“Ahuh! That accunts for Colter’s seemin’ a little sore under the collar. Well, he said they were goin’ to run sheep over Grass Valley, an’ for me to take that hunch to my dad.”
Blaisdell had his chair tilted back and his heavy boots against a post of the porch. Down he thumped. His neck corded with a sudden rush of blood and his eyes changed to blue fire.
“The hell he did!” he ejaculated, in furious amaze.
Jean gauged the brooding, rankling hurt of this old cattleman by his sudden break from the cool, easy Texan manner. Blaisdell cursed under his breath, swung his arms violently, as if to throw a last doubt or hope aside, and then relapsed to his former state. He laid a brown hand on Jean’s knee.
“Two years ago I called the cards,” he said, quietly. “It means a Grass Valley war.”
Not until late that afternoon did Jean’s father broach the subject uppermost in his mind. Then at an opportune moment he drew Jean away into the cedars out of sight.
“Son, I shore hate to make your home-comin’ unhappy,” he said, with evidence of agitation, “but so help me God I have to do it!”
“Dad, you called me Prodigal, an’ I reckon you were right. I’ve shirked my duty to you. I’m ready now to make up for it,” replied Jean, feelingly.
“Wal, wal, shore thats fine-spoken, my boy.... Let’s set down heah an’ have a long talk. First off, what did Jim Blaisdell tell you?”
Briefly Jean outlined the neighbor rancher’s conversation. Then Jean recounted his experience with Colter and concluded with Blaisdell’s reception of the sheepman’s threat. If Jean expected to see his father rise up like a lion in his wrath he made a huge mistake. This news of Colter and his talk never struck even a spark from Gaston Isbel.