he open valley, on the wagon road to
Isbel's ranch. No subterfuge nor secrecy nor sneaking in that advance!
A hot thrill ran over Jean.

"By Heaven! They mean business!" he muttered. Up to the last moment
he had unconsciously hoped Jorth's gang would not come boldly like
that. The verifications of all a Texan's inherited instincts left no
doubts, no hopes, no illusions--only a grim certainty that this was not
conjecture nor probability, but fact. For a moment longer Jean watched
the slowly moving dark patch of horsemen against the green background,
then he hurried back to the ranch. His father saw him coming--strode
out as before.

"Dad--Jorth is comin'," said Jean, huskily. How he hated to be forced
to tell his father that! The boyish love of old had flashed up.

"Whar?" demanded the old man, his eagle gaze sweeping the horizon.

"Down the road from Grass Valley. You can't see from here."

"Wal, come in an' let's get ready."

Isbel's house had not been constructed with the idea of repelling an
attack from a band of Apaches. The long living room of the main cabin
was the one selected for defense and protection. This room had two
windows and a door facing the lane, and a door at each end, one of
which opened into the kitchen and the other into an adjoining and
later-built cabin. The logs of this main cabin were of large size, and
the doors and window coverings were heavy, affording safer protection
from bullets than the other cabins.

When Jean went in he seemed to see a host of white faces lifted to him.
His sister Ann, his two sisters-in-law, the children, all mutely
watched him with eyes that would haunt him.

"Wal, Blaisdell, Jean says Jorth an' his precious gang of rustlers are
on the way heah," announced the rancher.

"Damn me if it's not a bad day fer Lee Jorth!" declared Blaisdell.

"Clear off that table," ordered Isbel, "an' fetch out all the guns an'
shells we got."

Once laid upon the table these presented a formidable arsenal, which
consisted of the three new .44 Winchesters that Jean had brought with
him from the coast; the enormous buffalo, or so-called "needle" gun,
that Gaston Isbel had used for years; a Henry rifle which Blaisdell had
brought, and half a dozen six-shooters. Piles and packages of
ammunition littered the table.

"Sort out these heah shells," said Isbel. "Everybody wants to get hold
of his own."

Jacobs, the neighbor who was present, was a thick-set, bearded man