To The Last Man
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Zane Grey >> To The Last Man
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"Your dad had no rifle. He packed his gun at his hip. He jest stalked
down thet road like a giant, goin' faster an' faster, holdin' his head
high. It shore was fine to see him. But I was sick. I heerd Blaisdell
groan, an' Fredericks thar cussed somethin' fierce. . . . When your dad
halted--I reckon aboot fifty steps from Jorth--then we all went numb.
I heerd your dad's voice--then Jorth's. They cut like knives.
Y'u could shore heah the hate they hed fer each other."
Blue had become a little husky. His speech had grown gradually to
denote his feeling. Underneath his serenity there was a different
order of man.
"I reckon both your dad an' Jorth went fer their guns at the same time
--an even break. But jest as they drew, some one shot a rifle from the
store. Must hev been a forty-five seventy. A big gun! The bullet must
have hit your dad low down, aboot the middle. He acted thet way, sinkin'
to his knees. An' he was wild in shootin'--so wild thet he must hev
missed. Then he wabbled--an' Jorth run in a dozen steps, shootin' fast,
till your dad fell over. . . . Jorth run closer, bent over him, an' then
straightened up with an Apache yell, if I ever heerd one. . . . An' then
Jorth backed slow--lookin' all the time--backed to the store, an' went in."
Blue's voice ceased. Jean seemed suddenly released from an impelling
magnet that now dropped him to some numb, dizzy depth. Blue's lean
face grew hazy. Then Jean bowed his head in his hands, and sat there,
while a slight tremor shook all his muscles at once. He grew deathly
cold and deathly sick. This paroxysm slowly wore away, and Jean grew
conscious of a dull amaze at the apparent deadness of his spirit.
Blaisdell placed a huge, kindly hand on his shoulder.
"Brace up, son!" he said, with voice now clear and resonant. "Shore
it's what your dad expected--an' what we all must look for. . . .
If yu was goin' to kill Jorth before--think how -- -- shore y'u're goin'
to kill him now."
"Blaisdell's talkin'," put in Blue, and his voice had a cold ring.
"Lee Jorth will never see the sun rise ag'in!"
These calls to the primitive in Jean, to the Indian, were not in vain.
But even so, when the dark tide rose in him, there was still a haunting
consciousness of the cruelty of this singular doom imposed upon him.
Strangely Ellen Jorth's face floated back in the depths of his vision,
pale, fading, like the face of a spirit floating by.
"Blue," said Blaisdell, "let's get Isbel's body soon as we dare,
an' bury it. Reckon we can, right after dark."
"Shore," replied Blue. "But y'u fellars figger thet out. I'm thinkin'
hard. I've got somethin' on my mind."
Jean grew fascinated by the looks and speech and action of the little
gunman. Blue, indeed, had something on his mind. And it boded ill to
the men in that dark square stone house down the road. He paced to and
fro in the yard, back and forth on the path to the gate, and then he
entered the cabin to stalk up and down, faster and faster, until all
at once he halted as if struck, to upfling his right arm in a singular
fierce gesture.
"Jean, call the men in," he said, tersely.
They all filed in, sinister and silent, with eager faces turned to the
little Texan. His dominance showed markedly.
Gordon, y'u stand in the door an' keep your eye peeled," went on Blue.
. . . Now, boys, listen! I've thought it all out. This game of man
huntin' is the same to me as cattle raisin' is to y'u. An' my life in
Texas all comes back to me, I reckon, in good stead fer us now. I'm
goin' to kill Lee Jorth! Him first, an' mebbe his brothers. I had
to think of a good many ways before I hit on one I reckon will be shore.
It's got to be SHORE. Jorth has got to die! Wal, heah's my plan. . . .
Thet Jorth outfit is drinkin' some, we can gamble on it. They're not
goin' to leave thet store. An' of course they'll be expectin' us to
start a fight. I reckon they'll look fer some such siege as they held
round Isbel's ranch. But we shore ain't goin' to do thet. I'm goin'
to surprise thet outfit. There's only one man among them who is
dangerous, an' thet's Queen. I know Queen. But he doesn't know me.
An' I'm goin' to finish my job before he gets acquainted with me.
After thet, all right!"
Blue paused a moment, his eyes narrowing down, his whole face setting
in hard cast of intense preoccupation, as if he visualized a scene of
extraordinary nature.
"Wal, what's your trick?" demanded Blaisdell.
"Y'u all know Greaves's store," continued Blue. "How them winders have
wooden shutters thet keep a light from showin' outside? Wal, I'm gamblin'
thet as soon as it's dark Jorth's gang will be celebratin. They'll be
drinkin' an' they'll have a light, an' the winders will be shut. They're
not goin' to worry none aboot us. Thet store is like a fort. It won't
burn. An' shore they'd never think of us chargin' them in there. Wal,
as soon as it's dark, we'll go round behind the lots an' come up jest
acrost the road from Greaves's. I reckon we'd better leave Isbel where
he lays till this fight's over. Mebbe y'u 'll have more 'n him to bury.
We'll crawl behind them bushes in front of Coleman's yard. An' heah's
where Jean comes in. He'll take an ax, an' his guns, of course, an' do
some of his Injun sneakin' round to the back of Greaves's store. . . .
An', Jean, y'u must do a slick job of this. But I reckon it 'll be easy
fer you. Back there it 'll be dark as pitch, fer anyone lookin' out of
the store. An' I'm figgerin' y'u can take your time an' crawl right up.
Now if y'u don't remember how Greaves's back yard looks I'll tell y'u."
Here Blue dropped on one knee to the floor and with a finger he traced
a map of Greaves's barn and fence, the back door and window, and
especially a break in the stone foundation which led into a kind of
cellar where Greaves stored wood and other things that could be left
outdoors.
"Jean, I take particular pains to show y'u where this hole is," said
Blue, "because if the gang runs out y'u could duck in there an' hide.
An' if they run out into the yard--wal, y'u'd make it a sorry run fer
them. . . . Wal, when y'u've crawled up close to Greaves's back door,
an' waited long enough to see an' listen--then you're to run fast an'
swing your ax smash ag'in' the winder. Take a quick peep in if y'u
want to. It might help. Then jump quick an' take a swing at the door.
Y'u 'll be standin' to one side, so if the gang shoots through the door
they won't hit y'u. Bang thet door good an' hard. . . . Wal, now's
where I come in. When y'u swing thet ax I'll shore run fer the front
of the store. Jorth an' his outfit will be some attentive to thet
poundin' of yours on the back door. So I reckon. An' they'll be
lookin' thet way. I'll run in--yell--an' throw my guns on Jorth."
"Humph! Is that all?" ejaculated Blaisdell.
"I reckon thet's all an' I'm figgerin' it's a hell of a lot," responded
Blue, dryly. "Thet's what Jorth will think."
"Where do we come in?"
"Wal, y'u all can back me up," replied Blue, dubiously. Y'u see,
my plan goes as far as killin' Jorth--an' mebbe his brothers. Mebbe
I'll get a crack at Queen. But I'll be shore of Jorth. After thet
all depends. Mebbe it 'll be easy fer me to get out. An' if I do
y'u fellars will know it an' can fill thet storeroom full of bullets."
"Wal, Blue, with all due respect to y'u, I shore don't like your plan,"
declared Blaisdell. "Success depends upon too many little things any
one of which might go wrong."
"Blaisdell, I reckon I know this heah game better than y'u," replied
Blue. "A gun fighter goes by instinct. This trick will work."
"But suppose that front door of Greaves's store is barred," protested
Blaisdell.
"It hasn't got any bar," said Blue.
"Y'u're shore?"
"Yes, I reckon," replied Blue.
"Hell, man! Aren't y'u takin' a terrible chance?" queried Blaisdell.
Blue's answer to that was a look that brought the blood to Blaisdell's
face. Only then did the rancher really comprehend how the little gunman
had taken such desperate chances before, and meant to take them now,
not with any hope or assurance of escaping with his life, but to live
up to his peculiar code of honor.
"Blaisdell, did y'u ever heah of me in Texas?" he queried, dryly.
"Wal, no, Blue, I cain't swear I did," replied the rancher,
apologetically. "An' Isbel was always sort of' mysterious aboot
his acquaintance with you."
"My name's not Blue."
"Ahuh! Wal, what is it, then--if I'm safe to ask?" returned
Blaisdell, gruffly.
"It's King Fisher," replied Blue.
The shock that stiffened Blaisdell must have been communicated to the
others. Jean certainly felt amaze, and some other emotion not fully
realized, when he found himself face to face with one of the most
notorious characters ever known in Texas--an outlaw long supposed
to be dead.
"Men, I reckon I'd kept my secret if I'd any idee of comin' out of this
Isbel-Jorth war alive," said Blue. "But I'm goin' to cash. I feel it
heah. . . . Isbel was my friend. He saved me from bein' lynched in
Texas. An' so I'm goin' to kill Jorth. Now I'll take it kind of y'u
--if any of y'u come out of this alive--to tell who I was an' why I was
on the Isbel side. Because this sheep an' cattle war--this talk of
Jorth an' the Hash Knife Gang--it makes me, sick. I KNOW there's been
crooked work on Isbel's side, too. An' I never want it on record thet
I killed Jorth because he was a rustler."
"By God, Blue! it's late in the day for such talk," burst out
Blaisdell, in rage and amaze. "But I reckon y'u know what y'u're
talkin' aboot. . . . Wal, I shore don't want to heah it."
At this juncture Bill Isbel quietly entered the cabin, too late to hear
any of Blue's statement. Jean was positive of that, for as Blue was
speaking those last revealing words Bill's heavy boots had resounded
on the gravel path outside. Yet something in Bill's look or in the way
Blue averted his lean face or in the entrance of Bill at that particular
moment, or all these together, seemed to Jean to add further mystery to
the long secret causes leading up to the Jorth-Isbel war. Did Bill know
what Blue knew? Jean had an inkling that he did. And on the moment,
so perplexing and bitter, Jean gazed out the door, down the deserted
road to where his dead father lay, white-haired and ghastly in the
sunlight.
"Blue, you could have kept that to yourself, as well as your real name,"
interposed Jean, with bitterness. "It's too late now for either to do
any good. . . . But I appreciate your friendship for dad, an' I'm ready
to help carry out your plan."
That decision of Jean's appeared to put an end to protest or argument
from Blaisdell or any of the others. Blue's fleeting dark smile was
one of satisfaction. Then upon most of this group of men seemed to
settle a grim restraint. They went out and walked and watched; they
came in again, restless and somber. Jean thought that he must have
bent his gaze a thousand times down the road to the tragic figure of
his father. That sight roused all emotions in his breast, and the
one that stirred there most was pity. The pity of it! Gaston Isbel
lying face down in the dust of the village street! Patches of blood
showed on the back of his vest and one white-sleeved shoulder. He had
been shot through. Every time Jean saw this blood he had to stifle a
gathering of wild, savage impulses.
Meanwhile the afternoon hours dragged by and the village remained as
if its inhabitants had abandoned it. Not even a dog showed on the
side road. Jorth and some of his men came out in front of the store
and sat on the steps, in close convening groups. Every move they,
made seemed significant of their confidence and importance. About
sunset they went back into the store, closing door and window
shutters. Then Blaisdell called the Isbel faction to have food and
drink. Jean felt no hunger. And Blue, who had kept apart from the
others, showed no desire to eat. Neither did he smoke, though early
in the day he had never been without a cigarette between his lips.
Twilight fell and darkness came. Not a light showed anywhere in
the blackness.
"Wal, I reckon it's aboot time," said Blue, and he led the way out of
the cabin to the back of the lot. Jean strode behind him, carrying
his rifle and an ax. Silently the other men followed. Blue turned
to the left and led through the field until he came within sight of
a dark line of trees.
"Thet's where the road turns off," he said to Jean. "An' heah's the
back of Coleman's place. . . . Wal, Jean, good luck!"
Jean felt the grip of a steel-like hand, and in the darkness he caught
the gleam of Blue's eyes. Jean had no response in words for the laconic
Blue, but he wrung the hard, thin hand and hurried away in the darkness.
Once alone, his part of the business at hand rushed him into eager
thrilling action. This was the sort of work he was fitted to do.
In this instance it was important, but it seemed to him that Blue
had coolly taken the perilous part. And this cowboy with gray in his
thin hair was in reality the great King Fisher! Jean marveled at the
fact. And he shivered all over for Jorth. In ten minutes--fifteen,
more or less, Jorth would lie gasping bloody froth and sinking down.
Something in the dark, lonely, silent, oppressive summer night told
Jean this. He strode on swiftly. Crossing the road at a run, he kept
on over the ground he had traversed during the afternoon, and in a few
moments he stood breathing hard at the edge of the common behind
Greaves's store.
A pin point of light penetrated the blackness. It made Jean's heart
leap. The Jorth contingent were burning the big lamp that hung in the
center of Greaves's store. Jean listened. Loud voices and coarse
laughter sounded discord on the melancholy silence of the night. What
Blue had called his instinct had surely guided him aright. Death of
Gaston Isbel was being celebrated by revel.
In a few moments Jean had regained his breath. Then all his faculties
set intensely to the action at hand. He seemed to magnify his hearing
and his sight. His movements made no sound. He gained the wagon,
where he crouched a moment.
The ground seemed a pale, obscure medium, hardly more real than the
gloom above it. Through this gloom of night, which looked thick like
a cloud, but was really clear, shone the thin, bright point of light,
accentuating the black square that was Greaves's store. Above this
stood a gray line of tree foliage, and then the intensely dark-blue
sky studded with white, cold stars.
A hound bayed lonesomely somewhere in the distance. Voices of men
sounded more distinctly, some deep and low, others loud, unguarded,
with the vacant note of thoughtlessness.
Jean gathered all his forces, until sense of sight and hearing were in
exquisite accord with the suppleness and lightness of his movements.
He glided on about ten short, swift steps before he halted. That was
as far as his piercing eyes could penetrate. If there had been a guard
stationed outside the store Jean would have seen him before being seen.
He saw the fence, reached it, entered the yard, glided in the dense
shadow of the barn until the black square began to loom gray--the color
of stone at night. Jean peered through the obscurity. No dark figure
of a man showed against that gray wall--only a black patch, which must
be the hole in the foundation mentioned. A ray of light now streaked
out from the little black window. To the right showed the wide,
black door.
Farther on Jean glided silently. Then he halted. There was no guard
outside. Jean heard the clink of a cap, the lazy drawl of a Texan,
and then a strong, harsh voice--Jorth's. It strung Jean's whole being
tight and vibrating. Inside he was on fire while cold thrills rippled
over his skin. It took tremendous effort of will to hold himself back
another instant to listen, to look, to feel, to make sure. And that
instant charged him with a mighty current of hot blood, straining,
throbbing, damming.
When Jean leaped this current burst. In a few swift bounds he gained
his point halfway between door and window. He leaned his rifle against
the stone wall. Then he swung the ax. Crash! The window shutter split
and rattled to the floor inside. The silence then broke with a hoarse,
"What's thet?"
With all his might Jean swung the heavy ax on the door. Smash! The
lower half caved in and banged to the floor. Bright light flared out
the hole.
"Look out!" yelled a man, in loud alarm. "They're batterin' the
back door!"
Jean swung again, high on the splintered door. Crash! Pieces flew inside.
"They've got axes," hoarsely shouted another voice. "Shove the counter
ag'in' the door."
"No!" thundered a voice of authority that denoted terror as well.
"Let them come in. Pull your guns an' take to cover!"
"They ain't comin' in," was the hoarse reply. "They'll shoot in
on us from the dark."
"Put out the lamp!" yelled another.
Jean's third heavy swing caved in part of the upper half of the door.
Shouts and curses intermingled with the sliding of benches across the
floor and the hard shuffle of boots. This confusion seemed to be split
and silenced by a piercing yell, of different caliber, of terrible
meaning. It stayed Jean's swing--caused him to drop the ax and snatch
up his rifle.
"DON'T ANYBODY MOVE!"
Like a steel whip this voice cut the silence. It belonged to Blue.
Jean swiftly bent to put his eye to a crack in the door. Most of those
visible seemed to have been frozen into unnatural positions. Jorth stood
rather in front of his men, hatless and coatless, one arm outstretched,
and his dark profile set toward a little man just inside the door. This
man was Blue. Jean needed only one flashing look at Blue's face, at his
leveled, quivering guns, to understand why he had chosen this trick.
"Who're---you?" demanded Jorth, in husky pants.
"Reckon I'm Isbel's right-hand man," came the biting reply.
"Once tolerable well known in Texas. . . . KING FISHER!"
The name must have been a guarantee of death. Jorth recognized this
outlaw and realized his own fate. In the lamplight his face turned
a pale greenish white. His outstretched hand began to quiver down.
Blue's left gun seemed to leap up and flash red and explode. Several
heavy reports merged almost as one. Jorth's arm jerked limply, flinging
his gun. And his body sagged in the middle. His hands fluttered like
crippled wings and found their way to his abdomen. His death-pale face
never changed its set look nor position toward Blue. But his gasping
utterance was one of horrible mortal fury and terror. Then he began
to sway, still with that strange, rigid set of his face toward his
slayer, until he fell.
His fall broke the spell. Even Blue, like the gunman he was, had paused
to watch Jorth in his last mortal action. Jorth's followers began to
draw and shoot. Jean saw Blue's return fire bring down a huge man,
who fell across Jorth's body. Then Jean, quick as the thought that
actuated him, raised his rifle and shot at the big lamp. It burst in
a flare. It crashed to the floor. Darkness followed--a blank, thick,
enveloping mantle. Then red flashes of guns emphasized the blackness.
Inside the store there broke loose a pandemonium of shots, yells, curses,
and thudding boots. Jean shoved his rifle barrel inside the door and,
holding it low down, he moved it to and fro while he worked lever and
trigger until the magazine was empty. Then, drawing his six-shooter,
he emptied that. A roar of rifles from the front of the store told
Jean that his comrades had entered the fray. Bullets zipped through
the door he had broken. Jean ran swiftly round the corner, taking care
to sheer off a little to the left, and when he got clear of the building
he saw a line of flashes in the middle of the road. Blaisdell and the
others were firing into the door of the store. With nimble fingers
Jean reloaded his rifle. Then swiftly he ran across the road and down
to get behind his comrades. Their shooting had slackened. Jean saw
dark forms coming his way.
"Hello, Blaisdell!" he called, warningly.
"That y'u, Jean?" returned the rancher, looming up. "Wal, we wasn't
worried aboot y'u."
"Blue?" queried Jean, sharply.
A little, dark figure shuffled past Jean. "Howdy, Jean!" said Blue,
dryly. "Y'u shore did your part. Reckon I'll need to be tied up,
but I ain't hurt much."
"Colmor's hit," called the voice of Gordon, a few yards distant.
"Help me, somebody!"
Jean ran to help Gordon uphold the swaying Colmor. "Are you hurt-bad?"
asked Jean, anxiously. The young man's head rolled and hung. He was
breathing hard and did not reply. They had almost to carry him.
"Come on, men!" called Blaisdell, turning back toward the others who
were still firing. "We'll let well enough alone. . . . Fredericks,
y'u an' Bill help me find the body of the old man. It's heah somewhere."
Farther on down the road the searchers stumbled over Gaston Isbel.
They picked him up and followed Jean and Gordon, who were supporting
the wounded Colmor. Jean looked back to see Blue dragging himself
along in the rear. It was too dark to see distinctly; nevertheless,
Jean got the impression that Blue was more severely wounded than he
had claimed to be. The distance to Meeker's cabin was not far, but
it took what Jean felt to be a long and anxious time to get there.
Colmor apparently rallied somewhat. When this procession entered
Meeker's yard, Blue was lagging behind.
"Blue, how air y'u? " called Blaisdell, with concern.
"Wal, I got--my boots--on--anyhow," replied Blue, huskily.
He lurched into the yard and slid down on the grass and stretched out.
"Man! Y'u're hurt bad!" exclaimed Blaisdell. The others halted in
their slow march and, as if by tacit, unspoken word, lowered the body
of Isbel to the ground. Then Blaisdell knelt beside Blue. Jean left
Colmor to Gordon and hurried to peer down into Blue's dim face.
"No, I ain't--hurt," said Blue, in a much weaker voice. I'm--jest
killed! . . . It was Queen! . . . Y'u all heerd me--Queen was--only
bad man in that lot. I knowed it. . . . I could--hev killed him. . . .
But I was--after Lee Jorth an' his brothers. . . ."
Blue's voice failed there.
"Wal!" ejaculated Blaisdell.
"Shore was funny--Jorth's face--when I said--King Fisher," whispered
Blue. "Funnier--when I bored--him through. . . . But it--was--Queen--"
His whisper died away.
"Blue!" called Blaisdell, sharply. Receiving no answer, he bent lower
in the starlight and placed a hand upon the man's breast.
"Wal, he's gone. . . . I wonder if he really was the old Texas King
Fisher. No one would ever believe it. . . . But if he killed the Jorths,
I'll shore believe him.
CHAPTER X
Two weeks of lonely solitude in the forest had worked incalculable
change in Ellen Jorth.
Late in June her father and her two uncles had packed and ridden off
with Daggs, Colter, and six other men, all heavily armed, some somber
with drink, others hard and grim with a foretaste of fight. Ellen had
not been given any orders. Her father had forgotten to bid her good-by
or had avoided it. Their dark mission was stamped on their faces.
They had gone and, keen as had been Ellen's pang, nevertheless, their
departure was a relief. She had heard them bluster and brag so often
that she had her doubts of any great Jorth-Isbel war. Barking dogs did
not bite. Somebody, perhaps on each side, would be badly wounded,
possibly killed, and then the feud would go on as before, mostly talk.
Many of her former impressions had faded. Development had been so
rapid and continuous in her that she could look back to a day-by-day
transformation. At night she had hated the sight of herself and when
the dawn came she would rise, singing.
Jorth had left Ellen at home with the Mexican woman and Antonio.
Ellen saw them only at meal times, and often not then, for she
frequently visited old John Sprague or came home late to do her
own cooking.
It was but a short distance up to Sprague's cabin, and since she had
stopped riding the black horse, Spades, she walked. Spades was
accustomed to having grain, and in the mornings he would come down
to the ranch and whistle. Ellen had vowed she would never feed the
horse and bade Antonio do it. But one morning Antonio was absent.
She fed Spades herself. When she laid a hand on him and when he rubbed
his nose against her shoulder she was not quite so sure she hated him.
"Why should I?" she queried. "A horse cain't help it if he belongs
to--to--" Ellen was not sure of anything except that more and more
it grew good to be alone.
A whole day in the lonely forest passed swiftly, yet it left a feeling
of long time. She lived by her thoughts. Always the morning was bright,
sunny, sweet and fragrant and colorful, and her mood was pensive, wistful,
dreamy. And always, just as surely as the hours passed, thought intruded
upon her happiness, and thought brought memory, and memory brought shame,
and shame brought fight. Sunset after sunset she had dragged herself
back to the ranch, sullen and sick and beaten. Yet she never ceased
to struggle.
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