Zane Grey (33 page)

"Say, do you reckon Blue really is King Fisher?" queried Somers.

"Naw!" ejaculated Colter, with downward sweep of his hand. "Many a
would-be gun slinger has borrowed Fisher's name. But Fisher is daid
these many years."

"Ahuh! Wal, mebbe, but don't you fergit it—thet Blue was no
would-be," declared Somers. "He was the genuine article."

"I should smile!" affirmed Springer.

The subject irritated Colter, and he dismissed it with another forcible
gesture and a counter question.

"How many left in that Isbel outfit?"

"No tellin'. There shore was enough of them," replied Somers.
"Anyhow, the woods was full of flyin' bullets.... Springer, did you
account for any of them?"

"Nope—not thet I noticed," responded Springer, dryly. "I had my
chance at the half-breed.... Reckon I was nervous."

"Was Slater near you when he yelled out?"

"No. He was lyin' beside Somers."

"Wasn't thet a queer way fer a man to act?" broke in Somers. "A bullet
hit Slater, cut him down the back as he was lyin' flat. Reckon it
wasn't bad. But it hurt him so thet he jumped right up an' staggered
around. He made a target big as a tree. An' mebbe them Isbels didn't
riddle him!"

"That was when I got my crack at Bill Isbel," declared Colter, with
grim satisfaction. "When they shot my horse out from under me I had
Ellen to think of an' couldn't get my rifle. Shore had to run, as yu
seen. Wal, as I only had my six-shooter, there was nothin' for me to
do but lay low an' listen to the sping of lead. Wells was standin' up
behind a tree about thirty yards off. He got plugged, an' fallin' over
he began to crawl my way, still holdin' to his rifle. I crawled along
the log to meet him. But he dropped aboot half-way. I went on an'
took his rifle an' belt. When I peeped out from behind a spruce bush
then I seen Bill Isbel. He was shootin' fast, an' all of them was
shootin' fast. That war, when they had the open shot at Slater....
Wal, I bored Bill Isbel right through his middle. He dropped his rifle
an', all bent double, he fooled around in a circle till he flopped over
the Rim. I reckon he's layin' right up there somewhere below that daid
spruce. I'd shore like to see him."

"I Wal, you'd be as crazy as Queen if you tried thet," declared Somers.
"We're not out of the woods yet."

"I reckon not," replied Colter. "An' I've lost my horse. Where'd y'u
leave yours?"

"They're down the canyon, below thet willow brake. An' saddled an'
none of them tied. Reckon we'll have to look them up before dark."

"Colter, what 're we goin' to do?" demanded Springer.

"Wait heah a while—then cross the canyon an' work round up under the
bluff, back to the cabin."

"An' then what?" queried Somers, doubtfully eying Colter.

"We've got to eat—we've got to have blankets," rejoined Colter,
testily. "An' I reckon we can hide there an' stand a better show in a
fight than runnin' for it in the woods."

"Wal, I'm givin' you a hunch thet it looked like you was runnin' fer
it," retorted Somers.

"Yes, an' packin' the girl," added Springer. "Looks funny to me."

Both rustlers eyed Colter with dark and distrustful glances. What he
might have replied never transpired, for the reason that his gaze,
always shifting around, had suddenly fixed on something.

"Is that a wolf?" he asked, pointing to the Rim.

Both his comrades moved to get in line with his finger. Ellen could
not see from her position.

"Shore thet's a big lofer," declared Somers. "Reckon he scented us."

"There he goes along the Rim," observed Colter. "He doesn't act leary.
Looks like a good sign to me. Mebbe the Isbels have gone the other
way."

"Looks bad to me," rejoined Springer, gloomily.

"An' why?" demanded Colter.

"I seen thet animal. Fust time I reckoned it was a lofer. Second time
it was right near them Isbels. An' I'm damned now if I don't believe
it's thet half-lofer sheep dog of Gass Isbel's."

"Wal, what if it is?"

"Ha! ... Shore we needn't worry about hidin' out," replied Springer,
sententiously. "With thet dog Jean Isbel could trail a grasshopper."

"The hell y'u say!" muttered Colter. Manifestly such a possibility put
a different light upon the present situation. The men grew silent and
watchful, occupied by brooding thoughts and vigilant surveillance of
all points. Somers slipped off into the brush, soon to return, with
intent look of importance.

"I heerd somethin'," he whispered, jerking his thumb backward. "Rollin'
gravel—crackin' of twigs. No deer! ... Reckon it'd be a good idee for
us to slip round acrost this bench."

"Wal, y'u fellars go, an' I'll watch heah," returned Colter.

"Not much," said Somers, while Springer leered knowingly.

Colter became incensed, but he did not give way to it. Pondering a
moment, he finally turned to Ellen. "Y'u wait heah till I come back.
An' if I don't come in reasonable time y'u slip across the canyon an'
through the willows to the cabins. Wait till aboot dark." With that
he possessed himself of one of the extra rifles and belts and silently
joined his comrades. Together they noiselessly stole into the brush.

Ellen had no other thought than to comply with Colter's wishes. There
was her wounded uncle who had been left unattended, and she was anxious
to get back to him. Besides, if she had wanted to run off from Colter,
where could she go? Alone in the woods, she would get lost and die of
starvation. Her lot must be cast with the Jorth faction until the end.
That did not seem far away.

Her strained attention and suspense made the moments fly. By and by
several shots pealed out far across the side canyon on her right, and
they were answered by reports sounding closer to her. The fight was on
again. But these shots were not repeated. The flies buzzed, the hot
sun beat down and sloped to the west, the soft, warm breeze stirred the
aspens, the ravens croaked, the red squirrels and blue jays chattered.

Suddenly a quick, short, yelp electrified Ellen, brought her upright
with sharp, listening rigidity. Surely it was not a wolf and hardly
could it be a coyote. Again she heard it. The yelp of a sheep dog!
She had heard that' often enough to know. And she rose to change her
position so she could command a view of the rocky bluff above.
Presently she espied what really appeared to be a big timber wolf. But
another yelp satisfied her that it really was a dog. She watched him.
Soon it became evident that he wanted to get down over the bluff. He
ran to and fro, and then out of sight. In a few moments his yelp
sounded from lower down, at the base of the bluff, and it was now the
cry of an intelligent dog that was trying to call some one to his aid.
Ellen grew convinced that the dog was near where Colter had said Bill
Isbel had plunged over the declivity. Would the dog yelp that way if
the man was dead? Ellen thought not.

No one came, and the continuous yelping of the dog got on Ellen's
nerves. It was a call for help. And finally she surrendered to it.
Since her natural terror when Colter's horse was shot from under her
and she had been dragged away, she had not recovered from fear of the
Isbels. But calm consideration now convinced her that she could hardly
be in a worse plight in their hands than if she remained in Colter's.
So she started out to find the dog.

The wooded bench was level for a few hundred yards, and then it began
to heave in rugged, rocky bulges up toward the Rim. It did not appear
far to where the dog was barking, but the latter part of the distance
proved to be a hard climb over jumbled rocks and through thick brush.
Panting and hot, she at length reached the base of the bluff, to find
that it was not very high.

The dog espied her before she saw him, for he was coming toward her
when she discovered him. Big, shaggy, grayish white and black, with
wild, keen face and eyes he assuredly looked the reputation Springer
had accorded him. But sagacious, guarded as was his approach, he
appeared friendly.

"Hello—doggie!" panted Ellen. "What's—wrong—up heah?"

He yelped, his ears lost their stiffness, his body sank a little, and
his bushy tail wagged to and fro. What a gray, clear, intelligent look
he gave her! Then he trotted back.

Ellen followed him around a corner of bluff to see the body of a man
lying on his back. Fresh earth and gravel lay about him, attesting to
his fall from above. He had on neither coat nor hat, and the position
of his body and limbs suggested broken bones. As Ellen hurried to his
side she saw that the front of his shirt, low down, was a bloody
blotch. But he could lift his head; his eyes were open; he was
perfectly conscious. Ellen did not recognize the dusty, skinned face,
yet the mold of features, the look of the eyes, seemed strangely
familiar.

"You're—Jorth's—girl," he said, in faint voice of surprise.

"Yes, I'm Ellen Jorth," she replied. "An' are y'u Bill Isbel?"

"All thet's left of me. But I'm thankin' God somebody come—even a
Jorth."

Ellen knelt beside him and examined the wound in his abdomen. A heavy
bullet had indeed, as Colter had avowed, torn clear through his middle.
Even if he had not sustained other serious injury from the fall over
the cliff, that terrible bullet wound meant death very shortly. Ellen
shuddered. How inexplicable were men! How cruel, bloody, mindless!

"Isbel, I'm sorry—there's no hope," she said, low voiced. "Y'u've not
long to live. I cain't help y'u. God knows I'd do so if I could."

"All over!" he sighed, with his eyes looking beyond her. "I reckon—I'm
glad.... But y'u can—do somethin' for or me. Will y'u?"

"Indeed, Yes. Tell me," she replied, lifting his dusty head on her
knee. Her hands trembled as she brushed his wet hair back from his
clammy brow.

"I've somethin'—on my conscience," he whispered.

The woman, the sensitive in Ellen, understood and pitied him then.

"Yes," she encouraged him.

"I stole cattle—my dad's an' Blaisdell's—an' made deals—with
Daggs.... All the crookedness—wasn't on—Jorth's side.... I want—my
brother Jean—to know."

"I'll try—to tell him," whispered Ellen, out of her great amaze.

"We were all—a bad lot—except Jean," went on Isbel. "Dad wasn't
fair.... God! how he hated Jorth! Jorth, yes, who was—your father....
Wal, they're even now."

"How—so?" faltered Ellen.

"Your father killed dad.... At the last—dad wanted to—save us. He
sent word—he'd meet him—face to face—an' let thet end the feud. They
met out in the road.... But some one shot dad down—with a rifle—an'
then your father finished him."

"An' then, Isbel," added Ellen, with unconscious mocking bitterness,
"Your brother murdered my dad!"

"What!" whispered Bill Isbel. "Shore y'u've got—it wrong. I reckon
Jean—could have killed—your father.... But he didn't. Queer, we all
thought."

"Ah! ... Who did kill my father?" burst out Ellen, and her voice rang
like great hammers at her ears.

"It was Blue. He went in the store—alone—faced the whole gang alone.
Bluffed them—taunted them—told them he was King Fisher.... Then he
killed—your dad—an' Jackson Jorth.... Jean was out—back of the
store. We were out—front. There was shootin'. Colmor was hit. Then
Blue ran out—bad hurt.... Both of them—died in Meeker's yard."

"An' so Jean Isbel has not killed a Jorth!" said Ellen, in strange,
deep voice.

"No," replied Isbel, earnestly. "I reckon this feud—was hardest on
Jean. He never lived heah.... An' my sister Ann said—he got sweet on
y'u.... Now did he?"

Slow, stinging tears filled Ellen's eyes, and her head sank low and
lower.

"Yes—he did," she murmured, tremulously.

"Ahuh! Wal, thet accounts," replied Isbel, wonderingly. "Too bad! ...
It might have been.... A man always sees—different when—he's
dyin'.... If I had—my life—to live over again! ... My poor
kids—deserted in their babyhood—ruined for life! All for nothin'....
May God forgive—"

Then he choked and whispered for water.

Ellen laid his head back and, rising, she took his sombrero and started
hurriedly down the slope, making dust fly and rocks roll. Her mind was
a seething ferment. Leaping, bounding, sliding down the weathered
slope, she gained the bench, to run across that, and so on down into
the open canyon to the willow-bordered brook. Here she filled the
sombrero with water and started back, forced now to walk slowly and
carefully. It was then, with the violence and fury of intense muscular
activity denied her, that the tremendous import of Bill Isbel's
revelation burst upon her very flesh and blood and transfiguring the
very world of golden light and azure sky and speaking forestland that
encompassed her.

Not a drop of the precious water did she spill. Not a misstep did she
make. Yet so great was the spell upon her that she was not aware she
had climbed the steep slope until the dog yelped his welcome. Then
with all the flood of her emotion surging and resurging she knelt to
allay the parching thirst of this dying enemy whose words had changed
frailty to strength, hate to love, and, the gloomy hell of despair to
something unutterable. But she had returned too late. Bill Isbel was
dead.

Jean Isbel, holding the wolf-dog Shepp in leash, was on the trail of
the most dangerous of Jorth's gang, the gunman Queen. Dark drops of
blood on the stones and plain tracks of a rider's sharp-heeled boots
behind coverts indicated the trail of a wounded, slow-traveling
fugitive. Therefore, Jean Isbel held in the dog and proceeded with the
wary eye and watchful caution of an Indian.

Queen, true to his class, and emulating Blue with the same magnificent
effrontery and with the same paralyzing suddenness of surprise, had
appeared as if by magic at the last night camp of the Isbel faction.
Jean had seen him first, in time to leap like a panther into the
shadow. But he carried in his shoulder Queen's first bullet of that
terrible encounter. Upon Gordon and Fredericks fell the brunt of
Queen's fusillade. And they, shot to pieces, staggering and falling,
held passionate grip on life long enough to draw and still Queen's guns
and send him reeling off into the darkness of the forest.