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Updated: May 27, 2025
"Jean can you can you shoot that far?" he asked, huskily. "To those hogs? No, it's out of range." "Then, by God, we've got to stay trapped in heah an' watch an awful sight," ejaculated the old man, completely unnerved. "See that break in the fence! ... Jorth's done that.... To let in the hogs!" "Aw, Isbel, it's not so bad as all that," remonstrated Blaisdell, wagging his bloody head.
Her passionate denial was not only the last of her shameful deceit; it was the woman of her, repudiating herself and him, and all this sickening, miserable situation. Isbel took her literally. She had convinced him. And the instant held blank horror for Ellen. "By God then I'll have somethin' of you anyway!" muttered Isbel, thickly. Ellen saw the blood bulge in his powerful neck.
When we surmounted the slope, and eventually reached camp, I found Isbel entertaining strangers, men of rough garb, evidently riders of the range. That was all right, but I did not like his prodigality with our swiftly diminishing store of eatables. To conclude about Isbel matters pertaining to our commissary department, during the next few days, went from bad to worse.
Daggs removed his keen hawklike gaze from Bruce. "Wal, Jorth, all I'll say is this. If Bruce is tellin' the truth we ain't got a hell of a lot to fear from this young Isbel. I've known a heap of gun fighters in my day. An' Jean Isbel don't ran true to class. Shore there never was a gunman who'd risk cripplin' his right hand by sluggin' anybody." "Wal," broke in Bruce, sullenly.
Attention thus directed to the Mexican showed a heavy discolored swelling upon the side of his olive-skinned face. Lorenzo looked only serious. "Hah! Speak up," shouted Jorth, impatiently. "Senor Isbel heet me ver quick," replied Lorenzo, with expressive gesture. "I see thousand stars then moocho black all like night." At that some of Daggs's men lolled back with dry crisp laughter.
You are good good as gold, Ellen, an' he knows it.... What a queer deal it all is! Poor devil! To love you thet turribly an' hev to fight your people! Ellen, your dad had it correct. Isbel or not, he's a man.... An' I say what a shame you two are divided by hate. Hate thet you hed nothin' to do with." Sprague patted her head and rose to go. "Mebbe thet fight will end the trouble. I reckon it will.
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.
"Heah I've been waitin' for y'u to love me," he declared, with a gesture not without dignified emotion. "Your givin' in without that wasn't so much to me." And at these words of the rustler's Jean Isbel felt an icy, sickening shudder creep into his soul. He shut his eyes. The end of his dream had been long in coming, but at last it had arrived.
Sometimes a loss was not discovered for weeks. Gaston Isbel's sons were now the only men left to ride the range. Two of his riders had quit because of the threatened war, and Isbel had let another go. So that Jean did not often learn that cattle had been stolen until their tracks were old. Added to that was the fact that this Grass Valley country was covered with horse tracks and cattle tracks.
Jean scarcely heard the latter part of this speech. He seemed doubled up inwardly, in hot and cold convulsions of changing emotion. A terrible hold upon his consciousness was about to break and let go. The first shot had been fired and he was an Isbel. Indeed, his father had made him ten times an Isbel. Blood was thick. His father did not speak to dull ears.
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