Zane Grey (38 page)

"That aboot your bein' so good?" he inquired, with a return of the
mocking drawl.

"Never mind what's past," she flashed, with passion dark as his. "I've
made my offer."

"Shore there's a lie aboot y'u somewhere," he muttered, thickly.

"Man, could I do more?" she demanded, in scorn.

"No. But it's a lie," he returned. "Y'u'll get me to take y'u away
an' then fool me—run off—God knows what. Women are all liars."

Manifestly he could not believe in her strange transformation. Memory
of her wild and passionate denunciation of him and his kind must have
seared even his calloused soul. But the ruthless nature of him had not
weakened nor softened in the least as to his intentions. This
weather-vane veering of hers bewildered him, obsessed him with its
possibilities. He had the look of a man who was divided between love
of her and hate, whose love demanded a return, but whose hate required
a proof of her abasement. Not proof of surrender, but proof of her
shame! The ignominy of him thirsted for its like. He could grind her
beauty under his heel, but he could not soften to this feminine
inscrutableness.

And whatever was the truth of Ellen Jorth in this moment, beyond
Colter's gloomy and stunted intelligence, beyond even the love of Jean
Isbel, it was something that held the balance of mastery. She read
Colter's mind. She dropped the torn blouse from her hand and stood
there, unashamed, with the wave of her white breast pulsing, eyes black
as night and full of hell, her face white, tragic, terrible, yet
strangely lovely.

"Take me away," she whispered, stretching one white arm toward him,
then the other.

Colter, even as she moved, had leaped with inarticulate cry and radiant
face to meet her embrace. But it seemed, just as her left arm flashed
up toward his neck, that he saw her bloody hand and wrist. Strange how
that checked his ardor—threw up his lean head like that striking bird
of prey.

"Blood! What the hell!" he ejaculated, and in one sweep he grasped
her. "How'd yu do that? Are y'u cut? ... Hold still."

Ellen could not release her hand.

"I scratched myself," she said.

"Where?... All that blood!" And suddenly he flung her hand back with
fierce gesture, and the gleams of his yellow eyes were like the points
of leaping flames. They pierced her—read the secret falsity of her.
Slowly he stepped backward, guardedly his hand moved to his gun, and
his glance circled and swept the interior of the cabin. As if he had
the nose of a hound and sight to follow scent, his eyes bent to the
dust of the ground before the door. He quivered, grew rigid as stone,
and then moved his head with exceeding slowness as if searching through
a microscope in the dust—farther to the left—to the foot of the
ladder—and up one step—another—a third—all the way up to the loft.
Then he whipped out his gun and wheeled to face the girl.

"Ellen, y'u've got your half-breed heah!" he said, with a terrible
smile.

She neither moved nor spoke. There was a suggestion of collapse, but
it was only a change where the alluring softness of her hardened into a
strange, rapt glow. And in it seemed the same mastery that had
characterized her former aspect. Herein the treachery of her was
revealed. She had known what she meant to do in any case.

Colter, standing at the door, reached a long arm toward the ladder,
where he laid his hand on a rung. Taking it away he held it palm
outward for her to see the dark splotch of blood.

"See?"

"Yes, I see," she said, ringingly.

Passion wrenched him, transformed him. "All that—aboot leavin'
heah—with me—aboot givin' in—was a lie!"

"No, Colter. It was the truth. I'll go—yet—now—if y'u'll
spare—HIM!" She whispered the last word and made a slight movement of
her hand toward the loft. "Girl!" he exploded, incredulously. "Y'u
love this half-breed—this ISBEL! ... Y'u LOVE him!"

"With all my heart! ... Thank God! It has been my glory.... It might
have been my salvation.... But now I'll go to hell with y'u—if y'u'll
spare him."

"Damn my soul!" rasped out the rustler, as if something of respect was
wrung from that sordid deep of him. "Y'u—y'u woman! ... Jorth will
turn over in his grave. He'd rise out of his grave if this Isbel got
y'u."

"Hurry! Hurry!" implored Ellen. "Springer may come back. I think I
heard a call."

"Wal, Ellen Jorth, I'll not spare Isbel—nor y'u," he returned, with
dark and meaning leer, as he turned to ascend the ladder.

Jean Isbel, too, had reached the climax of his suspense. Gathering all
his muscles in a knot he prepared to leap upon Colter as he mounted the
ladder. But, Ellen Jorth screamed piercingly and snatched her rifle
from its resting place and, cocking it, she held it forward and low.

"COLTER!"

Her scream and his uttered name stiffened him.

"Y'u will spare Jean Isbel!" she rang out. "Drop that gun-drop it!"

"Shore, Ellen.... Easy now. Remember your temper.... I'll let Isbel
off," he panted, huskily, and all his body sank quiveringly to a crouch.

"Drop your gun! Don't turn round.... Colter!—I'LL KILL Y'U!"

But even then he failed to divine the meaning and the spirit of her.

"Aw, now, Ellen," he entreated, in louder, huskier tones, and as if
dragged by fatal doubt of her still, he began to turn.

Crash! The rifle emptied its contents in Colter's breast. All his
body sprang up. He dropped the gun. Both hands fluttered toward her.
And an awful surprise flashed over his face.

"So—help—me—God!" he whispered, with blood thick in his voice. Then
darkly, as one groping, he reached for her with shaking hands.
"Y'u—y'u white-throated hussy!... I'll ..."

He grasped the quivering rifle barrel. Crash! She shot him again. As
he swayed over her and fell she had to leap aside, and his clutching
hand tore the rifle from her grasp. Then in convulsion he writhed, to
heave on his back, and stretch out—a ghastly spectacle. Ellen backed
away from it, her white arms wide, a slow horror blotting out the
passion of her face.

Then from without came a shrill call and the sound of rapid footsteps.
Ellen leaned against the wall, staring still at Colter. "Hey,
Jim—what's the shootin'?" called Springer, breathlessly.

As his form darkened the doorway Jean once again gathered all his
muscular force for a tremendous spring.

Springer saw the girl first and he appeared thunderstruck. His jaw
dropped. He needed not the white gleam of her person to transfix him.
Her eyes did that and they were riveted in unutterable horror upon
something on the ground. Thus instinctively directed, Springer espied
Colter.

"Y'u—y'u shot him!" he shrieked. "What for—y'u hussy? ... Ellen
Jorth, if y'u've killed him, I'll..."

He strode toward where Colter lay.

Then Jean, rising silently, took a step and like a tiger he launched
himself into the air, down upon the rustler. Even as he leaped
Springer gave a quick, upward look. And he cried out. Jean's
moccasined feet struck him squarely and sent him staggering into the
wall, where his head hit hard. Jean fell, but bounded up as the
half-stunned Springer drew his gun. Then Jean lunged forward with a
single sweep of his arm—and looked no more.

Ellen ran swaying out of the door, and, once clear of the threshold,
she tottered out on the grass, to sink to her knees. The bright,
golden sunlight gleamed upon her white shoulders and arms. Jean had
one foot out of the door when he saw her and he whirled back to get her
blouse. But Springer had fallen upon it. Snatching up a blanket, Jean
ran out.

"Ellen! Ellen! Ellen!" he cried. "It's over!" And reaching her, he
tried to wrap her in the blanket.

She wildly clutched his knees. Jean was conscious only of her white,
agonized face and the dark eyes with their look of terrible strain.

"Did y'u—did y'u..." she whispered.

"Yes—it's over," he said, gravely. "Ellen, the Isbel-Jorth feud is
ended."

"Oh, thank—God!" she cried, in breaking voice. "Jean—y'u are
wounded... the blood on the step!"

"My arm. See. It's not bad.... Ellen, let me wrap this round you."
Folding the blanket around her shoulders, he held it there and
entreated her to get up. But she only clung the closer. She hid her
face on his knees. Long shudders rippled over her, shaking the
blanket, shaking Jean's hands. Distraught, he did not know what to do.
And his own heart was bursting.

"Ellen, you must not kneel—there—that way," he implored.

"Jean! Jean!" she moaned, and clung the tighter.

He tried to lift her up, but she was a dead weight, and with that hold
on him seemed anchored at his feet.

"I killed Colter," she gasped. "I HAD to—kill him! ... I offered—to
fling myself away...."

"For me!" he cried, poignantly. "Oh, Ellen! Ellen! the world has come
to an end! ... Hush! don't keep sayin' that. Of course you killed him.
You saved my life. For I'd never have let you go off with him ....
Yes, you killed him.... You're a Jorth an' I'm an Isbel ... We've blood
on our hands—both of us—I for you an' you for me!"

His voice of entreaty and sadness strengthened her and she raised her
white face, loosening her clasp to lean back and look up. Tragic,
sweet, despairing, the loveliness of her—the significance of her there
on her knees—thrilled him to his soul.

"Blood on my hands!" she whispered. "Yes. It was awful—killing
him.... But—all I care for in this world is for your forgiveness—and
your faith that saved my soul!"

"Child, there's nothin' to forgive," he responded. "Nothin'... Please,
Ellen..."

"I lied to y'u!" she cried. "I lied to y'u!"

"Ellen, listen—darlin'." And the tender epithet brought her head and
arms back close-pressed to him. "I know—now," he faltered on. "I
found out to-day what I believed. An' I swear to God—by the memory of
my dead mother—down in my heart I never, never, never believed what
they—what y'u tried to make me believe. NEVER!"

"Jean—I love y'u—love y'u—love y'u!" she breathed with exquisite,
passionate sweetness. Her dark eyes burned up into his.

"Ellen, I can't lift you up," he said, in trembling eagerness,
signifying his crippled arm. "But I can kneel with you! ..."