by Zane Grey
She walked up and down for a while, absorbed with this new idea. Then an unusual commotion among the loungers drew her attention to a group of men on foot surrounding and evidently escorting several horsemen. Joan recognized Red Pearce and Frenchy, and then, with a start, Jim Cleve. They were riding up the trail. Joan’s heart began to pound. She could not meet Jim; she dared not trust this disguise; all her plans were as if they had never been. She forgot Kells. She even forgot her fear of what Cleve might do. The meeting—the inevitable recognition—the pain Jim Cleve must suffer when the fact and apparent significance of her presence there burst upon him, these drove all else from Joan’s mind. Mask or no mask, she could not face his piercing eyes, and like a little coward she turned to enter the cabin.
Before she got in, however, it was forced upon her that something unusual had roused the loungers. They had arisen and were interested in the approaching group. Loud talk dinned in Joan’s ears. Then she went in the door as Kells stalked by, eyes agleam, without even noticing her. Once inside her cabin, with the curtain drawn, Joan’s fear gave place to anxiety and curiosity.
There was no one in the large cabin. Through the outer door she caught sight of a part of the crowd, close together, heads up, all noisy. Then she heard Kells’s authoritative voice, but she could understand nothing. The babel of hoarse voices grew louder. Kells appeared, entering the door with Pearce. Jim Cleve came next, and, once the three were inside, the crowd spilled itself after them like angry bees. Kells was talking, Pearce was talking, but their voices were lost. Suddenly Kells vented his temper.
“Shut up—the lot of you!” he yelled, and his power and position might have been measured by the menace he showed.
The gang became suddenly quiet.
“Now—what’s up?” demanded Kells.
“Keep your shirt on, boss,” replied Pearce, with good humor. “There ain’t much wrong.… Cleve, here, throwed a gun on Gulden, that’s all.”
Kells gave a slight start, barely perceptible, but the intensity of it, and a fleeting tigerish gleam across his face, impressed Joan with the idea that he felt a fiendish joy. Her own heart clamped in a cold amaze.
“Gulden!” Kells’s exclamation was likewise a passionate query.
“No, he ain’t cashed,” replied Pearce. “You can’t kill that bull so easy. But he’s shot up some. He’s layin’ over at Beard’s. Reckon you’d better go over an’ dress them shots.”
“He can rot before I doctor him,” replied Kells. “Where’s Bate Wood?… Bate, you can take my kit and go fix Gulden up. And now, Red, what was all the roar about?”
“Reckon that was Gulden’s particular pards tryin’ to mix it with Cleve an’ Cleve tryin’ to mix it with them—an’ me in between!… I’m here to say, boss, that I had a time stavin’ off a scrap.”
During this rapid exchange between Kells and his lieutenant, Jim Cleve sat on the edge of the table, one dusty boot swinging so that his spur jangled, a wisp of a cigarette in his lips. His face was white except where there seemed to be bruises under his eyes. Joan had never seen him look like this. She guessed that he had been drunk—perhaps was still drunk. That utterly abandoned face Joan was so keen to read made her bite her tongue to keep from crying out. Yes, Jim was lost.
“What’d they fight about?” queried Kells.
“Ask Cleve,” replied Pearce. “Reckon I’d just as lief not talk any more about him.”
Then Kells turned to Cleve and stepped before him. Somehow these two men face to face thrilled Joan to her depths. They presented such contrasts. Kells was keen, imperious, vital, strong, and complex, with an unmistakable friendly regard for this young outcast. Cleve seemed aloof, detached, indifferent to everything, with a white, weary, reckless scorn. Both men were far above the gaping ruffians around them.
“Cleve, why’d you draw on Gulden?” asked Kells, sharply.
“That’s my business,” replied Cleve, slowly, and with his piercing eyes on Kells he blew a long, thin, blue stream of smoke upward.
“Sure.… But I remember what you asked me the other day—about Gulden. Was that why?”
“Nope,” replied Cleve. “This was my affair.”
“All right. But I’d like to know. Pearce says you’re in bad with Gulden’s friends. If I can’t make peace between you I’ll have to take sides.”
“Kells, I don’t need anyone on my side,” said Cleve, and he flung the cigarette away.
“Yes, you do,” replied Kells, persuasively. “Every man on this border needs that. And he’s lucky when he gets it.”
“Well, I don’t ask for it; I don’t want it.”
“That’s your own business, too. I’m not insisting or advising.”
Kells’s force and ability to control men manifested itself in his speech and attitude. Nothing could have been easier than to rouse the antagonism of Jim Cleve, abnormally responding as he was to the wild conditions of this border environment.
“Then you’re not calling my hand?” queried Cleve, with his dark, piercing glance on Kells.
“I pass, Jim,” replied the bandit, easily.
Cleve began to roll another cigarette. Joan saw his strong, brown hands tremble, and she realized that this came from his nervous condition, not from agitation. Her heart ached for him. What a white, somber face, so terribly expressive of the overthrow of his soul! He had fled to the border in reckless fury at her—at himself. There in its wildness he had, perhaps, lost thought of himself and memory of her. He had plunged into the unrestrained border life. Its changing, raw, and fateful excitement might have made him forget, but behind all was the terrible seeking to destroy and be destroyed. Joan shuddered when she remembered how she had mocked this boy’s wounded vanity—how scathingly she had said he did not possess manhood and nerve enough even to be bad.
“See here, Red,” said Kells to Pearce, “tell me what happened—what you saw. Jim can’t object to that.”
“Sure,” replied Pearce, thus admonished. “We was all over at Beard’s an’ several games was on. Gulden rode into camp last night. He’s always sore, but last night it seemed more’n usual. But he didn’t say much an’ nothin’ happened. We all reckoned his trip fell through. Today he was restless. He walked an’ walked just like a cougar in a pen. You know how Gulden has to be on the move. Well, we let him alone, you can bet. But suddenlike he comes up to our table—me an’ Cleve an’ Beard an’ Texas was playin’ cards—an’ he nearly kicks the table over. I grabbed the gold an’ Cleve he saved the whisky. We’d been drinkin’ an’ Cleve most of all. Beard was white at the gills with rage an’ Texas was soffocatin’. But we all was afraid of Gulden, except Cleve, as it turned out. But he didn’t move or look mean. An’ Gulden pounded on the table an’ addressed himself to Cleve.
“‘I’ve a job you’ll like. Come on.’
“‘Job? Say, man, you couldn’t have a job I’d like,’ replied Cleve, slow an’ cool.
“You know how Gulden gets when them spells come over him. It’s just plain cussedness. I’ve seen gunfighters lookin’ for trouble—for someone to kill. But Gulden was worse than that. You all take my hunch—he’s got a screw loose in his nut.
“‘Cleve,’ he said, ‘I located the Brander gold-diggin’s—an’ the girl was there.’
“Some kind of a white flash went over Cleve. An’ we all, rememberin’ Luce, began to bend low, ready to duck. Gulden didn’t look no different from usual. You can’t see any change in him. But I for one felt all hell burnin’ in him.
“‘Oho! You have,’ said Cleve, quick, like he was pleased. ‘An’ did you get her?’
“‘Not yet. Just looked over the ground. I’m pickin’ you to go with me. We’ll split on the gold, an’ I’ll take the girl.’
“Cleve swung the whisky-bottle an’ it smashed on Gulden’s mug, knockin’ him flat. Cleve was up,
like a cat, gun burnin’ red. The other fellers were dodgin’ low. An’ as I ducked I seen Gulden, flat on his back, draggin’ at his gun. He stopped short an’ his hand flopped. The side of his face went all bloody. I made sure he’d cashed, so I leaped up an’ grabbed Cleve.
“It’d been all right if Gulden had only cashed. But he hadn’t. He came to an’ bellered fer his gun an’ fer his pards. Why, you could have heard him for a mile.… Then, as I told you, I had trouble in holdin’ back a general mix-up. An’ while he was hollerin’ about it I led them all over to you. Gulden is layin’ back there with his ear shot off. An’ that’s all.”
Kells, with thoughtful mien, turned from Pearce to the group of dark-faced men. “This fight settles one thing,” he said to them. “We’ve got to have organization. If you’re not all a lot of fools you’ll see that. You need a head. Most of you swear by me, but some of you are for Gulden. Just because he’s a bloody devil. These times are the wildest the West ever knew, and they’re growing wilder. Gulden is a great machine for execution. He has no sense of fear. He’s a giant. He loves to fight—to kill. But Gulden’s all but crazy. This last deal proves that. I leave it to your common sense. He rides around hunting for some lone camp to rob. Or some girl to make off with. He does not plan with me or the men whose judgment I have confidence in. He’s always without gold. And so are most of his followers. I don’t know who they are. And I don’t care. But here we split—unless they and Gulden take advice and orders from me. I’m not so much siding with Cleve. Any of you ought to admit that Gulden’s kind of work will disorganize a gang. He’s been with us for long. And he approaches Cleve with a job. Cleve is a stranger. He may belong here, but he’s not yet one of us. Gulden oughtn’t have approached him. It was no straight deal. We can’t figure what Gulden meant exactly, but it isn’t likely he wanted Cleve to go. It was a bluff. He got called.… You men think this over—whether you’ll stick to Gulden or to me. Clear out now.”
His strong, direct talk evidently impressed them, and in silence they crowded out of the cabin, leaving Pearce and Cleve behind.
“Jim, are you just hell-bent on fighting or do you mean to make yourself the champion of every poor girl in these wilds?”
Cleve puffed a cloud of smoke that enveloped his head “I don’t pick quarrels,” he replied.
“Then you get red-headed at the very mention of a girl.”
A savage gesture of Cleve’s suggested that Kells was right.
“Here, don’t get red-headed at me,” called Kells, with piercing sharpness. “I’ll be your friend if you let me.… But declare yourself like a man—if you want me for a friend!”
“Kells, I’m much obliged,” replied Cleve, with a semblance of earnestness. “I’m no good or I wouldn’t be out here… But I can’t stand for these—these deals with girls.”
“You’ll change,” rejoined Kells, bitterly. “Wait till you live a few lonely years out here! You don’t understand the border. You’re young. I’ve seen the gold-fields of California and Nevada. Men go crazy with the gold fever. It’s gold that makes men wild. If you don’t get killed you’ll change. If you live you’ll see life on this border. War debases the moral force of a man, but nothing like what you’ll experience here the next few years. Men with their wives and daughters are pouring into this range. They’re all over. They’re finding gold. They’ve tasted blood. Wait till the great gold strike comes! Then you’ll see men and women go back ten thousand years… And then what’ll one girl more or less matter?”
“Well, you see, Kells, I was loved so devotedly by one and made such a hero of—that I just can’t bear to see any girl mistreated.”
He almost drawled the words, and he was suave and cool, and his face was inscrutable, but a bitterness in his tone gave the lie to all he said and looked.
Pearce caught the broader inference and laughed as if at a great joke. Kells shook his head doubtfully, as if Cleve’s transparent speech only added to the complexity. And Cleve turned away, as if in an instant he had forgotten his comrades.
Afterward, in the silence and darkness of night, Joan Randle lay upon her bed sleepless, haunted by Jim’s white face, amazed at the magnificent madness of him, thrilled to her soul by the meaning of his attack on Gulden, and tortured by a love that had grown immeasurably full of the strength of these hours of suspense and the passion of this wild border.
Even in her dreams Joan seemed to be bending all her will toward that inevitable and fateful moment when she must stand before Jim Cleve. It had to be. Therefore she would absolutely compel herself to meet it, regardless of the tumult that must rise within her. When all had been said, her experience so far among the bandits, in spite of the shocks and suspense that had made her a different girl, had been infinitely more fortunate than might have been expected. She prayed for this luck to continue and forced herself into a belief that it would.
That night she had slept in Dandy Dale’s clothes, except for the boots; and sometimes while turning in restless slumber she had been awakened by rolling on the heavy gun, which she had not removed from the belt. And at such moments, she had to ponder in the darkness, to realize that she, Joan Randle, lay a captive in a bandit’s camp, dressed in a dead bandit’s garb, and packing his gun—even while she slept. It was such an improbable, impossible thing. Yet the cold feel of the polished gun sent a thrill of certainty through her.
In the morning she at least did not have to suffer the shame of getting into Dandy Dale’s clothes, for she was already in them. She found a grain of comfort even in that. When she had put on the mask and sombrero she studied the effect in her little mirror. And she again decided that no one, not even Jim Cleve, could recognize her in that disguise. Likewise she gathered courage from the fact that even her best girl friend would have found her figure unfamiliar and striking where once it had been merely tall and slender and strong, ordinarily dressed. Then how would Jim Cleve ever recognize her? She remembered her voice that had been called a contralto, low and deep; and how she used to sing the simple songs she knew. She could not disguise that voice. But she need not let Jim hear it. Then there was a return of the idea that he would instinctively recognize her—that no disguise could be proof to a lover who had ruined himself for her. Suddenly she realized how futile all her worry and shame. Sooner or later she must reveal her identity to Jim Cleve. Out of all this complexity of emotion Joan divined that what she yearned most for was to spare Cleve the shame consequent upon recognition of her and then the agony he must suffer at a false conception of her presence there. It was a weakness in her. When death menaced her lover and the most inconceivably horrible situation yawned for her, still she could only think of her passionate yearning to have him know, all in a flash, that she loved him, that she had followed him in remorse, that she was true to him and would die before being anything else.
And when she left her cabin she was in a mood to force an issue.
Kells was sitting at the table and being served by Bate Wood.
“Hello, Dandy!” he greeted her, in surprise and pleasure. “This’s early for you.”
Joan returned his greeting and said that she could not sleep all the time.
“You’re coming round. I’ll bet you hold up a stage before a month is out.”
“Hold up a stage?” echoed Joan.
“Sure. It’ll be great fun,” replied Kells, with a laugh. “Here—sit down and eat with me.… Bate, come along lively with breakfast.… It’s fine to see you there. That mask changes you, though. No one can see how pretty you are.… Joan, your admirer, Gulden, has been incapacitated for the present.”
Then in evident satisfaction Kells repeated the story that Joan had heard Red Pearce tell the night before; and in the telling Kells enlarged somewhat upon Jim Cleve.
“I’ve taken a liking to Cleve,” said Kells. “He’s a strange youngster. But he’s more man than boy. I thin
k he’s broken-hearted over some rotten girl who’s been faithless or something. Most women are no good, Joan. A while ago I’d have said all women were that, but since I’ve known you I think—I know different. Still, one girl out of a million doesn’t change a world.”
“What will this J-Jim C-Cleve do—when he sees—me?” asked Joan, and she choked over the name.
“Don’t eat so fast, girl,” said Kells. “You’re only seventeen years old and you’ve plenty of time.… Well, I’ve thought some about Cleve. He’s not crazy like Gulden, but he’s just as dangerous. He’s dangerous because he doesn’t know what he’s doing—has absolutely no fear of death—and then he’s swift with a gun. That’s a bad combination. Cleve will kill a man presently. He’s shot three already, and in Gulden’s case he meant to kill. If once he kills a man—that’ll make him a gun-fighter. I’ve worried a little about his seeing you. But I can manage him, I guess. He can’t be scared or driven. But he may be led. I’ve had Red Pearce tell him you are my wife. I hope he believes it, for none of the other fellows believe it. Anyway, you’ll meet this Cleve soon, maybe today, and I want you to be friendly. If I can steady him—stop his drinking—he’ll be the best man for me on this border.”
“I’m to help persuade him to join your band?” asked Joan, and she could not yet control her voice.
“Is that so black a thing?” queried Kells, evidently nettled, and he glared at her.
“I—I don’t know,” faltered Joan. “Is this—this boy a criminal yet?”
“No. He’s only a fine, decent young chap gone wild—gone bad for some girl. I told you that. You don’t seem to grasp the point. If I can control him he’ll be of value to me—he’ll be a bold and clever and dangerous man—he’ll last out here. If I can’t win him, why, he won’t last a week longer. He’ll be shot or knifed in a brawl. Without my control Cleve’ll go straight to the hell he’s headed for.”
