Half a mile from the Isbel ranch the cavalcade passed the log cabin of
Evarts, father of the boy who had tended sheep with Bernardino.
It suited Gaston Isbel to halt here. No need to call! Evarts and his
son appeared so quickly as to convince observers that they had been
watching.
“Howdy, Jake!” said Isbel. “I’m wantin’ a word with y’u alone.”
“Shore, boss, git down an’ come in,” replied Evarts.
Isbel led him aside, and said something forcible that Jean divined from
the very gesture which accompanied it. His father was telling Evarts
that he was not to join in the Isbel-Jorth war. Evarts had worked for
the Isbels a long time, and his faithfulness, along with something
stronger and darker, showed in his rugged face as he stubbornly opposed
Isbel. The old man raised his voice: “No, I tell you. An’ that
settles it.”
They returned to the horses, and, before mounting, Isbel, as if he
remembered something, directed his somber gaze on young Evarts.
“Son, did you bury Bernardino?”
“Dad an’ me went over yestiddy,” replied the lad. “I shore was glad
the coyotes hadn’t been round.”
“How aboot the sheep?”
“I left them there. I was goin’ to stay, but bein’ all alone—I got
skeered.... The sheep was doin’ fine. Good water an’ some grass. An’
this ain’t time fer varmints to hang round.”
“Jake, keep your eye on that flock,” returned Isbel. “An’ if I
shouldn’t happen to come back y’u can call them sheep yours.... I’d
like your boy to ride up to the village. Not with us, so anybody would
see him. But afterward. We’ll be at Abel Meeker’s.”
Again Jean was confronted with an uneasy premonition as to some idea or
plan his father had not shared with his followers. When the cavalcade
started on again Jean rode to his father’s side and asked him why he
had wanted the Evarts boy to come to Grass Valley. And the old man
replied that, as the boy could run to and fro in the village without
danger, he might be useful in reporting what was going on at Greaves’s
store, where undoubtedly the Jorth gang would hold forth. This appeared
reasonable enough, therefore Jean smothered the objection he had meant
to make.
The valley road was deserted. When, a mile farther on, the riders
passed a group of cabins, just on the outskirts of the village, Jean’s
quick eye caught sight of curious and evidently frightened people
trying to see while they avoided being seen. No doubt the whole
settlement was in a state of suspense and terror. Not unlikely this
dark, closely grouped band of horsemen appeared to them as Jorth’s gang
had looked to Jean. It was an orderly, trotting march that manifested
neither hurry nor excitement. But any Western eye could have caught
the singular aspect of such a group, as if the intent of the riders was
a visible thing.
Soon they reached the outskirts of the village. Here their approach
bad been watched for or had been already reported. Jean saw men,
women, children peeping from behind cabins and from half-opened doors.
Farther on Jean espied the dark figures of men, slipping out the back
way through orchards and gardens and running north, toward the center
of the village. Could these be friends of the Jorth crowd, on the way
with warnings of the approach of the Isbels? Jean felt convinced of
it. He was learning that his father had not been absolutely correct in
his estimation of the way Jorth and his followers were regarded by
their neighbors. Not improbably there were really many villagers who,
being more interested in sheep raising than in cattle, had an honest
leaning toward the Jorths. Some, too, no doubt, had leanings that were
dishonest in deed if not in sincerity.
Gaston Isbel led his clan straight down the middle of the wide road of
Grass Valley until he reached a point opposite Abel Meeker’s cabin.
Jean espied the same curiosity from behind Meeker’s door and windows as
had been shown all along the road. But presently, at Isbel’s call, the
door opened and a short, swarthy man appeared. He carried a rifle.
“Howdy, Gass!” he said. “What’s the good word?”
“Wal, Abel, it’s not good, but bad. An’ it’s shore started,” replied
Isbel. “I’m askin’ y’u to let me have your cabin.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll send the folks ’round to Jim’s,” returned
Meeker. “An’ if y’u want me, I’m with y’u, Isbel.”
“Thanks, Abel, but I’m not leadin’ any more kin an’ friends into this
heah deal.”
“Wal, jest as y’u say. But I’d like damn bad to jine with y’u.... My
brother Ted was shot last night.”
“Ted! Is he daid?” ejaculated Isbel, blankly.
“We can’t find out,” replied Meeker. “Jim says thet Jeff Campbell said
thet Ted went into Greaves’s place last night. Greaves allus was
friendly to Ted, but Greaves wasn’t thar—”
“No, he shore wasn’t,” interrupted Isbel, with a dark smile, “an’ he
never will be there again.”
Meeker nodded with slow comprehension and a shade crossed his face.
“Wal, Campbell claimed he’d heerd from some one who was thar. Anyway,
the Jorths were drinkin’ hard, an’ they raised a row with Ted—same old
sheep talk an’ somebody shot him. Campbell said Ted was thrown out
back, an’ he was shore he wasn’t killed.”
“Ahuh! Wal, I’m sorry, Abel, your family had to lose in this. Maybe
Ted’s not bad hurt. I shore hope so.... An’ y’u an’ Jim keep out of
the fight, anyway.”
“All right, Isbel. But I reckon I’ll give y’u a hunch. If this heah
fight lasts long the whole damn Basin will be in it, on one side or
t’other.”
“Abe, you’re talkin’ sense,” broke in Blaisdell. “An’ that’s why we’re
up heah for quick action.”
“I heerd y’u got Daggs,” whispered Meeker, as he peered all around.
“Wal, y’u heerd correct,” drawled Blaisdell.
Meeker muttered strong words into his beard. “Say, was Daggs in thet
Jorth outfit?”
“He WAS. But he walked right into Jean’s forty-four.... An’ I reckon
his carcass would show some more.”
“An’ whar’s Guy Isbel?” demanded Meeker.
“Daid an’ buried, Abel,” replied Gaston Isbel. “An’ now I’d be obliged
if y’u ’ll hurry your folks away, an’ let us have your cabin an’
corral. Have yu got any hay for the hosses?”
“Shore. The barn’s half full,” replied Meeker, as he turned away.
“Come on in.”
“No. We’ll wait till you’ve gone.”
When Meeker had gone, Isbel and his men sat their horses and looked
about them and spoke low. Their advent had been expected, and the
little town awoke to the imminence of the impending battle. Inside
Meeker’s house there was the sound of indistinct voices of women and
the bustle incident to a hurried vacating.
Across the wide road people were peering out on all sides, some hiding,
others walking to and fro, from fence to fence, whispering in little
groups. Down the wide road, at the point where it turned, stood
Greaves’s fort-like stone house. Low, flat, isolated, with its dark,
eye-like windows, it presented a forbidding and sinister aspect. Jean
distinctly saw the forms of men, some dark, others in shirt sleeves,
come to the wide door and look down the road.
“Wal, I reckon only aboot five hundred good hoss steps are separatin’
us from that outfit,” drawled Blaisdell.
No one replied to his jocularity. Gaston Isbel’s eyes narrowed to a
slit in his furrowed face and he kept them fastened upon Greaves’s
store. Blue, likewise, had a somber cast of countenance, not, perhaps,
any darker nor grimmer than those of his comrades, but more
representative of intense preoccupation of mind. The look of him
thrilled Jean, who could sense its deadliness, yet could not grasp any
more. Altogether, the manner of the villagers and the watchful pacing
to and fro of the Jorth followers and the silent, boding front of Isbel
and his men summed up for Jean the menace of the moment that must very
soon change to a terrible reality.
At a call from Meeker, who stood at the back of the cabin, Gaston Isbel
rode into the yard, followed by the others of his party. “Somebody
look after the hosses,” ordered Isbel, as he dismounted and took his
rifle and pack. “Better leave the saddles on, leastways till we see
what’s comin’ off.”
Jean and Bill Isbel led the horses back to the corral. While watering
and feeding them, Jean somehow received the impression that Bill was
trying to speak, to confide in him, to unburden himself of some load.
This peculiarity of Bill’s had become marked when he was perfectly
sober. Yet he had never spoken or even begun anything unusual. Upon
the present occasion, however, Jean believed that his brother might
have gotten rid of his emotion, or whatever it was, had they not been
interrupted by Colmor.
“Boys, the old man’s orders are for us to sneak round on three sides of
Greaves’s store, keepin’ out of gunshot till we find good cover, an’
then crawl closer an’ to pick off any of Jorth’s gang who shows
himself.”
Bill Isbel strode off without a reply to Colmor.
“Well, I don’t think so much of that,” said Jean, ponderingly. “Jorth
has lots of friends here. Somebody might pick us off.”
“I kicked, but the old man shut me up. He’s not to be bucked ag’in’
now. Struck me as powerful queer. But no wonder.”
“Maybe he knows best. Did he say anythin’ about what he an’ the rest
of them are goin’ to do?”
“Nope. Blue taxed him with that an’ got the same as me. I reckon we’d
better try it out, for a while, anyway.”
“Looks like he wants us to keep out of the fight,” replied Jean,
thoughtfully. “Maybe, though ... Dad’s no fool. Colmor, you wait here
till I get out of sight. I’ll go round an’ come up as close as
advisable behind Greaves’s store. You take the right side. An’ keep
hid.”
With that Jean strode off, going around the barn, straight out the
orchard lane to the open flat, and then climbing a fence to the north
of the village. Presently he reached a line of sheds and corrals, to
which he held until he arrived at the road. This point was about a
quarter of a mile from Greaves’s store, and around the bend. Jean
sighted no one. The road, the fields, the yards, the backs of the
cabins all looked deserted. A blight had settled down upon the
peaceful activities of Grass Valley. Crossing the road, Jean began to
circle until he came close to several cabins, around which he made a
wide detour. This took him to the edge of the slope, where brush and
thickets afforded him a safe passage to a line directly back of
Greaves’s store. Then he turned toward it. Soon he was again
approaching a cabin of that side, and some of its inmates descried him,
Their actions attested to their alarm. Jean half expected a shot from
this quarter, such were his growing doubts, but he was mistaken. A
man, unknown to Jean, closely watched his guarded movements and then
waved a hand, as if to signify to Jean that he had nothing to fear.
After this act he disappeared. Jean believed that he had been
recognized by some one not antagonistic to the Isbels. Therefore he
passed the cabin and, coming to a thick scrub-oak tree that offered
shelter, he hid there to watch. From this spot he could see the back
of Greaves’s store, at a distance probably too far for a rifle bullet
to reach. Before him, as far as the store, and on each side, extended
the village common. In front of the store ran the road. Jean’s
position was such that he could not command sight of this road down
toward Meeker’s house, a fact that disturbed him. Not satisfied with
this stand, he studied his surroundings in the hope of espying a
better. And he discovered what he thought would be a more favorable
position, although he could not see much farther down the road. Jean
went back around the cabin and, coming out into the open to the right,
he got the corner of Greaves’s barn between him and the window of the
store. Then he boldly hurried into the open, and soon reached an old
wagon, from behind which he proposed to watch. He could not see either
window or door of the store, but if any of the Jorth contingent came
out the back way they would be within reach of his rifle. Jean took
the risk of being shot at from either side.
So sharp and roving was his sight that he soon espied Colmor slipping
along behind the trees some hundred yards to the left. All his efforts
to catch a glimpse of Bill, however, were fruitless. And this appeared
strange to Jean, for there were several good places on the right from
which Bill could have commanded the front of Greaves’s store and the
whole west side.
Colmor disappeared among some shrubbery, and Jean seemed left alone to
watch a deserted, silent village. Watching and listening, he felt that
the time dragged. Yet the shadows cast by the sun showed him that, no
matter how tense he felt and how the moments seemed hours, they were
really flying.
Suddenly Jean’s ears rang with the vibrant shock of a rifle report. He
jerked up, strung and thrilling. It came from in front of the store.
It was followed by revolver shots, heavy, booming. Three he counted,
and the rest were too close together to enumerate. A single hoarse
yell pealed out, somehow trenchant and triumphant. Other yells, not so
wild and strange, muffled the first one. Then silence clapped down on
the store and the open square.
Jean was deadly certain that some of the Jorth clan would show
themselves. He strained to still the trembling those sudden shots and
that significant yell had caused him. No man appeared. No more sounds
caught Jean’s ears. The suspense, then, grew unbearable. It was not
that he could not wait for an enemy to appear, but that he could not
wait to learn what had happened. Every moment that he stayed there,
with hands like steel on his rifle, with eyes of a falcon, but added to
a dreadful, dark certainty of disaster. A rifle shot swiftly followed
by revolver shots! What could, they mean? Revolver shots of different
caliber, surely fired by different men! What could they mean? It was
not these shots that accounted for Jean’s dread, but the yell which had
followed. All his intelligence and all his nerve were not sufficient
to fight down the feeling of calamity. And at last, yielding to it, he
left his post, and ran like a deer across the open, through the cabin
yard, and around the edge of the slope to the road. Here his caution
brought him to a halt. Not a living thing crossed his vision. Breaking
into a run, he soon reached the back of Meeker’s place and entered, to
hurry forward to the cabin.
Colmor was there in the yard, breathing hard, his face working, and in
front of him crouched several of the men with rifles ready. The road,
to Jean’s flashing glance, was apparently deserted. Blue sat on the
doorstep, lighting a cigarette. Then on the moment Blaisdell strode to
the door of the cabin. Jean had never seen him look like that.
“Jean—look—down the road,” he said, brokenly, and with big hand
shaking he pointed down toward Greaves’s store.
Like lightning Jean’s glance shot down—down—down—until it stopped to
fix upon the prostrate form of a man, lying in the middle of the road.
A man of lengthy build, shirt-sleeved arms flung wide, white head in
the dust—dead! Jean’s recognition was as swift as his sight. His
father! They had killed him! The Jorths! It was done. His father’s
premonition of death had not been false. And then, after these
flashing thoughts, came a sense of blankness, momentarily almost
oblivion, that gave place to a rending of the heart. That pain Jean
had known only at the death of his mother. It passed, this agonizing
pang, and its icy pressure yielded to a rushing gust of blood, fiery as
hell.
“Who—did it?” whispered Jean.
“Jorth!” replied Blaisdell, huskily. “Son, we couldn’t hold your dad
back.... We couldn’t. He was like a lion.... An’ he throwed his life
away! Oh, if it hadn’t been for that it ’d not be so awful. Shore, we
come heah to shoot an’ be shot. But not like that.... By God, it was
murder—murder!”
Jean’s mute lips framed a query easily read.
“Tell him, Blue. I cain’t,” continued Blaisdell, and he tramped back
into the cabin.
“Set down, Jean, an’ take things easy,” said Blue, calmly. “You know
we all reckoned we’d git plugged one way or another in this deal. An’
shore it doesn’t matter much how a fellar gits it. All thet ought to
bother us is to make shore the other outfit bites the dust—same as
your dad had to.”
Under this man’s tranquil presence, all the more quieting because it
seemed to be so deadly sure and cool, Jean felt the uplift of his dark
spirit, the acceptance of fatality, the mounting control of faculties
that must wait. The little gunman seemed to have about his inert
presence something that suggested a rattlesnake’s inherent knowledge of
its destructiveness. Jean sat down and wiped his clammy face.
“Jean, your dad reckoned to square accounts with Jorth, an’ save us
all,” began Blue, puffing out a cloud of smoke. “But he reckoned too
late. Mebbe years; ago—or even not long ago—if he’d called Jorth out
man to man there’d never been any Jorth-Isbel war. Gaston Isbel’s
conscience woke too late. That’s how I figger it.”
“Hurry! Tell me—how it—happen,” panted Jean.
“Wal, a little while after y’u left I seen your dad writin’ on a leaf
he tore out of a book—Meeker’s Bible, as yu can see. I thought thet
was funny. An’ Blaisdell gave me a hunch. Pretty soon along comes
young Evarts. The old man calls him out of our hearin’ an’ talks to
him. Then I seen him give the boy somethin’, which I afterward figgered
was what he wrote on the leaf out of the Bible. Me an’ Blaisdell both
tried to git out of him what thet meant. But not a word. I kept
watchin’ an’ after a while I seen young Evarts slip out the back way.
Mebbe half an hour I seen a bare-legged kid cross, the road an’ go into
Greaves’s store.... Then shore I tumbled to your dad. He’d sent a note
to Jorth to come out an’ meet him face to face, man to man!... Shore
it was like readin’ what your dad had wrote. But I didn’t say nothin’
to Blaisdell. I jest watched.”
Blue drawled these last words, as if he enjoyed remembrance of his keen
reasoning. A smile wreathed his thin lips. He drew twice on the
cigarette and emitted another cloud of smoke. Quite suddenly then he
changed. He made a rapid gesture—the whip of a hand, significant and
passionate. And swift words followed:
“Colonel Lee Jorth stalked out of the store—out into the road—mebbe a
hundred steps. Then he halted. He wore his long black coat an’ his
wide black hat, an’ he stood like a stone.
“‘What the hell!’ burst out Blaisdell, comin’ out of his trance.
“The rest of us jest looked. I’d forgot your dad, for the minnit. So
had all of us. But we remembered soon enough when we seen him stalk
out. Everybody had a hunch then. I called him. Blaisdell begged him
to come back. All the fellars; had a say. No use! Then I shore cussed
him an’ told him it was plain as day thet Jorth didn’t hit me like an
honest man. I can sense such things. I knew Jorth had trick up his
sleeve. I’ve not been a gun fighter fer nothin’.
“Your dad had no rifle. He packed his gun at his hip. He jest stalked
down thet road like a giant, goin’ faster an’ faster, holdin’ his head
high. It shore was fine to see him. But I was sick. I heerd
Blaisdell groan, an’ Fredericks thar cussed somethin’ fierce.... When
your dad halted—I reckon aboot fifty steps from Jorth—then we all
went numb. I heerd your dad’s voice—then Jorth’s. They cut like
knives. Y’u could shore heah the hate they hed fer each other.”
Blue had become a little husky. His speech had grown gradually to
denote his feeling. Underneath his serenity there was a different
order of man.
“I reckon both your dad an’ Jorth went fer their guns at the same
time—an even break. But jest as they drew, some one shot a rifle from
the store. Must hev been a forty-five seventy. A big gun! The bullet
must have hit your dad low down, aboot the middle. He acted thet way,
sinkin’ to his knees. An’ he was wild in shootin’—so wild thet he
must hev missed. Then he wabbled—an’ Jorth run in a dozen steps,
shootin’ fast, till your dad fell over.... Jorth run closer, bent over
him, an’ then straightened up with an Apache yell, if I ever heerd
one.... An’ then Jorth backed slow—lookin’ all the time—backed to the
store, an’ went in.”
Blue’s voice ceased. Jean seemed suddenly released from an impelling
magnet that now dropped him to some numb, dizzy depth. Blue’s lean
face grew hazy. Then Jean bowed his head in his hands, and sat there,
while a slight tremor shook all his muscles at once. He grew deathly
cold and deathly sick. This paroxysm slowly wore away, and Jean grew
conscious of a dull amaze at the apparent deadness of his spirit.
Blaisdell placed a huge, kindly hand on his shoulder.
“Brace up, son!” he said, with voice now clear and resonant. “Shore
it’s what your dad expected—an’ what we all must look for.... If yu
was goin’ to kill Jorth before—think how — — shore y’u’re goin’ to
kill him now.”
“Blaisdell’s talkin’,” put in Blue, and his voice had a cold ring. “Lee
Jorth will never see the sun rise ag’in!”
These calls to the primitive in Jean, to the Indian, were not in vain.
But even so, when the dark tide rose in him, there was still a haunting
consciousness of the cruelty of this singular doom imposed upon him.
Strangely Ellen Jorth’s face floated back in the depths of his vision,
pale, fading, like the face of a spirit floating by.
“Blue,” said Blaisdell, “let’s get Isbel’s body soon as we dare, an’
bury it. Reckon we can, right after dark.”
“Shore,” replied Blue. “But y’u fellars figger thet out. I’m thinkin’
hard. I’ve got somethin’ on my mind.”
Jean grew fascinated by the looks and speech and action of the little
gunman. Blue, indeed, had something on his mind. And it boded ill to
the men in that dark square stone house down the road. He paced to and
fro in the yard, back and forth on the path to the gate, and then he
entered the cabin to stalk up and down, faster and faster, until all at
once he halted as if struck, to upfling his right arm in a singular
fierce gesture.
“Jean, call the men in,” he said, tersely.
They all filed in, sinister and silent, with eager faces turned to the
little Texan. His dominance showed markedly.
“Gordon, y’u stand in the door an’ keep your eye peeled,” went on Blue.
“... Now, boys, listen! I’ve thought it all out. This game of man
huntin’ is the same to me as cattle raisin’ is to y’u. An’ my life in
Texas all comes back to me, I reckon, in good stead fer us now. I’m
goin’ to kill Lee Jorth! Him first, an’ mebbe his brothers. I had to
think of a good many ways before I hit on one I reckon will be shore.
It’s got to be SHORE. Jorth has got to die! Wal, heah’s my plan....
Thet Jorth outfit is drinkin’ some, we can gamble on it. They’re not
goin’ to leave thet store. An’ of course they’ll be expectin’ us to
start a fight. I reckon they’ll look fer some such siege as they held
round Isbel’s ranch. But we shore ain’t goin’ to do thet. I’m goin’
to surprise thet outfit. There’s only one man among them who is
dangerous, an’ thet’s Queen. I know Queen. But he doesn’t know me.
An’ I’m goin’ to finish my job before he gets acquainted with me. After
thet, all right!”
Blue paused a moment, his eyes narrowing down, his whole face setting
in hard cast of intense preoccupation, as if he visualized a scene of
extraordinary nature.
“Wal, what’s your trick?” demanded Blaisdell.
“Y’u all know Greaves’s store,” continued Blue. “How them winders have
wooden shutters thet keep a light from showin’ outside? Wal, I’m
gamblin’ thet as soon as it’s dark Jorth’s gang will be celebratin’.
They’ll be drinkin’ an’ they’ll have a light, an’ the winders will be
shut. They’re not goin’ to worry none aboot us. Thet store is like a
fort. It won’t burn. An’ shore they’d never think of us chargin’ them
in there. Wal, as soon as it’s dark, we’ll go round behind the lots
an’ come up jest acrost the road from Greaves’s. I reckon we’d better
leave Isbel where he lays till this fight’s over. Mebbe y’u ’ll have
more ’n him to bury. We’ll crawl behind them bushes in front of
Coleman’s yard. An’ heah’s where Jean comes in. He’ll take an ax, an’
his guns, of course, an’ do some of his Injun sneakin’ round to the
back of Greaves’s store.... An’, Jean, y’u must do a slick job of this.
But I reckon it ’ll be easy fer you. Back there it ’ll be dark as
pitch, fer anyone lookin’ out of the store. An’ I’m figgerin’ y’u can
take your time an’ crawl right up. Now if y’u don’t remember how
Greaves’s back yard looks I’ll tell y’u.”
Here Blue dropped on one knee to the floor and with a finger he traced
a map of Greaves’s barn and fence, the back door and window, and
especially a break in the stone foundation which led into a kind of
cellar where Greaves stored wood and other things that could be left
outdoors.
“Jean, I take particular pains to show y’u where this hole is,” said
Blue, “because if the gang runs out y’u could duck in there an’ hide.
An’ if they run out into the yard—wal, y’u’d make it a sorry run fer
them.... Wal, when y’u’ve crawled up close to Greaves’s back door, an’
waited long enough to see an’ listen—then you’re to run fast an’ swing
your ax smash ag’in’ the winder. Take a quick peep in if y’u want to.
It might help. Then jump quick an’ take a swing at the door. Y’u ’ll
be standin’ to one side, so if the gang shoots through the door they
won’t hit y’u. Bang thet door good an’ hard.... Wal, now’s where I
come in. When y’u swing thet ax I’ll shore run fer the front of the
store. Jorth an’ his outfit will be some attentive to thet poundin’ of
yours on the back door. So I reckon. An’ they’ll be lookin’ thet way.
I’ll run in—yell—an’ throw my guns on Jorth.”
“Humph! Is that all?” ejaculated Blaisdell.
“I reckon thet’s all an’ I’m figgerin’ it’s a hell of a lot,” responded
Blue, dryly. “Thet’s what Jorth will think.”
“Where do we come in?”
“Wal, y’u all can back me up,” replied Blue, dubiously. “Y’u see, my
plan goes as far as killin’ Jorth—an’ mebbe his brothers. Mebbe I’ll
get a crack at Queen. But I’ll be shore of Jorth. After thet all
depends. Mebbe it ’ll be easy fer me to get out. An’ if I do y’u
fellars will know it an’ can fill thet storeroom full of bullets.”
“Wal, Blue, with all due respect to y’u, I shore don’t like your plan,”
declared Blaisdell. “Success depends upon too many little things any
one of which might go wrong.”
“Blaisdell, I reckon I know this heah game better than y’u,” replied
Blue. “A gun fighter goes by instinct. This trick will work.”
“But suppose that front door of Greaves’s store is barred,” protested
Blaisdell.
“It hasn’t got any bar,” said Blue.
“Y’u’re shore?”
“Yes, I reckon,” replied Blue.
“Hell, man! Aren’t y’u takin’ a terrible chance?” queried Blaisdell.
Blue’s answer to that was a look that brought the blood to Blaisdell’s
face. Only then did the rancher really comprehend how the little
gunman had taken such desperate chances before, and meant to take them
now, not with any hope or assurance of escaping with his life, but to
live up to his peculiar code of honor.
“Blaisdell, did y’u ever heah of me in Texas?” he queried, dryly.
“Wal, no, Blue, I cain’t swear I did,” replied the rancher,
apologetically. “An’ Isbel was always sort of’ mysterious aboot his
acquaintance with you.”
“My name’s not Blue.”
“Ahuh! Wal, what is it, then—if I’m safe to ask?” returned Blaisdell,
gruffly.
“It’s King Fisher,” replied Blue.
The shock that stiffened Blaisdell must have been communicated to the
others. Jean certainly felt amaze, and some other emotion not fully
realized, when he found himself face to face with one of the most
notorious characters ever known in Texas—an outlaw long supposed to be
dead.
“Men, I reckon I’d kept my secret if I’d any idee of comin’ out of this
Isbel-Jorth war alive,” said Blue. “But I’m goin’ to cash. I feel it
heah.... Isbel was my friend. He saved me from bein’ lynched in Texas.
An’ so I’m goin’ to kill Jorth. Now I’ll take it kind of y’u—if any
of y’u come out of this alive—to tell who I was an’ why I was on the
Isbel side. Because this sheep an’ cattle war—this talk of Jorth an’
the Hash Knife Gang—it makes me, sick. I KNOW there’s been crooked
work on Isbel’s side, too. An’ I never want it on record thet I killed
Jorth because he was a rustler.”
“By God, Blue! it’s late in the day for such talk,” burst out
Blaisdell, in rage and amaze. “But I reckon y’u know what y’u’re
talkin’ aboot.... Wal, I shore don’t want to heah it.”
At this juncture Bill Isbel quietly entered the cabin, too late to hear
any of Blue’s statement. Jean was positive of that, for as Blue was
speaking those last revealing words Bill’s heavy boots had resounded on
the gravel path outside. Yet something in Bill’s look or in the way
Blue averted his lean face or in the entrance of Bill at that
particular moment, or all these together, seemed to Jean to add further
mystery to the long secret causes leading up to the Jorth-Isbel war.
Did Bill know what Blue knew? Jean had an inkling that he did. And on
the moment, so perplexing and bitter, Jean gazed out the door, down the
deserted road to where his dead father lay, white-haired and ghastly in
the sunlight.
“Blue, you could have kept that to yourself, as well as your real
name,” interposed Jean, with bitterness. “It’s too late now for either
to do any good.... But I appreciate your friendship for dad, an’ I’m
ready to help carry out your plan.”
That decision of Jean’s appeared to put an end to protest or argument
from Blaisdell or any of the others. Blue’s fleeting dark smile was
one of satisfaction. Then upon most of this group of men seemed to
settle a grim restraint. They went out and walked and watched; they
came in again, restless and somber. Jean thought that he must have
bent his gaze a thousand times down the road to the tragic figure of
his father. That sight roused all emotions in his breast, and the one
that stirred there most was pity. The pity of it! Gaston Isbel lying
face down in the dust of the village street! Patches of blood showed
on the back of his vest and one white-sleeved shoulder. He had been
shot through. Every time Jean saw this blood he had to stifle a
gathering of wild, savage impulses.
Meanwhile the afternoon hours dragged by and the village remained as if
its inhabitants had abandoned it. Not even a dog showed on the side
road. Jorth and some of his men came out in front of the store and sat
on the steps, in close convening groups. Every move they, made seemed
significant of their confidence and importance. About sunset they went
back into the store, closing door and window shutters. Then Blaisdell
called the Isbel faction to have food and drink. Jean felt no hunger.
And Blue, who had kept apart from the others, showed no desire to eat.
Neither did he smoke, though early in the day he had never been without
a cigarette between his lips.
Twilight fell and darkness came. Not a light showed anywhere in the
blackness.
“Wal, I reckon it’s aboot time,” said Blue, and he led the way out of
the cabin to the back of the lot. Jean strode behind him, carrying his
rifle and an ax. Silently the other men followed. Blue turned to the
left and led through the field until he came within sight of a dark
line of trees.
“Thet’s where the road turns off,” he said to Jean. “An’ heah’s the
back of Coleman’s place.... Wal, Jean, good luck!”
Jean felt the grip of a steel-like hand, and in the darkness he caught
the gleam of Blue’s eyes. Jean had no response in words for the
laconic Blue, but he wrung the hard, thin hand and hurried away in the
darkness.
Once alone, his part of the business at hand rushed him into eager
thrilling action. This was the sort of work he was fitted to do. In
this instance it was important, but it seemed to him that Blue had
coolly taken the perilous part. And this cowboy with gray in his thin
hair was in reality the great King Fisher! Jean marveled at the fact.
And he shivered all over for Jorth. In ten minutes—fifteen, more or
less, Jorth would lie gasping bloody froth and sinking down. Something
in the dark, lonely, silent, oppressive summer night told Jean this.
He strode on swiftly. Crossing the road at a run, he kept on over the
ground he had traversed during the afternoon, and in a few moments he
stood breathing hard at the edge of the common behind Greaves’s store.
A pin point of light penetrated the blackness. It made Jean’s heart
leap. The Jorth contingent were burning the big lamp that hung in the
center of Greaves’s store. Jean listened. Loud voices and coarse
laughter sounded discord on the melancholy silence of the night. What
Blue had called his instinct had surely guided him aright. Death of
Gaston Isbel was being celebrated by revel.
In a few moments Jean had regained his breath. Then all his faculties
set intensely to the action at hand. He seemed to magnify his hearing
and his sight. His movements made no sound. He gained the wagon,
where he crouched a moment.
The ground seemed a pale, obscure medium, hardly more real than the
gloom above it. Through this gloom of night, which looked thick like a
cloud, but was really clear, shone the thin, bright point of light,
accentuating the black square that was Greaves’s store. Above this
stood a gray line of tree foliage, and then the intensely dark-blue sky
studded with white, cold stars.
A hound bayed lonesomely somewhere in the distance. Voices of men
sounded more distinctly, some deep and low, others loud, unguarded,
with the vacant note of thoughtlessness.
Jean gathered all his forces, until sense of sight and hearing were in
exquisite accord with the suppleness and lightness of his movements. He
glided on about ten short, swift steps before he halted. That was as
far as his piercing eyes could penetrate. If there had been a guard
stationed outside the store Jean would have seen him before being seen.
He saw the fence, reached it, entered the yard, glided in the dense
shadow of the barn until the black square began to loom gray—the color
of stone at night. Jean peered through the obscurity. No dark figure
of a man showed against that gray wall—only a black patch, which must
be the hole in the foundation mentioned. A ray of light now streaked
out from the little black window. To the right showed the wide, black
door.
Farther on Jean glided silently. Then he halted. There was no guard
outside. Jean heard the clink of a cap, the lazy drawl of a Texan, and
then a strong, harsh voice—Jorth’s. It strung Jean’s whole being
tight and vibrating. Inside he was on fire while cold thrills rippled
over his skin. It took tremendous effort of will to hold himself back
another instant to listen, to look, to feel, to make sure. And that
instant charged him with a mighty current of hot blood, straining,
throbbing, damming.
When Jean leaped this current burst. In a few swift bounds he gained
his point halfway between door and window. He leaned his rifle against
the stone wall. Then he swung the ax. Crash! The window shutter
split and rattled to the floor inside. The silence then broke with a
hoarse, “What’s thet?”
With all his might Jean swung the heavy ax on the door. Smash! The
lower half caved in and banged to the floor. Bright light flared out
the hole.
“Look out!” yelled a man, in loud alarm. “They’re batterin’ the back
door!”
Jean swung again, high on the splintered door. Crash! Pieces flew
inside.
“They’ve got axes,” hoarsely shouted another voice. “Shove the counter
ag’in’ the door.”
“No!” thundered a voice of authority that denoted terror as well. “Let
them come in. Pull your guns an’ take to cover!”
“They ain’t comin’ in,” was the hoarse reply. “They’ll shoot in on us
from the dark.”
“Put out the lamp!” yelled another.
Jean’s third heavy swing caved in part of the upper half of the door.
Shouts and curses intermingled with the sliding of benches across the
floor and the hard shuffle of boots. This confusion seemed to be split
and silenced by a piercing yell, of different caliber, of terrible
meaning. It stayed Jean’s swing—caused him to drop the ax and snatch
up his rifle.
“DON’T ANYBODY MOVE!”
Like a steel whip this voice cut the silence. It belonged to Blue.
Jean swiftly bent to put his eye to a crack in the door. Most of those
visible seemed to have been frozen into unnatural positions. Jorth
stood rather in front of his men, hatless and coatless, one arm
outstretched, and his dark profile set toward a little man just inside
the door. This man was Blue. Jean needed only one flashing look at
Blue’s face, at his leveled, quivering guns, to understand why he had
chosen this trick.
“Who’re—you?” demanded Jorth, in husky pants.
“Reckon I’m Isbel’s right-hand man,” came the biting reply. “Once
tolerable well known in Texas.... KING FISHER!”
The name must have been a guarantee of death. Jorth recognized this
outlaw and realized his own fate. In the lamplight his face turned a
pale greenish white. His outstretched hand began to quiver down.
Blue’s left gun seemed to leap up and flash red and explode. Several
heavy reports merged almost as one. Jorth’s arm jerked limply,
flinging his gun. And his body sagged in the middle. His hands
fluttered like crippled wings and found their way to his abdomen. His
death-pale face never changed its set look nor position toward Blue.
But his gasping utterance was one of horrible mortal fury and terror.
Then he began to sway, still with that strange, rigid set of his face
toward his slayer, until he fell.
His fall broke the spell. Even Blue, like the gunman he was, had
paused to watch Jorth in his last mortal action. Jorth’s followers
began to draw and shoot. Jean saw Blue’s return fire bring down a huge
man, who fell across Jorth’s body. Then Jean, quick as the thought
that actuated him, raised his rifle and shot at the big lamp. It burst
in a flare. It crashed to the floor. Darkness followed—a blank,
thick, enveloping mantle. Then red flashes of guns emphasized the
blackness. Inside the store there broke loose a pandemonium of shots,
yells, curses, and thudding boots. Jean shoved his rifle barrel inside
the door and, holding it low down, he moved it to and fro while he
worked lever and trigger until the magazine was empty. Then, drawing
his six-shooter, he emptied that. A roar of rifles from the front of
the store told Jean that his comrades had entered the fray. Bullets
zipped through the door he had broken. Jean ran swiftly round the
corner, taking care to sheer off a little to the left, and when he got
clear of the building he saw a line of flashes in the middle of the
road. Blaisdell and the others were firing into the door of the store.
With nimble fingers Jean reloaded his rifle. Then swiftly he ran
across the road and down to get behind his comrades. Their shooting
had slackened. Jean saw dark forms coming his way.
“Hello, Blaisdell!” he called, warningly.
“That y’u, Jean?” returned the rancher, looming up. “Wal, we wasn’t
worried aboot y’u.”
“Blue?” queried Jean, sharply.
A little, dark figure shuffled past Jean. “Howdy, Jean!” said Blue,
dryly. “Y’u shore did your part. Reckon I’ll need to be tied up, but
I ain’t hurt much.”
“Colmor’s hit,” called the voice of Gordon, a few yards distant. “Help
me, somebody!”
Jean ran to help Gordon uphold the swaying Colmor. “Are you hurt—bad?”
asked Jean, anxiously. The young man’s head rolled and hung. He was
breathing hard and did not reply. They had almost to carry him.
“Come on, men!” called Blaisdell, turning back toward the others who
were still firing. “We’ll let well enough alone.... Fredericks, y’u
an’ Bill help me find the body of the old man. It’s heah somewhere.”
Farther on down the road the searchers stumbled over Gaston Isbel. They
picked him up and followed Jean and Gordon, who were supporting the
wounded Colmor. Jean looked back to see Blue dragging himself along in
the rear. It was too dark to see distinctly; nevertheless, Jean got
the impression that Blue was more severely wounded than he had claimed
to be. The distance to Meeker’s cabin was not far, but it took what
Jean felt to be a long and anxious time to get there. Colmor apparently
rallied somewhat. When this procession entered Meeker’s yard, Blue was
lagging behind.
“Blue, how air y’u?” called Blaisdell, with concern.
“Wal, I got—my boots—on—anyhow,” replied Blue, huskily.
He lurched into the yard and slid down on the grass and stretched out.
“Man! Y’u’re hurt bad!” exclaimed Blaisdell. The others halted in
their slow march and, as if by tacit, unspoken word, lowered the body
of Isbel to the ground. Then Blaisdell knelt beside Blue. Jean left
Colmor to Gordon and hurried to peer down into Blue’s dim face.
“No, I ain’t—hurt,” said Blue, in a much weaker voice. “I’m—jest
killed!... It was Queen!... Y’u all heerd me—Queen was—only bad man
in that lot. I knowed it.... I could—hev killed him.... But I
was—after Lee Jorth an’ his brothers....”
Blue’s voice failed there.
“Wal!” ejaculated Blaisdell.
“Shore was funny—Jorth’s face—when I said—King Fisher,” whispered
Blue. “Funnier—when I bored—him through.... But it—was—Queen—”
His whisper died away.
“Blue!” called Blaisdell, sharply. Receiving no answer, he bent lower
in the starlight and placed a hand upon the man’s breast.
“Wal, he’s gone.... I wonder if he really was the old Texas King
Fisher. No one would ever believe it.... But if he killed the Jorths,
I’ll shore believe him.”