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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. Twice Bill Isbel came through the kitchen to whisper to Jean. The strain in the large room, from which the rustlers could not be seen, must have been great.
"Yes, Jean Isbel was sweet on me, dad ... but he will never be again," returned Ellen, in low tones. With that she pulled her saddle off Spades and, throwing it over her shoulder, she walked off to her cabin. Hardly had she gotten indoors when her father entered. "Ellen, I didn't know that horse belonged to Isbel," he began, in the swift, hoarse, persuasive voice so familiar to Ellen.
Ellen's joyousness fled; her smiles faded. The spring morning lost its magic radiance. "Shore there's no sense in my lyin' to myself," she soliloquized, thoughtfully. "It's queer of me feelin' glad aboot him without knowin'. Lord! I must be lonesome! To be glad of seein' an Isbel, even if he is different!" Soberly she accepted the astounding reality.
Impatient and moody by turns, he paced or moped around the cabin, always looking out, sometimes toward Blaisdell's ranch, but mostly toward Grass Valley. It struck Jean as singular that neither Esther Isbel nor Mrs. Jacobs suggested a reburial of their husbands. The two bereaved women did not ask for assistance, but repaired to the pasture, and there spent several hours working over the graves.
"Shore as hell!" he bit out, darkly. "Somers saw Isbel an' his gang trailin' us to the Jorth ranch." "Are y'u goin' to stay heah an' wait for them?" "Shore I've been quarrelin' with the fellars out there over that very question. I'm for leavin' the country. But Queen, the damn gun fighter, is daid set to kill that cowman, Blue, who swore he was King Fisher, the old Texas outlaw.
If the events of the day had not changed her, they had at least brought up softer and kinder memories and emotions than she had known for long. Nothing hurt and saddened her so much as to remember the gay, happy days of her childhood, her sweet mother, her, old home. Then her thought returned to Isbel and his gift. It had been years since anyone had made her a gift. What could this one be?
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.
Strong and skillful hands, axes and a crosscut saw, had been the prime factors in erecting this habitation of the Isbels. "Good mawnin', son," called a cheery voice from the porch. "Shore we-all heard you shoot; an' the crack of that forty-four was as welcome as May flowers." Bill Isbel looked up from a task over a saddle girth and inquired pleasantly if Jean ever slept of nights.
But he rode off.... And that's all there is to that." "Maybe it's not," replied Jorth, chewing his mustache and eying Ellen with dark, intent gaze. "Y'u've met this Isbel twice." "It wasn't any fault of mine," retorted Ellen. "I heah he's sweet on y'u. How aboot that?" Ellen smarted under the blaze of blood that swept to neck and cheek and temple. But it was only memory which fired this shame.
His hair was grayer. Now that the blaze and glow of the fight had passed he showed a subtle change, a fixed and morbid sadness, a resignation to a fate he had accepted. The ordinary routine of ranch life did not return for the Isbels. Blaisdell returned home to settle matters there, so that he could devote all his time to this feud. Gaston Isbel sat down to wait for the members of his clan.
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