expected it would.

"You mean Greaves or some of his friends?"

"No. They wasn't none of them in the cattle business, like we are.
Shore we all knowed Greaves was crooked. But what I'm figgerin' is
thet some so-called honest man in our settlement has been makin'
crooked deals."

Blue was a man of deeds rather than words, and so much strong speech
from him, whom everybody knew to be remarkably reliable and keen, made
a profound impression upon most of the Isbel faction. But, to Jean's
surprise, his father did not rave. It was Blaisdell who supplied the
rage and invective. Bill Isbel, also, was strangely indifferent to
this new element in the condition of cattle dealing. Suddenly Jean
caught a vague flash of thought, as if he had intercepted the thought
of another's mind, and he wondered--could his brother Bill know
anything about this crooked work alluded to by Blue? Dismissing the
conjecture, Jean listened earnestly.

"An' if it's true it shore makes this difference--we cain't blame all
the rustlin' on to Jorth," concluded Blue.

"Wal, it's not true," declared Gaston Isbel, roughly. "Jorth an' his
Hash Knife Gang are at the bottom of all the rustlin' in the valley for
years back. An' they've got to be wiped out!"

"Isbel, I reckon we'd all feel better if we talk straight," replied
Blue, coolly. "I'm heah to stand by the Isbels. An' y'u know what
thet means. But I'm not heah to fight Jorth because he may be a
rustler. The others may have their own reasons, but mine is this--you
once stood by me in Texas when I was needin' friends. Wal, I'm
standin' by y'u now. Jorth is your enemy, an' so he is mine."

Gaston Isbel bowed to this ultimatum, scarcely less agitated than when
Esther Isbel had denounced him. His rabid and morbid hate of Jorth had
eaten into his heart to take possession there, like the parasite that
battened upon the life of its victim. Blue's steely voice, his cold,
gray eyes, showed the unbiased truth of the man, as well as his
fidelity to his creed. Here again, but in a different manner, Gaston
Isbel had the fact flung at him that other men must suffer, perhaps
die, for his hate. And the very soul of the old rancher apparently
rose in Passionate revolt against the blind, headlong, elemental
strength of his nature. So it seemed to Jean, who, in love and pity
that hourly grew, saw through his father. Was it too late? Alas!
Gaston Isbel could never be turned back! Yet something was a