“I stole cattle—my dad’s an’ Blaisdell’s—an’ made deals—with Daggs.... All the crookedness—wasn’t on—Jorth’s side.... I want—my brother Jean—to know.”
“I’ll try—to tell him,” whispered Ellen, out of her great amaze.
“We were all—a bad lot—except Jean,” went on Isbel. “Dad wasn’t fair.... God! how he hated Jorth! Jorth, yes, who was—your father.... Wal, they’re even now.”
“How—so?” faltered Ellen.
“Your father killed dad.... At the last—dad wanted to—save us. He sent word—he’d meet him—face to face—an’ let thet end the feud. They met out in the road.... But some one shot dad down—with a rifle—an’ then your father finished him.”
“An’ then, Isbel,” added Ellen, with unconscious mocking bitterness, “Your brother murdered my dad!”
“What!” whispered Bill Isbel. “Shore y’u’ve got—it wrong. I reckon Jean—could have killed—your father.... But he didn’t. Queer, we all thought.”
“Ah! ... Who did kill my father?” burst out Ellen, and her voice rang like great hammers at her ears.
“It was Blue. He went in the store—alone—faced the whole gang alone. Bluffed them—taunted them—told them he was King Fisher.... Then he killed—your dad—an’ Jackson Jorth.... Jean was out—back of the store. We were out—front. There was shootin’. Colmor was hit. Then Blue ran out—bad hurt.... Both of them—died in Meeker’s yard.”
“An’ so Jean Isbel has not killed a Jorth!” said Ellen, in strange, deep voice.