by Zane Grey
Joan did not take her ride that morning. Anxious and curious, she waited for the return of Kells. But he did not come. All afternoon Joan waited and watched, and saw no sign of him or any of the other men. She knew Kells was forging with red-hot iron and blood that organization which she undesignedly had given a name—the Border Legion. It would be a terrible legion, of that she was assured. Kells was the evil genius to create an unparalleled scheme of crime; this wild and remote border, with its inaccessible fastness for hiding-places, was the place; all that was wanting was the time, which evidently had arrived. She remembered how her uncle had always claimed that the Bear Mountain range would see a gold strike which would disrupt the whole West and amaze the world. And Blicky had said a big strike had been on for weeks. Kells’s prophecy of the wild life Joan would see had not been without warrant. She had already seen enough to whiten her hair, she thought, yet she divined her experience would shrink in comparison with what was to come. Always she lived in the future. She spent sleeping and waking hours in dreams, thoughts, actions, broodings, over all of which hung an ever-present shadow of suspense. When would she meet Jim Cleve again? When would he recognize her? What would he do? What could she do? Would Kells be a devil or a man at the end? Was there any justification of her haunting fear of Gulden—of her suspicion that she alone was the cause of his attitude toward Kells—of her horror at the unshakable presentiment and fancy that he was a gorilla and meant to make off with her? These, and a thousand other fears, some groundless, but many real and present, besieged Joan and left her little peace. What would happen next?
Toward sunset she grew tired of waiting, and hungry, besides, so she went into the cabin and prepared her own meal. About dark Kells strode in, and it took but a glance for Joan to see that matters had not gone to his liking. The man seemed to be burning inwardly. Sight of Joan absolutely surprised him. Evidently in the fever of this momentous hour he had forgotten his prisoner. Then, whatever his obsession, he looked like a man whose eyes were gladdened at sight of her and who was sorry to behold her there. He apologized that her supper had not been provided for her and explained that he had forgotten. The men had been crazy—hard to manage—the issue was not yet settled. He spoke gently. Suddenly he had that thoughtful mien which Joan had become used to associating with weakness in him.
“I wish I hadn’t dragged you here,” he said, taking her hands. “It’s too late. I can’t lose you.… But the—other way—isn’t too late!”
“What way? What do you mean?” asked Joan.
“Girl, will you ride off with me tonight?” he whispered, hoarsely. “I swear I’ll marry you—and become an honest man. Tomorrow will be too late!… Will you?”
Joan shook her head. She was sorry for him. When he talked like this he was not Kells, the bandit. She could not resist a strange agitation at the intensity of his emotion. One moment he had entered—a bandit leader, planning blood, murder; the next, as his gaze found her, he seemed weakened, broken in the shaking grip of a hopeless love for her.
“Speak, Joan!” he said, with his hands tightening and his brow clouding.
“No, Kells,” she replied.
“Why? Because I’m a red-handed bandit?”
“No. Because I—I don’t love you.”
“But wouldn’t you rather be my wife—and have me honest—than become a slave here, eventually abandoned to—to Gulden and his cave and his rope?” Kells’s voice rose as that other side of him gained dominance.
“Yes, I would.… But I know you’ll never harm me—or abandon me to—to that Gulden.”
“How do you know?” he cried, with the blood thick at his temples.
“Because you’re no beast any more.… And you—you do love me.”
Kells thrust her from him so fiercely that she nearly fell.
“I’ll get over it.… Then—look out!” he said, with dark bitterness.
With that he waved her back, apparently ordering her to her cabin, and turned to the door, through which the deep voices of men sounded nearer and nearer.
Joan stumbled in the darkness up the rude steps to her room, and, softly placing the poles in readiness to close her door, she composed herself to watch and wait. The keen edge of her nerves, almost amounting to pain, told her that this night of such moment for Kells would be one of singular strain and significance for her. But why she could not fathom. She felt herself caught by the changing tide of events—a tide that must sweep her on to flood. Kells had gone outside. The strong, deep voices’ grew less distinct. Evidently the men were walking away. In her suspense Joan was disappointed. Presently, however, they returned; they had been walking to and fro. After a few moments Kells entered alone. The cabin was now so dark that Joan could barely distinguish the bandit. Then he lighted the lanterns. He hung up several on the wall and placed two upon the table. From somewhere among his effects he produced a small book and a pencil; these, with a heavy, gold-mounted gun, he laid on the table before the seat he manifestly meant to occupy. That done, he began a slow pacing up and down the room, his hands behind his back, his head bent in deep and absorbing thought. What a dark, sinister, plotting figure! Joan had seen many men in different attitudes of thought, but here was a man whose mind seemed to give forth intangible yet terrible manifestations of evil. The inside of that gloomy cabin took on another aspect; there was a meaning in the saddles and bridles and weapons on the wall; that book and pencil and gun seemed to contain the dark deeds of wild men; and all about the bandit hovered a power sinister in its menace to the unknown and distant toilers for gold.
Kells lifted his head, as if listening, and then the whole manner of the man changed. The burden that weighed upon him was thrown aside. Like a general about to inspect a line of soldiers Kells faced the door, keen, stern, commanding. The heavy tread of booted men, the clink of spurs, the low, muffled sound of voices, warned Joan that the gang had arrived. Would Jim Cleve be among them?
Joan wanted a better position in which to watch and listen. She thought a moment, and then carefully felt her way around to the other side of the steps, and here, sitting down with her feet hanging over the drop, she leaned against the wall and through a chink between the logs had a perfect view of the large cabin. The men were filing in silent and intense. Joan counted twenty-seven in all. They appeared to fall into two groups, and it was significant that the larger group lined up on the side nearest Kells, and the smaller back of Gulden. He had removed the bandage, and with a raw, red blotch where his right ear had been shot away, he was hideous. There was some kind of power emanating from him, but it was not that which, was so keenly vital and impelling in Kells. It was brute ferocity, dominating by sheer physical force. In any but muscular clash between Kells and Gulden the latter must lose. The men back of Gulden were a bearded, check-shirted, heavily armed group, the worst of that bad lot. All the younger, cleaner-cut men like Red Pearce and Frenchy and Beady Jones and Williams and the scout Blicky, were on the other side. There were two factions here, yet scarcely an antagonism, except possibly in the case of Kells. Joan felt that the atmosphere was supercharged with suspense and fatality and possibility—and anything might happen. To her great joy, Jim Cleve was not present.
“Where’re Beard and Wood?” queried Kells.
“Workin’ over Beard’s sick hoss,” replied Pearce. “They’ll show up by an’ by. Anythin’ you say goes with them, you know.”
“Did you find young Cleve?”
“No. He camps up in the timber somewheres. Reckon he’ll be along, too.”
Kells sat down at the head of the table, and, taking up the little book, he began to finger it while his pale eyes studied the men before him.
“We shuffled the deck pretty well over at Beard’s,” he said. “Now for the deal.… Who wants cards?… I’ve organized my Border Legion. I’ll have absolute control, whether there’re ten men or a hundred. Now, whos
e names go down in my book?”
Red Pearce stepped up and labored over the writing of his name. Blicky, Jones, Williams, and others followed suit. They did not speak, but each shook hands with the leader. Evidently Kells exacted no oath, but accepted each man’s free action and his word of honor. There was that about the bandit which made such action as binding as ties of blood. He did not want men in his Legion who had not loyalty to him. He seemed the kind of leader to whom men would be true.
“Kells, say them conditions over again,” requested one of the men, less eager to hurry with the matter.
At this juncture Joan was at once thrilled and frightened to see Jim Cleve enter the cabin. He appeared whiter of face, almost ghastly, and his piercing eyes swept the room, from Kells to Gulden, from men to men. Then he leaned against the wall, indistinct in the shadow. Kells gave no sign that he had noted the advent of Cleve.
“I’m the leader,” replied Kells, deliberately. “I’ll make the plans. I’ll issue orders. No jobs without my knowledge. Equal shares in gold—man to man.… Your word to stand by me!”
A muttering of approval ran through the listening group.
“Reckon I’ll join,” said the man who had wished the conditions repeated. With that he advanced to the table and, apparently not being able to write, he made his mark in the book. Kells wrote the name below. The other men of this contingent one by one complied with Kells’s requirements. This action left Gulden and his group to be dealt with.
“Gulden, are you still on the fence?” demanded Kells, coolly.
The giant strode stolidly forward to the table. As always before to Joan, he seemed to be a ponderous hulk, slow, heavy, plodding, with a mind to match.
“Kells, if we can agree I’ll join,” he said in his sonorous voice.
“You can bet you won’t join unless we do agree,” snapped Kells. “But—see here, Gulden. Let’s be friendly. The border is big enough for both of us. I want you. I need you. Still, if we can’t agree, let’s not split and be enemies. How about it?”
Another muttering among the men attested to the good sense and good will of Kells’s suggestion.
“Tell me what you’re going to do—how you’ll operate,” replied Gulden.
Keils had difficulty in restraining his impatience and annoyance.
“What’s that to you or any of you?” he queried. “You all know I’m the man to think of things. That’s been proved. First it takes brains. I’ll furnish them. Then it takes execution. You and Pearce and the gang will furnish that. What more do you need to know?”
“How’re you going to operate?” persisted Gulden.
Kells threw up both hands as if it was useless to argue or reason with this desperado.
“All right, I’ll tell you,” he replied. “Listen.… I can’t say what definite plans I’ll make till Jesse Smith reports, and then when I get on the diggings. But here’s a working basis. Now don’t miss a word of this, Gulden—nor any of you men. We’ll pack our outfits down to this gold strike. We’ll build cabins on the outskirts of the town, and we won’t hang together. The gang will be spread out. Most of you must make a bluff at digging gold. Be like other miners. Get in with cliques and clans. Dig, drink, gamble like the rest of them. Beard will start a gambling-place. Red Pearce will find some other kind of work. I’ll buy up claims—employ miners to work them. I’ll disguise myself and get in with the influential men and have a voice in matters. You’ll all be scouts. You’ll come to my cabin at night to report. We’ll not tackle any little jobs. Miners going out with fifty or a hundred pounds of gold—the wagons—the stage-coach—these we’ll have timed to rights, and whoever I detail on the job will hold them up. You must all keep sober, if that’s possible. You must all absolutely trust to my judgment. You must all go masked while on a job. You must never speak a word that might direct suspicion to you. In this way we may work all summer without detection. The Border Legion will become mysterious and famous. It will appear to be a large number of men, operating all over. The more secretive we are the more powerful the effect on the diggings. In gold-camps, when there’s a strike, all men are mad. They suspect each other. They can’t organize. We shall have them helpless.… And in short, if it’s as rich a strike as looks due here in these hills, before winter we can pack out all the gold our horses can carry.”
Kells had begun under restraint, but the sound of his voice, the liberation of his great idea, roused him to a passion. The man radiated with passion. This, then, was his dream—the empire he aspired to.
He had a powerful effect upon his listeners, except Gulden; and it was evident to Joan that the keen bandit was conscious of his influence. Gulden, however, showed nothing that he had not already showed. He was always a strange, dominating figure. He contested the relations of things. Kells watched him—the men watched him—and Jim Cleve’s piercing eyes glittered in the shadow, fixed upon that massive face. Manifestly Gulden meant to speak, but in his slowness there was no laboring, no pause from emotion. He had an idea and it moved like he moved.
“Dead men tell no tales!” The words boomed deep from his cavernous chest, a mutter that was a rumble, with something almost solemn in its note and certainly menacing, breathing murder. As Kells had propounded his ideas, revealing his power to devise a remarkable scheme and his passion for gold, so Gulden struck out with the driving inhuman blood-lust that must have been the twist, the knot, the clot in his brain. Kells craved notoriety and gold; Gulden craved to kill. In the silence that followed his speech these wild border ruffians judged him, measured him, understood him, and though some of them grew farther aloof from him, more of them sensed the safety that hid in his terrible implication.
But Kells rose against him.
“Gulden, you mean when we steal gold—to leave only dead men behind?” he queried, with a hiss in his voice.
The giant nodded grimly.
“But only fools kill—unless in self-defense,” declared Kells, passionately.
“We’d last longer,” replied Gulden, imperturbably.
“No—no. We’d never last so long. Killings rouse a mining-camp after a while—gold fever or no. That means a vigilante band.”
“We can belong to the vigilantes, just as well as to your Legion,” said Gulden.
The effect of this was to make Gulden appear less of a fool than Kells supposed him. The ruffians nodded to one another. They stirred restlessly. They were animated by a strange and provocative influence. Even Red Pearce and the others caught its subtlety. It was evil predominating in evil hearts. Blood and death loomed like a shadow here. The keen Kells saw the change working toward a transformation and he seemed craftily fighting something within him that opposed this cold ruthlessness of his men.
“Gulden, suppose I don’t see it your way?” he asked.
“Then I won’t join your Legion.”
“What will you do?”
“I’ll take the men who stand by me and go clean up that gold-camp.”
From the fleeting expression on Kells’s face Joan read that he knew Gulden’s project would defeat his own and render both enterprises fatal.
“Gulden, I don’t want to lose you,” he said.
“You won’t lose me if you see this thing right,” replied Gulden. “You’ve got the brains to direct us. But, Kells, you’re losing your nerve.… It’s this girl you’ve got here!”
Gulden spoke without rancor or fear or feeling of any kind. He merely spoke the truth. And it shook Kells with an almost ungovernable fury.
Joan saw the green glare of his eyes—his gray working face—the flutter of his hand. She had an almost superhuman insight into the workings of his mind. She knew that then—he was fighting whether or not to kill Gulden on the spot. And she recognized that this was the time when Kells must kill Gulden or from that moment see a gradual diminishing of his power
on the border. But Kells did not recognize that crucial height of his career. His struggle with his fury and hate showed that the thing uppermost in his mind was the need of conciliating Gulden and thus regaining a hold over the men.
“Gulden, suppose we waive the question till we’re on the grounds?” he suggested.
“Waive nothing. It’s one or the other with me,” declared Gulden.
“Do you want to be leader of this Border Legion?” went on Kells, deliberately.
“No.”
“Then what do you want?”
Gulden appeared at a loss for an instant reply. “I want plenty to do,” he replied, presently. “I want to be in on everything. I want to be free to kill a man when I like.”
“When you like!” retorted Kells, and added a curse. Then as if by magic his dark face cleared and there was infinite depth and craftiness in him. His opposition, and that hint of hate and loathing which detached him from Gulden, faded from his bearing. “Gulden, I’ll split the difference between us. I’ll leave you free to do as you like. But all the others—every man—must take orders from me.”
Gulden reached out a huge hand. His instant acceptance evidently amazed Kells and the others.
“Let her rip!” Gulden exclaimed. He shook Kells’s hand and then laboriously wrote his name in the little book.
In that moment Gulden stood out alone in the midst of wild abandoned men. What were Kells and this Legion to him? What was the stealing of more or less gold?
