Zane Grey (20 page)

Then out on the green of Grass Valley, where a long, swelling plain
swept away toward the village, there appeared a moving dark patch. A
bunch of horses! Jean's body gave a slight start—the shock of sudden
propulsion of blood through all his veins. Those horses bore riders.
They were coming straight down the open valley, on the wagon road to
Isbel's ranch. No subterfuge nor secrecy nor sneaking in that advance!
A hot thrill ran over Jean.

"By Heaven! They mean business!" he muttered. Up to the last moment
he had unconsciously hoped Jorth's gang would not come boldly like
that. The verifications of all a Texan's inherited instincts left no
doubts, no hopes, no illusions—only a grim certainty that this was not
conjecture nor probability, but fact. For a moment longer Jean watched
the slowly moving dark patch of horsemen against the green background,
then he hurried back to the ranch. His father saw him coming—strode
out as before.

"Dad—Jorth is comin'," said Jean, huskily. How he hated to be forced
to tell his father that! The boyish love of old had flashed up.

"Whar?" demanded the old man, his eagle gaze sweeping the horizon.

"Down the road from Grass Valley. You can't see from here."

"Wal, come in an' let's get ready."

Isbel's house had not been constructed with the idea of repelling an
attack from a band of Apaches. The long living room of the main cabin
was the one selected for defense and protection. This room had two
windows and a door facing the lane, and a door at each end, one of
which opened into the kitchen and the other into an adjoining and
later-built cabin. The logs of this main cabin were of large size, and
the doors and window coverings were heavy, affording safer protection
from bullets than the other cabins.

When Jean went in he seemed to see a host of white faces lifted to him.
His sister Ann, his two sisters-in-law, the children, all mutely
watched him with eyes that would haunt him.

"Wal, Blaisdell, Jean says Jorth an' his precious gang of rustlers are
on the way heah," announced the rancher.

"Damn me if it's not a bad day fer Lee Jorth!" declared Blaisdell.

"Clear off that table," ordered Isbel, "an' fetch out all the guns an'
shells we got."

Once laid upon the table these presented a formidable arsenal, which
consisted of the three new .44 Winchesters that Jean had brought with
him from the coast; the enormous buffalo, or so-called "needle" gun,
that Gaston Isbel had used for years; a Henry rifle which Blaisdell had
brought, and half a dozen six-shooters. Piles and packages of
ammunition littered the table.

"Sort out these heah shells," said Isbel. "Everybody wants to get hold
of his own."

Jacobs, the neighbor who was present, was a thick-set, bearded man,
rather jovial among those lean-jawed Texans. He carried a .44 rifle of
an old pattern. "Wal, boys, if I'd knowed we was in fer some fun I'd
hev fetched more shells. Only got one magazine full. Mebbe them new
.44's will fit my gun."

It was discovered that the ammunition Jean had brought in quantity
fitted Jacob's rifle, a fact which afforded peculiar satisfaction to
all the men present.

"Wal, shore we're lucky," declared Gaston Isbel.

The women sat apart, in the comer toward the kitchen, and there seemed
to be a strange fascination for them in the talk and action of the men.
The wife of Jacobs was a little woman, with homely face and very bright
eyes. Jean thought she would be a help in that household during the
next doubtful hours.

Every moment Jean would go to the window and peer out down the road.
His companions evidently relied upon him, for no one else looked out.
Now that the suspense of days and weeks was over, these Texans faced
the issue with talk and act not noticeably different from those of
ordinary moments.

At last Jean espied the dark mass of horsemen out in the valley road.
They were close together, walking their mounts, and evidently in
earnest conversation. After several ineffectual attempts Jean counted
eleven horses, every one of which he was sure bore a rider.

"Dad, look out!" called Jean.

Gaston Isbel strode to the door and stood looking, without a word.

The other men crowded to the windows. Blaisdell cursed under his
breath. Jacobs said: "By Golly! Come to pay us a call!" The women
sat motionless, with dark, strained eyes. The children ceased their
play and looked fearfully to their mother.

When just out of rifle shot of the cabins the band of horsemen halted
and lined up in a half circle, all facing the ranch. They were close
enough for Jean to see their gestures, but he could not recognize any
of their faces. It struck him singularly that not one of them wore a
mask.

"Jean, do you know any of them?" asked his father

"No, not yet. They're too far off."

"Dad, I'll get your old telescope," said Guy Isbel, and he ran out
toward the adjoining cabin.

Blaisdell shook his big, hoary head and rumbled out of his bull-like
neck, "Wal, now you're heah, you sheep fellars, what are you goin' to
do aboot it?"

Guy Isbel returned with a yard-long telescope, which he passed to his
father. The old man took it with shaking hands and leveled it.
Suddenly it was as if he had been transfixed; then he lowered the
glass, shaking violently, and his face grew gray with an exceeding
bitter wrath.

"Jorth!" he swore, harshly.

Jean had only to look at his father to know that recognition had been
like a mortal shock. It passed. Again the rancher leveled the glass.

"Wal, Blaisdell, there's our old Texas friend, Daggs," he drawled,
dryly. "An' Greaves, our honest storekeeper of Grass Valley. An'
there's Stonewall Jackson Jorth. An' Tad Jorth, with the same old red
nose! ... An', say, damn if one of that gang isn't Queen, as bad a gun
fighter as Texas ever bred. Shore I thought he'd been killed in the
Big Bend country. So I heard.... An' there's Craig, another
respectable sheepman of Grass Valley. Haw-haw! An', wal, I don't
recognize any more of them."

Jean forthwith took the glass and moved it slowly across the faces of
that group of horsemen. "Simm Bruce," he said, instantly. "I see
Colter. And, yes, Greaves is there. I've seen the man next to
him—face like a ham...."

"Shore that is Craig," interrupted his father.

Jean knew the dark face of Lee Jorth by the resemblance it bore to
Ellen's, and the recognition brought a twinge. He thought, too, that
he could tell the other Jorths. He asked his father to describe Daggs
and then Queen. It was not likely that Jean would fail to know these
several men in the future. Then Blaisdell asked for the telescope and,
when he got through looking and cursing, he passed it on to others,
who, one by one, took a long look, until finally it came back to the
old rancher.

"Wal, Daggs is wavin' his hand heah an' there, like a general aboot to
send out scouts. Haw-haw! ... An' 'pears to me he's not overlookin'
our hosses. Wal, that's natural for a rustler. He'd have to steal a
hoss or a steer before goin' into a fight or to dinner or to a funeral."

"It 'll be his funeral if he goes to foolin' 'round them hosses,"
declared Guy Isbel, peering anxiously out of the door.

"Wal, son, shore it 'll be somebody's funeral," replied his father.

Jean paid but little heed to the conversation. With sharp eyes fixed
upon the horsemen, he tried to grasp at their intention. Daggs pointed
to the horses in the pasture lot that lay between him and the house.
These animals were the best on the range and belonged mostly to Guy
Isbel, who was the horse fancier and trader of the family. His horses
were his passion.

"Looks like they'd do some horse stealin'," said Jean.

"Lend me that glass," demanded Guy, forcefully. He surveyed the band
of men for a long moment, then he handed the glass back to Jean.

"I'm goin' out there after my bosses," he declared.

"No!" exclaimed his father.

"That gang come to steal an' not to fight. Can't you see that? If they
meant to fight they'd do it. They're out there arguin' about my
hosses."

Guy picked up his rifle. He looked sullenly determined and the gleam
in his eye was one of fearlessness.

"Son, I know Daggs," said his father. "An' I know Jorth. They've come
to kill us. It 'll be shore death for y'u to go out there."

"I'm goin', anyhow. They can't steal my hosses out from under my eyes.
An' they ain't in range."

"Wal, Guy, you ain't goin' alone," spoke up Jacobs, cheerily, as he
came forward.

The red-haired young wife of Guy Isbel showed no change of her grave
face. She had been reared in a stern school. She knew men in times
like these. But Jacobs's wife appealed to him, "Bill, don't risk your
life for a horse or two."

Jacobs laughed and answered, "Not much risk," and went out with Guy.
To Jean their action seemed foolhardy. He kept a keen eye on them and
saw instantly when the band became aware of Guy's and Jacobs's entrance
into the pasture. It took only another second then to realize that
Daggs and Jorth had deadly intent. Jean saw Daggs slip out of his
saddle, rifle in hand. Others of the gang did likewise, until half of
them were dismounted.

"Dad, they're goin' to shoot," called out Jean, sharply. "Yell for Guy
and Jacobs. Make them come back."

The old man shouted; Bill Isbel yelled; Blaisdell lifted his stentorian
voice.

Jean screamed piercingly: "Guy! Run! Run!"

But Guy Isbel and his companion strode on into the pasture, as if they
had not heard, as if no menacing horse thieves were within miles. They
had covered about a quarter of the distance across the pasture, and
were nearing the horses, when Jean saw red flashes and white puffs of
smoke burst out from the front of that dark band of rustlers. Then
followed the sharp, rattling crack of rifles.

Guy Isbel stopped short, and, dropping his gun, he threw up his arms
and fell headlong. Jacobs acted as if he had suddenly encountered an
invisible blow. He had been hit. Turning, he began to run and ran
fast for a few paces. There were more quick, sharp shots. He let go
of his rifle. His running broke. Walking, reeling, staggering, he
kept on. A hoarse cry came from him. Then a single rifle shot pealed
out. Jean heard the bullet strike. Jacobs fell to his knees, then
forward on his face.

Jean Isbel felt himself turned to marble. The suddenness of this
tragedy paralyzed him. His gaze remained riveted on those prostrate
forms.

A hand clutched his arm—a shaking woman's hand, slim and hard and
tense.

"Bill's—killed!" whispered a broken voice. "I was watchin'....
They're both dead!"

The wives of Jacobs and Guy Isbel had slipped up behind Jean and from
behind him they had seen the tragedy.

"I asked Bill—not to—go," faltered the Jacobs woman, and, covering
her face with her hands, she groped back to the comer of the cabin,
where the other women, shaking and white, received her in their arms.
Guy Isbel's wife stood at the window, peering over Jean's shoulder. She
had the nerve of a man. She had looked out upon death before.

"Yes, they're dead," she said, bitterly. "An' how are we goin' to get
their bodies?"

At this Gaston Isbel seemed to rouse from the cold spell that had
transfixed him.

"God, this is hell for our women," he cried out, hoarsely. "My son—my
son! ... Murdered by the Jorths!" Then he swore a terrible oath.

Jean saw the remainder of the mounted rustlers get off, and then, all
of them leading their horses, they began to move around to the left.

"Dad, they're movin' round," said Jean.

"Up to some trick," declared Bill Isbel.

"Bill, you make a hole through the back wall, say aboot the fifth log
up," ordered the father. "Shore we've got to look out."

The elder son grasped a tool and, scattering the children, who had been
playing near the back corner, he began to work at the point designated.
The little children backed away with fixed, wondering, grave eyes. The
women moved their chairs, and huddled together as if waiting and
listening.

Jean watched the rustlers until they passed out of his sight. They had
moved toward the sloping, brushy ground to the north and west of the
cabins.

"Let me know when you get a hole in the back wall," said Jean, and he
went through the kitchen and cautiously out another door to slip into a
low-roofed, shed-like end of the rambling cabin. This small space was
used to store winter firewood. The chinks between the walls had not
been filled with adobe clay, and he could see out on three sides. The
rustlers were going into the juniper brush. They moved out of sight,
and presently reappeared without their horses. It looked to Jean as if
they intended to attack the cabins. Then they halted at the edge of
the brush and held a long consultation. Jean could see them
distinctly, though they were too far distant for him to recognize any
particular man. One of them, however, stood and moved apart from the
closely massed group. Evidently, from his strides and gestures, he was
exhorting his listeners. Jean concluded this was either Daggs or
Jorth. Whoever it was had a loud, coarse voice, and this and his
actions impressed Jean with a suspicion that the man was under the
influence of the bottle.

Presently Bill Isbel called Jean in a low voice. "Jean, I got the hole
made, but we can't see anyone."

"I see them," Jean replied. "They're havin' a powwow. Looks to me
like either Jorth or Daggs is drunk. He's arguin' to charge us, an'
the rest of the gang are holdin' back.... Tell dad, an' all of you keep
watchin'. I'll let you know when they make a move."

Jorth's gang appeared to be in no hurry to expose their plan of battle.
Gradually the group disintegrated a little; some of them sat down;
others walked to and fro. Presently two of them went into the brush,
probably back to the horses. In a few moments they reappeared,
carrying a pack. And when this was deposited on the ground all the
rustlers sat down around it. They had brought food and drink. Jean
had to utter a grim laugh at their coolness; and he was reminded of
many dare-devil deeds known to have been perpetrated by the Hash Knife
Gang. Jean was glad of a reprieve. The longer the rustlers put off an
attack the more time the allies of the Isbels would have to get here.
Rather hazardous, however, would it be now for anyone to attempt to get
to the Isbel cabins in the daytime. Night would be more favorable.