“Gaston Isbel, all I’ve got to say to you is this,” she retorted, with the voice of a man. “Seein’ that you an’ Lee Jorth hate each other, why couldn’t you act like men? ... You damned Texans, with your bloody feuds, draggin’ in every relation, every friend to murder each other! That’s not the way of Arizona men.... We’ve all got to suffer—an’ we women be ruined for life—because YOU had differences with Jorth. If you were half a man you’d go out an’ kill him yourself, an’ not leave a lot of widows an’ orphaned children!”
Jean himself writhed under the lash of her scorn. Gaston Isbel turned a dead white. He could not answer her. He seemed stricken with merciless truth. Slowly dropping his head, he remained motionless, a pathetic and tragic figure; and he did not stir until the rapid beat of hoofs denoted the approach of horsemen. Blaisdell appeared on his white charger, leading a pack animal. And behind rode a group of men, all heavily armed, and likewise with packs.
“Get down an’ come in,” was Isbel’s greeting. “Bill—you look after their packs. Better leave the hosses saddled.”
The booted and spurred riders trooped in, and their demeanor fitted their errand. Jean was acquainted with all of them. Fredericks was a lanky Texan, the color of dust, and he had yellow, clear eyes, like those of a hawk. His mother had been an Isbel. Gordon, too, was related to Jean’s family, though distantly. He resembled an industrious miner more than a prosperous cattleman. Blue was the most striking of the visitors, as he was the most noted. A little, shrunken gray-eyed man, with years of cowboy written all over him, he looked the quiet, easy, cool, and deadly Texan he was reputed to be. Blue’s Texas record was shady, and was seldom alluded to, as unfavorable comment had turned out to be hazardous. He was the only one of the group who did not carry a rifle. But he packed two guns, a habit not often noted in Texans, and almost never in Arizonians.
Colmor, Ann Isbel’s fiance, was the youngest member of the clan, and the one closest to Jean. His meeting with Ann affected Jean powerfully, and brought to a climax an idea that had been developing in Jean’s mind. His sister devotedly loved this lean-faced, keen-eyed Arizonian; and it took no great insight to discover that Colmor reciprocated her affection. They were young. They had long life before them. It seemed to Jean a pity that Colmor should be drawn into this war. Jean watched them, as they conversed apart; and he saw Ann’s hands creep up to Colmor’s breast, and he saw her dark eyes, eloquent, hungry, fearful, lifted with queries her lips did not speak. Jean stepped beside them, and laid an arm over both their shoulders.
“Colmor, for Ann’s sake you’d better back out of this Jorth-Isbel fight,” he whispered.
Colmor looked insulted. “But, Jean, it’s Ann’s father,” he said. “I’m almost one of the family.”
“You’re Ann’s sweetheart, an’, by Heaven, I say you oughtn’t to go with us!” whispered Jean.
“Go—with—you,” faltered Ann.
“Yes. Dad is goin’ straight after Jorth. Can’t you tell that? An’ there ’ll be one hell of a fight.”