was his
revengeful father, what were hate and passion and strife in comparison
to the nameless something, immense and everlasting, that he sensed in
this dark moment?

But the rustlers--Daggs--the Jorths--they had killed his brother
Guy--murdered him brutally and ruthlessly. Guy had been a playmate of
Jean's--a favorite brother. Bill had been secretive and selfish. Jean
had never loved him as he did Guy. Guy lay dead down there on the
meadow. This feud had begun to run its bloody course. Jean steeled his
nerve. The hot blood crept back along his veins. The dark and
masterful tide of revenge waved over him. The keen edge of his mind
then cut out sharp and trenchant thoughts. He must kill when and where
he could. This man could hardly be Ellen Jorth's father. Jorth would
be with the main crowd, directing hostilities. Jean could shoot this
rustler guard and his shot would be taken by the gang as the regular
one from their comrade. Then swiftly Jean leveled his rifle, covered
the dark form, grew cold and set, and pressed the trigger. After the
report he rose and wheeled away. He did not look nor listen for the
result of his shot. A clammy sweat wet his face, the hollow of his
hands, his breast. A horrible, leaden, thick sensation oppressed his
heart. Nature had endowed him with Indian gifts, but the exercise of
them to this end caused a revolt in his soul.

Nevertheless, it was the Isbel blood that dominated him. The wind blew
cool on his face. The burden upon his shoulders seemed to lift. The
clamoring whispers grew fainter in his ears. And by the time he had
retraced his cautious steps back to the orchard all his physical being
was strung to the task at hand. Something had come between his
reflective self and this man of action.

Crossing the lane, he took to the west line of sheds, and passed beyond
them into the meadow. In the grass he crawled silently away to the
right, using the same precaution that had actuated him on the slope,
only here he did not pause so often, nor move so slowly. Jean aimed to
go far enough to the right to pass the end of the embankment behind
which the rustlers had found such efficient cover. This ditch had been
made to keep water, during spring thaws and summer storms, from pouring
off the slope to flood the corrals.

Jean miscalculated and found he had come upon the embankment somewhat
to the left of the end, which fact, however, caused him no uneasiness.
He lay t