Zane Grey (22 page)

But the rustlers—Daggs—the Jorths—they had killed his brother
Guy—murdered him brutally and ruthlessly. Guy had been a playmate of
Jean's—a favorite brother. Bill had been secretive and selfish. Jean
had never loved him as he did Guy. Guy lay dead down there on the
meadow. This feud had begun to run its bloody course. Jean steeled his
nerve. The hot blood crept back along his veins. The dark and
masterful tide of revenge waved over him. The keen edge of his mind
then cut out sharp and trenchant thoughts. He must kill when and where
he could. This man could hardly be Ellen Jorth's father. Jorth would
be with the main crowd, directing hostilities. Jean could shoot this
rustler guard and his shot would be taken by the gang as the regular
one from their comrade. Then swiftly Jean leveled his rifle, covered
the dark form, grew cold and set, and pressed the trigger. After the
report he rose and wheeled away. He did not look nor listen for the
result of his shot. A clammy sweat wet his face, the hollow of his
hands, his breast. A horrible, leaden, thick sensation oppressed his
heart. Nature had endowed him with Indian gifts, but the exercise of
them to this end caused a revolt in his soul.

Nevertheless, it was the Isbel blood that dominated him. The wind blew
cool on his face. The burden upon his shoulders seemed to lift. The
clamoring whispers grew fainter in his ears. And by the time he had
retraced his cautious steps back to the orchard all his physical being
was strung to the task at hand. Something had come between his
reflective self and this man of action.

Crossing the lane, he took to the west line of sheds, and passed beyond
them into the meadow. In the grass he crawled silently away to the
right, using the same precaution that had actuated him on the slope,
only here he did not pause so often, nor move so slowly. Jean aimed to
go far enough to the right to pass the end of the embankment behind
which the rustlers had found such efficient cover. This ditch had been
made to keep water, during spring thaws and summer storms, from pouring
off the slope to flood the corrals.

Jean miscalculated and found he had come upon the embankment somewhat
to the left of the end, which fact, however, caused him no uneasiness.
He lay there awhile to listen. Again he heard voices. After a time a
shot pealed out. He did not see the flash, but he calculated that it
had come from the north side of the cabins.

The next quarter of an hour discovered to Jean that the nearest guard
was firing from the top of the embankment, perhaps a hundred yards
distant, and a second one was performing the same office from a point
apparently only a few yards farther on. Two rustlers close together!
Jean had not calculated upon that. For a little while he pondered on
what was best to do, and at length decided to crawl round behind them,
and as close as the situation made advisable.

He found the ditch behind the embankment a favorable path by which to
stalk these enemies. It was dry and sandy, with borders of high weeds.
The only drawback was that it was almost impossible for him to keep
from brushing against the dry, invisible branches of the weeds. To
offset this he wormed his way like a snail, inch by inch, taking a long
time before he caught sight of the sitting figure of a man, black
against the dark-blue sky. This rustler had fired his rifle three
times during Jean's slow approach. Jean watched and listened a few
moments, then wormed himself closer and closer, until the man was
within twenty steps of him.

Jean smelled tobacco smoke, but could see no light of pipe or
cigarette, because the fellow's back was turned.

"Say, Ben," said this man to his companion sitting hunched up a few
yards distant, "shore it strikes me queer thet Somers ain't shootin'
any over thar."

Jean recognized the dry, drawling voice of Greaves, and the shock of it
seemed to contract the muscles of his whole thrilling body, like that
of a panther about to spring.

"Was shore thinkin' thet same," said the other man. "An', say, didn't
thet last shot sound too sharp fer Somers's forty-five?"

"Come to think of it, I reckon it did," replied Greaves.

"Wal, I'll go around over thar an' see."

The dark form of the rustler slipped out of sight over the embankment.

"Better go slow an' careful," warned Greaves. "An' only go close
enough to call Somers.... Mebbe thet damn half-breed Isbel is comin'
some Injun on us."

Jean heard the soft swish of footsteps through wet grass. Then all was
still. He lay flat, with his cheek on the sand, and he had to look
ahead and upward to make out the dark figure of Greaves on the bank.
One way or another he meant to kill Greaves, and he had the will power
to resist the strongest gust of passion that had ever stormed his
breast. If he arose and shot the rustler, that act would defeat his
plan of slipping on around upon the other outposts who were firing at
the cabins. Jean wanted to call softly to Greaves, "You're right about
the half-breed!" and then, as he wheeled aghast, to kill him as he
moved. But it suited Jean to risk leaping upon the man. Jean did not
waste time in trying to understand the strange, deadly instinct that
gripped him at the moment. But he realized then he had chosen the most
perilous plan to get rid of Greaves.

Jean drew a long, deep breath and held it. He let go of his rifle. He
rose, silently as a lifting shadow. He drew the bowie knife. Then with
light, swift bounds he glided up the bank. Greaves must have heard a
rustling—a soft, quick pad of moccasin, for he turned with a start.
And that instant Jean's left arm darted like a striking snake round
Greaves's neck and closed tight and hard. With his right hand free,
holding the knife, Jean might have ended the deadly business in just
one move. But when his bared arm felt the hot, bulging neck something
terrible burst out of the depths of him. To kill this enemy of his
father's was not enough! Physical contact had unleashed the savage
soul of the Indian. Yet there was more, and as Jean gave the straining
body a tremendous jerk backward, he felt the same strange thrill, the
dark joy that he had known when his fist had smashed the face of Simm
Bruce. Greaves had leered—he had corroborated Bruce's vile
insinuation about Ellen Jorth. So it was more than hate that actuated
Jean Isbel.

Greaves was heavy and powerful. He whirled himself, feet first, over
backward, in a lunge like that of a lassoed steer. But Jean's hold
held. They rolled down the bank into the sandy ditch, and Jean landed
uppermost, with his body at right angles with that of his adversary.

"Greaves, your hunch was right," hissed Jean. "It's the half-breed....
An' I'm goin' to cut you—first for Ellen Jorth—an' then for Gaston
Isbel!"

Jean gazed down into the gleaming eyes. Then his right arm whipped the
big blade. It flashed. It fell. Low down, as far as Jean could
reach, it entered Greaves's body.

All the heavy, muscular frame of Greaves seemed to contract and burst.
His spring was that of an animal in terror and agony. It was so
tremendous that it broke Jean's hold. Greaves let out a strangled yell
that cleared, swelling wildly, with a hideous mortal note. He wrestled
free. The big knife came out. Supple and swift, he got to his, knees.
He had his gun out when Jean reached him again. Like a bear Jean
enveloped him. Greaves shot, but he could not raise the gun, nor twist
it far enough. Then Jean, letting go with his right arm, swung the
bowie. Greaves's strength went out in an awful, hoarse cry. His gun
boomed again, then dropped from his hand. He swayed. Jean let go.
And that enemy of the Isbels sank limply in the ditch. Jean's eyes
roved for his rifle and caught the starlit gleam of it. Snatching it
up, he leaped over the embankment and ran straight for the cabins.
From all around yells of the Jorth faction attested to their excitement
and fury.

A fence loomed up gray in the obscurity. Jean vaulted it, darted
across the lane into the shadow of the corral, and soon gained the
first cabin. Here he leaned to regain his breath. His heart pounded
high and seemed too large for his breast. The hot blood beat and
surged all over his body. Sweat poured off him. His teeth were
clenched tight as a vise, and it took effort on his part to open his
mouth so he could breathe more freely and deeply. But these physical
sensations were as nothing compared to the tumult of his mind. Then the
instinct, the spell, let go its grip and he could think. He had avenged
Guy, he had depleted the ranks of the Jorths, he had made good the brag
of his father, all of which afforded him satisfaction. But these
thoughts were not accountable for all that he felt, especially for the
bittersweet sting of the fact that death to the defiler of Ellen Jorth
could not efface the doubt, the regret which seemed to grow with the
hours.

Groping his way into the woodshed, he entered the kitchen and, calling
low, he went on into the main cabin.

"Jean! Jean!" came his father's shaking voice.

"Yes, I'm back," replied Jean.

"Are—you—all right?"

"Yes. I think I've got a bullet crease on my leg. I didn't know I had
it till now.... It's bleedin' a little. But it's nothin'."

Jean heard soft steps and some one reached shaking hands for him. They
belonged to his sister Ann. She embraced him. Jean felt the heave and
throb of her breast.

"Why, Ann, I'm not hurt," he said, and held her close. "Now you lie
down an' try to sleep."

In the black darkness of the cabin Jean led her back to the corner and
his heart was full. Speech was difficult, because the very touch of
Ann's hands had made him divine that the success of his venture in no
wise changed the plight of the women.

"Wal, what happened out there?" demanded Blaisdell.

"I got two of them," replied Jean. "That fellow who was shootin' from
the ridge west. An' the other was Greaves."

"Hah!" exclaimed his father.

"Shore then it was Greaves yellin'," declared Blaisdell. "By God, I
never heard such yells! Whad 'd you do, Jean?"

"I knifed him. You see, I'd planned to slip up on one after another.
An' I didn't want to make noise. But I didn't get any farther than
Greaves."

"Wal, I reckon that 'll end their shootin' in the dark," muttered
Gaston Isbel. "We've got to be on the lookout for somethin'
else—fire, most likely."

The old rancher's surmise proved to be partially correct. Jorth's
faction ceased the shooting. Nothing further was seen or heard from
them. But this silence and apparent break in the siege were harder to
bear than deliberate hostility. The long, dark hours dragged by. The
men took turns watching and resting, but none of them slept. At last
the blackness paled and gray dawn stole out of the east. The sky turned
rose over the distant range and daylight came.

The children awoke hungry and noisy, having slept away their fears. The
women took advantage of the quiet morning hour to get a hot breakfast.

"Maybe they've gone away," suggested Guy Isbel's wife, peering out of
the window. She had done that several times since daybreak. Jean saw
her somber gaze search the pasture until it rested upon the dark, prone
shape of her dead husband, lying face down in the grass. Her look
worried Jean.

"No, Esther, they've not gone yet," replied Jean. "I've seen some of
them out there at the edge of the brush."

Blaisdell was optimistic. He said Jean's night work would have its
effect and that the Jorth contingent would not renew the siege very
determinedly. It turned out, however, that Blaisdell was wrong.
Directly after sunrise they began to pour volleys from four sides and
from closer range. During the night Jorth's gang had thrown earth
banks and constructed log breastworks, from behind which they were now
firing. Jean and his comrades could see the flashes of fire and
streaks of smoke to such good advantage that they began to return the
volleys.

In half an hour the cabin was so full of smoke that Jean could not see
the womenfolk in their corner. The fierce attack then abated somewhat,
and the firing became more intermittent, and therefore more carefully
aimed. A glancing bullet cut a furrow in Blaisdell's hoary head,
making a painful, though not serious wound. It was Esther Isbel who
stopped the flow of blood and bound Blaisdell's head, a task which she
performed skillfully and without a tremor. The old Texan could not sit
still during this operation. Sight of the blood on his hands, which he
tried to rub off, appeared to inflame him to a great degree.

"Isbel, we got to go out thar," he kept repeating, "an' kill them all."

"No, we're goin' to stay heah," replied Gaston Isbel. "Shore I'm
lookin' for Blue an' Fredericks an' Gordon to open up out there. They
ought to be heah, an' if they are y'u shore can bet they've got the
fight sized up."

Isbel's hopes did not materialize. The shooting continued without any
lull until about midday. Then the Jorth faction stopped.

"Wal, now what's up?" queried Isbel. "Boys, hold your fire an' let's
wait."

Gradually the smoke wafted out of the windows and doors, until the room
was once more clear. And at this juncture Esther Isbel came over to
take another gaze out upon the meadows. Jean saw her suddenly start
violently, then stiffen, with a trembling hand outstretched.

"Look!" she cried.

"Esther, get back," ordered the old rancher. "Keep away from that
window."

"What the hell!" muttered Blaisdell. "She sees somethin', or she's
gone dotty."

Esther seemed turned to stone. "Look! The hogs have broken into the
pasture! ... They'll eat Guy's body!"

Everyone was frozen with horror at Esther's statement. Jean took a
swift survey of the pasture. A bunch of big black hogs had indeed
appeared on the scene and were rooting around in the grass not far from
where lay the bodies of Guy Isbel and Jacobs. This herd of hogs
belonged to the rancher and was allowed to run wild.