided being seen. No doubt the whole\nsettlement was in a state of suspense and terror. Not unlikely this\ndark, closely grouped band of horsemen appeared to them as Jorth's gang\nhad looked to Jean. It was an orderly, trotting march that manifested\nneither hurry nor excitement. But any Western eye could have caught\nthe singular aspect of such a group, as if the intent of the riders was\na visible thing.\n\nSoon they reached the outskirts of the village. Here their approach\nbad been watched for or had been already reported. Jean saw men,\nwomen, children peeping from behind cabins and from half-opened doors.\nFarther on Jean espied the dark figures of men, slipping out the back\nway through orchards and gardens and running north, toward the center\nof the village. Could these be friends of the Jorth crowd, on the way\nwith warnings of the approach of the Isbels? Jean felt convinced of\nit. He was learning that his father had not been absolutely correct in\nhis estimation of the way Jorth and his followers were regarded by\ntheir neighbors. Not improbably there were really many villagers who,\nbeing more interested in sheep raising than in cattle, had an honest\nleaning toward the Jorths. Some, too, no doubt, had leanings that were\ndishonest in deed if not in sincerity.\n\nGaston Isbel led his clan straight down the middle of the wide road of\nGrass Valley until he reached a point opposite Abel Meeker's cabin.\nJean espied the same curiosity from behind Meeker's door and windows as\nhad been shown all along the road. But presently, at Isbel's call, the\ndoor opened and a short, swarthy man appeared. He carried a rifle.\n\n\"Howdy, Gass!\" he said. \"What's the good word?\"\n\n\"Wal, Abel, it's not good, but bad. An' it's shore started,\" replied\nIsbel. \"I'm askin' y'u to let me have your cabin.\"\n\n\"You're welcome. I'll send the folks 'round to Jim's,\" returned\nMeeker. \"An' if y'u want me, I'm with y'u, Isbel.\"\n\n\"Thanks, Abel, but I'm not leadin' any more kin an' friends into this\nheah deal.\"\n\n\"Wal, jest as y'u say. But I'd like damn bad to jine with y'u.... My\nbrother Ted was shot last night.\"\n\n\"Ted! Is he daid?\" ejaculated Isbel, blankly.\n\n\"We can't find out,\" replied Meeker. \"Jim says thet Jeff Campbell said\nthet Ted went into Greaves's place last night. Greaves allus was\nfriendly to Ted, but Greaves wasn't thar--\"\n\n\"No, he shore wasn't,\" interrupted Isbel, with a dark smile, \"an' he\nnever will be there again.\"\n\nMeeker nodded with slow comprehension and a shade crossed his face.\n\n\"Wal, Campbell claimed he'd heerd from some one who was thar. Anyway,\nthe Jorths were drinkin' hard, an' they raised a row with Ted--same old\nsheep talk an' somebody shot him. Campbell said Ted was thrown out\nback, an' he was shore he wasn't killed.\"\n\n\"Ahuh! Wal, I'm sorry, Abel, your family had to lose in this. Maybe\nTed's not bad hurt. I shore hope so.... An' y'u an' Jim keep out of\nthe fight, anyway.\"\n\n\"All right, Isbel. But I reckon I'll give y'u a hunch. If this heah\nfight lasts long the whole damn Basin will be in it, on one side or\nt'other.\"\n\n\"Abe, you're talkin' sense,\" broke in Blaisdell. \"An' that's why we're\nup heah for quick action.\"\n\n\"I heerd y'u got Daggs,\" whispered Meeker, as he peered all around.\n\n\"Wal, y'u heerd correct,\" drawled Blaisdell.\n\nMeeker muttered strong words into his beard. \"Say, was Daggs in thet\nJorth outfit?\"\n\n\"He WAS. But he walked right into Jean's forty-four.... An' I reckon\nhis carcass would show some more.\"\n\n\"An' whar's Guy Isbel?\" demanded Meeker.\n\n\"Daid an' buried, Abel,\" replied Gaston Isbel. \"An' now I'd be obliged\nif y'u 'll hurry your folks away, an' let us have your cabin an'\ncorral. Have yu got any hay for the hosses?\"\n\n\"Shore. The barn's half full,\" replied Meeker, as he turned away.\n\"Come on in.\"\n\n\"No. We'll wait till you've gone.\"\n\nWhen Meeker had gone, Isbel and his men sat their horses and looked\nabout them and spoke low. Their advent had been expected, and the\nlittle town awoke to the imminence of the impending battle. Inside\nMeeker's house there was the sound of indistinct voices of women and\nthe bustle incident to a hurried vacating.\n\nAcross the wide road people were peering out on all sides, some hiding,\nothers walking to and fro, from fence to fence, whispering in little\ngroups. Down the wide road, at the point where it turned, stood\nGreaves's fort-like stone house. Low, flat, isolated, with its dark,\neye-like windows, it presented a forbidding and sinister aspect. Jean\ndistinctly saw the forms of men, some dark, others in shirt sleeves,\ncome to the wide door and look down the road.\n\n\"Wal, I reckon only aboot five hundred good hoss steps are separatin'\nus from that outfit,\" drawled Blaisdell.\n\nNo one replied to his jocularity. Gaston Isbel's eyes narrowed to a\nslit in his furrowed face and he kept them fastened upon Greaves's\nstore. Blue, likewise, had a somber cast of countenance, not, perhaps,\nany darker nor grimmer than those of his comrades, but more\nrepresentative of intense preoccupation of mind. The look of him\nthrilled Jean, who could sense its deadliness, yet could not grasp any\nmore. Altogether, the manner of the villagers and the watchful pacing\nto and fro of the Jorth followers and the silent, boding front of Isbel\nand his men summed up for Jean the menace of the moment that must very\nsoon change to a terrible reality.\n\nAt a call from Meeker, who stood at the back of the cabin, Gaston Isbel\nrode into the yard, followed by the others of his party. \"Somebody\nlook after the hosses,\" ordered Isbel, as he dismounted and took his\nrifle and pack. \"Better leave the saddles on, leastways till we see\nwhat's comin' off.\"\n\nJean and Bill Isbel led the horses back to the corral. While watering\nand feeding them, Jean somehow received the impression that Bill was\ntrying to speak, to confide in him, to unburden himself of some load.\nThis peculiarity of Bill's had become marked when he was perfectly\nsober. Yet he had never spoken or even begun anything unusual. Upon\nthe present occasion, however, Jean believed that his brother might\nhave gotten rid of his emotion, or whatever it was, had they not been\ninterrupted by Colmor.\n\n\"Boys, the old man's orders are for us to sneak round on three sides of\nGreaves's store, keepin' out of gunshot till we find good cover, an'\nthen crawl closer an' to pick off any of Jorth's gang who shows\nhimself.\"\n\nBill Isbel strode off without a reply to Colmor.\n\n\"Well, I don't think so much of that,\" said Jean, ponderingly. \"Jorth\nhas lots of friends here. Somebody might pick us off.\"\n\n\"I kicked, but the old man shut me up. He's not to be bucked ag'in'\nnow. Struck me as powerful queer. But no wonder.\"\n\n\"Maybe he knows best. Did he say anythin' about what he an' the rest\nof them are goin' to do?\"\n\n\"Nope. Blue taxed him with that an' got the same as me. I reckon we'd\nbetter try it out, for a while, anyway.\"\n\n\"Looks like he wants us to keep out of the fight,\" replied Jean,\nthoughtfully. \"Maybe, though ... Dad's no fool. Colmor, you wait here\ntill I get out of sight. I'll go round an' come up as close as\nadvisable behind Greaves's store. You take the right side. An' keep\nhid.\"\n\nWith that Jean strode off, going around the barn, straight out the\norchard lane to the open flat, and then climbing a fence to the north\nof the village. Presently he reached a line of sheds and corrals, to\nwhich he held until he arrived at the road. This point was about a\nquarter of a mile from Greaves's store, and around the bend. Jean\nsighted no one. The road, the fields, the yards, the backs of the\ncabins all looked deserted. A blight had settled down upon the\npeaceful activities of Grass Valley. Crossing the road, Jean began to\ncircle until he came close to several cabins, around which he made a\nwide detour. This took him to the edge of the slope, where brush and\nthickets afforded him a safe passage to a line directly back of\nGreaves's store. Then he turned toward it. Soon he was again\napproaching a cabin of that side, and some of its inmates descried him,\nTheir actions attested to their alarm. Jean half expected a shot from\nthis quarter, such were his growing doubts, but he was mistaken. A\nman, unknown to Jean, closely watched his guarded movements and then\nwaved a hand, as if to signify to Jean that he had nothing to fear.\nAfter this act he disappeared. Jean believed that he had been\nrecognized by some one not antagonistic to the Isbels. Therefore he\npassed the cabin and, coming to a thick scrub-oak tree that offered\nshelter, he hid there to watch. From this spot he could see the back\nof Greaves's store, at a distance probably too far for a rifle bullet\nto reach. Before him, as far as the store, and on each side, extended\nthe village common. In front of the store ran the road. Jean's\nposition was such that he could not command sight of this road down\ntoward Meeker's house, a fact that disturbed him. Not satisfied with\nthis stand, he studied his surroundings in the hope of espying a\nbetter. And he discovered what he thought would be a more favorable\nposition, although he could not see much farther down the road. Jean\nwent back around the cabin and, coming out into the open to the right,\nhe got the corner of Greaves's barn between him and the window of the\nstore. Then he boldly hurried into the open, and soon reached an old\nwagon, from behind which he proposed to watch. He could not see either\nwindow or door of the store, but if any of the Jorth contingent came\nout the back way they would be within reach of his rifle. Jean took\nthe risk of being shot at from either side.\n\nSo sharp and roving was his sight that he soon espied Colmor slipping\nalong behind the trees some hundred yards to the left. All his efforts\nto catch a glimpse of Bill, however, were fruitless. And this appeared\nstrange to Jean, for there were several good places on the right from\nwhich Bill could have commanded the front of Greaves's store and the\nwhole west side.\n\nColmor disappeared among some shrubbery, and Jean seemed left alone to\nwatch a deserted, silent village. Watching and listening, he felt that\nthe time dragged. Yet the shadows cast by the sun showed him that, no\nmatter how tense he felt and how the moments seemed hours, they were\nreally flying.\n\nSuddenly Jean's ears rang with the vibrant shock of a rifle report. He\njerked up, strung and thrilling. It came from in front of the store.\nIt was followed by revolver shots, heavy, booming. Three he counted,\nand the rest were too close together to enumerate. A single hoarse\nyell pealed out, somehow trenchant and triumphant. Other yells, not so\nwild and strange, muffled the first one. Then silence clapped down on\nthe store and the open square.\n\nJean was deadly certain that some of the Jorth clan would show\nthemselves. He strained to still the trembling those sudden shots and\nthat significant yell had caused him. No man appeared. No more sounds\ncaught Jean's ears. The suspense, then, grew unbearable. It was not\nthat he could not wait for an enemy to appear, but that he could not\nwait to learn what had happened. Every moment that he stayed there,\nwith hands like steel on his rifle, with eyes of a falcon, but added to\na dreadful, dark certainty of disaster. A rifle shot swiftly followed\nby revolver shots! What could, they mean? Revolver shots of different\ncaliber, surely fired by different men! What could they mean? It was\nnot these shots that accounted for Jean's dread, but the yell which had\nfollowed. All his intelligence and all his nerve were not sufficient\nto fight down the feeling of calamity. And at last, yielding to it, he\nleft his post, and ran like a deer across the open, through the cabin\nyard, and around the edge of the slope to the road. Here his caution\nbrought him to a halt. Not a living thing crossed his vision. Breaking\ninto a run, he soon reached the back of Meeker's place and entered, to\nhurry forward to the cabin.\n\nColmor was there in the yard, breathing hard, his face working, and in\nfront of him crouched several of the men with rifles ready. The road,\nto Jean's flashing glance, was apparently deserted. Blue sat on the\ndoorstep, lighting a cigarette. Then on the moment Blaisdell strode to\nthe door of the cabin. Jean had never seen him look like that.\n\n\"Jean--look--down the road,\" he said, brokenly, and with big hand\nshaking he pointed down toward Greaves's store.\n\nLike lightning Jean's glance shot down--down--down--until it stopped to\nfix upon the prostrate form of a man, lying in the middle of the road.\nA man of lengthy build, shirt-sleeved arms flung wide, white head in\nthe dust--dead! Jean's recognition was as swift as his sight. His\nfather! They had killed him! The Jorths! It was done. His father's\npremonition of death had not been false. And then, after these\nflashing thoughts, came a sense of blankness, momentarily almost\noblivion, that gave place to a rending of the heart. That pain Jean\nhad known only at the death of his mother. It passed, this agonizing\npang, and its icy pressure yielded to a rushing gust of blood, fiery as\nhell.\n\n\"Who--did it?\" whispered Jean.\n\n\"Jorth!\" replied Blaisdell, huskily. \"Son, we couldn't hold your dad\nback.... We couldn't. He was like a lion.... An' he throwed his life\naway! Oh, if it hadn't been for that it 'd not be so awful. Shore, we\ncome heah to shoot an' be shot. But not like that.... By God, it was\nmurder--murder!\"\n\nJean's mute lips framed a query easily read.\n\n\"Tell him, Blue. I cain't,\" continued Blaisdell, and he tramped back\ninto the cabin.\n\n\"Set down, Jean, an' take things easy,\" said Blue, calmly. \"You know\nwe all reckoned we'd git plugged one way or another in this deal. An'\nshore it doesn't matter much how a fellar gits it. All thet ought to\nbother us is to make shore the other outfit bites the dust--same as\nyour dad had to.\"\n\nUnder this man's tranquil presence, all the more quieting because it\nseemed to be so deadly sure and cool, Jean felt the uplift of his dark\nspirit, the acceptance of fatality, the mounting control of faculties\nthat must wait. The little gunman seemed to have about his inert\npresence something that suggested a rattlesnake's inherent knowledge of\nits destructiveness. Jean sat down and wiped his clammy face.\n\n\"Jean, your dad reckoned to square accounts with Jorth, an' save us\nall,\" began Blue, puffing out a cloud of smoke. \"But he reckoned too\nlate. Mebbe years; ago--or even not long ago--if he'd called Jorth out\nman to man there'd never been any Jorth-Isbel war. Gaston Isbel's\nconscience woke too late. That's how I figger it.\"\n\n\"Hurry! Tell me--how it--happen,\" panted Jean.\n\n\"Wal, a little while after y'u left I seen your dad writin' on a leaf\nhe tore out of a book--Meeker's Bible, as yu can see. I thought thet\nwas funny. An' Blaisdell gave me a hunch. Pretty soon along comes\nyoung Evarts. The old man calls him out of our hearin' an' talks to\nhim. Then I seen him give the boy somethin', which I afterward figgered\nwas what he wrote on the leaf out of the Bible. Me an' Blaisdell both\ntried to git out of him what thet meant. But not a word. I kept\nwatchin' an' after a while I seen young Evarts slip out the back way.\nMebbe half an hour I seen a bare-legged kid cross, the road an' go into\nGreaves's store.... Then shore I tumbled to your dad. He'd sent a note\nto Jorth to come out an' meet him face to face, man to man! ... Shore\nit was like readin' what your dad had wrote. But I didn't say nothin'\nto Blaisdell. I jest watched.\"\n\nBlue drawled these last words, as if he enjoyed remembrance of his keen\nreasoning. A smile wreathed his thin lips. He drew twice on the\ncigarette and emitted another cloud of smoke. Quite suddenly then he\nchanged. He made a rapid gesture--the whip of a hand, significant and\npassionate. And swift words followed:\n\n\"Colonel Lee Jorth stalked out of the store--out into the road--mebbe a\nhundred steps. Then he halted. He wore his long black coat an' his\nwide black hat, an' he stood like a stone.\n\n\"'What the hell!' burst out Blaisdell, comin' out of his trance.\n\n\"The rest of us jest looked. I'd forgot your dad, for the minnit. So\nhad all of us. But we remembered soon enough when we seen him stalk\nout. Everybody had a hunch then. I called him. Blaisdell begged him\nto come back. All the fellars; had a say. No use! Then I shore cussed\nhim an' told him it was plain as day thet Jorth didn't hit me like an\nhonest man. I can sense such things. I knew Jorth had trick up his\nsleeve. I've not been a gun fighter fer nothin'.\n\n\"Your dad had no rifle. He packed his gun at his hip. He jest stalked\ndown thet road like a giant, goin' faster an' faster, holdin' his head\nhigh. It shore was fine to see him. But I was sick. I heerd\nBlaisdell groan, an' Fredericks thar cussed somethin' fierce.... When\nyour dad halted--I reckon aboot fifty steps from Jorth--then we all\nwent numb. I heerd your dad's voice--then Jorth's. They cut like\nknives. Y'u could shore heah the hate they hed fer each other.\"\n\nBlue had become a little husky. His speech had grown gradually to\ndenote his feeling. Underneath his serenity there was a different\norder of man.\n\n\"I reckon both your dad an' Jorth went fer their guns at the same\ntime--an even break. But jest as they drew, some one shot a rifle from\nthe store. Must hev been a forty-five seventy. A big gun! The bullet\nmust have hit your dad low down, aboot the middle. He acted thet way,\nsinkin' to his knees. An' he was wild in shootin'--so wild thet he\nmust hev missed. Then he wabbled--an' Jorth run in a dozen steps,\nshootin' fast, till your dad fell over.... Jorth run closer, bent over\nhim, an' then straightened up with an Apache yell, if I ever heerd\none.... An' then Jorth backed slow--lookin' all the time--backed to the\nstore, an' went in.\"\n\nBlue's voice ceased. Jean seemed suddenly released from an impelling\nmagnet that now dropped him to some numb, dizzy depth. Blue's lean\nface grew hazy. Then Jean bowed his head in his hands, and sat there,\nwhile a slight tremor shook all his muscles at once. He grew deathly\ncold and deathly sick. This paroxysm slowly wore away, and Jean grew\nconscious of a dull amaze at the apparent deadness of his spirit.\nBlaisdell placed a huge, kindly hand on his shoulder.\n\n\"Brace up, son!\" he said, with voice now clear and resonant. \"Shore\nit's what your dad expected--an' what we all must look for.... If yu\nwas goin' to kill Jorth before--think how -- -- shore y'u're goin' to\nkill him now.\"\n\n\"Blaisdell's talkin',\" put in Blue, and his voice had a cold ring. \"Lee\nJorth will never see the sun rise ag'in!\"\n\nThese calls to the primitive in Jean, to the Indian, were not in vain.\nBut even so, when the dark tide rose in him, there was still a haunting\nconsciousness of the cruelty of this singular doom imposed upon him.\nStrangely Ellen Jorth's face floated back in the depths of his vision,\npale, fading, like the face of a spirit floating by.\n\n\"Blue,\" said Blaisdell, \"let's get Isbel's body soon as we dare, an'\nbury it. Reckon we can, right after dark.\"\n\n\"Shore,\" replied Blue. \"But y'u fellars figger thet out. I'm thinkin'\nhard. I've got somethin' on my mind.\"\n\nJean grew fascinated by the looks and speech and action of the little\ngunman. Blue, indeed, had something on his mind. And it boded ill to\nthe men in that dark square stone house down the road. He paced to and\nfro in the yard, back and forth on the path to the gate, and then he\nentered the cabin to stalk up and down, faster and faster, until all at\nonce he halted as if struck, to upfling his right arm in a singular\nfierce gesture.\n\n\"Jean, call the men in,\" he said, tersely.\n\nThey all filed in, sinister and silent, with eager faces turned to the\nlittle Texan. His dominance showed markedly.\n\n\"Gordon, y'u stand in the door an' keep your eye peeled,\" went on Blue.\n\"... Now, boys, listen! I've thought it all out. This game of man\nhuntin' is the same to me as cattle raisin' is to y'u. An' my life in\nTexas all comes back to me, I reckon, in good stead fer us now. I'm\ngoin' to kill Lee Jorth! Him first, an' mebbe his brothers. I had to\nthink of a good many ways before I hit on one I reckon will be shore.\nIt's got to be SHORE. Jorth has got to die! Wal, heah's my plan....\nThet Jorth outfit is drinkin' some, we can gamble on it. They're not\ngoin' to leave thet store. An' of course they'll be expectin' us to\nstart a fight. I reckon they'll look fer some such siege as they held\nround Isbel's ranch. But we shore ain't goin' to do thet. I'm goin'\nto surprise thet outfit. There's only one man among them who is\ndangerous, an' thet's Queen. I know Queen. But he doesn't know me.\nAn' I'm goin' to finish my job before he gets acquainted with me. After\nthet, all right!\"\n\nBlue paused a moment, his eyes narrowing down, his whole face setting\nin hard cast of intense preoccupation, as if he visualized a scene of\nextraordinary nature.\n\n\"Wal, what's your trick?\" demanded Blaisdell.\n\n\"Y'u all know Greaves's store,\" continued Blue. \"How them winders have\nwooden shutters thet keep a light from showin' outside? Wal, I'm\ngamblin' thet as soon as it's dark Jorth's gang will be celebratin'.\nThey'll be drinkin' an' they'll have a light, an' the winders will be\nshut. They're not goin' to worry none aboot us. Thet store is like a\nfort. It won't burn. An' shore they'd never think of us chargin' them\nin there. Wal, as soon as it's dark, we'll go round behind the lots\nan' come up jest acrost the road from Greaves's. I reckon we'd better\nleave Isbel where he lays till this fight's over. Mebbe y'u 'll have\nmore 'n him to bury. We'll crawl behind them bushes in front of\nColeman's yard. An' heah's where Jean comes in. He'll take an ax, an'\nhis guns, of course, an' do some of his Injun sneakin' round to the\nback of Greaves's store.... An', Jean, y'u must do a slick job of this.\nBut I reckon it 'll be easy fer you. Back there it 'll be dark as\npitch, fer anyone lookin' out of the store. An' I'm figgerin' y'u can\ntake your time an' crawl right up. Now if y'u don't remember how\nGreaves's back yard looks I'll tell y'u.\"\n\nHere Blue dropped on one knee to the floor and with a finger he traced\na map of Greaves's barn and fence, the back door and window, and\nespecially a break in the stone foundation which led into a kind of\ncellar where Greaves stored wood and other things that could be left\noutdoors.\n\n\"Jean, I take particular pains to show y'u where this hole is,\" said\nBlue, \"because if the gang runs out y'u could duck in there an' hide.\nAn' if they run out into the yard--wal, y'u'd make it a sorry run fer\nthem.... Wal, when y'u've crawled up close to Greaves's back door, an'\nwaited long enough to see an' listen--then you're to run fast an' swing\nyour ax smash ag'in' the winder. Take a quick peep in if y'u want to.\nIt might help. Then jump quick an' take a swing at the door. Y'u 'll\nbe standin' to one side, so if the gang shoots through the door they\nwon't hit y'u. Bang thet door good an' hard.... Wal, now's where I\ncome in. When y'u swing thet ax I'll shore run fer the front of the\nstore. Jorth an' his outfit will be some attentive to thet poundin' of\nyours on the back door. So I reckon. An' they'll be lookin' thet way.\nI'll run in--yell--an' throw my guns on Jorth.\"\n\n\"Humph! Is that all?\" ejaculated Blaisdell.\n\n\"I reckon thet's all an' I'm figgerin' it's a hell of a lot,\" responded\nBlue, dryly. \"Thet's what Jorth will think.\"\n\n\"Where do we come in?\"\n\n\"Wal, y'u all can back me up,\" replied Blue, dubiously. \"Y'u see, my\nplan goes as far as killin' Jorth--an' mebbe his brothers. Mebbe I'll\nget a crack at Queen. But I'll be shore of Jorth. After thet all\ndepends. Mebbe it 'll be easy fer me to get out. An' if I do y'u\nfellars will know it an' can fill thet storeroom full of bullets.\"\n\n\"Wal, Blue, with all due respect to y'u, I shore don't like your plan,\"\ndeclared Blaisdell. \"Success depends upon too many little things any\none of which might go wrong.\"\n\n\"Blaisdell, I reckon I know this heah game better than y'u,\" replied\nBlue. \"A gun fighter goes by instinct. This trick will work.\"\n\n\"But suppose that front door of Greaves's store is barred,\" protested\nBlaisdell.\n\n\"It hasn't got any bar,\" said Blue.\n\n\"Y'u're shore?\"\n\n\"Yes, I reckon,\" replied Blue.\n\n\"Hell, man! Aren't y'u takin' a terrible chance?\" queried Blaisdell.\n\nBlue's answer to that was a look that brought the blood to Blaisdell's\nface. Only then did the rancher really comprehend how the little\ngunman had taken such desperate chances before, and meant to take them\nnow, not with any hope or assurance of escaping with his life, but to\nlive up to his peculiar code of honor.\n\n\"Blaisdell, did y'u ever heah of me in Texas?\" he queried, dryly.\n\n\"Wal, no, Blue, I cain't swear I did,\" replied the rancher,\napologetically. \"An' Isbel was always sort of' mysterious aboot his\nacquaintance with you.\"\n\n\"My name's not Blue.\"\n\n\"Ahuh! Wal, what is it, then--if I'm safe to ask?\" returned Blaisdell,\ngruffly.\n\n\"It's King Fisher,\" replied Blue.\n\nThe shock that stiffened Blaisdell must have been communicated to the\nothers. Jean certainly felt amaze, and some other emotion not fully\nrealized, when he found himself face to face with one of the most\nnotorious characters ever known in Texas--an outlaw long supposed to be\ndead.\n\n\"Men, I reckon I'd kept my secret if I'd any idee of comin' out of this\nIsbel-Jorth war alive,\" said Blue. \"But I'm goin' to cash. I feel it\nheah.... Isbel was my friend. He saved me from bein' lynched in Texas.\nAn' so I'm goin' to kill Jorth. Now I'll take it kind of y'u--if any\nof y'u come out of this alive--to tell who I was an' why I was on the\nIsbel side. Because this sheep an' cattle war--this talk of Jorth an'\nthe Hash Knife Gang--it makes me, sick. I KNOW there's been crooked\nwork on Isbel's side, too. An' I never want it on record thet I killed\nJorth because he was a rustler.\"\n\n\"By God, Blue! it's late in the day for such talk,\" burst out\nBlaisdell, in rage and amaze. \"But I reckon y'u know what y'u're\ntalkin' aboot.... Wal, I shore don't want to heah it.\"\n\nAt this juncture Bill Isbel quietly entered the cabin, too late to hear\nany of Blue's statement. Jean was positive of that, for as Blue was\nspeaking those last revealing words Bill's heavy boots had resounded on\nthe gravel path outside. Yet something in Bill's look or in the way\nBlue averted his lean face or in the entrance of Bill at that\nparticular moment, or all these together, seemed to Jean to add further\nmystery to the long secret causes leading up to the Jorth-Isbel war.\nDid Bill know what Blue knew? Jean had an inkling that he did. And on\nthe moment, so perplexing and bitter, Jean gazed out the door, down the\ndeserted road to where his dead father lay, white-haired and ghastly in\nthe sunlight.\n\n\"Blue, you could have kept that to yourself, as well as your real\nname,\" interposed Jean, with bitterness. \"It's too late now for either\nto do any good.... But I appreciate your friendship for dad, an' I'm\nready to help carry out your plan.\"\n\nThat decision of Jean's appeared to put an end to protest or argument\nfrom Blaisdell or any of the others. Blue's fleeting dark smile was\none of satisfaction. Then upon most of this group of men seemed to\nsettle a grim restraint. They went out and walked and watched; they\ncame in again, restless and somber. Jean thought that he must have\nbent his gaze a thousand times down the road to the tragic figure of\nhis father. That sight roused all emotions in his breast, and the one\nthat stirred there most was pity. The pity of it! Gaston Isbel lying\nface down in the dust of the village street! Patches of blood showed\non the back of his vest and one white-sleeved shoulder. He had been\nshot through. Every time Jean saw this blood he had to stifle a\ngathering of wild, savage impulses.\n\nMeanwhile the afternoon hours dragged by and the village remained as if\nits inhabitants had abandoned it. Not even a dog showed on the side\nroad. Jorth and some of his men came out in front of the store and sat\non the steps, in close convening groups. Every move they, made seemed\nsignificant of their confidence and importance. About sunset they went\nback into the store, closing door and window shutters. Then Blaisdell\ncalled the Isbel faction to have food and drink. Jean felt no hunger.\nAnd Blue, who had kept apart from the others, showed no desire to eat.\nNeither did he smoke, though early in the day he had never been without\na cigarette between his lips.\n\nTwilight fell and darkness came. Not a light showed anywhere in the\nblackness.\n\n\"Wal, I reckon it's aboot time,\" said Blue, and he led the way out of\nthe cabin to the back of the lot. Jean strode behind him, carrying his\nrifle and an ax. Silently the other men followed. Blue turned to the\nleft and led through the field until he came within sight of a dark\nline of trees.\n\n\"Thet's where the road turns off,\" he said to Jean. \"An' heah's the\nback of Coleman's place.... Wal, Jean, good luck!\"\n\nJean felt the grip of a steel-like hand, and in the darkness he caught\nthe gleam of Blue's eyes. Jean had no response in words for the\nlaconic Blue, but he wrung the hard, thin hand and hurried away in the\ndarkness.\n\nOnce alone, his part of the business at hand rushed him into eager\nthrilling action. This was the sort of work he was fitted to do. In\nthis instance it was important, but it seemed to him that Blue had\ncoolly taken the perilous part. And this cowboy with gray in his thin\nhair was in reality the great King Fisher! Jean marveled at the fact.\nAnd he shivered all over for Jorth. In ten minutes--fifteen, more or\nless, Jorth would lie gasping bloody froth and sinking down. Something\nin the dark, lonely, silent, oppressive summer night told Jean this.\nHe strode on swiftly. Crossing the road at a run, he kept on over the\nground he had traversed during the afternoon, and in a few moments he\nstood breathing hard at the edge of the common behind Greaves's store.\n\nA pin point of light penetrated the blackness. It made Jean's heart\nleap. The Jorth contingent were burning the big lamp that hung in the\ncenter of Greaves's store. Jean listened. Loud voices and coarse\nlaughter sounded discord on the melancholy silence of the night. What\nBlue had called his instinct had surely guided him aright. Death of\nGaston Isbel was being celebrated by revel.\n\nIn a few moments Jean had regained his breath. Then all his faculties\nset intensely to the action at hand. He seemed to magnify his hearing\nand his sight. His movements made no sound. He gained the wagon,\nwhere he crouched a moment.\n\nThe ground seemed a pale, obscure medium, hardly more real than the\ngloom above it. Through this gloom of night, which looked thick like a\ncloud, but was really clear, shone the thin, bright point of light,\naccentuating the black square that was Greaves's store. Above this\nstood a gray line of tree foliage, and then the intensely dark-blue sky\nstudded with white, cold stars.\n\nA hound bayed lonesomely somewhere in the distance. Voices of men\nsounded more distinctly, some deep and low, others loud, unguarded,\nwith the vacant note of thoughtlessness.\n\nJean gathered all his forces, until sense of sight and hearing were in\nexquisite accord with the suppleness and lightness of his movements. He\nglided on about ten short, swift steps before he halted. That was as\nfar as his piercing eyes could penetrate. If there had been a guard\nstationed outside the store Jean would have seen him before being seen.\nHe saw the fence, reached it, entered the yard, glided in the dense\nshadow of the barn until the black square began to loom gray--the color\nof stone at night. Jean peered through the obscurity. No dark figure\nof a man showed against that gray wall--only a black patch, which must\nbe the hole in the foundation mentioned. A ray of light now streaked\nout from the little black window. To the right showed the wide, black\ndoor.\n\nFarther on Jean glided silently. Then he halted. There was no guard\noutside. Jean heard the clink of a cap, the lazy drawl of a Texan, and\nthen a strong, harsh voice--Jorth's. It strung Jean's whole being\ntight and vibrating. Inside he was on fire while cold thrills rippled\nover his skin. It took tremendous effort of will to hold himself back\nanother instant to listen, to look, to feel, to make sure. And that\ninstant charged him with a mighty current of hot blood, straining,\nthrobbing, damming.\n\nWhen Jean leaped this current burst. In a few swift bounds he gained\nhis point halfway between door and window. He leaned his rifle against\nthe stone wall. Then he swung the ax. Crash! The window shutter\nsplit and rattled to the floor inside. The silence then broke with a\nhoarse, \"What's thet?\"\n\nWith all his might Jean swung the heavy ax on the door. Smash! The\nlower half caved in and banged to the floor. Bright light flared out\nthe hole.\n\n\"Look out!\" yelled a man, in loud alarm. \"They're batterin' the back\ndoor!\"\n\nJean swung again, high on the splintered door. Crash! Pieces flew\ninside.\n\n\"They've got axes,\" hoarsely shouted another voice. \"Shove the counter\nag'in' the door.\"\n\n\"No!\" thundered a voice of authority that denoted terror as well. \"Let\nthem come in. Pull your guns an' take to cover!\"\n\n\"They ain't comin' in,\" was the hoarse reply. \"They'll shoot in on us\nfrom the dark.\"\n\n\"Put out the lamp!\" yelled another.\n\nJean's third heavy swing caved in part of the upper half of the door.\nShouts and curses intermingled with the sliding of benches across the\nfloor and the hard shuffle of boots. This confusion seemed to be split\nand silenced by a piercing yell, of different caliber, of terrible\nmeaning. It stayed Jean's swing--caused him to drop the ax and snatch\nup his rifle.\n\n\"DON'T ANYBODY MOVE!\"\n\nLike a steel whip this voice cut the silence. It belonged to Blue.\nJean swiftly bent to put his eye to a crack in the door. Most of those\nvisible seemed to have been frozen into unnatural positions. Jorth\nstood rather in front of his men, hatless and coatless, one arm\noutstretched, and his dark profile set toward a little man just inside\nthe door. This man was Blue. Jean needed only one flashing look at\nBlue's face, at his leveled, quivering guns, to understand why he had\nchosen this trick.\n\n\"Who're---you?\" demanded Jorth, in husky pants.\n\n\"Reckon I'm Isbel's right-hand man,\" came the biting reply. \"Once\ntolerable well known in Texas.... KING FISHER!\"\n\nThe name must have been a guarantee of death. Jorth recognized this\noutlaw and realized his own fate. In the lamplight his face turned a\npale greenish white. His outstretched hand began to quiver down.\n\nBlue's left gun seemed to leap up and flash red and explode. Several\nheavy reports merged almost as one. Jorth's arm jerked limply,\nflinging his gun. And his body sagged in the middle. His hands\nfluttered like crippled wings and found their way to his abdomen. His\ndeath-pale face never changed its set look nor position toward Blue.\nBut his gasping utterance was one of horrible mortal fury and terror.\nThen he began to sway, still with that strange, rigid set of his face\ntoward his slayer, until he fell.\n\nHis fall broke the spell. Even Blue, like the gunman he was, had\npaused to watch Jorth in his last mortal action. Jorth's followers\nbegan to draw and shoot. Jean saw Blue's return fire bring down a huge\nman, who fell across Jorth's body. Then Jean, quick as the thought\nthat actuated him, raised his rifle and shot at the big lamp. It burst\nin a flare. It crashed to the floor. Darkness followed--a blank,\nthick, enveloping mantle. Then red flashes of guns emphasized the\nblackness. Inside the store there broke loose a pandemonium of shots,\nyells, curses, and thudding boots. Jean shoved his rifle barrel inside\nthe door and, holding it low down, he moved it to and fro while he\nworked lever and trigger until the magazine was empty. Then, drawing\nhis six-shooter, he emptied that. A roar of rifles from the front of\nthe store told Jean that his comrades had entered the fray. Bullets\nzipped through the door he had broken. Jean ran swiftly round the\ncorner, taking care to sheer off a little to the left, and when he got\nclear of the building he saw a line of flashes in the middle of the\nroad. Blaisdell and the others were firing into the door of the store.\nWith nimble fingers Jean reloaded his rifle. Then swiftly he ran\nacross the road and down to get behind his comrades. Their shooting\nhad slackened. Jean saw dark forms coming his way.\n\n\"Hello, Blaisdell!\" he called, warningly.\n\n\"That y'u, Jean?\" returned the rancher, looming up. \"Wal, we wasn't\nworried aboot y'u.\"\n\n\"Blue?\" queried Jean, sharply.\n\nA little, dark figure shuffled past Jean. \"Howdy, Jean!\" said Blue,\ndryly. \"Y'u shore did your part. Reckon I'll need to be tied up, but\nI ain't hurt much.\"\n\n\"Colmor's hit,\" called the voice of Gordon, a few yards distant. \"Help\nme, somebody!\"\n\nJean ran to help Gordon uphold the swaying Colmor. \"Are you hurt--bad?\"\nasked Jean, anxiously. The young man's head rolled and hung. He was\nbreathing hard and did not reply. They had almost to carry him.\n\n\"Come on, men!\" called Blaisdell, turning back toward the others who\nwere still firing. \"We'll let well enough alone.... Fredericks, y'u\nan' Bill help me find the body of the old man. It's heah somewhere.\"\n\nFarther on down the road the searchers stumbled over Gaston Isbel. They\npicked him up and followed Jean and Gordon, who were supporting the\nwounded Colmor. Jean looked back to see Blue dragging himself along in\nthe rear. It was too dark to see distinctly; nevertheless, Jean got\nthe impression that Blue was more severely wounded than he had claimed\nto be. The distance to Meeker's cabin was not far, but it took what\nJean felt to be a long and anxious time to get there. Colmor apparently\nrallied somewhat. When this procession entered Meeker's yard, Blue was\nlagging behind.\n\n\"Blue, how air y'u?\" called Blaisdell, with concern.\n\n\"Wal, I got--my boots--on--anyhow,\" replied Blue, huskily.\n\nHe lurched into the yard and slid down on the grass and stretched out.\n\n\"Man! Y'u're hurt bad!\" exclaimed Blaisdell. The others halted in\ntheir slow march and, as if by tacit, unspoken word, lowered the body\nof Isbel to the ground. Then Blaisdell knelt beside Blue. Jean left\nColmor to Gordon and hurried to peer down into Blue's dim face.\n\n\"No, I ain't--hurt,\" said Blue, in a much weaker voice. \"I'm--jest\nkilled! ... It was Queen! ... Y'u all heerd me--Queen was--only bad man\nin that lot. I knowed it.... I could--hev killed him.... But I\nwas--after Lee Jorth an' his brothers....\"\n\nBlue's voice failed there.\n\n\"Wal!\" ejaculated Blaisdell.\n\n\"Shore was funny--Jorth's face--when I said--King Fisher,\" whispered\nBlue. \"Funnier--when I bored--him through.... But it--was--Queen--\"\n\nHis whisper died away.\n\n\"Blue!\" called Blaisdell, sharply. Receiving no answer, he bent lower\nin the starlight and placed a hand upon the man's breast.\n\n\"Wal, he's gone.... I wonder if he really was the old Texas King\nFisher. No one would ever believe it.... But if he killed the Jorths,\nI'll shore believe him.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nTwo weeks of lonely solitude in the forest had worked incalculable\nchange in Ellen Jorth.\n\nLate in June her father and her two uncles had packed and ridden off\nwith Daggs, Colter, and six other men, all heavily armed, some somber\nwith drink, others hard and grim with a foretaste of fight. Ellen had\nnot been given any orders. Her father had forgotten to bid her good-by\nor had avoided it. Their dark mission was stamped on their faces.\n\nThey had gone and, keen as had been Ellen's pang, nevertheless, their\ndeparture was a relief. She had heard them bluster and brag so often\nthat she had her doubts of any great Jorth-Isbel war. Barking dogs did\nnot bite. Somebody, perhaps on each side, would be badly wounded,\npossibly killed, and then the feud would go on as before, mostly talk.\nMany of her former impressions had faded. Development had been so\nrapid and continuous in her that she could look back to a day-by-day\ntransformation. At night she had hated the sight of herself and when\nthe dawn came she would rise, singing.\n\nJorth had left Ellen at home with the Mexican woman and Antonio. Ellen\nsaw them only at meal times, and often not then, for she frequently\nvisited old John Sprague or came home late to do her own cooking.\n\nIt was but a short distance up to Sprague's cabin, and since she had\nstopped riding the black horse, Spades, she walked. Spades was\naccustomed to having grain, and in the mornings he would come down to\nthe ranch and whistle. Ellen had vowed she would never feed the horse\nand bade Antonio do it. But one morning Antonio was absent. She fed\nSpades herself. When she laid a hand on him and when he rubbed his\nnose against her shoulder she was not quite so sure she hated him. \"Why\nshould I?\" she queried. \"A horse cain't help it if he belongs\nto--to--\" Ellen was not sure of anything except that more and more it\ngrew good to be alone.\n\nA whole day in the lonely forest passed swiftly, yet it left a feeling\nof long time. She lived by her thoughts. Always the morning was\nbright, sunny, sweet and fragrant and colorful, and her mood was\npensive, wistful, dreamy. And always, just as surely as the hours\npassed, thought intruded upon her happiness, and thought brought\nmemory, and memory brought shame, and shame brought fight. Sunset\nafter sunset she had dragged herself back to the ranch, sullen and sick\nand beaten. Yet she never ceased to struggle.\n\nThe July storms came, and the forest floor that had been so sear and\nbrown and dry and dusty changed as if by magic. The green grass shot\nup, the flowers bloomed, and along the canyon beds of lacy ferns swayed\nin the wind and bent their graceful tips over the amber-colored water.\nEllen haunted these cool dells, these pine-shaded, mossy-rocked ravines\nwhere the brooks tinkled and the deer came down to drink. She wandered\nalone. But there grew to be company in the aspens and the music of the\nlittle waterfalls. If she could have lived in that solitude always,\nnever returning to the ranch home that reminded her of her name, she\ncould have forgotten and have been happy.\n\nShe loved the storms. It was a dry country and she had learned through\nyears to welcome the creamy clouds that rolled from the southwest.\nThey came sailing and clustering and darkening at last to form a great,\npurple, angry mass that appeared to lodge against the mountain rim and\nburst into dazzling streaks of lightning and gray palls of rain.\nLightning seldom struck near the ranch, but up on the Rim there was\nnever a storm that did not splinter and crash some of the noble pines.\nDuring the storm season sheep herders and woodsmen generally did not\ncamp under the pines. Fear of lightning was inborn in the natives, but\nfor Ellen the dazzling white streaks or the tremendous splitting,\ncrackling shock, or the thunderous boom and rumble along the\nbattlements of the Rim had no terrors. A storm eased her breast. Deep\nin her heart was a hidden gathering storm. And somehow, to be out when\nthe elements were warring, when the earth trembled and the heavens\nseemed to burst asunder, afforded her strange relief.\n\nThe summer days became weeks, and farther and farther they carried\nEllen on the wings of solitude and loneliness until she seemed to look\nback years at the self she had hated. And always, when the dark memory\nimpinged upon peace, she fought and fought until she seemed to be\nfighting hatred itself. Scorn of scorn and hate of hate! Yet even her\nbattles grew to be dreams. For when the inevitable retrospect brought\nback Jean Isbel and his love and her cowardly falsehood she would\nshudder a little and put an unconscious hand to her breast and utterly\nfail in her fight and drift off down to vague and wistful dreams. The\nclean and healing forest, with its whispering wind and imperious\nsolitude, had come between Ellen and the meaning of the squalid sheep\nranch, with its travesty of home, its tragic owner. And it was coming\nbetween her two selves, the one that she had been forced to be and the\nother that she did not know--the thinker, the dreamer, the romancer,\nthe one who lived in fancy the life she loved.\n\nThe summer morning dawned that brought Ellen strange tidings. They\nmust have been created in her sleep, and now were realized in the\nglorious burst of golden sun, in the sweep of creamy clouds across the\nblue, in the solemn music of the wind in the pines, in the wild screech\nof the blue jays and the noble bugle of a stag. These heralded the day\nas no ordinary day. Something was going to happen to her. She divined\nit. She felt it. And she trembled. Nothing beautiful, hopeful,\nwonderful could ever happen to Ellen Jorth. She had been born to\ndisaster, to suffer, to be forgotten, and die alone. Yet all nature\nabout her seemed a magnificent rebuke to her morbidness. The same\nspirit that came out there with the thick, amber light was in her. She\nlived, and something in her was stronger than mind.\n\nEllen went to the door of her cabin, where she flung out her arms,\ndriven to embrace this nameless purport of the morning. And a\nwell-known voice broke in upon her rapture.\n\n\"Wal, lass, I like to see you happy an' I hate myself fer comin'.\nBecause I've been to Grass Valley fer two days an' I've got news.\"\n\nOld John Sprague stood there, with a smile that did not hide a troubled\nlook.\n\n\"Oh! Uncle John! You startled me,\" exclaimed Ellen, shocked back to\nreality. And slowly she added: \"Grass Valley! News?\"\n\nShe put out an appealing hand, which Sprague quickly took in his own,\nas if to reassure her.\n\n\"Yes, an' not bad so far as you Jorths are concerned,\" he replied. \"The\nfirst Jorth-Isbel fight has come off.... Reckon you remember makin' me\npromise to tell you if I heerd anythin'. Wal, I didn't wait fer you to\ncome up.\"\n\n\"So Ellen heard her voice calmly saying. What was this lying calm when\nthere seemed to be a stone hammer at her heart? The first fight--not\nso bad for the Jorths! Then it had been bad for the Isbels. A sudden,\ncold stillness fell upon her senses.\n\n\"Let's sit down--outdoors,\" Sprague was saying. \"Nice an' sunny\nthis--mornin'. I declare--I'm out of breath. Not used to walkin'.\nAn' besides, I left Grass Valley, in the night--an' I'm tired. But\nexcoose me from hangin' round thet village last night! There was\nshore--\"\n\n\"Who--who was killed?\" interrupted Ellen, her voice breaking low and\ndeep.\n\n\"Guy Isbel an' Bill Jacobs on the Isbel side, an' Daggs, Craig, an'\nGreaves on your father's side,\" stated Sprague, with something of awed\nhaste.\n\n\"Ah!\" breathed Ellen, and she relaxed to sink back against the cabin\nwall.\n\nSprague seated himself on the log beside her, turning to face her, and\nhe seemed burdened with grave and important matters.\n\n\"I heerd a good many conflictin' stories,\" he said, earnestly. \"The\nvillage folks is all skeered an' there's no believin' their gossip. But\nI got what happened straight from Jake Evarts. The fight come off day\nbefore yestiddy. Your father's gang rode down to Isbel's ranch. Daggs\nwas seen to be wantin' some of the Isbel hosses, so Evarts says. An'\nGuy Isbel an' Jacobs ran out in the pasture. Daggs an' some others\nshot them down.\"\n\n\"Killed them--that way?\" put in Ellen, sharply.\n\n\"So Evarts says. He was on the ridge an' swears he seen it all. They\nkilled Guy an' Jacobs in cold blood. No chance fer their lives--not\neven to fight! ... Wall, hen they surrounded the Isbel cabin. The\nfight last all thet day an' all night an' the next day. Evarts says\nGuy an' Jacobs laid out thar all this time. An' a herd of hogs broke\nin the pasture an' was eatin' the dead bodies ...\"\n\n\"My God!\" burst out Ellen. \"Uncle John, y'u shore cain't mean my\nfather wouldn't stop fightin' long enough to drive the hogs off an'\nbury those daid men?\"\n\n\"Evarts says they stopped fightin', all right, but it was to watch the\nhogs,\" declared Sprague. \"An' then, what d' ye think? The wimminfolks\ncome out--the red-headed one, Guy's wife, an' Jacobs's wife--they\ndrove the hogs away an' buried their husbands right there in the\npasture. Evarts says he seen the graves.\"\n\n\"It is the women who can teach these bloody Texans a lesson,\" declared\nEllen, forcibly.\n\n\"Wal, Daggs was drunk, an' he got up from behind where the gang was\nhidin', an' dared the Isbels to come out. They shot him to pieces. An'\nthet night some one of the Isbels shot Craig, who was alone on\nguard.... An' last--this here's what I come to tell you--Jean Isbel\nslipped up in the dark on Greaves an' knifed him.\"\n\n\"Why did y'u want to tell me that particularly?\" asked Ellen, slowly.\n\n\"Because I reckon the facts in the case are queer--an' because, Ellen,\nyour name was mentioned,\" announced Sprague, positively.\n\n\"My name--mentioned?\" echoed Ellen. Her horror and disgust gave way to\na quickening process of thought, a mounting astonishment. \"By whom?\"\n\n\"Jean Isbel,\" replied Sprague, as if the name and the fact were\nmomentous.\n\nEllen sat still as a stone, her hands between her knees. Slowly she\nfelt the blood recede from her face, prickling her kin down below her\nneck. That name locked her thought.\n\n\"Ellen, it's a mighty queer story--too queer to be a lie,\" went on\nSprague. \"Now you listen! Evarts got this from Ted Meeker. An' Ted\nMeeker heerd it from Greaves, who didn't die till the next day after\nJean Isbel knifed him. An' your dad shot Ted fer tellin' what he\nheerd.... No, Greaves wasn't killed outright. He was cut somethin'\nturrible--in two places. They wrapped him all up an' next day packed\nhim in a wagon back to Grass Valley. Evarts says Ted Meeker was\nfriendly with Greaves an' went to see him as he was layin' in his room\nnext to the store. Wal, accordin' to Meeker's story, Greaves came to\nan' talked. He said he was sittin' there in the dark, shootin'\noccasionally at Isbel's cabin, when he heerd a rustle behind him in the\ngrass. He knowed some one was crawlin' on him. But before he could\nget his gun around he was jumped by what he thought was a grizzly bear.\nBut it was a man. He shut off Greaves's wind an' dragged him back in\nthe ditch. An' he said: 'Greaves, it's the half-breed. An' he's goin'\nto cut you--FIRST FOR ELLEN JORTH! an' then for Gaston Isbel!' ...\nGreaves said Jean ripped him with a bowie knife.... An' thet was all\nGreaves remembered. He died soon after tellin' this story. He must\nhev fought awful hard. Thet second cut Isbel gave him went clear\nthrough him.... Some of the gang was thar when Greaves talked, an'\nnaturally they wondered why Jean Isbel had said 'first for Ellen\nJorth.' ... Somebody remembered thet Greaves had cast a slur on your\ngood name, Ellen. An' then they had Jean Isbel's reason fer sayin'\nthet to Greaves. It caused a lot of talk. An' when Simm Bruce busted\nin some of the gang haw-hawed him an' said as how he'd get the third\ncut from Jean Isbel's bowie. Bruce was half drunk an' he began to cuss\nan' rave about Jean Isbel bein' in love with his girl.... As bad luck\nwould have it, a couple of more fellars come in an' asked Meeker\nquestions. He jest got to thet part, 'Greaves, it's the half-breed,\nan' he's goin' to cut you--FIRST FOR ELLEN JORTH,' when in walked your\nfather! ... Then it all had to come out--what Jean Isbel had said an'\ndone--an' why. How Greaves had backed Simm Bruce in slurrin' you!\"\n\nSprague paused to look hard at Ellen.\n\n\"Oh! Then--what did dad do?\" whispered Ellen.\n\n\"He said, 'By God! half-breed or not, there's one Isbel who's a man!'\nAn' he killed Bruce on the spot an' gave Meeker a nasty wound. Somebody\ngrabbed him before he could shoot Meeker again. They threw Meeker out\nan' he crawled to a neighbor's house, where he was when Evarts seen\nhim.\"\n\nEllen felt Sprague's rough but kindly hand shaking her. \"An' now what\ndo you think of Jean Isbel?\" he queried.\n\nA great, unsurmountable wall seemed to obstruct Ellen's thought. It\nseemed gray in color. It moved toward her. It was inside her brain.\n\n\"I tell you, Ellen Jorth,\" declared the old man, \"thet Jean Isbel loves\nyou--loves you turribly--an' he believes you're good.\"\n\n\"Oh no--he doesn't!\" faltered Ellen.\n\n\"Wal, he jest does.\"\n\n\"Oh, Uncle John, he cain't believe that!\" she cried.\n\n\"Of course he can. He does. You are good--good as gold, Ellen, an' he\nknows it.... What a queer deal it all is! Poor devil! To love you\nthet turribly an' hev to fight your people! Ellen, your dad had it\ncorrect. Isbel or not, he's a man.... An' I say what a shame you two\nare divided by hate. Hate thet you hed nothin' to do with.\" Sprague\npatted her head and rose to go. \"Mebbe thet fight will end the\ntrouble. I reckon it will. Don't cross bridges till you come to them,\nEllen.... I must hurry back now. I didn't take time to unpack my\nburros. Come up soon.... An', say, Ellen, don't think hard any more of\nthet Jean Isbel.\"\n\nSprague strode away, and Ellen neither heard nor saw him go. She sat\nperfectly motionless, yet had a strange sensation of being lifted by\ninvisible and mighty power. It was like movement felt in a dream. She\nwas being impelled upward when her body seemed immovable as stone. When\nher blood beat down this deadlock of an her physical being and rushed\non and on through her veins it gave her an irresistible impulse to fly,\nto sail through space, to ran and run and ran.\n\nAnd on the moment the black horse, Spades, coming from the meadow,\nwhinnied at sight of her. Ellen leaped up and ran swiftly, but her\nfeet seemed to be stumbling. She hugged the horse and buried her hot\nface in his mane and clung to him. Then just as violently she rushed\nfor her saddle and bridle and carried the heavy weight as easily as if\nit had been an empty sack. Throwing them upon him, she buckled and\nstrapped with strong, eager hands. It never occurred to her that she\nwas not dressed to ride. Up she flung herself. And the horse, sensing\nher spirit, plunged into strong, free gait down the canyon trail.\n\nThe ride, the action, the thrill, the sensations of violence were not\nall she needed. Solitude, the empty aisles of the forest, the far\nmiles of lonely wilderness--were these the added all? Spades took a\nswinging, rhythmic lope up the winding trail. The wind fanned her hot\nface. The sting of whipping aspen branches was pleasant. A deep\nrumble of thunder shook the sultry air. Up beyond the green slope of\nthe canyon massed the creamy clouds, shading darker and darker. Spades\nloped on the levels, leaped the washes, trotted over the rocky ground,\nand took to a walk up the long slope. Ellen dropped the reins over the\npommel. Her hands could not stay set on anything. They pressed her\nbreast and flew out to caress the white aspens and to tear at the maple\nleaves, and gather the lavender juniper berries, and came back again to\nher heart. Her heart that was going to burst or break! As it had\nswelled, so now it labored. It could not keep pace with her needs. All\nthat was physical, all that was living in her had to be unleashed.\n\nSpades gained the level forest. How the great, brown-green pines\nseemed to bend their lofty branches over her, protectively,\nunderstandingly. Patches of azure-blue sky flashed between the trees.\nThe great white clouds sailed along with her, and shafts of golden\nsunlight, flecked with gleams of falling pine needles, shone down\nthrough the canopy overhead. Away in front of her, up the slow heave\nof forest land, boomed the heavy thunderbolts along the battlements of\nthe Rim.\n\nWas she riding to escape from herself? For no gait suited her until\nSpades was running hard and fast through the glades. Then the pressure\nof dry wind, the thick odor of pine, the flashes of brown and green and\ngold and blue, the soft, rhythmic thuds of hoofs, the feel of the\npowerful horse under her, the whip of spruce branches on her muscles\ncontracting and expanding in hard action--all these sensations seemed\nto quell for the time the mounting cataclysm in her heart.\n\nThe oak swales, the maple thickets, the aspen groves, the pine-shaded\naisles, and the miles of silver spruce all sped by her, as if she had\nridden the wind; and through the forest ahead shone the vast open of\nthe Basin, gloomed by purple and silver cloud, shadowed by gray storm,\nand in the west brightened by golden sky.\n\nStraight to the Rim she had ridden, and to the point where she had\nwatched Jean Isbel that unforgetable day. She rode to the promontory\nbehind the pine thicket and beheld a scene which stayed her restless\nhands upon her heaving breast.\n\nThe world of sky and cloud and earthly abyss seemed one of\nstorm-sundered grandeur. The air was sultry and still, and smelled of\nthe peculiar burnt-wood odor caused by lightning striking trees. A few\nheavy drops of rain were pattering down from the thin, gray edge of\nclouds overhead. To the east hung the storm--a black cloud lodged\nagainst the Rim, from which long, misty veils of rain streamed down\ninto the gulf. The roar of rain sounded like the steady roar of the\nrapids of a river. Then a blue-white, piercingly bright, ragged streak\nof lightning shot down out of the black cloud. It struck with a\nsplitting report that shocked the very wall of rock under Ellen. Then\nthe heavens seemed to burst open with thundering crash and close with\nmighty thundering boom. Long roar and longer rumble rolled away to the\neastward. The rain poured down in roaring cataracts.\n\nThe south held a panorama of purple-shrouded range and canyon, canyon\nand range, on across the rolling leagues to the dim, lofty peaks, all\ncanopied over with angry, dusky, low-drifting clouds, horizon-wide,\nsmoky, and sulphurous. And as Ellen watched, hands pressed to her\nbreast, feeling incalculable relief in sight of this tempest and gulf\nthat resembled her soul, the sun burst out from behind the long bank of\npurple cloud in the west and flooded the world there with golden\nlightning.\n\n\"It is for me!\" cried Ellen. \"My mind--my heart--my very soul.... Oh, I\nknow! I know now! ... I love him--love him--love him!\"\n\nShe cried it out to the elements. \"Oh, I love Jean Isbel--an' my heart\nwill burst or break!\"\n\nThe might of her passion was like the blaze of the sun. Before it all\nelse retreated, diminished. The suddenness of the truth dimmed her\nsight. But she saw clearly enough to crawl into the pine thicket,\nthrough the clutching, dry twigs, over the mats of fragrant needles to\nthe covert where she had once spied upon Jean Isbel. And here she lay\nface down for a while, hands clutching the needles, breast pressed hard\nupon the ground, stricken and spent. But vitality was exceeding strong\nin her. It passed, that weakness of realization, and she awakened to\nthe consciousness of love.\n\nBut in the beginning it was not consciousness of the man. It was new,\nsensorial life, elemental, primitive, a liberation of a million\ninherited instincts, quivering and physical, over which Ellen had no\nmore control than she had over the glory of the sun. If she thought at\nall it was of her need to be hidden, like an animal, low down near the\nearth, covered by green thicket, lost in the wildness of nature. She\nwent to nature, unconsciously seeking a mother. And love was a birth\nfrom the depths of her, like a rushing spring of pure water, long\nunderground, and at last propelled to the surface by a convulsion.\n\nEllen gradually lost her tense rigidity and relaxed. Her body\nsoftened. She rolled over until her face caught the lacy, golden\nshadows cast by sun and bough. Scattered drops of rain pattered around\nher. The air was hot, and its odor was that of dry pine and spruce\nfragrance penetrated by brimstone from the lightning. The nest where\nshe lay was warm and sweet. No eye save that of nature saw her in her\nabandonment. An ineffable and exquisite smile wreathed her lips,\ndreamy, sad, sensuous, the supremity of unconscious happiness. Over\nher dark and eloquent eyes, as Ellen gazed upward, spread a luminous\nfilm, a veil. She was looking intensely, yet she did not see. The\nwilderness enveloped her with its secretive, elemental sheaths of rock,\nof tree, of cloud, of sunlight. Through her thrilling skin poured the\nmultiple and nameless sensations of the living organism stirred to\nsupreme sensitiveness. She could not lie still, but all her movements\nwere gentle, involuntary. The slow reaching out of her hand, to grasp\nat nothing visible, was similar to the lazy stretching of her limbs, to\nthe heave of her breast, to the ripple of muscle.\n\nEllen knew not what she felt. To live that sublime hour was beyond\nthought. Such happiness was like the first dawn of the world to the\nsight of man. It had to do with bygone ages. Her heart, her blood,\nher flesh, her very bones were filled with instincts and emotions\ncommon to the race before intellect developed, when the savage lived\nonly with his sensorial perceptions. Of all happiness, joy, bliss,\nrapture to which man was heir, that of intense and exquisite\npreoccupation of the senses, unhindered and unburdened by thought, was\nthe greatest. Ellen felt that which life meant with its inscrutable\ndesign. Love was only the realization of her mission on the earth.\n\nThe dark storm cloud with its white, ragged ropes of lightning and\ndown-streaming gray veils of rain, the purple gulf rolling like a\ncolored sea to the dim mountains, the glorious golden light of the\nsun--these had enchanted her eyes with her beauty of the universe. They\nhad burst the windows of her blindness. When she crawled into the\ngreen-brown covert it was to escape too great perception. She needed\nto be encompassed by close, tangible things. And there her body paid\nthe tribute to the realization of life. Shock, convulsion, pain,\nrelaxation, and then unutterable and insupportable sensing of her\nenvironment and the heart! In one way she was a wild animal alone in\nthe woods, forced into the mating that meant reproduction of its kind.\nIn another she was an infinitely higher being shot through and through\nwith the most resistless and mysterious transport that life could give\nto flesh.\n\nAnd when that spell slackened its hold there wedged into her mind a\nconsciousness of the man she loved--Jean Isbel. Then emotion and\nthought strove for mastery over her. It was not herself or love that\nshe loved, but a living man. Suddenly he existed so clearly for her\nthat she could see him, hear him, almost feel him. Her whole soul, her\nvery life cried out to him for protection, for salvation, for love, for\nfulfillment. No denial, no doubt marred the white blaze of her\nrealization. From the instant that she had looked up into Jean Isbel's\ndark face she had loved him. Only she had not known. She bowed now,\nand bent, and humbly quivered under the mastery of something beyond her\nken. Thought clung to the beginnings of her romance--to the three\ntimes she had seen him. Every look, every word, every act of his\nreturned to her now in the light of the truth. Love at first sight! He\nhad sworn it, bitterly, eloquently, scornful of her doubts. And now a\nblind, sweet, shuddering ecstasy swayed her. How weak and frail seemed\nher body--too small, too slight for this monstrous and terrible engine\nof fire and lightning and fury and glory--her heart! It must burst or\nbreak. Relentlessly memory pursued Ellen, and her thoughts whirled and\nemotion conquered her. At last she quivered up to her knees as if\nlashed to action. It seemed that first kiss of Isbel's, cool and\ngentle and timid, was on her lips. And her eyes closed and hot tears\nwelled from under her lids. Her groping hands found only the dead\ntwigs and the pine boughs of the trees. Had she reached out to clasp\nhim? Then hard and violent on her mouth and cheek and neck burned\nthose other kisses of Isbel's, and with the flashing, stinging memory\ncame the truth that now she would have bartered her soul for them.\nUtterly she surrendered to the resistlessness of this love. Her loss\nof mother and friends, her wandering from one wild place to another,\nher lonely life among bold and rough men, had developed her for violent\nlove. It overthrew all pride, it engendered humility, it killed hate.\nEllen wiped the tears from her eyes, and as she knelt there she swept\nto her breast a fragrant spreading bough of pine needles. \"I'll go to\nhim,\" she whispered. \"I'll tell him of--of my--my love. I'll tell him\nto take me away--away to the end of the world--away from heah--before\nit's too late!\"\n\nIt was a solemn, beautiful moment. But the last spoken words lingered\nhauntingly. \"Too late?\" she whispered.\n\nAnd suddenly it seemed that death itself shuddered in her soul. Too\nlate! It was too late. She had killed his love. That Jorth blood in\nher--that poisonous hate--had chosen the only way to strike this noble\nIsbel to the heart. Basely, with an abandonment of womanhood, she had\nmockingly perjured her soul with a vile lie. She writhed, she shook\nunder the whip of this inconceivable fact. Lost! Lost! She wailed\nher misery. She might as well be what she had made Jean Isbel think\nshe was. If she had been shamed before, she was now abased, degraded,\nlost in her own sight. And if she would have given her soul for his\nkisses, she now would have killed herself to earn back his respect.\nJean Isbel had given her at sight the deference that she had\nunconsciously craved, and the love that would have been her salvation.\nWhat a horrible mistake she had made of her life! Not her mother's\nblood, but her father's--the Jorth blood--had been her ruin.\n\nAgain Ellen fell upon the soft pine-needle mat, face down, and she\ngroveled and burrowed there, in an agony that could not bear the sense\nof light. All she had suffered was as nothing to this. To have\nawakened to a splendid and uplifting love for a man whom she had\nimagined she hated, who had fought for her name and had killed in\nrevenge for the dishonor she had avowed--to have lost his love and what\nwas infinitely more precious to her now in her ignominy--his faith in\nher purity--this broke her heart.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nWhen Ellen, utterly spent in body and mind, reached home that day a\nmelancholy, sultry twilight was falling. Fitful flares of sheet\nlightning swept across the dark horizon to the east. The cabins were\ndeserted. Antonio and the Mexican woman were gone. The circumstances\nmade Ellen wonder, but she was too tired and too sunken in spirit to\nthink long about it or to care. She fed and watered her horse and left\nhim in the corral. Then, supperless and without removing her clothes,\nshe threw herself upon the bed, and at once sank into heavy slumber.\n\nSometime during the night she awoke. Coyotes were yelping, and from\nthat sound she concluded it was near dawn. Her body ached; her mind\nseemed dull. Drowsily she was sinking into slumber again when she\nheard the rapid clip-clop of trotting horses. Startled, she raised her\nhead to listen. The men were coming back. Relief and dread seemed to\nclear her stupor.\n\nThe trotting horses stopped across the lane from her cabin, evidently\nat the corral where she had left Spades. She heard him whistle.\n\nFrom the sound of hoofs she judged the number of horses to be six or\neight. Low voices of men mingled with thuds and cracking of straps and\nflopping of saddles on the ground. After that the heavy tread of boots\nsounded on the porch of the cabin opposite. A door creaked on its\nhinges. Next a slow footstep, accompanied by clinking of spurs,\napproached Ellen's door, and a heavy hand banged upon it. She knew\nthis person could not be her father.\n\n\"Hullo, Ellen!\"\n\nShe recognized the voice as belonging to Colter. Somehow its tone, or\nsomething about it, sent a little shiver clown her spine. It acted\nlike a revivifying current. Ellen lost her dragging lethargy.\n\n\"Hey, Ellen, are y'u there?\" added Colter, louder voice.\n\n\"Yes. Of course I'm heah,\" she replied. \"What do y'u want?\"\n\n\"Wal--I'm shore glad y'u're home,\" he replied. \"Antonio's gone with\nhis squaw. An' I was some worried aboot y'u.\"\n\n\"Who's with y'u, Colter?\" queried Ellen, sitting up.\n\n\"Rock Wells an' Springer. Tad Jorth was with us, but we had to leave\nhim over heah in a cabin.\"\n\n\"What's the matter with him?\"\n\n\"Wal, he's hurt tolerable bad,\" was the slow reply.\n\nEllen heard Colter's spurs jangle, as if he had uneasily shifted his\nfeet.\n\n\"Where's dad an' Uncle Jackson?\" asked Ellen.\n\nA silence pregnant enough to augment Ellen's dread finally broke to\nColter's voice, somehow different. \"Shore they're back on the trail.\nAn' we're to meet them where we left Tad.\"\n\n\"Are yu goin' away again?\"\n\n\"I reckon.... An', Ellen, y'u're goin' with us.\"\n\n\"I am not,\" she retorted.\n\n\"Wal, y'u are, if I have to pack y'u,\" he replied, forcibly. \"It's not\nsafe heah any more. That damned half-breed Isbel with his gang are on\nour trail.\"\n\nThat name seemed like a red-hot blade at Ellen's leaden heart. She\nwanted to fling a hundred queries on Colter, but she could not utter\none.\n\n\"Ellen, we've got to hit the trail an' hide,\" continued Colter,\nanxiously. \"Y'u mustn't stay heah alone. Suppose them Isbels would\ntrap y'u! ... They'd tear your clothes off an' rope y'u to a tree.\nEllen, shore y'u're goin'.... Y'u heah me!\"\n\n\"Yes--I'll go,\" she replied, as if forced.\n\n\"Wal--that's good,\" he said, quickly. \"An' rustle tolerable lively.\nWe've got to pack.\"\n\nThe slow jangle of Colter's spurs and his slow steps moved away out of\nEllen's hearing. Throwing off the blankets, she put her feet to the\nfloor and sat there a moment staring at the blank nothingness of the\ncabin interior in the obscure gray of dawn. Cold, gray, dreary,\nobscure--like her life, her future! And she was compelled to do what\nwas hateful to her. As a Jorth she must take to the unfrequented\ntrails and hide like a rabbit in the thickets. But the interest of the\nmoment, a premonition of events to be, quickened her into action.\n\nEllen unbarred the door to let in the light. Day was breaking with an\nintense, clear, steely light in the east through which the morning star\nstill shone white. A ruddy flare betokened the advent of the sun.\nEllen unbraided her tangled hair and brushed and combed it. A queer,\nstill pang came to her at sight of pine needles tangled in her brown\nlocks. Then she washed her hands and face. Breakfast was a matter of\nconsiderable work and she was hungry.\n\nThe sun rose and changed the gray world of forest. For the first time\nin her life Ellen hated the golden brightness, the wonderful blue of\nsky, the scream of the eagle and the screech of the jay; and the\nsquirrels she had always loved to feed were neglected that morning.\n\nColter came in. Either Ellen had never before looked attentively at\nhim or else he had changed. Her scrutiny of his lean, hard features\naccorded him more Texan attributes than formerly. His gray eyes were\nas light, as clear, as fierce as those of an eagle. And the sand gray\nof his face, the long, drooping, fair mustache hid the secrets of his\nmind, but not its strength. The instant Ellen met his gaze she sensed\na power in him that she instinctively opposed. Colter had not been so\nbold nor so rude as Daggs, but he was the same kind of man, perhaps the\nmore dangerous for his secretiveness, his cool, waiting inscrutableness.\n\n\"'Mawnin', Ellen!\" he drawled. \"Y'u shore look good for sore eyes.\"\n\n\"Don't pay me compliments, Colter,\" replied Ellen. \"An' your eyes are\nnot sore.\"\n\n\"Wal, I'm shore sore from fightin' an' ridin' an' layin' out,\" he said,\nbluntly.\n\n\"Tell me--what's happened,\" returned Ellen.\n\n\"Girl, it's a tolerable long story,\" replied Colter. \"An' we've no\ntime now. Wait till we get to camp.\"\n\n\"Am I to pack my belongin's or leave them heah?\" asked Ellen.\n\n\"Reckon y'u'd better leave--them heah.\"\n\n\"But if we did not come back--\"\n\n\"Wal, I reckon it's not likely we'll come--soon,\" he said, rather\nevasively.\n\n\"Colter, I'll not go off into the woods with just the clothes I have on\nmy back.\"\n\n\"Ellen, we shore got to pack all the grab we can. This shore ain't\ngoin' to be a visit to neighbors. We're shy pack hosses. But y'u make\nup a bundle of belongin's y'u care for, an' the things y'u'll need bad.\nWe'll throw it on somewhere.\"\n\nColter stalked away across the lane, and Ellen found herself dubiously\nstaring at his tall figure. Was it the situation that struck her with\na foreboding perplexity or was her intuition steeling her against this\nman? Ellen could not decide. But she had to go with him. Her\nprejudice was unreasonable at this portentous moment. And she could\nnot yet feel that she was solely responsible to herself.\n\nWhen it came to making a small bundle of her belongings she was in a\nquandary. She discarded this and put in that, and then reversed the\norder. Next in preciousness to her mother's things were the\nlong-hidden gifts of Jean Isbel. She could part with neither.\n\nWhile she was selecting and packing this bundle Colter again entered\nand, without speaking, began to rummage in the corner where her father\nkept his possessions. This irritated Ellen.\n\n\"What do y'u want there?\" she demanded.\n\n\"Wal, I reckon your dad wants his papers--an' the gold he left\nheah--an' a change of clothes. Now doesn't he?\" returned Colter,\ncoolly.\n\n\"Of course. But I supposed y'u would have me pack them.\"\n\nColter vouchsafed no reply to this, but deliberately went on rummaging,\nwith little regard for how he scattered things. Ellen turned her back\non him. At length, when he left, she went to her father's corner and\nfound that, as far as she was able to see, Colter had taken neither\npapers nor clothes, but only the gold. Perhaps, however, she had been\nmistaken, for she had not observed Colter's departure closely enough to\nknow whether or not he carried a package. She missed only the gold.\nHer father's papers, old and musty, were scattered about, and these she\ngathered up to slip in her own bundle.\n\nColter, or one of the men, had saddled Spades, and he was now tied to\nthe corral fence, champing his bit and pounding the sand. Ellen\nwrapped bread and meat inside her coat, and after tying this behind her\nsaddle she was ready to go. But evidently she would have to wait, and,\npreferring to remain outdoors, she stayed by her horse. Presently,\nwhile watching the men pack, she noticed that Springer wore a bandage\nround his head under the brim of his sombrero. His motions were slow\nand lacked energy. Shuddering at the sight, Ellen refused to\nconjecture. All too soon she would learn what had happened, and all too\nsoon, perhaps, she herself would be in the midst of another fight. She\nwatched the men. They were making a hurried slipshod job of packing\nfood supplies from both cabins. More than once she caught Colter's\ngray gleam of gaze on her, and she did not like it.\n\n\"I'll ride up an' say good-by to Sprague,\" she called to Colter.\n\n\"Shore y'u won't do nothin' of the kind,\" he called back.\n\nThere was authority in his tone that angered Ellen, and something else\nwhich inhibited her anger. What was there about Colter with which she\nmust reckon? The other two Texans laughed aloud, to be suddenly\nsilenced by Colter's harsh and lowered curses. Ellen walked out of\nhearing and sat upon a log, where she remained until Colter hailed her.\n\n\"Get up an' ride,\" he called.\n\nEllen complied with this order and, riding up behind the three mounted\nmen, she soon found herself leaving what for years had been her home.\nNot once did she look back. She hoped she would never see the squalid,\nbare pretension of a ranch again.\n\nColter and the other riders drove the pack horses across the meadow,\noff of the trails, and up the slope into the forest. Not very long did\nit take Ellen to see that Colter's object was to hide their tracks. He\nzigzagged through the forest, avoiding the bare spots of dust, the dry,\nsun-baked flats of clay where water lay in spring, and he chose the\ngrassy, open glades, the long, pine-needle matted aisles. Ellen rode\nat their heels and it pleased her to watch for their tracks. Colter\nmanifestly had been long practiced in this game of hiding his trail,\nand he showed the skill of a rustler. But Ellen was not convinced that\nhe could ever elude a real woodsman. Not improbably, however, Colter\nwas only aiming to leave a trail difficult to follow and which would\nallow him and his confederates ample time to forge ahead of pursuers.\nEllen could not accept a certainty of pursuit. Yet Colter must have\nexpected it, and Springer and Wells also, for they had a dark,\nsinister, furtive demeanor that strangely contrasted with the cool,\neasy manner habitual to them.\n\nThey were not seeking the level routes of the forest land, that was\nsure. They rode straight across the thick-timbered ridge down into\nanother canyon, up out of that, and across rough, rocky bluffs, and\ndown again. These riders headed a little to the northwest and every\nmile brought them into wilder, more rugged country, until Ellen, losing\ncount of canyons and ridges, had no idea where she was. No stop was\nmade at noon to rest the laboring, sweating pack animals.\n\nUnder circumstances where pleasure might have been possible Ellen would\nhave reveled in this hard ride into a wonderful forest ever thickening\nand darkening. But the wild beauty of glade and the spruce slopes and\nthe deep, bronze-walled canyons left her cold. She saw and felt, but\nhad no thrill, except now and then a thrill of alarm when Spades slid\nto his haunches down some steep, damp, piny declivity.\n\nAll the woodland, up and down, appeared to be richer greener as they\ntraveled farther west. Grass grew thick and heavy. Water ran in all\nravines. The rocks were bronze and copper and russet, and some had\ngreen patches of lichen.\n\nEllen felt the sun now on her left cheek and knew that the day was\nwaning and that Colter was swinging farther to the northwest. She had\nnever before ridden through such heavy forest and down and up such wild\ncanyons. Toward sunset the deepest and ruggedest canyon halted their\nadvance. Colter rode to the right, searching for a place to get down\nthrough a spruce thicket that stood on end. Presently he dismounted\nand the others followed suit. Ellen found she could not lead Spades\nbecause he slid down upon her heels, so she looped the end of her reins\nover the pommel and left him free. She herself managed to descend by\nholding to branches and sliding all the way down that slope. She heard\nthe horses cracking the brush, snorting and heaving. One pack slipped\nand had to be removed from the horse, and rolled down. At the bottom\nof this deep, green-walled notch roared a stream of water. Shadowed,\ncool, mossy, damp, this narrow gulch seemed the wildest place Ellen had\never seen. She could just see the sunset-flushed, gold-tipped spruces\nfar above her. The men repacked the horse that had slipped his burden,\nand once more resumed their progress ahead, now turning up this canyon.\nThere was no horse trail, but deer and bear trails were numerous. The\nsun sank and the sky darkened, but still the men rode on; and the\nfarther they traveled the wilder grew the aspect of the canyon.\n\nAt length Colter broke a way through a heavy thicket of willows and\nentered a side canyon, the mouth of which Ellen had not even descried.\nIt turned and widened, and at length opened out into a round pocket,\napparently inclosed, and as lonely and isolated a place as even pursued\nrustlers could desire. Hidden by jutting wall and thicket of spruce\nwere two old log cabins joined together by roof and attic floor, the\nsame as the double cabin at the Jorth ranch.\n\nEllen smelled wood smoke, and presently, on going round the cabins, saw\na bright fire. One man stood beside it gazing at Colter's party, which\nevidently he had heard approaching.\n\n\"Hullo, Queen!\" said Colter. \"How's Tad?\"\n\n\"He's holdin' on fine,\" replied Queen, bending over the fire, where he\nturned pieces of meat.\n\n\"Where's father?\" suddenly asked Ellen, addressing Colter.\n\nAs if he had not heard her, he went on wearily loosening a pack.\n\nQueen looked at her. The light of the fire only partially shone on his\nface. Ellen could not see its expression. But from the fact that\nQueen did not answer her question she got further intimation of an\nimpending catastrophe. The long, wild ride had helped prepare her for\nthe secrecy and taciturnity of men who had resorted to flight. Perhaps\nher father had been delayed or was still off on the deadly mission that\nhad obsessed him; or there might, and probably was, darker reason for\nhis absence. Ellen shut her teeth and turned to the needs of her\nhorse. And presently, returning to the fire, she thought of her uncle.\n\n\"Queen, is my uncle Tad heah?\" she asked.\n\n\"Shore. He's in there,\" replied Queen, pointing at the nearer cabin.\n\nEllen hurried toward the dark doorway. She could see how the logs of\nthe cabin had moved awry and what a big, dilapidated hovel it was. As\nshe looked in, Colter loomed over her--placed a familiar and somehow\nmasterful hand upon her. Ellen let it rest on her shoulder a moment.\nMust she forever be repulsing these rude men among whom her lot was\ncast? Did Colter mean what Daggs had always meant? Ellen felt herself\nweary, weak in body, and her spent spirit had not rallied. Yet,\nwhatever Colter meant by his familiarity, she could not bear it. So\nshe slipped out from under his hand.\n\n\"Uncle Tad, are y'u heah?\" she called into the blackness. She heard\nthe mice scamper and rustle and she smelled the musty, old, woody odor\nof a long-unused cabin.\n\n\"Hello, Ellen!\" came a voice she recognized as her uncle's, yet it was\nstrange. \"Yes. I'm heah--bad luck to me! ... How 're y'u buckin' up,\ngirl?\"\n\n\"I'm all right, Uncle Tad--only tired an' worried. I--\"\n\n\"Tad, how's your hurt?\" interrupted Colter.\n\n\"Reckon I'm easier,\" replied Jorth, wearily, \"but shore I'm in bad\nshape. I'm still spittin' blood. I keep tellin' Queen that bullet\nlodged in my lungs—but he says it went through.\"\n\n\"Wal, hang on, Tad!\" replied Colter, with a cheerfulness Ellen sensed\nwas really indifferent.\n\n\"Oh, what the hell's the use!\" exclaimed Jorth. \"It's all--up with\nus--Colter!\"\n\n\"Wal, shut up, then,\" tersely returned Colter. \"It ain't doin' y'u or\nus any good to holler.\"\n\nTad Jorth did not reply to this. Ellen heard his breathing and it did\nnot seem natural. It rasped a little--came hurriedly--then caught in\nhis throat. Then he spat. Ellen shrunk back against the door. He was\nbreathing through blood.\n\n\"Uncle, are y'u in pain?\" she asked.\n\n\"Yes, Ellen--it burns like hell,\" he said.\n\n\"Oh! I'm sorry.... Isn't there something I can do?\"\n\n\"I reckon not. Queen did all anybody could do for me--now--unless it's\npray.\"\n\nColter laughed at this--the slow, easy, drawling laugh of a Texan. But\nEllen felt pity for this wounded uncle. She had always hated him. He\nhad been a drunkard, a gambler, a waster of her father's property; and\nnow he was a rustler and a fugitive, lying in pain, perhaps mortally\nhurt.\n\n\"Yes, uncle--I will pray for y'u,\" she said, softly.\n\nThe change in his voice held a note of sadness that she had been quick\nto catch.\n\n\"Ellen, y'u're the only good Jorth--in the whole damned lot,\" he said.\n\"God! I see it all now.... We've dragged y'u to hell!\"\n\n\"Yes, Uncle Tad, I've shore been dragged some--but not yet--to hell,\"\nshe responded, with a break in her voice.\n\n\"Y'u will be--Ellen--unless--\"\n\n\"Aw, shut up that kind of gab, will y'u?\" broke in Colter, harshly.\n\nIt amazed Ellen that Colter should dominate her uncle, even though he\nwas wounded. Tad Jorth had been the last man to take orders from\nanyone, much less a rustler of the Hash Knife Gang. This Colter began\nto loom up in Ellen's estimate as he loomed physically over her, a\nlofty figure, dark motionless, somehow menacing.\n\n\"Ellen, has Colter told y'u yet--aboot--aboot Lee an' Jackson?\"\ninquired the wounded man.\n\nThe pitch-black darkness of the cabin seemed to help fortify Ellen to\nbear further trouble.\n\n\"Colter told me dad an' Uncle Jackson would meet us heah,\" she\nrejoined, hurriedly.\n\nJorth could be heard breathing in difficulty, and he coughed and spat\nagain, and seemed to hiss.\n\n\"Ellen, he lied to y'u. They'll never meet us--heah!\"\n\n\"Why not?\" whispered Ellen.\n\n\"Because--Ellen--\" he replied, in husky pants, \"your dad an'--uncle\nJackson--are daid--an' buried!\"\n\nIf Ellen suffered a terrible shock it was a blankness, a deadness, and\na slow, creeping failure of sense in her knees. They gave way under\nher and she sank on the grass against the cabin wall. She did not\nfaint nor grow dizzy nor lose her sight, but for a while there was no\nprocess of thought in her mind. Suddenly then it was there--the quick,\nspiritual rending of her heart--followed by a profound emotion of\nintimate and irretrievable loss--and after that grief and bitter\nrealization.\n\nAn hour later Ellen found strength to go to the fire and partake of the\nfood and drink her body sorely needed.\n\nColter and the men waited on her solicitously, and in silence, now and\nthen stealing furtive glances at her from under the shadow of their\nblack sombreros. The dark night settled down like a blanket. There\nwere no stars. The wind moaned fitfully among the pines, and all about\nthat lonely, hidden recess was in harmony with Ellen's thoughts.\n\n\"Girl, y'u're shore game,\" said Colter, admiringly. \"An' I reckon y'u\nnever got it from the Jorths.\"\n\n\"Tad in there--he's game,\" said Queen, in mild protest.\n\n\"Not to my notion,\" replied Colter. \"Any man can be game when he's\ncroakin', with somebody around.... But Lee Jorth an' Jackson--they\nalways was yellow clear to their gizzards. They was born in\nLouisiana--not Texas.... Shore they're no more Texans than I am. Ellen\nheah, she must have got another strain in her blood.\"\n\nTo Ellen their words had no meaning. She rose and asked, \"Where can I\nsleep?\"\n\n\"I'll fetch a light presently an' y'u can make your bed in there by\nTad,\" replied Colter.\n\n\"Yes, I'd like that.\"\n\n\"Wal, if y'u reckon y'u can coax him to talk you're shore wrong,\"\ndeclared Colter, with that cold timbre of voice that struck like steel\non Ellen's nerves. \"I cussed him good an' told him he'd keep his mouth\nshut. Talkin' makes him cough an' that fetches up the blood....\nBesides, I reckon I'm the one to tell y'u how your dad an' uncle got\nkilled. Tad didn't see it done, an' he was bad hurt when it happened.\nShore all the fellars left have their idee aboot it. But I've got it\nstraight.\"\n\n\"Colter--tell me now,\" cried Ellen.\n\n\"Wal, all right. Come over heah,\" he replied, and drew her away from\nthe camp fire, out in the shadow of gloom. \"Poor kid! I shore feel\nbad aboot it.\" He put a long arm around her waist and drew her against\nhim. Ellen felt it, yet did not offer any resistance. All her\nfaculties seemed absorbed in a morbid and sad anticipation.\n\n\"Ellen, y'u shore know I always loved y'u--now don't y 'u?\" he asked,\nwith suppressed breath.\n\n\"No, Colter. It's news to me--an' not what I want to heah.\"\n\n\"Wal, y'u may as well heah it right now,\" he said. \"It's true. An'\nwhat's more--your dad gave y'u to me before he died.\"\n\n\"What! Colter, y'u must be a liar.\"\n\n\"Ellen, I swear I'm not lyin',\" he returned, in eager passion. \"I was\nwith your dad last an' heard him last. He shore knew I'd loved y'u for\nyears. An' he said he'd rather y'u be left in my care than anybody's.\"\n\n\"My father gave me to y'u in marriage!\" ejaculated Ellen, in\nbewilderment.\n\nColter's ready assurance did not carry him over this point. It was\nevident that her words somewhat surprised and disconcerted him for the\nmoment.\n\n\"To let me marry a rustler--one of the Hash Knife Gang!\" exclaimed\nEllen, with weary incredulity.\n\n\"Wal, your dad belonged to Daggs's gang, same as I do,\" replied Colter,\nrecovering his cool ardor.\n\n\"No!\" cried Ellen.\n\n\"Yes, he shore did, for years,\" declared Colter, positively. \"Back in\nTexas. An' it was your dad that got Daggs to come to Arizona.\"\n\nEllen tried to fling herself away. But her strength and her spirit\nwere ebbing, and Colter increased the pressure of his arm. All at once\nshe sank limp. Could she escape her fate? Nothing seemed left to\nfight with or for.\n\n\"All right--don't hold me--so tight,\" she panted. \"Now tell me how dad\nwas killed ... an' who--who--\"\n\nColter bent over so he could peer into her face. In the darkness Ellen\njust caught the gleam of his eyes. She felt the virile force of the\nman in the strain of his body as he pressed her close. It all seemed\nunreal--a hideous dream--the gloom, the moan of the wind, the weird\nsolitude, and this rustler with hand and will like cold steel.\n\n\"We'd come back to Greaves's store,\" Colter began. \"An' as Greaves was\ndaid we all got free with his liquor. Shore some of us got drunk.\nBruce was drunk, an' Tad in there--he was drunk. Your dad put away\nmore 'n I ever seen him. But shore he wasn't exactly drunk. He got\none of them weak an' shaky spells. He cried an' he wanted some of us\nto get the Isbels to call off the fightin'.... He shore was ready to\ncall it quits. I reckon the killin' of Daggs--an' then the awful way\nGreaves was cut up by Jean Isbel--took all the fight out of your dad.\nHe said to me, 'Colter, we'll take Ellen an' leave this heah\ncountry--an' begin life all over again--where no one knows us.'\"\n\n\"Oh, did he really say that? ... Did he--really mean it?\" murmured\nEllen, with a sob.\n\n\"I'll swear it by the memory of my daid mother,\" protested Colter.\n\"Wal, when night come the Isbels rode down on us in the dark an' began\nto shoot. They smashed in the door--tried to burn us out--an' hollered\naround for a while. Then they left an' we reckoned there'd be no more\ntrouble that night. All the same we kept watch. I was the soberest\none an' I bossed the gang. We had some quarrels aboot the drinkin'.\nYour dad said if we kept it up it 'd be the end of the Jorths. An' he\nplanned to send word to the Isbels next mawnin' that he was ready for a\ntruce. An' I was to go fix it up with Gaston Isbel. Wal, your dad went\nto bed in Greaves's room, an' a little while later your uncle Jackson\nwent in there, too. Some of the men laid down in the store an' went to\nsleep. I kept guard till aboot three in the mawnin'. An' I got so\nsleepy I couldn't hold my eyes open. So I waked up Wells an' Slater\nan' set them on guard, one at each end of the store. Then I laid down\non the counter to take a nap.\"\n\nColter's low voice, the strain and breathlessness of him, the agitation\nwith which he appeared to be laboring, and especially the simple,\nmatter-of-fact detail of his story, carried absolute conviction to\nEllen Jorth. Her vague doubt of him had been created by his attitude\ntoward her. Emotion dominated her intelligence. The images, the\nscenes called up by Colter's words, were as true as the gloom of the\nwild gulch and the loneliness of the night solitude--as true as the\nstrange fact that she lay passive in the arm of a rustler.\n\n\"Wall, after a while I woke up,\" went on Colter, clearing his throat.\n\"It was gray dawn. All was as still as death.... An' somethin' shore\nwas wrong. Wells an' Slater had got to drinkin' again an' now laid\ndaid drunk or asleep. Anyways, when I kicked them they never moved.\nThen I heard a moan. It came from the room where your dad an' uncle\nwas. I went in. It was just light enough to see. Your uncle Jackson\nwas layin' on the floor--cut half in two--daid as a door nail.... Your\ndad lay on the bed. He was alive, breathin' his last.... He says,\n'That half-breed Isbel--knifed us--while we slept!' ... The winder\nshutter was open. I seen where Jean Isbel had come in an' gone out. I\nseen his moccasin tracks in the dirt outside an' I seen where he'd\nstepped in Jackson's blood an' tracked it to the winder. Y'u shore can\nsee them bloody tracks yourself, if y'u go back to Greaves's store....\nYour dad was goin' fast.... He said, 'Colter--take care of Ellen,' an'\nI reckon he meant a lot by that. He kept sayin', 'My God! if I'd only\nseen Gaston Isbel before it was too late!' an' then he raved a little,\nwhisperin' out of his haid.... An' after that he died.... I woke up the\nmen, an' aboot sunup we carried your dad an' uncle out of town an'\nburied them.... An' them Isbels shot at us while we were buryin' our\ndaid! That's where Tad got his hurt.... Then we hit the trail for\nJorth's ranch.... An now, Ellen, that's all my story. Your dad was\nready to bury the hatchet with his old enemy. An' that Nez Perce Jean\nIsbel, like the sneakin' savage he is, murdered your uncle an' your\ndad.... Cut him horrible--made him suffer tortures of hell--all for\nIsbel revenge!\"\n\nWhen Colter's husky voice ceased Ellen whispered through lips as cold\nand still as ice, \"Let me go ... leave me--heah--alone!\"\n\n\"Why, shore! I reckon I understand,\" replied Colter. \"I hated to tell\ny'u. But y'u had to heah the truth aboot that half-breed.... I'll\ncarry your pack in the cabin an' unroll your blankets.\"\n\nReleasing her, Colter strode off in the gloom. Like a dead weight,\nEllen began to slide until she slipped down full length beside the log.\nAnd then she lay in the cool, damp shadow, inert and lifeless so far as\noutward physical movement was concerned. She saw nothing and felt\nnothing of the night, the wind, the cold, the falling dew. For the\nmoment or hour she was crushed by despair, and seemed to see herself\nsinking down and down into a black, bottomless pit, into an abyss where\nmurky tides of blood and furious gusts of passion contended between her\nbody and her soul. Into the stormy blast of hell! In her despair she\nlonged, she ached for death. Born of infidelity, cursed by a taint of\nevil blood, further cursed by higher instinct for good and happy life,\ndragged from one lonely and wild and sordid spot to another, never\nknowing love or peace or joy or home, left to the companionship of\nviolent and vile men, driven by a strange fate to love with\nunquenchable and insupportable love a' half-breed, a savage, an Isbel,\nthe hereditary enemy of her people, and at last the ruthless murderer\nof her father--what in the name of God had she left to live for?\nRevenge! An eye for an eye! A life for a life! But she could not\nkill Jean Isbel. Woman's love could turn to hate, but not the love of\nEllen Jorth. He could drag her by the hair in the dust, beat her, and\nmake her a thing to loathe, and cut her mortally in his savage and\nimplacable thirst for revenge--but with her last gasp she would whisper\nshe loved him and that she had lied to him to kill his faith. It was\nthat--his strange faith in her purity--which had won her love. Of all\nmen, that he should be the one to recognize the truth of her, the\nwomanhood yet unsullied--how strange, how terrible, how overpowering!\nFalse, indeed, was she to the Jorths! False as her mother had been to\nan Isbel! This agony and destruction of her soul was the bitter Dead\nSea fruit--the sins of her parents visited upon her.\n\n\"I'll end it all,\" she whispered to the night shadows that hovered over\nher. No coward was she--no fear of pain or mangled flesh or death or\nthe mysterious hereafter could ever stay her. It would be easy, it\nwould be a last thrill, a transport of self-abasement and supreme\nself-proof of her love for Jean Isbel to kiss the Rim rock where his\nfeet had trod and then fling herself down into the depths. She was the\nlast Jorth. So the wronged Isbels would be avenged.\n\n\"But he would never know--never know--I lied to him!\" she wailed to the\nnight wind.\n\nShe was lost--lost on earth and to hope of heaven. She had right\nneither to live nor to die. She was nothing but a little weed along\nthe trail of life, trampled upon, buried in the mud. She was nothing\nbut a single rotten thread in a tangled web of love and hate and\nrevenge. And she had broken.\n\nLower and lower she seemed to sink. Was there no end to this gulf of\ndespair? If Colter had returned he would have found her a rag and a\ntoy--a creature degraded, fit for his vile embrace. To be thrust\ndeeper into the mire--to be punished fittingly for her betrayal of a\nman's noble love and her own womanhood--to be made an end of, body,\nmind, and soul.\n\nBut Colter did not return.\n\nThe wind mourned, the owls hooted, the leaves rustled, the insects\nwhispered their melancholy night song, the camp-fire flickered and\nfaded. Then the wild forestland seemed to close imponderably over\nEllen. All that she wailed in her despair, all that she confessed in\nher abasement, was true, and hard as life could be--but she belonged to\nnature. If nature had not failed her, had God failed her? It was\nthere--the lonely land of tree and fern and flower and brook, full of\nwild birds and beasts, where the mossy rocks could speak and the\nsolitude had ears, where she had always felt herself unutterably a part\nof creation. Thus a wavering spark of hope quivered through the\nblackness of her soul and gathered light.\n\nThe gloom of the sky, the shifting clouds of dull shade, split asunder\nto show a glimpse of a radiant star, piercingly white, cold, pure, a\nsteadfast eye of the universe, beyond all understanding and illimitable\nwith its meaning of the past and the present and the future. Ellen\nwatched it until the drifting clouds once more hid it from her strained\nsight.\n\nWhat had that star to do with hell? She might be crushed and destroyed\nby life, but was there not something beyond? Just to be born, just to\nsuffer, just to die--could that be all? Despair did not loose its hold\non Ellen, the strife and pang of her breast did not subside. But with\nthe long hours and the strange closing in of the forest around her and\nthe fleeting glimpse of that wonderful star, with a subtle divination\nof the meaning of her beating heart and throbbing mind, and, lastly,\nwith a voice thundering at her conscience that a man's faith in a woman\nmust not be greater, nobler, than her faith in God and eternity--with\nthese she checked the dark flight of her soul toward destruction.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nA chill, gray, somber dawn was breaking when Ellen dragged herself into\nthe cabin and crept under her blankets, there to sleep the sleep of\nexhaustion.\n\nWhen she awoke the hour appeared to be late afternoon. Sun and sky\nshone through the sunken and decayed roof of the old cabin. Her uncle,\nTad Jorth, lay upon a blanket bed upheld by a crude couch of boughs.\nThe light fell upon his face, pale, lined, cast in a still mold of\nsuffering. He was not dead, for she heard his respiration.\n\nThe floor underneath Ellen's blankets was bare clay. She and Jorth\nwere alone in this cabin. It contained nothing besides their beds and\na rank growth of weeds along the decayed lower logs. Half of the cabin\nhad a rude ceiling of rough-hewn boards which formed a kind of loft.\nThis attic extended through to the adjoining cabin, forming the ceiling\nof the porch-like space between the two structures. There was no\npartition. A ladder of two aspen saplings, pegged to the logs, and\nwith braces between for steps, led up to the attic.\n\nEllen smelled wood smoke and the odor of frying meat, and she heard the\nvoices of men. She looked out to see that Slater and Somers had joined\ntheir party--an addition that might have strengthened it for defense,\nbut did not lend her own situation anything favorable. Somers had\nalways appeared the one best to avoid.\n\nColter espied her and called her to \"Come an' feed your pale face.\" His\ncomrades laughed, not loudly, but guardedly, as if noise was something\nto avoid. Nevertheless, they awoke Tad Jorth, who began to toss and\nmoan on the bed.\n\nEllen hurried to his side and at once ascertained that he had a high\nfever and was in a critical condition. Every time he tossed he opened\na wound in his right breast, rather high up. For all she could see,\nnothing had been done for him except the binding of a scarf round his\nneck and under his arm. This scant bandage had worked loose. Going to\nthe door, she called out:\n\n\"Fetch me some water.\" When Colter brought it, Ellen was rummaging in\nher pack for some clothing or towel that she could use for bandages.\n\n\"Weren't any of y'u decent enough to look after my uncle?\" she queried.\n\n\"Huh! Wal, what the hell!\" rejoined Colter. \"We shore did all we\ncould. I reckon y'u think it wasn't a tough job to pack him up the Rim.\nHe was done for then an' I said so.\"\n\n\"I'll do all I can for him,\" said Ellen.\n\n\"Shore. Go ahaid. When I get plugged or knifed by that half-breed I\nshore hope y'u'll be round to nurse me.\"\n\n\"Y'u seem to be pretty shore of your fate, Colter.\"\n\n\"Shore as hell!\" he bit out, darkly. \"Somers saw Isbel an' his gang\ntrailin' us to the Jorth ranch.\"\n\n\"Are y'u goin' to stay heah--an' wait for them?\"\n\n\"Shore I've been quarrelin' with the fellars out there over that very\nquestion. I'm for leavin' the country. But Queen, the damn gun\nfighter, is daid set to kill that cowman, Blue, who swore he was King\nFisher, the old Texas outlaw. None but Queen are spoilin' for another\nfight. All the same they won't leave Tad Jorth heah alone.\"\n\nThen Colter leaned in at the door and whispered: \"Ellen, I cain't boss\nthis outfit. So let's y'u an' me shake 'em. I've got your dad's gold.\nLet's ride off to-night an' shake this country.\"\n\nColter, muttering under his breath, left the door and returned to his\ncomrades. Ellen had received her first intimation of his cowardice;\nand his mention of her father's gold started a train of thought that\npersisted in spite of her efforts to put all her mind to attending her\nuncle. He grew conscious enough to recognize her working over him, and\nthanked her with a look that touched Ellen deeply. It changed the\ndirection of her mind. His suffering and imminent death, which she was\nable to alleviate and retard somewhat, worked upon her pity and\ncompassion so that she forgot her own plight. Half the night she was\ntending him, cooling his fever, holding him quiet. Well she realized\nthat but for her ministrations he would have died. At length he went\nto sleep.\n\nAnd Ellen, sitting beside him in the lonely, silent darkness of that\nlate hour, received again the intimation of nature, those vague and\nnameless stirrings of her innermost being, those whisperings out of the\nnight and the forest and the sky. Something great would not let go of\nher soul. She pondered.\n\nAttention to the wounded man occupied Ellen; and soon she redoubled her\nactivities in this regard, finding in them something of protection\nagainst Colter.\n\nHe had waylaid her as she went to a spring for water, and with a lunge\nlike that of a bear he had tried to embrace her. But Ellen had been\ntoo quick.\n\n\"Wal, are y'u goin' away with me?\" he demanded.\n\n\"No. I'll stick by my uncle,\" she replied.\n\nThat motive of hers seemed to obstruct his will. Ellen was keen to see\nthat Colter and his comrades were at a last stand and disintegrating\nunder a severe strain. Nerve and courage of the open and the wild they\npossessed, but only in a limited degree. Colter seemed obsessed by his\npassion for her, and though Ellen in her stubborn pride did not yet\nfear him, she realized she ought to. After that incident she watched\nclosely, never leaving her uncle's bedside except when Colter was\nabsent. One or more of the men kept constant lookout somewhere down\nthe canyon.\n\nDay after day passed on the wings of suspense, of watching, of\nministering to her uncle, of waiting for some hour that seemed fixed.\n\nColter was like a hound upon her trail. At every turn he was there to\nimportune her to run off with him, to frighten her with the menace of\nthe Isbels, to beg her to give herself to him. It came to pass that\nthe only relief she had was when she ate with the men or barred the\ncabin door at night. Not much relief, however, was there in the shut\nand barred door. With one thrust of his powerful arm Colter could have\ncaved it in. He knew this as well as Ellen. Still she did not have\nthe fear she should have had. There was her rifle beside her, and\nthough she did not allow her mind to run darkly on its possible use,\nstill the fact of its being there at hand somehow strengthened her.\nColter was a cat playing with a mouse, but not yet sure of his quarry.\n\nEllen came to know hours when she was weak--weak physically, mentally,\nspiritually, morally--when under the sheer weight of this frightful and\ngrowing burden of suspense she was not capable of fighting her misery,\nher abasement, her low ebb of vitality, and at the same time wholly\nwithstanding Colter's advances.\n\nHe would come into the cabin and, utterly indifferent to Tad Jorth, he\nwould try to make bold and unrestrained love to Ellen. When he caught\nher in one of her unresisting moments and was able to hold her in his\narms and kiss her he seemed to be beside himself with the wonder of\nher. At such moments, if he had any softness or gentleness in him,\nthey expressed themselves in his sooner or later letting her go, when\napparently she was about to faint. So it must have become\nfascinatingly fixed in Colter's mind that at times Ellen repulsed him\nwith scorn and at others could not resist him.\n\nEllen had escaped two crises in her relation with this man, and as a\nmorbid doubt, like a poisonous fungus, began to strangle her mind, she\ninstinctively divined that there was an approaching and final crisis.\nNo uplift of her spirit came this time--no intimations--no whisperings.\nHow horrible it all was! To long to be good and noble--to realize that\nshe was neither--to sink lower day by day! Must she decay there like\none of these rotting logs? Worst of all, then, was the insinuating and\never-growing hopelessness. What was the use? What did it matter? Who\nwould ever think of Ellen Jorth? \"O God!\" she whispered in her\ndistraction, \"is there nothing left--nothing at all?\"\n\nA period of several days of less torment to Ellen followed. Her uncle\napparently took a turn for the better and Colter let her alone. This\nlast circumstance nonplused Ellen. She was at a loss to understand it\nunless the Isbel menace now encroached upon Colter so formidably that\nhe had forgotten her for the present.\n\nThen one bright August morning, when she had just begun to relax her\neternal vigilance and breathe without oppression, Colter encountered\nher and, darkly silent and fierce, he grasped her and drew her off her\nfeet. Ellen struggled violently, but the total surprise had deprived\nher of strength. And that paralyzing weakness assailed her as never\nbefore. Without apparent effort Colter carried her, striding rapidly\naway from the cabins into the border of spruce trees at the foot of the\ncanyon wall.\n\n\"Colter--where--oh, where are Y'u takin' me?\" she found voice to cry\nout.\n\n\"By God! I don't know,\" he replied, with strong, vibrant passion. \"I\nwas a fool not to carry y'u off long ago. But I waited. I was hopin'\ny'u'd love me! ... An' now that Isbel gang has corralled us. Somers\nseen the half-breed up on the rocks. An' Springer seen the rest of\nthem sneakin' around. I run back after my horse an' y'u.\"\n\n\"But Uncle Tad! ... We mustn't leave him alone,\" cried Ellen.\n\n\"We've got to,\" replied Colter, grimly. \"Tad shore won't worry y'u no\nmore--soon as Jean Isbel gets to him.\"\n\n\"Oh, let me stay,\" implored Ellen. \"I will save him.\"\n\nColter laughed at the utter absurdity of her appeal and claim. Suddenly\nhe set her down upon her feet. \"Stand still,\" he ordered. Ellen saw\nhis big bay horse, saddled, with pack and blanket, tied there in the\nshade of a spruce. With swift hands Colter untied him and mounted him,\nscarcely moving his piercing gaze from Ellen. He reached to grasp her.\n\"Up with y'u! ... Put your foot in the stirrup!\" His will, like his\npowerful arm, was irresistible for Ellen at that moment. She found\nherself swung up behind him. Then the horse plunged away. What with\nthe hard motion and Colter's iron grasp on her Ellen was in a painful\nposition. Her knees and feet came into violent contact with branches\nand snags. He galloped the horse, tearing through the dense thicket of\nwillows that served to hide the entrance to the side canyon, and when\nout in the larger and more open canyon he urged him to a run.\nPresently when Colter put the horse to a slow rise of ground, thereby\nbringing him to a walk, it was just in time to save Ellen a serious\nbruising. Again the sunlight appeared to shade over. They were in the\npines. Suddenly with backward lunge Colter halted the horse. Ellen\nheard a yell. She recognized Queen's voice.\n\n\"Turn back, Colter! Turn back!\"\n\nWith an oath Colter wheeled his mount. \"If I didn't run plump into\nthem,\" he ejaculated, harshly. And scarcely had the goaded horse\ngotten a start when a shot rang out. Ellen felt a violent shock, as if\nher momentum had suddenly met with a check, and then she felt herself\nwrenched from Colter, from the saddle, and propelled into the air. She\nalighted on soft ground and thick grass, and was unhurt save for the\nviolent wrench and shaking that had rendered her breathless. Before\nshe could rise Colter was pulling at her, lifting her to her feet. She\nsaw the horse lying with bloody head. Tall pines loomed all around.\nAnother rifle cracked. \"Run!\" hissed Colter, and he bounded off,\ndragging her by the hand. Another yell pealed out. \"Here we are,\nColter!\". Again it was Queen's shrill voice. Ellen ran with all her\nmight, her heart in her throat, her sight failing to record more than a\nblur of passing pines and a blank green wall of spruce. Then she lost\nher balance, was falling, yet could not fall because of that steel grip\non her hand, and was dragged, and finally carried, into a dense shade.\nShe was blinded. The trees whirled and faded. Voices and shots\nsounded far away. Then something black seemed to be wiped across her\nfeeling.\n\nIt turned to gray, to moving blankness, to dim, hazy objects, spectral\nand tall, like blanketed trees, and when Ellen fully recovered\nconsciousness she was being carried through the forest.\n\n\"Wal, little one, that was a close shave for y'u,\" said Colter's hard\nvoice, growing clearer. \"Reckon your keelin' over was natural enough.\"\n\nHe held her lightly in both arms, her head resting above his left\nelbow. Ellen saw his face as a gray blur, then taking sharper outline,\nuntil it stood out distinctly, pale and clammy, with eyes cold and\nwonderful in their intense flare. As she gazed upward Colter turned\nhis head to look back through the woods, and his motion betrayed a\nkeen, wild vigilance. The veins of his lean, brown neck stood out like\nwhipcords. Two comrades were stalking beside him. Ellen heard their\nstealthy steps, and she felt Colter sheer from one side or the other.\nThey were proceeding cautiously, fearful of the rear, but not wholly\ntrusting to the fore.\n\n\"Reckon we'd better go slow an' look before we leap,\" said one whose\nvoice Ellen recognized as Springer's.\n\n\"Shore. That open slope ain't to my likin', with our Nez Perce friend\nprowlin' round,\" drawled Colter, as he set Ellen down on her feet.\n\nAnother of the rustlers laughed. \"Say, can't he twinkle through the\nforest? I had four shots at him. Harder to hit than a turkey runnin'\ncrossways.\"\n\nThis facetious speaker was the evil-visaged, sardonic Somers. He\ncarried two rifles and wore two belts of cartridges.\n\n\"Ellen, shore y'u ain't so daid white as y'u was,\" observed Colter, and\nhe chucked her under the chin with familiar hand. \"Set down heah. I\ndon't want y'u stoppin' any bullets. An' there's no tellin'.\"\n\nEllen was glad to comply with his wish. She had begun to recover wits\nand strength, yet she still felt shaky. She observed that their\nposition then was on the edge of a well-wooded slope from which she\ncould see the grassy canyon floor below. They were on a level bench,\nprojecting out from the main canyon wall that loomed gray and rugged\nand pine fringed. Somers and Cotter and Springer gave careful attention\nto all points of the compass, especially in the direction from which\nthey had come. They evidently anticipated being trailed or circled or\nheaded off, but did not manifest much concern. Somers lit a cigarette;\nSpringer wiped his face with a grimy hand and counted the shells in his\nbelt, which appeared to be half empty. Colter stretched his long neck\nlike a vulture and peered down the slope and through the aisles of the\nforest up toward the canyon rim.\n\n\"Listen!\" he said, tersely, and bent his head a little to one side, ear\nto the slight breeze.\n\nThey all listened. Ellen heard the beating of her heart, the rustle of\nleaves, the tapping of a woodpecker, and faint, remote sounds that she\ncould not name.\n\n\"Deer, I reckon,\" spoke up Somers.\n\n\"Ahuh! Wal, I reckon they ain't trailin' us yet,\" replied Colter. \"We\ngave them a shade better 'n they sent us.\"\n\n\"Short an' sweet!\" ejaculated Springer, and he removed his black\nsombrero to poke a dirty forefinger through a buffet hole in the crown.\n\"Thet's how close I come to cashin'. I was lyin' behind a log,\nlistenin' an' watchin', an' when I stuck my head up a little--zam!\nSomebody made my bonnet leak.\"\n\n\"Where's Queen?\" asked Colter.\n\n\"He was with me fust off,\" replied Somers. \"An' then when the shootin'\nslacked--after I'd plugged thet big, red-faced, white-haired pal of\nIsbel's--\"\n\n\"Reckon thet was Blaisdell,\" interrupted Springer.\n\n\"Queen--he got tired layin' low,\" went on Somers. \"He wanted action. I\nheerd him chewin' to himself, an' when I asked him what was eatin' him\nhe up an' growled he was goin' to quit this Injun fightin'. An' he\nslipped off in the woods.\"\n\n\"Wal, that's the gun fighter of it,\" declared Colter, wagging his head,\n\"Ever since that cowman, Blue, braced us an' said he was King Fisher,\nwhy Queen has been sulkier an' sulkier. He cain't help it. He'll do\nthe same trick as Blue tried. An' shore he'll get his everlastin'. But\nhe's the Texas breed all right.\"\n\n\"Say, do you reckon Blue really is King Fisher?\" queried Somers.\n\n\"Naw!\" ejaculated Colter, with downward sweep of his hand. \"Many a\nwould-be gun slinger has borrowed Fisher's name. But Fisher is daid\nthese many years.\"\n\n\"Ahuh! Wal, mebbe, but don't you fergit it--thet Blue was no\nwould-be,\" declared Somers. \"He was the genuine article.\"\n\n\"I should smile!\" affirmed Springer.\n\nThe subject irritated Colter, and he dismissed it with another forcible\ngesture and a counter question.\n\n\"How many left in that Isbel outfit?\"\n\n\"No tellin'. There shore was enough of them,\" replied Somers.\n\"Anyhow, the woods was full of flyin' bullets.... Springer, did you\naccount for any of them?\"\n\n\"Nope--not thet I noticed,\" responded Springer, dryly. \"I had my\nchance at the half-breed.... Reckon I was nervous.\"\n\n\"Was Slater near you when he yelled out?\"\n\n\"No. He was lyin' beside Somers.\"\n\n\"Wasn't thet a queer way fer a man to act?\" broke in Somers. \"A bullet\nhit Slater, cut him down the back as he was lyin' flat. Reckon it\nwasn't bad. But it hurt him so thet he jumped right up an' staggered\naround. He made a target big as a tree. An' mebbe them Isbels didn't\nriddle him!\"\n\n\"That was when I got my crack at Bill Isbel,\" declared Colter, with\ngrim satisfaction. \"When they shot my horse out from under me I had\nEllen to think of an' couldn't get my rifle. Shore had to run, as yu\nseen. Wal, as I only had my six-shooter, there was nothin' for me to\ndo but lay low an' listen to the sping of lead. Wells was standin' up\nbehind a tree about thirty yards off. He got plugged, an' fallin' over\nhe began to crawl my way, still holdin' to his rifle. I crawled along\nthe log to meet him. But he dropped aboot half-way. I went on an'\ntook his rifle an' belt. When I peeped out from behind a spruce bush\nthen I seen Bill Isbel. He was shootin' fast, an' all of them was\nshootin' fast. That war, when they had the open shot at Slater....\nWal, I bored Bill Isbel right through his middle. He dropped his rifle\nan', all bent double, he fooled around in a circle till he flopped over\nthe Rim. I reckon he's layin' right up there somewhere below that daid\nspruce. I'd shore like to see him.\"\n\n\"I Wal, you'd be as crazy as Queen if you tried thet,\" declared Somers.\n\"We're not out of the woods yet.\"\n\n\"I reckon not,\" replied Colter. \"An' I've lost my horse. Where'd y'u\nleave yours?\"\n\n\"They're down the canyon, below thet willow brake. An' saddled an'\nnone of them tied. Reckon we'll have to look them up before dark.\"\n\n\"Colter, what 're we goin' to do?\" demanded Springer.\n\n\"Wait heah a while--then cross the canyon an' work round up under the\nbluff, back to the cabin.\"\n\n\"An' then what?\" queried Somers, doubtfully eying Colter.\n\n\"We've got to eat--we've got to have blankets,\" rejoined Colter,\ntestily. \"An' I reckon we can hide there an' stand a better show in a\nfight than runnin' for it in the woods.\"\n\n\"Wal, I'm givin' you a hunch thet it looked like you was runnin' fer\nit,\" retorted Somers.\n\n\"Yes, an' packin' the girl,\" added Springer. \"Looks funny to me.\"\n\nBoth rustlers eyed Colter with dark and distrustful glances. What he\nmight have replied never transpired, for the reason that his gaze,\nalways shifting around, had suddenly fixed on something.\n\n\"Is that a wolf?\" he asked, pointing to the Rim.\n\nBoth his comrades moved to get in line with his finger. Ellen could\nnot see from her position.\n\n\"Shore thet's a big lofer,\" declared Somers. \"Reckon he scented us.\"\n\n\"There he goes along the Rim,\" observed Colter. \"He doesn't act leary.\nLooks like a good sign to me. Mebbe the Isbels have gone the other\nway.\"\n\n\"Looks bad to me,\" rejoined Springer, gloomily.\n\n\"An' why?\" demanded Colter.\n\n\"I seen thet animal. Fust time I reckoned it was a lofer. Second time\nit was right near them Isbels. An' I'm damned now if I don't believe\nit's thet half-lofer sheep dog of Gass Isbel's.\"\n\n\"Wal, what if it is?\"\n\n\"Ha! ... Shore we needn't worry about hidin' out,\" replied Springer,\nsententiously. \"With thet dog Jean Isbel could trail a grasshopper.\"\n\n\"The hell y'u say!\" muttered Colter. Manifestly such a possibility put\na different light upon the present situation. The men grew silent and\nwatchful, occupied by brooding thoughts and vigilant surveillance of\nall points. Somers slipped off into the brush, soon to return, with\nintent look of importance.\n\n\"I heerd somethin',\" he whispered, jerking his thumb backward. \"Rollin'\ngravel--crackin' of twigs. No deer! ... Reckon it'd be a good idee for\nus to slip round acrost this bench.\"\n\n\"Wal, y'u fellars go, an' I'll watch heah,\" returned Colter.\n\n\"Not much,\" said Somers, while Springer leered knowingly.\n\nColter became incensed, but he did not give way to it. Pondering a\nmoment, he finally turned to Ellen. \"Y'u wait heah till I come back.\nAn' if I don't come in reasonable time y'u slip across the canyon an'\nthrough the willows to the cabins. Wait till aboot dark.\" With that\nhe possessed himself of one of the extra rifles and belts and silently\njoined his comrades. Together they noiselessly stole into the brush.\n\nEllen had no other thought than to comply with Colter's wishes. There\nwas her wounded uncle who had been left unattended, and she was anxious\nto get back to him. Besides, if she had wanted to run off from Colter,\nwhere could she go? Alone in the woods, she would get lost and die of\nstarvation. Her lot must be cast with the Jorth faction until the end.\nThat did not seem far away.\n\nHer strained attention and suspense made the moments fly. By and by\nseveral shots pealed out far across the side canyon on her right, and\nthey were answered by reports sounding closer to her. The fight was on\nagain. But these shots were not repeated. The flies buzzed, the hot\nsun beat down and sloped to the west, the soft, warm breeze stirred the\naspens, the ravens croaked, the red squirrels and blue jays chattered.\n\nSuddenly a quick, short, yelp electrified Ellen, brought her upright\nwith sharp, listening rigidity. Surely it was not a wolf and hardly\ncould it be a coyote. Again she heard it. The yelp of a sheep dog!\nShe had heard that' often enough to know. And she rose to change her\nposition so she could command a view of the rocky bluff above.\nPresently she espied what really appeared to be a big timber wolf. But\nanother yelp satisfied her that it really was a dog. She watched him.\nSoon it became evident that he wanted to get down over the bluff. He\nran to and fro, and then out of sight. In a few moments his yelp\nsounded from lower down, at the base of the bluff, and it was now the\ncry of an intelligent dog that was trying to call some one to his aid.\nEllen grew convinced that the dog was near where Colter had said Bill\nIsbel had plunged over the declivity. Would the dog yelp that way if\nthe man was dead? Ellen thought not.\n\nNo one came, and the continuous yelping of the dog got on Ellen's\nnerves. It was a call for help. And finally she surrendered to it.\nSince her natural terror when Colter's horse was shot from under her\nand she had been dragged away, she had not recovered from fear of the\nIsbels. But calm consideration now convinced her that she could hardly\nbe in a worse plight in their hands than if she remained in Colter's.\nSo she started out to find the dog.\n\nThe wooded bench was level for a few hundred yards, and then it began\nto heave in rugged, rocky bulges up toward the Rim. It did not appear\nfar to where the dog was barking, but the latter part of the distance\nproved to be a hard climb over jumbled rocks and through thick brush.\nPanting and hot, she at length reached the base of the bluff, to find\nthat it was not very high.\n\nThe dog espied her before she saw him, for he was coming toward her\nwhen she discovered him. Big, shaggy, grayish white and black, with\nwild, keen face and eyes he assuredly looked the reputation Springer\nhad accorded him. But sagacious, guarded as was his approach, he\nappeared friendly.\n\n\"Hello--doggie!\" panted Ellen. \"What's--wrong--up heah?\"\n\nHe yelped, his ears lost their stiffness, his body sank a little, and\nhis bushy tail wagged to and fro. What a gray, clear, intelligent look\nhe gave her! Then he trotted back.\n\nEllen followed him around a corner of bluff to see the body of a man\nlying on his back. Fresh earth and gravel lay about him, attesting to\nhis fall from above. He had on neither coat nor hat, and the position\nof his body and limbs suggested broken bones. As Ellen hurried to his\nside she saw that the front of his shirt, low down, was a bloody\nblotch. But he could lift his head; his eyes were open; he was\nperfectly conscious. Ellen did not recognize the dusty, skinned face,\nyet the mold of features, the look of the eyes, seemed strangely\nfamiliar.\n\n\"You're--Jorth's--girl,\" he said, in faint voice of surprise.\n\n\"Yes, I'm Ellen Jorth,\" she replied. \"An' are y'u Bill Isbel?\"\n\n\"All thet's left of me. But I'm thankin' God somebody come--even a\nJorth.\"\n\nEllen knelt beside him and examined the wound in his abdomen. A heavy\nbullet had indeed, as Colter had avowed, torn clear through his middle.\nEven if he had not sustained other serious injury from the fall over\nthe cliff, that terrible bullet wound meant death very shortly. Ellen\nshuddered. How inexplicable were men! How cruel, bloody, mindless!\n\n\"Isbel, I'm sorry--there's no hope,\" she said, low voiced. \"Y'u've not\nlong to live. I cain't help y'u. God knows I'd do so if I could.\"\n\n\"All over!\" he sighed, with his eyes looking beyond her. \"I reckon--I'm\nglad.... But y'u can--do somethin' for or me. Will y'u?\"\n\n\"Indeed, Yes. Tell me,\" she replied, lifting his dusty head on her\nknee. Her hands trembled as she brushed his wet hair back from his\nclammy brow.\n\n\"I've somethin'--on my conscience,\" he whispered.\n\nThe woman, the sensitive in Ellen, understood and pitied him then.\n\n\"Yes,\" she encouraged him.\n\n\"I stole cattle--my dad's an' Blaisdell's--an' made deals--with\nDaggs.... All the crookedness--wasn't on--Jorth's side.... I want--my\nbrother Jean--to know.\"\n\n\"I'll try--to tell him,\" whispered Ellen, out of her great amaze.\n\n\"We were all--a bad lot--except Jean,\" went on Isbel. \"Dad wasn't\nfair.... God! how he hated Jorth! Jorth, yes, who was--your father....\nWal, they're even now.\"\n\n\"How--so?\" faltered Ellen.\n\n\"Your father killed dad.... At the last--dad wanted to--save us. He\nsent word--he'd meet him--face to face--an' let thet end the feud. They\nmet out in the road.... But some one shot dad down--with a rifle--an'\nthen your father finished him.\"\n\n\"An' then, Isbel,\" added Ellen, with unconscious mocking bitterness,\n\"Your brother murdered my dad!\"\n\n\"What!\" whispered Bill Isbel. \"Shore y'u've got--it wrong. I reckon\nJean--could have killed--your father.... But he didn't. Queer, we all\nthought.\"\n\n\"Ah! ... Who did kill my father?\" burst out Ellen, and her voice rang\nlike great hammers at her ears.\n\n\"It was Blue. He went in the store--alone--faced the whole gang alone.\nBluffed them--taunted them--told them he was King Fisher.... Then he\nkilled--your dad--an' Jackson Jorth.... Jean was out--back of the\nstore. We were out--front. There was shootin'. Colmor was hit. Then\nBlue ran out--bad hurt.... Both of them--died in Meeker's yard.\"\n\n\"An' so Jean Isbel has not killed a Jorth!\" said Ellen, in strange,\ndeep voice.\n\n\"No,\" replied Isbel, earnestly. \"I reckon this feud--was hardest on\nJean. He never lived heah.... An' my sister Ann said--he got sweet on\ny'u.... Now did he?\"\n\nSlow, stinging tears filled Ellen's eyes, and her head sank low and\nlower.\n\n\"Yes--he did,\" she murmured, tremulously.\n\n\"Ahuh! Wal, thet accounts,\" replied Isbel, wonderingly. \"Too bad! ...\nIt might have been.... A man always sees--different when--he's\ndyin'.... If I had--my life--to live over again! ... My poor\nkids--deserted in their babyhood--ruined for life! All for nothin'....\nMay God forgive--\"\n\nThen he choked and whispered for water.\n\nEllen laid his head back and, rising, she took his sombrero and started\nhurriedly down the slope, making dust fly and rocks roll. Her mind was\na seething ferment. Leaping, bounding, sliding down the weathered\nslope, she gained the bench, to run across that, and so on down into\nthe open canyon to the willow-bordered brook. Here she filled the\nsombrero with water and started back, forced now to walk slowly and\ncarefully. It was then, with the violence and fury of intense muscular\nactivity denied her, that the tremendous import of Bill Isbel's\nrevelation burst upon her very flesh and blood and transfiguring the\nvery world of golden light and azure sky and speaking forestland that\nencompassed her.\n\nNot a drop of the precious water did she spill. Not a misstep did she\nmake. Yet so great was the spell upon her that she was not aware she\nhad climbed the steep slope until the dog yelped his welcome. Then\nwith all the flood of her emotion surging and resurging she knelt to\nallay the parching thirst of this dying enemy whose words had changed\nfrailty to strength, hate to love, and, the gloomy hell of despair to\nsomething unutterable. But she had returned too late. Bill Isbel was\ndead.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nJean Isbel, holding the wolf-dog Shepp in leash, was on the trail of\nthe most dangerous of Jorth's gang, the gunman Queen. Dark drops of\nblood on the stones and plain tracks of a rider's sharp-heeled boots\nbehind coverts indicated the trail of a wounded, slow-traveling\nfugitive. Therefore, Jean Isbel held in the dog and proceeded with the\nwary eye and watchful caution of an Indian.\n\nQueen, true to his class, and emulating Blue with the same magnificent\neffrontery and with the same paralyzing suddenness of surprise, had\nappeared as if by magic at the last night camp of the Isbel faction.\nJean had seen him first, in time to leap like a panther into the\nshadow. But he carried in his shoulder Queen's first bullet of that\nterrible encounter. Upon Gordon and Fredericks fell the brunt of\nQueen's fusillade. And they, shot to pieces, staggering and falling,\nheld passionate grip on life long enough to draw and still Queen's guns\nand send him reeling off into the darkness of the forest.\n\nUnarmed, and hindered by a painful wound, Jean had kept a vigil near\ncamp all that silent and menacing night. Morning disclosed Gordon and\nFredericks stark and ghastly beside the burned-out camp-fire, their\nguns clutched immovably in stiffened hands. Jean buried them as best\nhe could, and when they were under ground with flat stones on their\ngraves he knew himself to be indeed the last of the Isbel clan. And\nall that was wild and savage in his blood and desperate in his spirit\nrose to make him more than man and less than human. Then for the third\ntime during these tragic last days the wolf-dog Shepp came to him.\n\nJean washed the wound Queen had given him and bound it tightly. The\nkeen pang and burn of the lead was a constant and all-powerful reminder\nof the grim work left for him to do. The whole world was no longer\nlarge enough for him and whoever was left of the Jorths. The heritage\nof blood his father had bequeathed him, the unshakable love for a\nworthless girl who had so dwarfed and obstructed his will and so\nbitterly defeated and reviled his poor, romantic, boyish faith, the\nkilling of hostile men, so strange in its after effects, the pursuits\nand fights, and loss of one by one of his confederates--these had\nfinally engendered in Jean Isbel a wild, unslakable thirst, these had\nbeen the cause of his retrogression, these had unalterably and\nruthlessly fixed in his darkened mind one fierce passion--to live and\ndie the last man of that Jorth-Isbel feud.\n\nAt sunrise Jean left this camp, taking with him only a small knapsack\nof meat and bread, and with the eager, wild Shepp in leash he set out\non Queen's bloody trail.\n\nBlack drops of blood on the stones and an irregular trail of footprints\nproved to Jean that the gunman was hard hit. Here he had fallen, or\nknelt, or sat down, evidently to bind his wounds. Jean found strips of\nscarf, red and discarded. And the blood drops failed to show on more\nrocks. In a deep forest of spruce, under silver-tipped spreading\nbranches, Queen had rested, perhaps slept. Then laboring with dragging\nsteps, not improbably with a lame leg, he had gone on, up out of the\ndark-green ravine to the open, dry, pine-tipped ridge. Here he had\nrested, perhaps waited to see if he were pursued. From that point his\ntrail spoke an easy language for Jean's keen eye. The gunman knew he\nwas pursued. He had seen his enemy. Therefore Jean proceeded with a\nslow caution, never getting within revolver range of ambush, using all\nhis woodcraft to trail this man and yet save himself. Queen traveled\nslowly, either because he was wounded or else because he tried to\nambush his pursuer, and Jean accommodated his pace to that of Queen.\nFrom noon of that day they were never far apart, never out of hearing\nof a rifle shot.\n\nThe contrast of the beauty and peace and loneliness of the surroundings\nto the nature of Queen's flight often obtruded its strange truth into\nthe somber turbulence of Jean's mind, into that fixed columnar idea\naround which fleeting thoughts hovered and gathered like shadows.\n\nEarly frost had touched the heights with its magic wand. And the\nforest seemed a temple in which man might worship nature and life\nrather than steal through the dells and under the arched aisles like a\nbeast of prey. The green-and-gold leaves of aspens quivered in the\nglades; maples in the ravines fluttered their red-and-purple leaves.\nThe needle-matted carpet under the pines vied with the long lanes of\nsilvery grass, alike enticing to the eye of man and beast. Sunny rays\nof light, flecked with dust and flying insects, slanted down from the\noverhanging brown-limbed, green-massed foliage. Roar of wind in the\ndistant forest alternated with soft breeze close at hand. Small\ndove-gray squirrels ran all over the woodland, very curious about Jean\nand his dog, rustling the twigs, scratching the bark of trees,\nchattering and barking, frisky, saucy, and bright-eyed. A plaintive\ntwitter of wild canaries came from the region above the treetops--first\nvoices of birds in their pilgrimage toward the south. Pine cones\ndropped with soft thuds. The blue jays followed these intruders in the\nforest, screeching their displeasure. Like rain pattered the dropping\nseeds from the spruces. A woody, earthy, leafy fragrance, damp with\nthe current of life, mingled with a cool, dry, sweet smell of withered\ngrass and rotting pines.\n\nSolitude and lonesomeness, peace and rest, wild life and nature,\nreigned there. It was a golden-green region, enchanting to the gaze of\nman. An Indian would have walked there with his spirits.\n\nAnd even as Jean felt all this elevating beauty and inscrutable spirit\nhis keen eye once more fastened upon the blood-red drops Queen had\nagain left on the gray moss and rock. His wound had reopened. Jean\nfelt the thrill of the scenting panther.\n\nThe sun set, twilight gathered, night fell. Jean crawled under a\ndense, low-spreading spruce, ate some bread and meat, fed the dog, and\nlay down to rest and sleep. His thoughts burdened him, heavy and black\nas the mantle of night. A wolf mourned a hungry cry for a mate. Shepp\nquivered under Jean's hand. That was the call which had lured him from\nthe ranch. The wolf blood in him yearned for the wild. Jean tied the\ncowhide leash to his wrist. When this dark business was at an end\nShepp could be free to join the lonely mate mourning out there in the\nforest. Then Jean slept.\n\nDawn broke cold, clear, frosty, with silvered grass sparkling, with a\nsoft, faint rustling of falling aspen leaves. When the sun rose red\nJean was again on the trail of Queen. By a frosty-ferned brook, where\nwater tinkled and ran clear as air and cold as ice, Jean quenched his\nthirst, leaning on a stone that showed drops of blood. Queen, too, had\nto quench his thirst. What good, what help, Jean wondered, could the\ncold, sweet, granite water, so dear to woodsmen and wild creatures, do\nthis wounded, hunted rustler? Why did he not wait in the open to fight\nand face the death he had meted? Where was that splendid and terrible\ndaring of the gunman? Queen's love of life dragged him on and on, hour\nby hour, through the pine groves and spruce woods, through the oak\nswales and aspen glades, up and down the rocky gorges, around the\nwindfalls and over the rotting logs.\n\nThe time came when Queen tried no more ambush. He gave up trying to\ntrap his pursuer by lying in wait. He gave up trying to conceal his\ntracks. He grew stronger or, in desperation, increased his energy, so\nthat he redoubled his progress through the wilderness. That, at best,\nwould count only a few miles a day. And he began to circle to the\nnorthwest, back toward the deep canyon where Blaisdell and Bill Isbel\nhad reached the end of their trails. Queen had evidently left his\ncomrades, had lone-handed it in his last fight, but was now trying to\nget back to them. Somewhere in these wild, deep forest brakes the rest\nof the Jorth faction had found a hiding place. Jean let Queen lead him\nthere.\n\nEllen Jorth would be with them. Jean had seen her. It had been his\nshot that killed Colter's horse. And he had withheld further fire\nbecause Colter had dragged the girl behind him, protecting his body\nwith hers. Sooner or later Jean would come upon their camp. She would\nbe there. The thought of her dark beauty, wasted in wantonness upon\nthese rustlers, added a deadly rage to the blood lust and righteous\nwrath of his vengeance. Let her again flaunt her degradation in his\nface and, by the God she had forsaken, he would kill her, and so end\nthe race of Jorths!\n\nAnother night fell, dark and cold, without starlight. The wind moaned\nin the forest. Shepp was restless. He sniffed the air. There was a\nstep on his trail. Again a mournful, eager, wild, and hungry wolf cry\nbroke the silence. It was deep and low, like that of a baying hound,\nbut infinitely wilder. Shepp strained to get away. During the night,\nwhile Jean slept, he managed to chew the cowhide leash apart and run\noff.\n\nNext day no dog was needed to trail Queen. Fog and low-drifting clouds\nin the forest and a misty rain had put the rustler off his bearings. He\nwas lost, and showed that he realized it. Strange how a matured man,\nfighter of a hundred battles, steeped in bloodshed, and on his last\nstand, should grow panic-stricken upon being lost! So Jean Isbel read\nthe signs of the trail.\n\nQueen circled and wandered through the foggy, dripping forest until he\nheaded down into a canyon. It was one that notched the Rim and led\ndown and down, mile after mile into the Basin. Not soon had Queen\ndiscovered his mistake. When he did do so, night overtook him.\n\nThe weather cleared before morning. Red and bright the sun burst out\nof the east to flood that low basin land with light. Jean found that\nQueen had traveled on and on, hoping, no doubt, to regain what he had\nlost. But in the darkness he had climbed to the manzanita slopes\ninstead of back up the canyon. And here he had fought the hold of that\nstrange brush of Spanish name until he fell exhausted.\n\nSurely Queen would make his stand and wait somewhere in this devilish\nthicket for Jean to catch up with him. Many and many a place Jean\nwould have chosen had he been in Queen's place. Many a rock and dense\nthicket Jean circled or approached with extreme care. Manzanita grew\nin patches that were impenetrable except for a small animal. The brush\nwas a few feet high, seldom so high that Jean could not look over it,\nand of a beautiful appearance, having glossy, small leaves, a golden\nberry, and branches of dark-red color. These branches were tough and\nunbendable. Every bush, almost, had low branches that were dead, hard\nas steel, sharp as thorns, as clutching as cactus. Progress was\npossible only by endless detours to find the half-closed aisles between\npatches, or else by crashing through with main strength or walking\nright over the tops. Jean preferred this last method, not because it\nwas the easiest, but for the reason that he could see ahead so much\nfarther. So he literally walked across the tips of the manzanita brush.\nOften he fell through and had to step up again; many a branch broke\nwith him, letting him down; but for the most part he stepped from fork\nto fork, on branch after branch, with balance of an Indian and the\npatience of a man whose purpose was sustaining and immutable.\n\nOn that south slope under the Rim the sun beat down hot. There was no\nbreeze to temper the dry air. And before midday Jean was laboring, wet\nwith sweat, parching with thirst, dusty and hot and tiring. It amazed\nhim, the doggedness and tenacity of life shown by this wounded rustler.\nThe time came when under the burning rays of the sun he was compelled\nto abandon the walk across the tips of the manzanita bushes and take to\nthe winding, open threads that ran between. It would have been poor\nsight indeed that could not have followed Queen's labyrinthine and\nbroken passage through the brush. Then the time came when Jean espied\nQueen, far ahead and above, crawling like a black bug along the\nbright-green slope. Sight then acted upon Jean as upon a hound in the\nchase. But he governed his actions if he could not govern his\ninstincts. Slowly but surely he followed the dusty, hot trail, and\nnever a patch of blood failed to send a thrill along his veins.\n\nQueen, headed up toward the Rim, finally vanished from sight. Had he\nfallen? Was he hiding? But the hour disclosed that he was crawling.\nJean's keen eye caught the slow moving of the brush and enabled him to\nkeep just so close to the rustler, out of range of the six-shooters he\ncarried. And so all the interminable hours of the hot afternoon that\nsnail-pace flight and pursuit kept on.\n\nHalfway up the Rim the growth of manzanita gave place to open, yellow,\nrocky slope dotted with cedars. Queen took to a slow-ascending ridge\nand left his bloody tracks all the way to the top, where in the\ngathering darkness the weary pursuer lost them.\n\nAnother night passed. Daylight was relentless to the rustler. He\ncould not hide his trail. But somehow in a desperate last rally of\nstrength he reached a point on the heavily timbered ridge that Jean\nrecognized as being near the scene of the fight in the canyon. Queen\nwas nearing the rendezvous of the rustlers. Jean crossed tracks of\nhorses, and then more tracks that he was certain had been made days\npast by his own party. To the left of this ridge must be the deep\ncanyon that had frustrated his efforts to catch up with the rustlers on\nthe day Blaisdell lost his life, and probably Bill Isbel, too.\nSomething warned Jean that he was nearing the end of the trail, and an\nunaccountable sense of imminent catastrophe seemed foreshadowed by\nvague dreads and doubts in his gloomy mind. Jean felt the need of\nrest, of food, of ease from the strain of the last weeks. But his\nspirit drove him implacably.\n\nQueen's rally of strength ended at the edge of an open, bald ridge that\nwas bare of brush or grass and was surrounded by a line of forest on\nthree sides, and on the fourth by a low bluff which raised its gray\nhead above the pines. Across this dusty open Queen had crawled,\nleaving unmistakable signs of his condition. Jean took long survey of\nthe circle of trees and of the low, rocky eminence, neither of which he\nliked. It might be wiser to keep to cover, Jean thought, and work\naround to where Queen's trail entered the forest again. But he was\ntired, gloomy, and his eternal vigilance was failing. Nevertheless, he\nstilled for the thousandth time that bold prompting of his vengeance\nand, taking to the edge of the forest, he went to considerable pains to\ncircle the open ground. And suddenly sight of a man sitting back\nagainst a tree halted Jean.\n\nHe stared to make sure his eyes did not deceive him. Many times stumps\nand snags and rocks had taken on strange resemblance to a standing or\ncrouching man. This was only another suggestive blunder of the mind\nbehind his eyes--what he wanted to see he imagined he saw. Jean glided\non from tree to tree until he made sure that this sitting image indeed\nwas that of a man. He sat bolt upright, facing back across the open,\nhands resting on his knees--and closer scrutiny showed Jean that he\nheld a gun in each hand.\n\nQueen! At the last his nerve had revived. He could not crawl any\nfarther, he could never escape, so with the courage of fatality he\nchose the open, to face his foe and die. Jean had a thrill of\nadmiration for the rustler. Then he stalked out from under the pines\nand strode forward with his rifle ready.\n\nA watching man could not have failed to espy Jean. But Queen never\nmade the slightest move. Moreover, his stiff, unnatural position\nstruck Jean so singularly that he halted with a muttered exclamation.\nHe was now about fifty paces from Queen, within range of those small\nguns. Jean called, sharply, \"QUEEN!\" Still the figure never relaxed in\nthe slightest.\n\nJean advanced a few more paces, rifle up, ready to fire the instant\nQueen lifted a gun. The man's immobility brought the cold sweat to\nJean's brow. He stopped to bend the full intense power of his gaze\nupon this inert figure. Suddenly over Jean flashed its meaning. Queen\nwas dead. He had backed up against the pine, ready to face his foe,\nand he had died there. Not a shadow of a doubt entered Jean's mind as\nhe started forward again. He knew. After all, Queen's blood would not\nbe on his hands. Gordon and Fredericks in their death throes had given\nthe rustler mortal wounds. Jean kept on, marveling the while. How\nghastly thin and hard! Those four days of flight had been hell for\nQueen.\n\nJean reached him--looked down with staring eyes. The guns were tied to\nhis hands. Jean started violently as the whole direction of his mind\nshifted. A lightning glance showed that Queen had been propped against\nthe tree--another showed boot tracks in the dust.\n\n\"By Heaven, they've fooled me!\" hissed Jean, and quickly as he leaped\nbehind the pine he was not quick enough to escape the cunning rustlers\nwho had waylaid him thus. He felt the shock, the bite and burn of lead\nbefore he heard a rifle crack. A bullet had ripped through his left\nforearm. From behind the tree he saw a puff of white smoke along the\nface of the bluff--the very spot his keen and gloomy vigilance had\ndescried as one of menace. Then several puffs of white smoke and\nringing reports betrayed the ambush of the tricksters. Bullets barked\nthe pine and whistled by. Jean saw a man dart from behind a rock and,\nleaning over, run for another. Jean's swift shot stopped him midway.\nHe fell, got up, and floundered behind a bush scarcely large enough to\nconceal him. Into that bush Jean shot again and again. He had no pain\nin his wounded arm, but the sense of the shock clung in his\nconsciousness, and this, with the tremendous surprise of the deceit,\nand sudden release of long-dammed overmastering passion, caused him to\nempty the magazine of his Winchester in a terrible haste to kill the\nman he had hit.\n\nThese were all the loads he had for his rifle. Blood passion had made\nhim blunder. Jean cursed himself, and his hand moved to his belt. His\nsix-shooter was gone. The sheath had been loose. He had tied the gun\nfast. But the strings had been torn apart. The rustlers were shooting\nagain. Bullets thudded into the pine and whistled by. Bending\ncarefully, Jean reached one of Queen's guns and jerked it from his\nhand. The weapon was empty. Both of his guns were empty. Jean peeped\nout again to get the line in which the bullets were coming and, marking\na course from his position to the cover of the forest, he ran with all\nhis might. He gained the shelter. Shrill yells behind warned him that\nhe had been seen, that his reason for flight had been guessed. Looking\nback, he saw two or three men scrambling down the bluff. Then the loud\nneigh of a frightened horse pealed out.\n\nJean discarded his useless rifle, and headed down the ridge slope,\nkeeping to the thickest line of pines and sheering around the clumps of\nspruce. As he ran, his mind whirled with grim thoughts of escape, of\nhis necessity to find the camp where Gordon and Fredericks were buried,\nthere to procure another rifle and ammunition. He felt the wet blood\ndripping down his arm, yet no pain. The forest was too open for good\ncover. He dared not run uphill. His only course was ahead, and that\nsoon ended in an abrupt declivity too precipitous to descend. As he\nhalted, panting for breath, he heard the ring of hoofs on stone, then\nthe thudding beat of running horses on soft ground. The rustlers had\nsighted the direction he had taken. Jean did not waste time to look.\nIndeed, there was no need, for as he bounded along the cliff to the\nright a rifle cracked and a bullet whizzed over his head. It lent\nwings to his feet. Like a deer he sped along, leaping cracks and logs\nand rocks, his ears filled by the rush of wind, until his quick eye\ncaught sight of thick-growing spruce foliage close to the precipice. He\nsprang down into the green mass. His weight precipitated him through\nthe upper branches. But lower down his spread arms broke his fall,\nthen retarded it until he caught. A long, swaying limb let him down\nand down, where he grasped another and a stiffer one that held his\nweight. Hand over hand he worked toward the trunk of this spruce and,\ngaining it, he found other branches close together down which he\nhastened, hold by hold and step by step, until all above him was black,\ndense foliage, and beneath him the brown, shady slope. Sure of being\nunseen from above, he glided noiselessly down under the trees, slowly\nregaining freedom from that constriction of his breast.\n\nPassing on to a gray-lichened cliff, overhanging and gloomy, he paused\nthere to rest and to listen. A faint crack of hoof on stone came to\nhim from above, apparently farther on to the right. Eventually his\npursuers would discover that he had taken to the canyon. But for the\nmoment he felt safe. The wound in his forearm drew his attention. The\nbullet had gone clear through without breaking either bone. His shirt\nsleeve was soaked with blood. Jean rolled it back and tightly wrapped\nhis scarf around the wound, yet still the dark-red blood oozed out and\ndripped down into his hand. He became aware of a dull, throbbing pain.\n\nNot much time did Jean waste in arriving at what was best to do. For\nthe time being he had escaped, and whatever had been his peril, it was\npast. In dense, rugged country like this he could not be caught by\nrustlers. But he had only a knife left for a weapon, and there was\nvery little meat in the pocket of his coat. Salt and matches he\npossessed. Therefore the imperative need was for him to find the last\ncamp, where he could get rifle and ammunition, bake bread, and rest up\nbefore taking again the trail of the rustlers. He had reason to\nbelieve that this canyon was the one where the fight on the Rim, and\nlater, on a bench of woodland below, had taken place.\n\nThereupon he arose and glided down under the spruces toward the level,\ngrassy open he could see between the trees. And as he proceeded, with\nthe slow step and wary eye of an Indian, his mind was busy.\n\nQueen had in his flight unerringly worked in the direction of this\ncanyon until he became lost in the fog; and upon regaining his bearings\nhe had made a wonderful and heroic effort to surmount the manzanita\nslope and the Rim and find the rendezvous of his comrades. But he had\nfailed up there on the ridge. In thinking it over Jean arrived at a\nconclusion that Queen, finding he could go no farther, had waited, guns\nin hands, for his pursuer. And he had died in this position. Then by\nstrange coincidence his comrades had happened to come across him and,\nrecognizing the situation, they had taken the shells from his guns and\npropped him up with the idea of luring Jean on. They had arranged a\ncunning trick and ambush, which had all but snuffed out the last of the\nIsbels. Colter probably had been at the bottom of this crafty plan.\nSince the fight at the Isbel ranch, now seemingly far back in the past,\nthis man Colter had loomed up more and more as a stronger and more\ndangerous antagonist then either Jorth or Daggs. Before that he had\nbeen little known to any of the Isbel faction. And it was Colter now\nwho controlled the remnant of the gang and who had Ellen Jorth in his\npossession.\n\nThe canyon wall above Jean, on the right, grew more rugged and loftier,\nand the one on the left began to show wooded slopes and brakes, and at\nlast a wide expanse with a winding, willow border on the west and a\nlong, low, pine-dotted bench on the east. It took several moments of\nstudy for Jean to recognize the rugged bluff above this bench. On up\nthat canyon several miles was the site where Queen had surprised Jean\nand his comrades at their campfire. Somewhere in this vicinity was the\nhiding place of the rustlers.\n\nThereupon Jean proceeded with the utmost stealth, absolutely certain\nthat he would miss no sound, movement, sign, or anything unnatural to\nthe wild peace of the canyon. And his first sense to register\nsomething was his keen smell. Sheep! He was amazed to smell sheep.\nThere must be a flock not far away. Then from where he glided along\nunder the trees he saw down to open places in the willow brake and\nnoticed sheep tracks in the dark, muddy bank of the brook. Next he\nheard faint tinkle of bells, and at length, when he could see farther\ninto the open enlargement of the canyon, his surprised gaze fell upon\nan immense gray, woolly patch that blotted out acres and acres of\ngrass. Thousands of sheep were grazing there. Jean knew there were\nseveral flocks of Jorth's sheep on the mountain in the care of herders,\nbut he had never thought of them being so far west, more than twenty\nmiles from Chevelon Canyon. His roving eyes could not descry any\nherders or dogs. But he knew there must be dogs close to that immense\nflock. And, whatever his cunning, he could not hope to elude the scent\nand sight of shepherd dogs. It would be best to go back the way he had\ncome, wait for darkness, then cross the canyon and climb out, and work\naround to his objective point. Turning at once, he started to glide\nback. But almost immediately he was brought stock-still and thrilling\nby the sound of hoofs.\n\nHorses were coming in the direction he wished to take. They were\nclose. His swift conclusion was that the men who had pursued him up on\nthe Rim had worked down into the canyon. One circling glance showed\nhim that he had no sure covert near at hand. It would not do to risk\ntheir passing him there. The border of woodland was narrow and not\ndense enough for close inspection. He was forced to turn back up the\ncanyon, in the hope of soon finding a hiding place or a break in the\nwall where he could climb up.\n\nHugging the base of the wall, he slipped on, passing the point where he\nhad espied the sheep, and gliding on until he was stopped by a bend in\nthe dense line of willows. It sheered to the west there and ran close\nto the high wall. Jean kept on until he was stooping under a curling\nborder of willow thicket, with branches slim and yellow and masses of\ngreen foliage that brushed against the wall. Suddenly he encountered\nan abrupt corner of rock. He rounded it, to discover that it ran at\nright angles with the one he had just passed. Peering up through the\nwillows, he ascertained that there was a narrow crack in the main wall\nof the canyon. It had been concealed by willows low down and leaning\nspruces above. A wild, hidden retreat! Along the base of the wall\nthere were tracks of small animals. The place was odorous, like all\ndense thickets, but it was not dry. Water ran through there somewhere.\nJean drew easier breath. All sounds except the rustling of birds or\nmice in the willows had ceased. The brake was pervaded by a dreamy\nemptiness. Jean decided to steal on a little farther, then wait till\nhe felt he might safely dare go back.\n\nThe golden-green gloom suddenly brightened. Light showed ahead, and\nparting the willows, he looked out into a narrow, winding canyon, with\nan open, grassy, willow-streaked lane in the center and on each side a\nthin strip of woodland.\n\nHis surprise was short lived. A crashing of horses back of him in the\nwillows gave him a shock. He ran out along the base of the wall, back\nof the trees. Like the strip of woodland in the main canyon, this one\nwas scant and had but little underbrush. There were young spruces\ngrowing with thick branches clear to the grass, and under these he\ncould have concealed himself. But, with a certainty of sheep dogs in\nthe vicinity, he would not think of hiding except as a last resource.\nThese horsemen, whoever they were, were as likely to be sheep herders\nas not. Jean slackened his pace to look back. He could not see any\nmoving objects, but he still heard horses, though not so close now.\nAhead of him this narrow gorge opened out like the neck of a bottle. He\nwould run on to the head of it and find a place to climb to the top.\n\nHurried and anxious as Jean was, he yet received an impression of\nsingular, wild nature of this side gorge. It was a hidden,\npine-fringed crack in the rock-ribbed and canyon-cut tableland. Above\nhim the sky seemed a winding stream of blue. The walls were red and\nbulged out in spruce-greened shelves. From wall to wall was scarcely a\ndistance of a hundred feet. Jumbles of rock obstructed his close\nholding to the wall. He had to walk at the edge of the timber. As he\nprogressed, the gorge widened into wilder, ruggeder aspect. Through\nthe trees ahead he saw where the wall circled to meet the cliff on the\nleft, forming an oval depression, the nature of which he could not\nascertain. But it appeared to be a small opening surrounded by dense\nthickets and the overhanging walls. Anxiety augmented to alarm. He\nmight not be able to find a place to scale those rough cliffs.\nBreathing hard, Jean halted again. The situation was growing critical\nagain. His physical condition was worse. Loss of sleep and rest, lack\nof food, the long pursuit of Queen, the wound in his arm, and the\ndesperate run for his life--these had weakened him to the extent that\nif he undertook any strenuous effort he would fail. His cunning\nweighed all chances.\n\nThe shade of wall and foliage above, and another jumble of ruined\ncliff, hindered his survey of the ground ahead, and he almost stumbled\nupon a cabin, hidden on three sides, with a small, bare clearing in\nfront. It was an old, ramshackle structure like others he had run\nacross in the canons. Cautiously he approached and peeped around the\ncorner. At first swift glance it had all the appearance of long disuse.\nBut Jean had no time for another look. A clip-clop of trotting horses\non hard ground brought the same pell-mell rush of sensations that had\ndriven him to wild flight scarcely an hour past. His body jerked with\nits instinctive impulse, then quivered with his restraint. To turn\nback would be risky, to run ahead would be fatal, to hide was his one\nhope. No covert behind! And the clip-clop of hoofs sounded closer.\nOne moment longer Jean held mastery over his instincts of\nself-preservation. To keep from running was almost impossible. It was\nthe sheer primitive animal sense to escape. He drove it back and\nglided along the front of the cabin.\n\nHere he saw that the cabin adjoined another. Reaching the door, he was\nabout to peep in when the thud of hoofs and voices close at hand\ntransfixed him with a grim certainty that he had not an instant to\nlose. Through the thin, black-streaked line of trees he saw moving red\nobjects. Horses! He must run. Passing the door, his keen nose caught\na musty, woody odor and the tail of his eye saw bare dirt floor. This\ncabin was unused. He halted--gave a quick look back. And the first\nthing his eye fell upon was a ladder, right inside the door, against\nthe wall. He looked up. It led to a loft that, dark and gloomy,\nstretched halfway across the cabin. An irresistible impulse drove\nJean. Slipping inside, he climbed up the ladder to the loft. It was\nlike night up there. But he crawled on the rough-hewn rafters and,\nturning with his head toward the opening, he stretched out and lay\nstill.\n\nWhat seemed an interminable moment ended with a trample of hoofs\noutside the cabin. It ceased. Jean's vibrating ears caught the jingle\nof spurs and a thud of boots striking the ground.\n\n\"Wal, sweetheart, heah we are home again,\" drawled a slow, cool,\nmocking Texas voice.\n\n\"Home! I wonder, Colter--did y'u ever have a home--a mother--a\nsister--much less a sweetheart?\" was the reply, bitter and caustic.\n\nJean's palpitating, hot body suddenly stretched still and cold with\nintensity of shock. His very bones seemed to quiver and stiffen into\nice. During the instant of realization his heart stopped. And a slow,\ncontracting pressure enveloped his breast and moved up to constrict his\nthroat. That woman's voice belonged to Ellen Jorth. The sound of it\nhad lingered in his dreams. He had stumbled upon the rendezvous of the\nJorth faction. Hard indeed had been the fates meted out to those of\nthe Isbels and Jorths who had passed to their deaths. But, no ordeal,\nnot even Queen's, could compare with this desperate one Jean must\nendure. He had loved Ellen Jorth, strangely, wonderfully, and he had\nscorned repute to believe her good. He had spared her father and her\nuncle. He had weakened or lost the cause of the Isbels. He loved her\nnow, desperately, deathlessly, knowing from her own lips that she was\nworthless--loved her the more because he had felt her terrible shame.\nAnd to him--the last of the Isbels--had come the cruelest of dooms--to\nbe caught like a crippled rat in a trap; to be compelled to lie\nhelpless, wounded, without a gun; to listen, and perhaps to see Ellen\nJorth enact the very truth of her mocking insinuation. His will, his\npromise, his creed, his blood must hold him to the stem decree that he\nshould be the last man of the Jorth-Isbel war. But could he lie there\nto hear--to see--when he had a knife and an arm?\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nThen followed the leathery flop of saddles to the soft turf and the\nstamp, of loosened horses.\n\nJean heard a noise at the cabin door, a rustle, and then a knock of\nsomething hard against wood. Silently he moved his head to look down\nthrough a crack between the rafters. He saw the glint of a rifle\nleaning against the sill. Then the doorstep was darkened. Ellen Jorth\nsat down with a long, tired sigh. She took off her sombrero and the\nlight shone on the rippling, dark-brown hair, hanging in a tangled\nbraid. The curved nape of her neck showed a warm tint of golden tan.\nShe wore a gray blouse, soiled and torn, that clung to her lissome\nshoulders.\n\n\"Colter, what are y'u goin' to do?\" she asked, suddenly. Her voice\ncarried something Jean did not remember. It thrilled into the icy\nfixity of his senses.\n\n\"We'll stay heah,\" was the response, and it was followed by a clinking\nstep of spurred boot.\n\n\"Shore I won't stay heah,\" declared Ellen. \"It makes me sick when I\nthink of how Uncle Tad died in there alone--helpless--sufferin'. The\nplace seems haunted.\"\n\n\"Wal, I'll agree that it's tough on y'u. But what the hell CAN we do?\"\n\nA long silence ensued which Ellen did not break.\n\n\"Somethin' has come off round heah since early mawnin',\" declared\nColter. \"Somers an' Springer haven't got back. An' Antonio's gone....\nNow, honest, Ellen, didn't y'u heah rifle shots off somewhere?\"\n\n\"I reckon I did,\" she responded, gloomily.\n\n\"An' which way?\"\n\n\"Sounded to me up on the bluff, back pretty far.\"\n\n\"Wal, shore that's my idee. An' it makes me think hard. Y'u know\nSomers come across the last camp of the Isbels. An' he dug into a\ngrave to find the bodies of Jim Gordon an' another man he didn't know.\nQueen kept good his brag. He braced that Isbel gang an' killed those\nfellars. But either him or Jean Isbel went off leavin' bloody tracks.\nIf it was Queen's y'u can bet Isbel was after him. An' if it was\nIsbel's tracks, why shore Queen would stick to them. Somers an'\nSpringer couldn't follow the trail. They're shore not much good at\ntrackin'. But for days they've been ridin' the woods, hopin' to run\nacross Queen.... Wal now, mebbe they run across Isbel instead. An' if\nthey did an' got away from him they'll be heah sooner or later. If\nIsbel was too many for them he'd hunt for my trail. I'm gamblin' that\neither Queen or Jean Isbel is daid. I'm hopin' it's Isbel. Because if\nhe ain't daid he's the last of the Isbels, an' mebbe I'm the last of\nJorth's gang.... Shore I'm not hankerin' to meet the half-breed. That's\nwhy I say we'll stay heah. This is as good a hidin' place as there is\nin the country. We've grub. There's water an' grass.\"\n\n\"Me--stay heah with y'u--alone!\"\n\nThe tone seemed a contradiction to the apparently accepted sense of her\nwords. Jean held his breath. But he could not still the slowly\nmounting and accelerating faculties within that were involuntarily\nrising to meet some strange, nameless import. He felt it. He imagined\nit would be the catastrophe of Ellen Jorth's calm acceptance of\nColter's proposition. But down in Jean's miserable heart lived\nsomething that would not die. No mere words could kill it. How\npoignant that moment of her silence! How terribly he realized that if\nhis intelligence and his emotion had believed her betraying words, his\nsoul had not!\n\nBut Ellen Jorth did not speak. Her brown head hung thoughtfully. Her\nsupple shoulders sagged a little.\n\n\"Ellen, what's happened to y'u?\" went on Colter.\n\n\"All the misery possible to a woman,\" she replied, dejectedly.\n\n\"Shore I don't mean that way,\" he continued, persuasively. \"I ain't\ngainsayin' the hard facts of your life. It's been bad. Your dad was\nno good.... But I mean I can't figger the change in y'u.\"\n\n\"No, I reckon y'u cain't,\" she said. \"Whoever was responsible for your\nmake-up left out a mind--not to say feeling.\"\n\nColter drawled a low laugh.\n\n\"Wal, have that your own way. But how much longer are yu goin' to be\nlike this heah?\"\n\n\"Like what?\" she rejoined, sharply.\n\n\"Wal, this stand-offishness of yours?\"\n\n\"Colter, I told y'u to let me alone,\" she said, sullenly.\n\n\"Shore. An' y'u did that before. But this time y'u're different....\nAn' wal, I'm gettin' tired of it.\"\n\nHere the cool, slow voice of the Texan sounded an inflexibility before\nabsent, a timber that hinted of illimitable power.\n\nEllen Jorth shrugged her lithe shoulders and, slowly rising, she picked\nup the little rifle and turned to step into the cabin.\n\n\"Colter,\" she said, \"fetch my pack an' my blankets in heah.\"\n\n\"Shore,\" he returned, with good nature.\n\nJean saw Ellen Jorth lay the rifle lengthwise in a chink between two\nlogs and then slowly turn, back to the wall. Jean knew her then, yet\ndid not know her. The brown flash of her face seemed that of an older,\ngraver woman. His strained gaze, like his waiting mind, had expected\nsomething, he knew not what--a hardened face, a ghost of beauty, a\nrecklessness, a distorted, bitter, lost expression in keeping with her\nfortunes. But he had reckoned falsely. She did not look like that.\nThere was incalculable change, but the beauty remained, somehow\ndifferent. Her red lips were parted. Her brooding eyes, looking out\nstraight from under the level, dark brows, seemed sloe black and\nwonderful with their steady, passionate light.\n\nJean, in his eager, hungry devouring of the beloved face, did not on\nthe first instant grasp the significance of its expression. He was\nseeing the features that had haunted him. But quickly he interpreted\nher expression as the somber, hunted look of a woman who would bear no\nmore. Under the torn blouse her full breast heaved. She held her\nhands clenched at her sides. She was' listening, waiting for that\njangling, slow step. It came, and with the sound she subtly changed.\nShe was a woman hiding her true feelings. She relaxed, and that\nstrong, dark look of fury seemed to fade back into her eyes.\n\nColter appeared at the door, carrying a roll of blankets and a pack.\n\n\"Throw them heah,\" she said. \"I reckon y'u needn't bother coming in.\"\n\nThat angered the man. With one long stride he stepped over the\ndoorsill, down into the cabin, and flung the blankets at her feet and\nthen the pack after it. Whereupon he deliberately sat down in the\ndoor, facing her. With one hand he slid off his sombrero, which fell\noutside, and with the other he reached in his upper vest pocket for the\nlittle bag of tobacco that showed there. All the time he looked at\nher. By the light now unobstructed Jean descried Colter's face; and\nsight of it then sounded the roll and drum of his passions.\n\n\"Wal, Ellen, I reckon we'll have it out right now an' heah,\" he said,\nand with tobacco in one hand, paper in the other he began the\noperations of making a cigarette. However, he scarcely removed his\nglance from her.\n\n\"Yes?\" queried Ellen Jorth.\n\n\"I'm goin' to have things the way they were before--an' more,\" he\ndeclared. The cigarette paper shook in his fingers.\n\n\"What do y'u mean?\" she demanded.\n\n\"Y'u know what I mean,\" he retorted. Voice and action were subtly\nunhinging this man's control over himself.\n\n\"Maybe I don't. I reckon y'u'd better talk plain.\"\n\nThe rustler had clear gray-yellow eyes, flawless, like, crystal, and\nsuddenly they danced with little fiery flecks.\n\n\"The last time I laid my hand on y'u I got hit for my pains. An' shore\nthat's been ranklin'.\"\n\n\"Colter, y'u'll get hit again if y'u put your hands on me,\" she said,\ndark, straight glance on him. A frown wrinkled the level brows.\n\n\"Y'u mean that?\" he asked, thickly.\n\n\"I shore, do.\"\n\nManifestly he accepted her assertion. Something of incredulity and\nbewilderment, that had vied with his resentment, utterly disappeared\nfrom his face.\n\n\"Heah I've been waitin' for y'u to love me,\" he declared, with a\ngesture not without dignified emotion. \"Your givin' in without that\nwasn't so much to me.\"\n\nAnd at these words of the rustler's Jean Isbel felt an icy, sickening\nshudder creep into his soul. He shut his eyes. The end of his dream\nhad been long in coming, but at last it had arrived. A mocking voice,\nlike a hollow wind, echoed through that region--that lonely and\nghost-like hall of his heart which had harbored faith.\n\nShe burst into speech, louder and sharper, the first words of which\nJean's strangely throbbing ears did not distinguish.\n\n\"-- -- you! ... I never gave in to y'u an' I never will.\"\n\n\"But, girl--I kissed y'u--hugged y'u--handled y'u--\" he expostulated,\nand the making of the cigarette ceased.\n\n\"Yes, y'u did--y'u brute--when I was so downhearted and weak I couldn't\nlift my hand,\" she flashed.\n\n\"Ahuh! Y'u mean I couldn't do that now?\"\n\n\"I should smile I do, Jim Colter!\" she replied.\n\n\"Wal, mebbe--I'll see--presently,\" he went on, straining with words.\n\"But I'm shore curious.... Daggs, then--he was nothin' to y'u?\"\n\n\"No more than y'u,\" she said, morbidly. \"He used to run after me--long\nago, it seems..... I was only a girl then--innocent--an' I'd not known\nany but rough men. I couldn't all the time--every day, every\nhour--keep him at arm's length. Sometimes before I knew--I didn't\ncare. I was a child. A kiss meant nothing to me. But after I knew--\"\n\nEllen dropped her head in brooding silence.\n\n\"Say, do y'u expect me to believe that?\" he queried, with a derisive\nleer.\n\n\"Bah! What do I care what y'u believe?\" she cried, with lifting head.\n\n\"How aboot Simm Brace?\"\n\n\"That coyote! ... He lied aboot me, Jim Colter. And any man half a man\nwould have known he lied.\"\n\n\"Wal, Simm always bragged aboot y'u bein' his girl,\" asserted Colter.\n\"An' he wasn't over--particular aboot details of your love-makin'.\"\n\nEllen gazed out of the door, over Colter's head, as if the forest out\nthere was a refuge. She evidently sensed more about the man than\nappeared in his slow talk, in his slouching position. Her lips shut in\na firm line, as if to hide their trembling and to still her passionate\ntongue. Jean, in his absorption, magnified his perceptions. Not yet\nwas Ellen Jorth afraid of this man, but she feared the situation.\nJean's heart was at bursting pitch. All within him seemed chaos--a\nwreck of beliefs and convictions. Nothing was true. He would wake\npresently out of a nightmare. Yet, as surely as he quivered there, he\nfelt the imminence of a great moment--a lightning flash--a\nthunderbolt--a balance struck.\n\nColter attended to the forgotten cigarette. He rolled it, lighted it,\nall the time with lowered, pondering head, and when he had puffed a\ncloud of smoke he suddenly looked up with face as hard as flint, eyes\nas fiery as molten steel.\n\n\"Wal, Ellen--how aboot Jean Isbel--our half-breed Nez Perce friend--who\nwas shore seen handlin' y'u familiar?\" he drawled.\n\nEllen Jorth quivered as under a lash, and her brown face turned a dusty\nscarlet, that slowly receding left her pale.\n\n\"Damn y'u, Jim Colter!\" she burst out, furiously. \"I wish Jean Isbel\nwould jump in that door--or down out of that loft! ... He killed\nGreaves for defiling my name! ... He'd kill Y'U for your dirty\ninsult.... And I'd like to watch him do it.... Y'u cold-blooded Texan!\nY'u thieving rustler! Y'u liar! ... Y'u lied aboot my father's death.\nAnd I know why. Y'u stole my father's gold.... An' now y'u want\nme--y'u expect me to fall into your arms.... My Heaven! cain't y'u tell\na decent woman? Was your mother decent? Was your sister decent? ...\nBah! I'm appealing to deafness. But y'u'll HEAH this, Jim Colter! ...\nI'm not what yu think I am! I'm not the--the damned hussy y'u liars\nhave made me out.... I'm a Jorth, alas! I've no home, no relatives, no\nfriends! I've been forced to live my life with rustlers--vile men like\ny'u an' Daggs an' the rest of your like.... But I've been good! Do y'u\nheah that? ... I AM good--so help me God, y'u an' all your rottenness\ncain't make me bad!\"\n\nColter lounged to his tall height and the laxity of the man vanished.\n\nVanished also was Jean Isbel's suspended icy dread, the cold clogging\nof his fevered mind--vanished in a white, living, leaping flame.\n\nSilently he drew his knife and lay there watching with the eyes of a\nwildcat. The instant Colter stepped far enough over toward the edge of\nthe loft Jean meant to bound erect and plunge down upon him. But Jean\ncould wait now. Colter had a gun at his hip. He must never have a\nchance to draw it.\n\n\"Ahuh! So y'u wish Jean Isbel would hop in heah, do y'u?\" queried\nColter. \"Wal, if I had any pity on y'u, that's done for it.\"\n\nA sweep of his long arm, so swift Ellen had no time to move, brought\nhis hand in clutching contact with her. And the force of it flung her\nhalf across the cabin room, leaving the sleeve of her blouse in his\ngrasp. Pantingly she put out that bared arm and her other to ward him\noff as he took long, slow strides toward her.\n\nJean rose half to his feet, dragged by almost ungovernable passion to\nrisk all on one leap. But the distance was too great. Colter, blind\nas he was to all outward things, would hear, would see in time to make\nJean's effort futile. Shaking like a leaf, Jean sank back, eye again\nto the crack between the rafters.\n\nEllen did not retreat, nor scream, nor move. Every line of her body\nwas instinct with fight, and the magnificent blaze of her eyes would\nhave checked a less callous brute.\n\nColter's big hand darted between Ellen's arms and fastened in the front\nof her blouse. He did not try to hold her or draw her close. The\nunleashed passion of the man required violence. In one savage pull he\ntore off her blouse, exposing her white, rounded shoulders and heaving\nbosom, where instantly a wave of red burned upward.\n\nOvercome by the tremendous violence and spirit of the rustler, Ellen\nsank to her knees, with blanched face and dilating eyes, trying with\nfolded arms and trembling hand to hide her nudity.\n\nAt that moment the rapid beat of hoofs on the hard trail outside halted\nColter in his tracks.\n\n\"Hell!\" he exclaimed. \"An' who's that?\" With a fierce action he flung\nthe remnants of Ellen's blouse in her face and turned to leap out the\ndoor.\n\nJean saw Ellen catch the blouse and try to wrap it around her, while\nshe sagged against the wall and stared at the door. The hoof beats\npounded to a solid thumping halt just outside.\n\n\"Jim--thar's hell to pay!\" rasped out a panting voice.\n\n\"Wal, Springer, I reckon I wished y'u'd paid it without spoilin' my\ndeals,\" retorted Colter, cool and sharp.\n\n\"Deals? Ha! Y'u'll be forgettin'--your lady love in a minnit,\"\nreplied Springer. \"When I catch--my breath.\"\n\n\"Where's Somers?\" demanded Colter.\n\n\"I reckon he's all shot up--if my eyes didn't fool me.\"\n\n\"Where is he?\" yelled Colter.\n\n\"Jim--he's layin' up in the bushes round thet bluff. I didn't wait to\nsee how he was hurt. But he shore stopped some lead. An' he flopped\nlike a chicken with its--haid cut off.\"\n\n\"Where's Antonio?\"\n\n\"He run like the greaser he is,\" declared Springer, disgustedly.\n\n\"Ahuh! An' where's Queen?\" queried Colter, after a significant pause.\n\n\"Dead!\"\n\nThe silence ensuing was fraught with a suspense that held Jean in cold\nbonds. He saw the girl below rise from her knees, one hand holding the\nblouse to her breast, the other extended, and with strange, repressed,\nalmost frantic look she swayed toward the door.\n\n\"Wal, talk,\" ordered Colter, harshly.\n\n\"Jim, there ain't a hell of a lot,\" replied Springer; drawing a deep\nbreath, \"but what there is is shore interestin'.... Me an' Somers took\nAntonio with us. He left his woman with the sheep. An' we rode up the\ncanyon, clumb out on top, an' made a circle back on the ridge. That's\nthe way we've been huntin' fer tracks. Up thar in a bare spot we run\nplump into Queen sittin' against a tree, right out in the open.\nQueerest sight y'u ever seen! The damn gunfighter had set down to wait\nfor Isbel, who was trailin' him, as we suspected---an' he died thar. He\nwasn't cold when we found him.... Somers was quick to see a trick. So\nhe propped Queen up an' tied the guns to his hands--an', Jim, the\nqueerest thing aboot that deal was this--Queen's guns was empty! Not a\nshell left! It beat us holler.... We left him thar, an' hid up high on\nthe bluff, mebbe a hundred yards off. The hosses we left back of a\nthicket. An' we waited thar a long time. But, sure enough, the\nhalf-breed come. He was too smart. Too much Injun! He would not\ncross the open, but went around. An' then he seen Queen. It was great\nto watch him. After a little he shoved his rifle out an' went right\nfer Queen. This is when I wanted to shoot. I could have plugged him.\nBut Somers says wait an' make it sure. When Isbel got up to Queen he\nwas sort of half hid by the tree. An' I couldn't wait no longer, so I\nshot. I hit him, too. We all begun to shoot. Somers showed himself,\nan' that's when Isbel opened up. He used up a whole magazine on Somers\nan' then, suddenlike, he quit. It didn't take me long to figger mebbe\nhe was out of shells. When I seen him run I was certain of it. Then\nwe made for the hosses an' rode after Isbel. Pretty soon I seen him\nrunnin' like a deer down the ridge. I yelled an' spurred after him.\nThere is where Antonio quit me. But I kept on. An' I got a shot at\nIsbel. He ran out of sight. I follered him by spots of blood on the\nstones an' grass until I couldn't trail him no more. He must have gone\ndown over the cliffs. He couldn't have done nothin' else without me\nseein' him. I found his rifle, an' here it is to prove what I say. I\nhad to go back to climb down off the Rim, an' I rode fast down the\ncanyon. He's somewhere along that west wall, hidin' in the brush, hard\nhit if I know anythin' aboot the color of blood.\"\n\n\"Wal! ... that beats me holler, too,\" ejaculated Colter.\n\n\"Jim, what's to be done?\" inquired Springer, eagerly. \"If we're sharp\nwe can corral that half-breed. He's the last of the Isbels.\"\n\n\"More, pard. He's the last of the Isbel outfit,\" declared Colter. \"If\ny'u can show me blood in his tracks I'll trail him.\"\n\n\"Y'u can bet I'll show y'u,\" rejoined the other rustler. \"But listen!\nWouldn't it be better for us first to see if he crossed the canyon? I\nreckon he didn't. But let's make sure. An' if he didn't we'll have\nhim somewhar along that west canyon wall. He's not got no gun. He'd\nnever run thet way if he had.... Jim, he's our meat!\"\n\n\"Shore, he'll have that knife,\" pondered Colter.\n\n\"We needn't worry about thet,\" said the other, positively. \"He's hard\nhit, I tell y'u. All we got to do is find thet bloody trail again an'\nstick to it--goin' careful. He's layin' low like a crippled wolf.\"\n\n\"Springer, I want the job of finishin' that half-breed,\" hissed Colter.\n\"I'd give ten years of my life to stick a gun down his throat an' shoot\nit off.\"\n\n\"All right. Let's rustle. Mebbe y'u'll not have to give much more 'n\nten minnits. Because I tell y'u I can find him. It'd been easy--but,\nJim, I reckon I was afraid.\"\n\n\"Leave your hoss for me an' go ahaid,\" the rustler then said,\nbrusquely. \"I've a job in the cabin heah.\"\n\n\"Haw-haw! ... Wal, Jim, I'll rustle a bit down the trail an' wait. No\nhuntin' Jean Isbel alone--not fer me. I've had a queer feelin' about\nthet knife he used on Greaves. An' I reckon y'u'd oughter let thet\nJorth hussy alone long enough to--\"\n\n\"Springer, I reckon I've got to hawg-tie her--\" His voice became\nindistinguishable, and footfalls attested to a slow moving away of the\nmen.\n\nJean had listened with ears acutely strung to catch every syllable\nwhile his gaze rested upon Ellen who stood beside the door. Every line\nof her body denoted a listening intensity. Her back was toward Jean,\nso that he could not see her face. And he did not want to see, but\ncould not help seeing her naked shoulders. She put her head out of the\ndoor. Suddenly she drew it in quickly and half turned her face, slowly\nraising her white arm. This was the left one and bore the marks of\nColter's hard fingers.\n\nShe gave a little gasp. Her eyes became large and staring. They were\nbent on the hand that she had removed from a step on the ladder. On\nhand and wrist showed a bright-red smear of blood.\n\nJean, with a convulsive leap of his heart, realized that he had left\nhis bloody tracks on the ladder as he had climbed. That moment seemed\nthe supremely terrible one of his life.\n\nEllen Jorth's face blanched and her eyes darkened and dilated with\nexceeding amaze and flashing thought to become fixed with horror. That\ninstant was the one in which her reason connected the blood on the\nladder with the escape of Jean Isbel.\n\nOne moment she leaned there, still as a stone except for her heaving\nbreast, and then her fixed gaze changed to a swift, dark blaze,\ncomprehending, yet inscrutable, as she flashed it up the ladder to the\nloft. She could see nothing, yet she knew and Jean knew that she knew\nhe was there. A marvelous transformation passed over her features and\neven over her form. Jean choked with the ache in his throat. Slowly\nshe put the bloody hand behind her while with the other she still held\nthe torn blouse to her breast.\n\nColter's slouching, musical step sounded outside. And it might have\nbeen a strange breath of infinitely vitalizing and passionate life\nblown into the well-springs of Ellen Jorth's being. Isbel had no name\nfor her then. The spirit of a woman had been to him a thing unknown.\n\nShe swayed back from the door against the wall in singular, softened\npoise, as if all the steel had melted out of her body. And as Colter's\ntall shadow fell across the threshold Jean Isbel felt himself staring\nwith eyeballs that ached--straining incredulous sight at this woman who\nin a few seconds had bewildered his senses with her transfiguration. He\nsaw but could not comprehend.\n\n\"Jim--I heard--all Springer told y'u,\" she said. The look of her\ndumfounded Colter and her voice seemed to shake him visibly.\n\n\"Suppose y'u did. What then?\" he demanded, harshly, as he halted with\none booted foot over the threshold. Malignant and forceful, he eyed\nher darkly, doubtfully.\n\n\"I'm afraid,\" she whispered.\n\n\"What of? Me?\"\n\n\"No. Of--of Jean Isbel. He might kill y'u and--then where would I be?\"\n\n\"Wal, I'm damned!\" ejaculated the rustler. \"What's got into y'u?\" He\nmoved to enter, but a sort of fascination bound him.\n\n\"Jim, I hated y'u a moment ago,\" she burst out. \"But now--with that\nJean Isbel somewhere near--hidin'--watchin' to kill y'u--an' maybe me,\ntoo--I--I don't hate y'u any more.... Take me away.\"\n\n\"Girl, have y'u lost your nerve?\" he demanded.\n\n\"My God! Colter--cain't y'u see?\" she implored. \"Won't y'u take me\naway?\"\n\n\"I shore will--presently,\" he replied, grimly. \"But y'u'll wait till\nI've shot the lights out of this Isbel.\"\n\n\"No!\" she cried. \"Take me away now.... An' I'll give in--I'll be what\ny'u--want.... Y'u can do with me--as y'u like.\"\n\nColter's lofty frame leaped as if at the release of bursting blood.\nWith a lunge he cleared the threshold to loom over her.\n\n\"Am I out of my haid, or are y'u?\" he asked, in low, hoarse voice. His\ndarkly corded face expressed extremest amaze.\n\n\"Jim, I mean it,\" she whispered, edging an inch nearer him, her white\nface uplifted, her dark eyes unreadable in their eloquence and mystery.\n\"I've no friend but y'u. I'll be--yours.... I'm lost.... What does it\nmatter? If y'u want me--take me NOW--before I kill myself.\"\n\n\"Ellen Jorth, there's somethin' wrong aboot y'u,\" he responded. \"Did\ny'u tell the truth--when y'u denied ever bein' a sweetheart of Simm\nBruce?\"\n\n\"Yes, I told y'u the truth.\"\n\n\"Ahuh! An' how do y'u account for layin' me out with every dirty name\ny'u could give tongue to?\"\n\n\"Oh, it was temper. I wanted to be let alone.\"\n\n\"Temper! Wal, I reckon y'u've got one,\" he retorted, grimly. \"An' I'm\nnot shore y'u're not crazy or lyin'. An hour ago I couldn't touch y'u.\"\n\n\"Y'u may now--if y'u promise to take me away--at once. This place has\ngot on my nerves. I couldn't sleep heah with that Isbel hidin' around.\nCould y'u?\"\n\n\"Wal, I reckon I'd not sleep very deep.\"\n\n\"Then let us go.\"\n\nHe shook his lean, eagle-like head in slow, doubtful vehemence, and his\npiercing gaze studied her distrustfully. Yet all the while there was\nmanifest in his strung frame an almost irrepressible violence, held in\nabeyance to his will.\n\n\"That aboot your bein' so good?\" he inquired, with a return of the\nmocking drawl.\n\n\"Never mind what's past,\" she flashed, with passion dark as his. \"I've\nmade my offer.\"\n\n\"Shore there's a lie aboot y'u somewhere,\" he muttered, thickly.\n\n\"Man, could I do more?\" she demanded, in scorn.\n\n\"No. But it's a lie,\" he returned. \"Y'u'll get me to take y'u away\nan' then fool me--run off--God knows what. Women are all liars.\"\n\nManifestly he could not believe in her strange transformation. Memory\nof her wild and passionate denunciation of him and his kind must have\nseared even his calloused soul. But the ruthless nature of him had not\nweakened nor softened in the least as to his intentions. This\nweather-vane veering of hers bewildered him, obsessed him with its\npossibilities. He had the look of a man who was divided between love\nof her and hate, whose love demanded a return, but whose hate required\na proof of her abasement. Not proof of surrender, but proof of her\nshame! The ignominy of him thirsted for its like. He could grind her\nbeauty under his heel, but he could not soften to this feminine\ninscrutableness.\n\nAnd whatever was the truth of Ellen Jorth in this moment, beyond\nColter's gloomy and stunted intelligence, beyond even the love of Jean\nIsbel, it was something that held the balance of mastery. She read\nColter's mind. She dropped the torn blouse from her hand and stood\nthere, unashamed, with the wave of her white breast pulsing, eyes black\nas night and full of hell, her face white, tragic, terrible, yet\nstrangely lovely.\n\n\"Take me away,\" she whispered, stretching one white arm toward him,\nthen the other.\n\nColter, even as she moved, had leaped with inarticulate cry and radiant\nface to meet her embrace. But it seemed, just as her left arm flashed\nup toward his neck, that he saw her bloody hand and wrist. Strange how\nthat checked his ardor--threw up his lean head like that striking bird\nof prey.\n\n\"Blood! What the hell!\" he ejaculated, and in one sweep he grasped\nher. \"How'd yu do that? Are y'u cut? ... Hold still.\"\n\nEllen could not release her hand.\n\n\"I scratched myself,\" she said.\n\n\"Where?... All that blood!\" And suddenly he flung her hand back with\nfierce gesture, and the gleams of his yellow eyes were like the points\nof leaping flames. They pierced her--read the secret falsity of her.\nSlowly he stepped backward, guardedly his hand moved to his gun, and\nhis glance circled and swept the interior of the cabin. As if he had\nthe nose of a hound and sight to follow scent, his eyes bent to the\ndust of the ground before the door. He quivered, grew rigid as stone,\nand then moved his head with exceeding slowness as if searching through\na microscope in the dust--farther to the left--to the foot of the\nladder--and up one step--another--a third--all the way up to the loft.\nThen he whipped out his gun and wheeled to face the girl.\n\n\"Ellen, y'u've got your half-breed heah!\" he said, with a terrible\nsmile.\n\nShe neither moved nor spoke. There was a suggestion of collapse, but\nit was only a change where the alluring softness of her hardened into a\nstrange, rapt glow. And in it seemed the same mastery that had\ncharacterized her former aspect. Herein the treachery of her was\nrevealed. She had known what she meant to do in any case.\n\nColter, standing at the door, reached a long arm toward the ladder,\nwhere he laid his hand on a rung. Taking it away he held it palm\noutward for her to see the dark splotch of blood.\n\n\"See?\"\n\n\"Yes, I see,\" she said, ringingly.\n\nPassion wrenched him, transformed him. \"All that--aboot leavin'\nheah--with me--aboot givin' in--was a lie!\"\n\n\"No, Colter. It was the truth. I'll go--yet--now--if y'u'll\nspare--HIM!\" She whispered the last word and made a slight movement of\nher hand toward the loft. \"Girl!\" he exploded, incredulously. \"Y'u\nlove this half-breed--this ISBEL! ... Y'u LOVE him!\"\n\n\"With all my heart! ... Thank God! It has been my glory.... It might\nhave been my salvation.... But now I'll go to hell with y'u--if y'u'll\nspare him.\"\n\n\"Damn my soul!\" rasped out the rustler, as if something of respect was\nwrung from that sordid deep of him. \"Y'u--y'u woman! ... Jorth will\nturn over in his grave. He'd rise out of his grave if this Isbel got\ny'u.\"\n\n\"Hurry! Hurry!\" implored Ellen. \"Springer may come back. I think I\nheard a call.\"\n\n\"Wal, Ellen Jorth, I'll not spare Isbel--nor y'u,\" he returned, with\ndark and meaning leer, as he turned to ascend the ladder.\n\nJean Isbel, too, had reached the climax of his suspense. Gathering all\nhis muscles in a knot he prepared to leap upon Colter as he mounted the\nladder. But, Ellen Jorth screamed piercingly and snatched her rifle\nfrom its resting place and, cocking it, she held it forward and low.\n\n\"COLTER!\"\n\nHer scream and his uttered name stiffened him.\n\n\"Y'u will spare Jean Isbel!\" she rang out. \"Drop that gun-drop it!\"\n\n\"Shore, Ellen.... Easy now. Remember your temper.... I'll let Isbel\noff,\" he panted, huskily, and all his body sank quiveringly to a crouch.\n\n\"Drop your gun! Don't turn round.... Colter!--I'LL KILL Y'U!\"\n\nBut even then he failed to divine the meaning and the spirit of her.\n\n\"Aw, now, Ellen,\" he entreated, in louder, huskier tones, and as if\ndragged by fatal doubt of her still, he began to turn.\n\nCrash! The rifle emptied its contents in Colter's breast. All his\nbody sprang up. He dropped the gun. Both hands fluttered toward her.\nAnd an awful surprise flashed over his face.\n\n\"So--help--me--God!\" he whispered, with blood thick in his voice. Then\ndarkly, as one groping, he reached for her with shaking hands.\n\"Y'u--y'u white-throated hussy!... I'll ...\"\n\nHe grasped the quivering rifle barrel. Crash! She shot him again. As\nhe swayed over her and fell she had to leap aside, and his clutching\nhand tore the rifle from her grasp. Then in convulsion he writhed, to\nheave on his back, and stretch out--a ghastly spectacle. Ellen backed\naway from it, her white arms wide, a slow horror blotting out the\npassion of her face.\n\nThen from without came a shrill call and the sound of rapid footsteps.\nEllen leaned against the wall, staring still at Colter. \"Hey,\nJim--what's the shootin'?\" called Springer, breathlessly.\n\nAs his form darkened the doorway Jean once again gathered all his\nmuscular force for a tremendous spring.\n\nSpringer saw the girl first and he appeared thunderstruck. His jaw\ndropped. He needed not the white gleam of her person to transfix him.\nHer eyes did that and they were riveted in unutterable horror upon\nsomething on the ground. Thus instinctively directed, Springer espied\nColter.\n\n\"Y'u--y'u shot him!\" he shrieked. \"What for--y'u hussy? ... Ellen\nJorth, if y'u've killed him, I'll...\"\n\nHe strode toward where Colter lay.\n\nThen Jean, rising silently, took a step and like a tiger he launched\nhimself into the air, down upon the rustler. Even as he leaped\nSpringer gave a quick, upward look. And he cried out. Jean's\nmoccasined feet struck him squarely and sent him staggering into the\nwall, where his head hit hard. Jean fell, but bounded up as the\nhalf-stunned Springer drew his gun. Then Jean lunged forward with a\nsingle sweep of his arm--and looked no more.\n\nEllen ran swaying out of the door, and, once clear of the threshold,\nshe tottered out on the grass, to sink to her knees. The bright,\ngolden sunlight gleamed upon her white shoulders and arms. Jean had\none foot out of the door when he saw her and he whirled back to get her\nblouse. But Springer had fallen upon it. Snatching up a blanket, Jean\nran out.\n\n\"Ellen! Ellen! Ellen!\" he cried. \"It's over!\" And reaching her, he\ntried to wrap her in the blanket.\n\nShe wildly clutched his knees. Jean was conscious only of her white,\nagonized face and the dark eyes with their look of terrible strain.\n\n\"Did y'u--did y'u...\" she whispered.\n\n\"Yes--it's over,\" he said, gravely. \"Ellen, the Isbel-Jorth feud is\nended.\"\n\n\"Oh, thank--God!\" she cried, in breaking voice. \"Jean--y'u are\nwounded... the blood on the step!\"\n\n\"My arm. See. It's not bad.... Ellen, let me wrap this round you.\"\nFolding the blanket around her shoulders, he held it there and\nentreated her to get up. But she only clung the closer. She hid her\nface on his knees. Long shudders rippled over her, shaking the\nblanket, shaking Jean's hands. Distraught, he did not know what to do.\nAnd his own heart was bursting.\n\n\"Ellen, you must not kneel--there--that way,\" he implored.\n\n\"Jean! Jean!\" she moaned, and clung the tighter.\n\nHe tried to lift her up, but she was a dead weight, and with that hold\non him seemed anchored at his feet.\n\n\"I killed Colter,\" she gasped. \"I HAD to--kill him! ... I offered--to\nfling myself away....\"\n\n\"For me!\" he cried, poignantly. \"Oh, Ellen! Ellen! the world has come\nto an end! ... Hush! don't keep sayin' that. Of course you killed him.\nYou saved my life. For I'd never have let you go off with him ....\nYes, you killed him.... You're a Jorth an' I'm an Isbel ... We've blood\non our hands--both of us--I for you an' you for me!\"\n\nHis voice of entreaty and sadness strengthened her and she raised her\nwhite face, loosening her clasp to lean back and look up. Tragic,\nsweet, despairing, the loveliness of her--the significance of her there\non her knees--thrilled him to his soul.\n\n\"Blood on my hands!\" she whispered. \"Yes. It was awful--killing\nhim.... But--all I care for in this world is for your forgiveness--and\nyour faith that saved my soul!\"\n\n\"Child, there's nothin' to forgive,\" he responded. \"Nothin'... Please,\nEllen...\"\n\n\"I lied to y'u!\" she cried. \"I lied to y'u!\"\n\n\"Ellen, listen--darlin'.\" And the tender epithet brought her head and\narms back close-pressed to him. \"I know--now,\" he faltered on. \"I\nfound out to-day what I believed. An' I swear to God--by the memory of\nmy dead mother--down in my heart I never, never, never believed what\nthey--what y'u tried to make me believe. NEVER!\"\n\n\"Jean--I love y'u--love y'u--love y'u!\" she breathed with exquisite,\npassionate sweetness. Her dark eyes burned up into his.\n\n\"Ellen, I can't lift you up,\" he said, in trembling eagerness,\nsignifying his crippled arm. \"But I can kneel with you! ...\""