AT A JORE’S MERCY
In the quaint vernacular of old Dad Peppin, Zion Jore might not have all his buttons, but he had more of what he did have than most men—more imagination to conceive a plot, more daring to carry it out, no fear to hamper him, no restraining doubts. His was the genius of madness.
This genius had enabled him to accomplish the all but impossible feat of capturing the sheriff, that he might hold him as hostage and force the release of his uncles. It had been easier than he expected. He had anticipated trouble in separating the sheriff from his men and had planned to lead them on and on, trusting to some fortunate chance of place and circumstance to accomplish that night what the two fast horses of Chartres had done the first hour.
Now, in that wild, wild canyon, with lilac dusk falling, he was holding the sheriff and Chartres. Cross-legged in the grass, Winchester across his knees, a few yards from where they sat, bound hand and foot, in uncomfortable postures against a boulder, he watched them, as tirelessly as a wild thing watched its intended prey. There was no doubt in his mind of ultimate success. He had done his part, and, being what he was, the posse, now thundering back to Big Sandy to electrify the whole country with news of the capture, would do the rest.
But there was grave doubt in the harassed brain of Sheriff Dolan, trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey ready for the oven, helplessly writhing, as if already suffering the roasting that would be his, if he survived this. He’d get the horselaugh from the Jore sympathizers, from everyone, for letting a crazy kid put a trick like this over on him. Better never to leave this spot—nobody laughed at a man that died for a cause. No. His fighting blood spoke—better to live, to do it all over again. He prayed the posse would do as Chartres had told them, feared they would not, feared they would bring a force back to rescue him, and forfeit his life. For he wanted to live—to rid the world of this young menace, if nothing else.
He looked over at Luke Chartres. What was he thinking, there, in the dusk, which brought that haunted look to his face? Not fear—that, he would swear. Luke had proven his courage in coming back here, after his talk with the posse, submitting himself to other whims of this mad young fellow, when he could have gone with them and saved his own skin. In more ways than one, Luke Chartres was a mighty big man.
Now in the dusk, strainedly, Dolan burst out: “Kid, can’t you ease these ropes on my legs … give me some freedom? You needn’t be afraid I’ll run … you, with that gun.”
Zion’s eyes blazed with a gleam so fierce that Dolan was forced to lower his. “How much freedom do you give Jores?”
Death hovered close then.
“How free is my dad?” Zion fiercely demanded. “You got to take your own medicine. It won’t be very long. Not your whole life … like my father.”
“See here, young man,” Dolan cried earnestly, “you can’t compare us thataway! It’s my duty to put people in jail, if they break laws. They needn’t break laws.”
“You’re holdin’ Jores,” Zion summed it up, “and I’m holdin’ you.”
Groaning with the same helplessness René had felt in argument with Zion, Dolan fell silent, rather then risk further antagonizing.
Still as the grave, that deep, dark, narrow vault, where the young fellow sat with his captives. The thoroughbreds grazed, but the stallion, golden skin glimmering in the dusk, never strayed far from where Zion was. Now the men saw him come up and, thrusting his nose beneath Zion’s arm, nudge him, nickering.
And naturally, as he’d answer a human, they heard Zion say: “Not yet, Black Wing. I told you three things.”
Out of the hush that fell again, Chartres asked softly: “Son, what did you mean … three things?”
“Why,” Zion answered readily, “I got to do three things before I go home. This is the first one.”
“And the second?” quietly prompted Chartres.
“Get Dad out of prison!”
Pat Dolan, leaning to listen, saw the face of Chartres flash with that look of hate Race had wondered at. That, he now remembered, the man had shown at any mention of the clan, particularly of Joel Jore. What could he have against Zion’s father? This intrigued Dolan more even than Zion’s calm intention to release his father from state prison. He would lose quick enough if he tried that, unless—a superstitious shiver ran through the sheriff—he was in league with the powers of darkness.
“And the third thing?” quizzed the Val Verde rancher.
“Kill Shang Haman!” hissed Zion. At their gasp of horror at this frank declaration of murder, the more awful for being spoken in this wild spot, at this dark hour, by one who had them absolutely in his power, Zion said tensely: “Shang squealed on us. But that ain’t why. He killed Dave!”
“Dave?” Dolan’s professional instincts were roused. A Jore he hadn’t heard of? An unreported killing. “Tell us about it.”
As though hungry to talk, but not relaxing his vigilance one jot, Zion told them about his cousin, Dave Jore, Abel’s son, who had “growed up” in the basin with him and Eden, told it with so much feeling and circumstance, that they followed Dave’s brief, blameless life, and brought up with shock at his grave with the cross. For Shang had killed him.
“They don’t believe me.” Deep that rankled in Zion’s heart. “They believe Shang. He told ’em that you done it, Dolan. But … you didn’t.”
“No” stated the sheriff with some emotion, “I didn’t, Zion.”
“I know that. It was Shang. Dave was goin’ out of the basin. I went with him to Sentry Crags. I said good-bye, and was goin’ back. Shang was on watch. I heard the shot, and I found Dave … dead.” The rifle gleamed under the fierce clutch of his hands. “Anyhow,” he went on, “I’d have to kill him. He pesters Eden. If it wasn’t for the men … Since they got caught, I ain’t slept good for thinkin’ what might happen if Shang went back.”
“Zion”—Luke Chartres strained at his bonds, his face singularly white in the gloom—“Shang’s gone back. He went this morning. He’s been wanting to go ever since your uncles were jailed. But I kept him here till … Wait!”—frantically as Zion sprang up, half-whirling toward Black Wing. “Don’t leave us tied up like this … helpless!
But already Zion had changed his mind and was actually smiling as he sat down again. “I forgot,” he confided, pushing his black hair back, “my pard’s up there. René can handle Shang all right. He won’t let him in.”
But Zion didn’t know that René had left the basin to hunt him. Nor did Chartres and the sheriff know it. And they felt a curious relief at the thought that René Rand was on watch at Sentry Crags, even found a curious comfort in remembering his vigilance that had discouraged the sheriff about getting in. For they hated to think of a girl—and such a girl as rumor depicted Eden Jore—at the mercy of Shang. They despised him, using him only as men must use rotten tools if no better can be obtained. Dolan had planned to get him off, if he turned state’s evidence. But this talk of a killing gave a new aspect to the situation.
“And if he’s there when my uncles get home,” Zion said, “they will sure handle him!”
Yes. If the Jores were freed, they would handle Shang. Seizing this opening, Dolan put the question that had kept him in dire suspense ever since Chartres had sent the posse racing for town: “How will you know if they are freed, Zion?”
Zion’s laugh was crafty. “My eyes will tell me. I won’t believe nothin’ but my own eyes. When it gets good and dark, we’re goin’ to ride down to Sentry Crags where we can watch. We’ll be there in the mornin’ and watch ’em ride in.”
Suppose they didn’t come? Suppose the posse didn’t release them? Suppose the Jores, once released, did not go to the Picture Rocks? Zion had sent them word that, if they didn’t, he’d kill the sheriff. Well, the sheriff thought, the Jores weren’t likely to be concerned about that—a solemn thought for Pat Dolan, then, that his life depended on the very men he had prosecuted so relentlessly.
Night descended on the Montezumas with silver trappings. The wind, accompanying it, played taps on the canyon’s ribs of rock. A prowling coyote filled it with mad, mocking song. Chartres sat with his nameless thoughts. And Zion watched.
“Zion,” suddenly the Val Verde rancher spoke, “when the sheriff told you my name, I had the impression you’d heard it before.”
“Sure,” Zion owned.
“Where?”
“At home.”
“You mean in the basin?”
“What other home do you think I got? It’s the only place I ever was, till I come out to see things. It’s the only place I ever want to see again.” His voice throbbed with longing.
The man sat silent for a long time. Then: “Tell me when you heard my name.”
Moved by the kindness of his tone, something he hadn’t known since he left home, Zion said: “I heard it twice. Once, when Dad run Sahra and Black Wing in. Long ago, that was. He said Luke Chartres would raise a howl to heaven about those two horses. And Mother said …” His voice broke on her name.
“Your mother said …?” The man’s voice broke, too, doubtless in sympathy.
“She said Sahra was hers. She said a lot more was. But Sahra and the colt was the only things she’d ever ask of Luke Chartres. She said she wouldn’t ask that for herself … but for her children. Meanin’ me and Eden. So Dad and her could take us out of the basin and give us things. That’s what she was always sayin’. I ain’t sure what she wanted to give us. Things we could not get in there, I guess. We couldn’t get much … after we lived honest.”
“Honest!” cried Chartres.
“Yes. So Dad could take us away where folks wouldn’t know we was Jores. But”—his eyes flashed the old hostility—“they took him away!”
“And then?” pressed the man, in a low, trembling tone.
“Then Mother didn’t care what come. She used to learn us things. To be tellin’ us just to have patience, and God would answer her prayers. Now she don’t pray. And she don’t laugh or sing. That’s why I’m bringin’ Dad home, so she’ll be happy again.”
“She loves him yet?” Luke Chartres murmured, as one repeats an astounding fact to one’s self.
Amazed at the question, “Bars don’t make no difference with love!” Zion shouted. “Or bein’ apart or dyin’, she says. She says …” he couldn’t go on, his thin shoulders were shaking.
After a long time, Chartres asked: “When did you hear my name again?”
Wearily, Zion looked up. “When my pard come. He told us somebody was helpin’ the sheriff clean up Jores. We asked who it was. He said Luke Chartres. And Mother, she … I found her on the couch, cryin’ and sayin’ to nobody … ‘My God, why hast thou forsaken me?’”
* * * * *
In the dead of that fateful night under a high-riding moon and moving stars, three riders crossed the wild Montezuma to Sentry Crags to watch for the return of the Jores.
“When they go in,” Zion said, all Jore again, “I’ll turn you loose.” No need to state the alternative.