When Ellen, utterly spent in body and mind, reached home that day a melancholy, sultry twilight was falling. Fitful flares of sheet lightning swept across the dark horizon to the east. The cabins were deserted. Antonio and the Mexican woman were gone. The circumstances made Ellen wonder, but she was too tired and too sunken in spirit to think long about it or to care. She fed and watered her horse and left him in the corral. Then, supperless and without removing her clothes, she threw herself upon the bed, and at once sank into heavy slumber.
Sometime during the night she awoke. Coyotes were yelping, and from that sound she concluded it was near dawn. Her body ached; her mind seemed dull. Drowsily she was sinking into slumber again when she heard the rapid clip-clop of trotting horses. Startled, she raised her head to listen. The men were coming back. Relief and dread seemed to clear her stupor.
The trotting horses stopped across the lane from her cabin, evidently at the corral where she had left Spades. She heard him whistle.
>From the sound of hoofs she judged the number of horses to be six or eight. Low voices of men mingled with thuds and cracking of straps and flopping of saddles on the ground. After that the heavy tread of boots sounded on the porch of the cabin opposite. A door creaked on its hinges. Next a slow footstep, accompanied by clinking of spurs, approached Ellen's door, and a heavy hand banged upon it. She knew this person could not be her father.
"Hullo, Ellen!"
She recognized the voice as belonging to Colter. Somehow its tone, or something about it, sent a little shiver clown her spine. It acted like a revivifying current. Ellen lost her dragging lethargy.
"Hey, Ellen, are y'u there?" added Colter, louder voice.
"Yes. Of course I'm heah," she replied. What do y'u want?"
"Wal--I'm shore glad y'u're home," he replied. "Antonio's gone with his squaw. An' I was some worried aboot y'u."
"Who's with y'u, Colter?" queried Ellen, sitting up.
"Rock Wells an' Springer. Tad Jorth was with us, but we had to leave him over heah in a cabin."
"What's the matter with him?"
"Wal, he's hurt tolerable bad," was the slow reply.
Ellen heard Colter's spurs jangle, as if he had uneasily shifted his feet.
"Where's dad an' Uncle Jackson?" asked Ellen.
A silence pregnant enough to augment Ellen's dread finally broke to Colter's voice, somehow different. "Shore they're back on the trail.
An' we're to meet them where we left Tad."
"Are yu goin' away again?"
"I reckon. . . . An', Ellen, y'u're goin' with us."
"I am not," she retorted.
"Wal, y'u are, if I have to pack y'u," he replied, forcibly. "It's not safe heah any more. That damned half-breed Isbel with his gang are on our trail."
That name seemed like a red-hot blade at Ellen's leaden heart.
She wanted to fling a hundred queries on Colter, but she could not utter one.
"Ellen, we've got to hit the trail an' hide," continued Colter, anxiously. "Y'u mustn't stay heah alone. Suppose them Isbels would trap y'u! . . . They'd tear your clothes off an' rope y'u to a tree.
Ellen, shore y'u're goin'. . . . Y'u heah me! "
"Yes--I'll go," she replied, as if forced.
"Wal--that's good," he said, quickly. "An' rustle tolerable lively.
We've got to pack."
The slow jangle of Colter's spurs and his slow steps moved away out of Ellen's hearing. Throwing off the blankets, she put her feet to the floor and sat there a moment staring at the blank nothingness of the cabin interior in the obscure gray of dawn. Cold, gray, dreary, obscure--like her life, her future! And she was compelled to do what was hateful to her. As a Jorth she must take to the unfrequented trails and hide like a rabbit in the thickets. But the interest of the moment, a premonition of events to be, quickened her into action.
Ellen unbarred the door to let in the light. Day was breaking with an intense, clear, steely light in the east through which the morning star still shone white. A ruddy flare betokened the advent of the sun.
Ellen unbraided her tangled hair and brushed and combed it. A queer, still pang came to her at sight of pine needles tangled in her brown locks. Then she washed her hands and face. Breakfast was a matter of considerable work and she was hungry.
The sun rose and changed the gray world of forest. For the first time in her life Ellen hated the golden brightness, the wonderful blue of sky, the scream of the eagle and the screech of the jay; and the squirrels she had always loved to feed were neglected that morning.
Colter came in. Either Ellen had never before looked attentively at him or else he had changed. Her scrutiny of his lean, hard features accorded him more Texan attributes than formerly. His gray eyes were as light, as clear, as fierce as those of an eagle. And the sand gray of his face, the long, drooping, fair mustache hid the secrets of his mind, but not its strength. The instant Ellen met his gaze she sensed a power in him that she instinctively opposed. Colter had not been so bold nor so rude as Daggs, but he was the same kind of man, perhaps the more dangerous for his secretiveness, his cool, waiting inscrutableness.
"'Mawnin', Ellen!" he drawled. "Y'u shore look good for sore eyes."
"Don't pay me compliments, Colter," replied Ellen. "An' your eyes are not sore."
"Wal, I'm shore sore from fightin' an' ridin' an' layin' out," he said, bluntly.
"Tell me--what's happened," returned Ellen.
"Girl, it's a tolerable long story," replied Colter. "An' we've no time now. Wait till we get to camp."
"Am I to pack my belongin's or leave them heah?" asked Ellen.
"Reckon y'u'd better leave--them heah."
"But if we did not come back--"
"Wal, I reckon it's not likely we'll come--soon, " he said, rather evasively.
"Colter, I'll not go off into the woods with just the clothes I have on my back."
"Ellen, we shore got to pack all the grab we can. This shore ain't goin' to be a visit to neighbors. We're shy pack hosses. But y'u make up a bundle of belongin's y'u care for, an' the things y'u'll need bad. We'll throw it on somewhere."