by Zane Grey
And it was at the precise moment when this thought rose to counteract the hope revived by the changed attitude of the men that Joan looked out to see Jim Cleve sauntering up, careless, untidy, a cigarette between his lips, blue blotches on his white face, upon him the stamp of abandonment. Joan suffered a contraction of heart that benumbed her breast. She stood a moment battling with herself. She was brave enough, desperate enough, to walk straight up to Cleve, remove her mask and say, “I am Joan!” But that must be a last resource. She had no plan, yet she might force an opportunity to see Cleve alone.
A shout rose above the hubbub of voices. A tall man was pointing across the gulch where dust-clouds showed above the willows. Men crowded round him, all gazing in the direction of his hand, all talking at once.
“Jesse Smith’s hoss, I swear!” shouted the tall man. “Kells, come out here!”
Kells appeared, dark and eager, at the door, and nimbly he leaped to the excited group. Pearce and Wood and others followed.
“What’s up?” called the bandit. “Hello! Who’s that riding bareback?”
“He’s shore cuttin’ the wind,” said Wood.
“Blicky!” exclaimed the tall man. “Kells, there’s news. I seen Jesse’s hoss.”
Kells let out a strange, exultant cry. The excited talk among the men gave place, to a subdued murmur, then subsided. Blicky was running a horse up the road, hanging low over him, like an Indian. He clattered to the bench, scattered the men in all directions. The fiery horse plunged and pounded. Blicky was gray of face and wild of aspect.
“Jesse’s come!” he yelled, hoarsely, at Kells. “He jest fell off his hoss—all in! He wants you—an’ all the gang! He’s seen a million dollars in gold-dust!”
Absolute silence ensued after that last swift and startling speech. It broke to a commingling of yells and shouts. Blicky wheeled his horse and Kells started on a run. And there was a stampede and rush after him.
Joan grasped her opportunity. She had seen all this excitement, but she had not lost sight of Cleve. He got up from a log and started after the others. Joan flew to him, grasped him, startled him with the suddenness of her onslaught. But her tongue seemed cloven to the roof of her mouth, her lips weak and mute. Twice she strove to speak.
“Meet me—there!—among the pines—right away!” she whispered, with breathless earnestness. “It’s life—or death—for me!”
As she released his arm he snatched at her mask. But she eluded him.
“Who are you?” he flashed.
Kells and his men were piling into the willows, leaping the brook, hurrying on. They had no thought but to get to Jesse Smith to hear of the gold strike. That news to them was as finding gold in the earth was to honest miners.
“Come!” cried Joan. She hurried away toward the corner of the cabin, then halted to see if he was following. He was, indeed. She ran round behind the cabin, out on the slope, halting at the first trees. Cleve came striding after her. She ran on, beginning to pant and stumble. The way he strode, the white grimness of him, frightened her. What would he, do? Again she went on, but not running now. There were straggling pines and spruces that soon hid the cabins. Beyond, a few rods, was a dense clump of pines, and she made for that. As she reached it she turned fearfully. Only Cleve was in sight. She uttered a sob of mingled relief, joy, and thankfulness. She and Cleve had not been observed. They would be out of sight in this little pine grove. At last! She could reveal herself, tell him why she was there, that she loved him, that she was as good as ever she had been. Why was she shaking like a leaf in the wind? She saw Cleve through a blur. He was almost running now. Involuntarily she fled into the grove. It was dark and cool; it smelled sweetly of pine; there were narrow aisles and little sunlit glades. She hurried on till a fallen tree blocked her passage. Here she turned—she would wait—the tree was good to lean against. There came Cleve, a dark, stalking shadow. She did not remember him like that. He entered the glade.
“Speak again!” he said, thickly. “Either I’m drunk or crazy!”
But Joan could not speak. She held out hands that shook—swept them to her face—tore at the mask. Then with a gasp she stood revealed.
If she had stabbed him straight through the heart he could not have been more ghastly. Joan saw him, in all the terrible transfiguration that came over him, but she had no conceptions, no thought of what constituted that change. After that check to her mind came a surge of joy.
“Jim!… Jim! It’s Joan!” she breathed, with lips almost mute.
“Joan!” he gasped, and the sound of his voice seemed to be the passing from horrible doubt to certainty.
Like a panther he leaped at her, fastened a powerful hand at the neck of her blouse, jerked her to her knees, and began to drag her. Joan fought his iron grasp. The twisting and tightening of her blouse choked her utterance. He did not look down upon her, but she could see him, the rigidity of his body set in violence, the awful shade upon his face, the upstanding hair on his head. He dragged her as if she had been an empty sack. Like a beast he was seeking a dark place—a hole to hide her. She was strangling; a distorted sight made objects dim; and now she struggled instinctively. Suddenly the clutch at her neck loosened; gaspingly came the intake of air to her lungs; the dark-red veil left her eyes. She was still upon her knees. Cleve stood before her, like a gray-faced demon, holding his gun level, ready to fire.
“Pray for your soul—and mine!”
“Jim! Oh Jim!… Will you kill yourself, too?”
“Yes! But pray, girl—quick!”
“Then I pray to God—not for my soul—but just for one more moment of life…to tell you, jim!”
Cleve’s face worked and the gun began to waver. Her reply had been a stroke of lightning into the dark abyss of his jealous agony.
Joan saw it, and she raised her quivering face, and she held up her arms to him. “To tell—you—Jim!” she entreated.
“What?” he rasped out.
“That I’m innocent—that I’m as good—a girl—as ever…ever.… Let me tell you.… Oh, you’re mistaken—terribly mistaken.”
“Now, I know I’m drunk.… You, Joan Randle! You in that rig! You the companion of Jack Kells! Not even his wife! The jest of these foul-mouthed bandits! And you say you’re innocent—good?… When you refused to leave him!”
“I was afraid to go—afraid you’d be killed,” she moaned, beating her breast.
It must have seemed madness to him, a monstrous nightmare, a delirium of drink, that Joan Randle was there on her knees in a brazen male attire, lifting her arms to him, beseeching him, not to spare her life, but to believe in her innocence.
Joan burst into swift, broken utterance: “Only listen! I trailed you out—twenty miles from Hoadley. I met Roberts. He came with me. He lamed his horse—we had to camp. Kells rode down on us. He had two men. They camped there. Next morning he—killed Roberts—made off with me.… Then he killed his men—just to have me—alone to himself.… We crossed a range—camped in the canyon. There he attacked me—and I—I shot him!… But I couldn’t leave him—to die!” Joan hurried on with her narrative, gaining strength and eloquence as she saw the weakening of Cleve. “First he said I was his wife to fool that Gulden—and the others,” she went on. “He meant to save me from them. But they guessed or found out.… Kells forced me into these bandit clothes. He’s depraved, somehow. And I had to wear something. Kells hasn’t harmed me—no one has. I’ve influence over him. He can’t resist it. He’s tried to force me to marry him. And he’s tried to give up to his evil intentions. But he can’t. There’s good in him. I can make him feel it.… Oh, he loves me, and I’m not afraid of him any more.… It has been a terrible time for me, Jim, but I’m still—the same girl you knew—you used to—”
Cleve dropped the gun and he waved his hand before his eyes as if to dispel a blindness.
<
br /> “But why—why?” he asked, incredulously. “Why did you leave Hoadley? That’s forbidden. You knew the risk.”
Joan gazed steadily up at him, to see the whiteness slowly fade out of his face. She had imagined it would be an overcoming of pride to betray her love, but she had been wrong. The moment was so full, so overpowering, that she seemed dumb. He had ruined himself for her, and out of that ruin had come the glory of her love. Perhaps it was all too late, but at least he would know that for love of him she had in turn sacrificed herself.
“Jim,” she whispered, and with the first word of that betrayal a thrill, a tremble, a rush went over her, and all her blood seemed hot at her neck and face, “that night when you kissed me I was furious. But the moment you had gone I repented. I must have—cared for you then, but I didn’t know.… Remorse seized me. And I set out on your trail to save you from yourself. And with the pain and fear and terror there was sometimes—the—the sweetness of your kisses. Then I knew I cared.… And with the added days of suspense and agony—all that told me of your throwing your life away—there came love.… Such love as otherwise I’d never have been big enough for! I meant to find you—to save you—to send you home!… I have found you, maybe too late to save your life, but not your soul, thank God!… That’s why I’ve been strong enough to hold back Kells. I love you, Jim!… I love you! I couldn’t tell you enough. My heart is bursting.… Say you believe me! Say you know I’m good—true to you—your Joan!… And kiss me—like you did that night when we were such blind fools. A boy and a girl who didn’t know—and couldn’t tell!—Oh, the sadness of it!.… Kiss me, Jim, before I—drop—at your feet!… If only you—believe—”
Joan was blinded by tears and whispering she knew not what when Cleve broke from his trance and caught her to his breast. She was fainting—hovering at the border of unconsciousness when his violence held her back from oblivion. She seemed wrapped to him and held so tightly there was no breath in her body, no motion, no stir of pulse. That vague, dreamy moment passed. She heard his husky, broken accents—she felt the pound of his heart against her breast. And he began to kiss her as she had begged him to. She quickened to thrilling, revivifying life. And she lifted her face, and clung round his neck, and kissed him, blindly, sweetly, passionately, with all her heart and soul in her lips, wanting only one thing in the world—to give that which she had denied him.
“Joan!… Joan!… Joan!” he murmured when their lips parted. “Am I dreaming—drunk—or crazy?”
“Oh, Jim, I’m real—you have me in your arms,” she whispered. “Dear Jim—kiss me again—and say you believe me.”
“Believe you?… I’m out of my mind with joy.… You loved me! You followed me!… And—that idea of mine—only an absurd, vile suspicion! I might have known—had I been sane!”
“There.… Oh, Jim!… Enough of madness. We’ve got to plan. Remember where we are. There’s Kells, and this terrible situation to meet!”
He stared at her, slowly realizing, and then it was his turn to shake. “My God! I’d forgotten. I’ll have to kill you now!”
A reaction set in. If he had any self-control left he lost it, and like a boy whose fling into manhood had exhausted his courage he sank beside her and buried his face against her. And he cried in a low, tense, heartbroken way. For Joan it was terrible to hear him. She held his hand to her breast and implored him not to weaken now. But he was stricken with remorse—he had run off like a coward, he had brought her to this calamity—and he could not rise under it. Joan realized that he had long labored under stress of morbid emotion. Only a supreme effort could lift him out of it to strong and reasoning equilibrium, and that must come from her.
She pushed him away from her, and held him back where he must see her, and white-hot with passionate purpose, she kissed him. “Jim Cleve, if you’ve nerve enough to be bad you’ve nerve enough to save the girl who loves you—who belongs to you!”
He raised his face and it flashed from red to white. He caught the subtlety of her antithesis. With the very two words which had driven him away under the sting of cowardice she uplifted him; and with all that was tender and faithful and passionate in her meaning of surrender she settled at once and forever the doubt of his manhood. He arose trembling in every limb. Like a dog he shook himself. His breast heaved. The shades of scorn and bitterness and abandon might never have haunted his face. In that moment he had passed from the reckless and wild, sick rage of a weakling to the stern, realizing courage of a man. His suffering on this wild border had developed a different fiber of character; and at the great moment, the climax, when his moral force hung balanced between elevation and destruction, the woman had called to him, and her unquenchable spirit passed into him.
“There’s only one thing—to get away,” he said.
“Yes, but that’s a terrible risk,” she replied.
“We’ve a good chance now. I’ll get horses. We can slip away while they’re all excited.”
“No—no. I daren’t risk so much. Kells would find out at once. He’d be like a hound on our trail. But that’s not all. I’ve a horror of Gulden. I can’t explain. I feel it. He would know—he would take the trail. I’d never try to escape with Gulden in camp.… Jim, do you know what he’s done?”
“He’s a cannibal. I hate the sight of him. I tried to kill him. I wish I had killed him.”
“I’m never safe while he’s near.”
“Then I will kill him.”
“Hush! you’ll not be desperate unless you have to be.… Listen. I’m safe with Kells for the present. And he’s friendly to you. Let us wait. I’ll keep trying to influence him. I have won the friendship of some of his men. We’ll stay with him—travel with him. Surely we’d have a better chance to excape after we reach that gold-camp. You must play your part. But do it without drinking and fighting. I couldn’t bear that. We’ll see each other somehow. We’ll plan. Then we’ll take the first chance to get away.”
“We might never have a better chance than we’ve got right now,” he remonstrated.
“It may seem so to you. But I know. I haven’t watched these ruffians for nothing. I tell you Gulden has split with Kells because of me. I don’t know how I know. And I think I’d die of terror out on the trail with two hundred miles to go—and that gorilla after me.”
“But, Joan, if we once got away Gulden would never take you alive,” said Jim, earnestly. “So you needn’t fear that.”
“I’ve uncanny horror of him. It’s as if he were a gorilla—and would take me off even if I were dead!… No, Jim, let us wait. Let me select the time. I can do it. Trust me. Oh, Jim, now that I’ve saved you from being a bandit, I can do anything. I can fool Kells or Pearce or Wood—any of them, except Gulden.”
“If Kells had to choose now between trailing you and rushing for the gold-camp, which would he do?”
“He’d trail me,” she said.
“But Kells is crazy over gold. He has two passions. To steal gold, and to gamble with it.”
“That may be. But he’d go after me first. So would Gulden. We can’t ride these hills as they do. We don’t know the trails—the water. We’d get lost. We’d be caught. And somehow I know that Gulden and his gang would find us first.”
“You’re probably right, Joan,” replied Cleve. “But you condemn me to a living death.… To let you out of my sight with Kells or any of them! It’ll be worse almost than my life was before.”
“But, Jim, I’ll be safe,” she entreated. “It’s the better choice of two evils. Our lives depend on reason, waiting, planning. And, Jim, I want to live for you.”
“My brave darling, to hear you say that!” he exclaimed, with deep emotion. “When I never expected to see you again!… But the past is past. I begin over from this hour. I’ll be what you want—do what you want.”
Joan seemed irresistibly drawn to him again, and th
e supplication, as she lifted her blushing face, and the yielding, were perilously sweet.
“Jim, kiss me and hold me—the way—you did that night!”
And it was not Joan who first broke that embrace.
“Find my mask,” she said.
Cleve picked up his gun and presently the piece of black felt. He held it as if it were a deadly thing.
“Put it on me.”
He slipped the cord over her head and adjusted the mask so the holes came right for her eyes.
“Joan, it hides the—the goodness of you,” he cried. “No one can see your eyes now. No one will look at your face. That rig shows your—shows you off so! It’s not decent.… But, O Lord! I’m bound to confess how pretty, how devilish, how seductive you are! And I hate it.”
“Jim, I hate it, too. But we must stand it. Try not to shame me any more.… And now good-by. Keep watch for me—as I will for you—all the time.”
Joan broke from him and glided out of the grove, away under the straggling pines, along the slope. She came upon her horse and she led him back to the corral. Many of the horses had strayed. There was no one at the cabin, but she saw men striding up the slope, Kells in the lead. She had been fortunate. Her absence could hardly have been noted. She had just strength left to get to her room, where she fell upon the bed, weak and trembling and dizzy and unutterably grateful at her deliverance from the hateful, unbearable falsity of her situation.
13
It was afternoon before Joan could trust herself sufficiently to go out again, and when she did she saw that she attracted very little attention from the bandits.
Kells had a springy step, a bright eye, a lifted head, and he seemed to be listening. Perhaps he was—to the music of his sordid dreams. Joan watched him sometimes with wonder. Even a bandit—plotting gold robberies, with violence and blood merely means to an end—built castles in the air and lived with joy!
