“We’d come back to Greaves’s store,” Colter began. “An’ as Greaves was daid we all got free with his liquor. Shore some of us got drunk. Bruce was drunk, an’ Tad in there—he was drunk. Your dad put away more ’n I ever seen him. But shore he wasn’t exactly drunk. He got one of them weak an’ shaky spells. He cried an’ he wanted some of us to get the Isbels to call off the fightin’.... He shore was ready to call it quits. I reckon the killin’ of Daggs—an’ then the awful way Greaves was cut up by Jean Isbel—took all the fight out of your dad. He said to me, ‘Colter, we’ll take Ellen an’ leave this heah country—an’ begin life all over again—where no one knows us.’”
“Oh, did he really say that? ... Did he—really mean it?” murmured Ellen, with a sob.
“I’ll swear it by the memory of my daid mother,” protested Colter. “Wal, when night come the Isbels rode down on us in the dark an’ began to shoot. They smashed in the door—tried to burn us out—an’ hollered around for a while. Then they left an’ we reckoned there’d be no more trouble that night. All the same we kept watch. I was the soberest one an’ I bossed the gang. We had some quarrels aboot the drinkin’. Your dad said if we kept it up it ’d be the end of the Jorths. An’ he planned to send word to the Isbels next mawnin’ that he was ready for a truce. An’ I was to go fix it up with Gaston Isbel. Wal, your dad went to bed in Greaves’s room, an’ a little while later your uncle Jackson went in there, too. Some of the men laid down in the store an’ went to sleep. I kept guard till aboot three in the mawnin’. An’ I got so sleepy I couldn’t hold my eyes open. So I waked up Wells an’ Slater an’ set them on guard, one at each end of the store. Then I laid down on the counter to take a nap.”
Colter’s low voice, the strain and breathlessness of him, the agitation with which he appeared to be laboring, and especially the simple, matter-of-fact detail of his story, carried absolute conviction to Ellen Jorth. Her vague doubt of him had been created by his attitude toward her. Emotion dominated her intelligence. The images, the scenes called up by Colter’s words, were as true as the gloom of the wild gulch and the loneliness of the night solitude—as true as the strange fact that she lay passive in the arm of a rustler.
“Wall, after a while I woke up,” went on Colter, clearing his throat. “It was gray dawn. All was as still as death.... An’ somethin’ shore was wrong. Wells an’ Slater had got to drinkin’ again an’ now laid daid drunk or asleep. Anyways, when I kicked them they never moved. Then I heard a moan. It came from the room where your dad an’ uncle was. I went in. It was just light enough to see. Your uncle Jackson was layin’ on the floor—cut half in two—daid as a door nail.... Your dad lay on the bed. He was alive, breathin’ his last.... He says, ‘That half-breed Isbel—knifed us—while we slept!’ ... The winder shutter was open. I seen where Jean Isbel had come in an’ gone out. I seen his moccasin tracks in the dirt outside an’ I seen where he’d stepped in Jackson’s blood an’ tracked it to the winder. Y’u shore can see them bloody tracks yourself, if y’u go back to Greaves’s store.... Your dad was goin’ fast.... He said, ‘Colter—take care of Ellen,’ an’ I reckon he meant a lot by that. He kept sayin’, ‘My God! if I’d only seen Gaston Isbel before it was too late!’ an’ then he raved a little, whisperin’ out of his haid.... An’ after that he died.... I woke up the men, an’ aboot sunup we carried your dad an’ uncle out of town an’ buried them.... An’ them Isbels shot at us while we were buryin’ our daid! That’s where Tad got his hurt.... Then we hit the trail for Jorth’s ranch.... An now, Ellen, that’s all my story. Your dad was ready to bury the hatchet with his old enemy. An’ that Nez Perce Jean Isbel, like the sneakin’ savage he is, murdered your uncle an’ your dad.... Cut him horrible—made him suffer tortures of hell—all for Isbel revenge!”
When Colter’s husky voice ceased Ellen whispered through lips as cold and still as ice, “Let me go ... leave me—heah—alone!”
“Why, shore! I reckon I understand,” replied Colter. “I hated to tell y’u. But y’u had to heah the truth aboot that half-breed.... I’ll carry your pack in the cabin an’ unroll your blankets.”
Releasing her, Colter strode off in the gloom. Like a dead weight, Ellen began to slide until she slipped down full length beside the log. And then she lay in the cool, damp shadow, inert and lifeless so far as outward physical movement was concerned. She saw nothing and felt nothing of the night, the wind, the cold, the falling dew. For the moment or hour she was crushed by despair, and seemed to see herself sinking down and down into a black, bottomless pit, into an abyss where murky tides of blood and furious gusts of passion contended between her body and her soul. Into the stormy blast of hell! In her despair she longed, she ached for death. Born of infidelity, cursed by a taint of evil blood, further cursed by higher instinct for good and happy life, dragged from one lonely and wild and sordid spot to another, never knowing love or peace or joy or home, left to the companionship of violent and vile men, driven by a strange fate to love with unquenchable and insupportable love a’ half-breed, a savage, an Isbel, the hereditary enemy of her people, and at last the ruthless murderer of her father—what in the name of God had she left to live for? Revenge! An eye for an eye! A life for a life! But she could not kill Jean Isbel. Woman’s love could turn to hate, but not the love of Ellen Jorth. He could drag her by the hair in the dust, beat her, and make her a thing to loathe, and cut her mortally in his savage and implacable thirst for revenge—but with her last gasp she would whisper she loved him and that she had lied to him to kill his faith. It was that—his strange faith in her purity—which had won her love. Of all men, that he should be the one to recognize the truth of her, the womanhood yet unsullied—how strange, how terrible, how overpowering! False, indeed, was she to the Jorths! False as her mother had been to an Isbel! This agony and destruction of her soul was the bitter Dead Sea fruit—the sins of her parents visited upon her.
“I’ll end it all,” she whispered to the night shadows that hovered over her. No coward was she—no fear of pain or mangled flesh or death or the mysterious hereafter could ever stay her. It would be easy, it would be a last thrill, a transport of self-abasement and supreme self-proof of her love for Jean Isbel to kiss the Rim rock where his feet had trod and then fling herself down into the depths. She was the last Jorth. So the wronged Isbels would be avenged.
“But he would never know—never know—I lied to him!” she wailed to the night wind.