by Zane Grey
Joan had a swift, sharp gaze for the men who rose from their lounging to greet the travelers. Jim Cleve was not among them. Her heart left her throat then, and she breathed easier. How could she meet him?
Kells was in better shape than at noon of the preceding day. Still, he had to be lifted off his horse. Joan heard all the men talking at once. They crowded round Pearce, each lending a hand. However, Kells appeared able to walk into the cabin. It was Bate Wood who led Joan inside.
There was a long room, with stone fireplace, rude benches and a table, skins and blankets on the floor, and lanterns and weapons on the wall. At one end Joan saw a litter of cooking utensils and shelves of supplies.
Suddenly Kells’s impatient voice silenced the clamor of questions. “I’m not hurt,” he said. “I’m all right—only weak and tired. Fellows, this girl is my wife.… Joan, you’ll find a room there—at the back of the cabin. Make yourself comfortable.”
Joan was only too glad to act upon his suggestion. A door had been cut through the back wall. It was covered with a blanket. When she swept this aside she came upon several steep steps that led up to a smaller, lighter cabin of two rooms, separated by a partition of boughs. She dropped the blanket behind her and went up the steps. Then she saw that the new cabin had been built against an old one. It had no door or opening except the one by which she had entered. It was light because the chinks between the logs were open. The furnishings were a wide bench of boughs covered with blankets, a shelf with a blurred and cracked mirror hanging above it, a table made of boxes, and a lantern. This room was four feet higher than the floor of the other cabin. And at the bottom of the steps leaned a half-dozen slender trimmed poles. She gathered presently that these poles were intended to be slipped under crosspieces above and fastened by a bar below, which means effectually barricaded the opening. Joan could stand at the head of the steps and peep under an edge of the swinging blanket into the large room, but that was the only place she could see through, for the openings between the logs of each wall were not level. These quarters were comfortable, private, and could be shut off from intruders. Joan had not expected so much consideration from Kells and she was grateful.
She lay down to rest and think. It was really very pleasant here. There were birds nesting in the chinks; a ground squirrel ran along one of the logs and chirped at her; through an opening near her face she saw a wild rose-bush and the green slope of the gulch; a soft, warm, fragrant breeze blew in, stirring her hair. How strange that there could be beautiful and pleasant things here in this robber den; that time was the same here as elsewhere; that the sun shone and the sky gleamed blue. Presently she discovered that a lassitude weighted upon her and she could not keep her eyes open. She ceased trying, but intended to remain awake—to think, to listen, to wait. Nevertheless, she did fall asleep and did not awaken till disturbed by some noise. The color of the western sky told her that the afternoon was far spent. She had slept hours. Someone was knocking. She got up and drew aside the blanket. Bate Wood was standing near the door.
“Now, miss, I’ve supper ready,” he said, “an’ I was reckonin’ you’d like me to fetch yours.”
“Yes, thank you, I would,” replied Joan.
In a few moments Wood returned carrying the top of a box upon which were steaming pans and cups. He handed this rude tray up to Joan.
“Shore I’m a first-rate cook, miss, when I’ve somethin’ to cook,” he said with a smile that changed his hard face.
She returned the smile with her thanks. Evidently Kells had a well-filled larder, and as Joan had fared on coarse and hard food for long, this supper was a luxury and exceedingly appetizing. While she was eating, the blanket curtain moved aside and Kells appeared. He dropped it behind him, but did not step up into the room. He was in his shirt-sleeves, had been clean shaven, and looked a different man.
“How do you like your—home?” he inquired, with a hint of his former mockery.
“I’m grateful for the privacy,” she replied.
“You think you could be worse off, then?”
“I know it.”
“Suppose Gulden kills me—and rules the gang—and takes you?… There’s a story about him, the worst I’ve heard on this border. I’ll tell you some day when I want to scare you bad.”
“Gulden!” Joan shivered as she pronounced the name. “Are you and he enemies?”
“No man can have a friend on this border. We flock together like buzzards. There’s safety in numbers, but we fight together, like buzzards over carrion.”
“Kells, you hate this life?”
“I’ve always hated my life, everywhere. The only life I ever loved was adventure.… I’m willing to try a new one, if you’ll go with me.”
Joan shook her head.
“Why not? I’ll marry you,” he went on, speaking lower. “I’ve got gold; I’ll get more.”
“Where did you get the gold?” she asked.
“I’ve relieved a good many overburdened travelers and prospectors,” he replied.
“Kells, you’re a—a villain!” exclaimed Joan, unable to contain her sudden heat. “You must be utterly mad—to ask me to marry you.”
“No, I’m not mad,” he rejoined, with a laugh. “Gulden’s the mad one. He’s crazy. He’s got a twist in his brain. I’m no fool.… I’ve only lost my head over you. But compare marrying me, living and traveling among decent people and comfort, to camps like this. If I don’t get drunk I’ll be half decent to you. But I’ll get shot sooner or later. Then you’ll be left to Gulden.”
“Why do you say him?” she queried, in a shudder of curiosity.
“Well, Gulden haunts me.”
“He does me, too. He makes me lose my sense of proportion. Beside him you and the others seem good. But you are wicked.”
“Then you won’t marry me and go away somewhere?… Your choice is strange. Because I tell you the truth.”
“Kells! I’m a woman. Something deep in me says you won’t keep me here—you can’t be so base. Not now, after I saved your life! It would be horrible—inhuman. I can’t believe any man born of a woman could do it.”
“But I want you—I love you!” he said, low and hard.
“Love! That’s not love,” she replied in scorn. “God only knows what it is.”
“Call it what you like,” he went on, bitterly. “You’re a young, beautiful, sweet woman. It’s wonderful to be near you. My life has been hell. I’ve had nothing. There’s only hell to look forward to—and hell at the end. Why shouldn’t I keep you here?”
“But, Kells, listen,” she whispered, earnestly, “suppose I am young and beautiful and sweet—as you said. I’m utterly in your power. I’m compelled to seek your protection from even worse men. You’re different from these others. You’re educated. You must have had—a—a good mother. Now you’re bitter, desperate, terrible. You hate life. You seem to think this charm you see in me will bring you something. Maybe a glimpse of joy! But how can it? You know better. How can it…unless I—I love you?”
Kells stared at her, the evil and hardness of his passion corded in his face. And the shadows of comprehending thought in his strange eyes showed the other side of the man. He was still staring at her while he reached to put aside the curtains; then he dropped his head and went out.
Joan sat motionless, watching the door where he had disappeared, listening to the mounting beats of her heart. She had only been frank and earnest with Kells. But he had taken a meaning from her last few words that she had not intended to convey. All that was woman in her—mounting, righting, hating—leaped to the power she sensed in herself. If she could be deceitful, cunning, shameless in holding out to Kells a possible return of his love, she could do anything with him. She knew it. She did not need to marry him or sacrifice herself. Joan was amazed that the idea remained an instant before her consciousness. But something had told her this was another kind of life than she had known, and all that was precious to her hung in the balance. Any falsity was justifiable,
even righteous, under the circumstances. Could she formulate a plan that this keen bandit would not see through? The remotest possibility of her even caring for Kells—that was as much as she dared hint. But that, together with all the charm and seductiveness she could summon, might be enough. Dared she try it? If she tried and failed Kells would despise her, and then she was utterly lost. She was caught between doubt and hope. All that was natural and true in her shrank from such unwomanly deception; all that had been born of her wild experience inflamed her to play the game, to match Kells’s villainy with a woman’s unfathomable duplicity.
And while Joan was absorbed in thought the sun set, the light failed, twilight stole into the cabin, and then darkness. All this hour there had been a continual sound of men’s voices in the large cabin, sometimes low and at other times loud. It was only when Joan distinctly heard the name Jim Cleve that she was startled out of her absorption, thrilling and flushing. In her eagerness she nearly fell as she stepped and gropped through the darkness to the door, and as she drew aside the blanket her hand shook.
The large room was lighted by a fire and half a dozen lanterns. Through a faint tinge of blue smoke Joan saw men standing and sitting and lounging around Kells, who had a seat where the light fell full upon him. Evidently a lull had intervened in the talk. The dark faces Joan could see were all turned toward the door expectantly.
“Bring him in, Bate, and let’s look him over,” said Kells.
Then Bate Wood appeared, elbowing his way in, and he had his hand on the arm of a tall, lithe fellow. When they got into the light Joan quivered as if she had been stabbed. That stranger with Wood was Jim Cleve—Jim Cleve in frame and feature, yet not the same she knew.
“Cleve, glad to meet you,” greeted Kells, extending his hand.
“Thanks. Same to you,” replied Cleve, and he met the proffered hand. His voice was cold and colorless, unfamiliar to Joan. Was this man really Jim Cleve?
The meeting of Kells and Cleve was significant because of Kells’s interest and the silent attention of the men of his clan. It did not seem to mean anything to the white-faced, tragic-eyed Cleve. Joan gazed at him with utter amazement. She remembered a heavily built, florid Jim Cleve, an overgrown boy with a good-natured, lazy smile on his full face and sleepy eyes. She all but failed to recognize him in the man who stood there now, lithe and powerful, with muscles bulging in his coarse, white shirt. Joan’s gaze swept over him, up and down, shivering at the two heavy guns he packed, till it was transfixed on his face. The old, or the other, Jim Cleve had been homely, with too much flesh on his face to show force or fire. This man seemed beautiful. But it was a beauty of tragedy. He was as white as Kells, but smoothly, purely white, without shadow or sunburn. His lips seemed to have set with a bitter, indifferent laugh. His eyes looked straight out, piercing, intent, haunted, and as dark as night. Great blue circles lay under them, lending still further depth and mystery. It was a sad, reckless face that wrung Joan’s very heartstrings. She had come too late to save his happiness, but she prayed that it was not too late to save his honor and his soul.
While she gazed there had been further exchange of speech between Kells and Cleve, and she had heard, though not distinguished, what was said. Kells was unmistakably friendly, as were the other men within range of Joan’s sight. Cleve was surrounded; there were jesting and laughter; and then he was led to the long table where several men were already gambling.
Joan dropped the curtain, and in the darkness of her cabin she saw that white, haunting face, and when she covered her eyes she still saw it. The pain, the reckless violence, the hopeless indifference, the wreck and ruin in that face had been her doing. Why? How had Jim Cleve wronged her? He had loved her at her displeasure and had kissed her against her will. She had furiously upbraided him, and when he had finally turned upon her, threatening to prove he was no coward, she had scorned him with a girl’s merciless injustice. All her strength and resolve left her, momentarily, after seeing Jim there. Like a woman, she weakened. She lay on the bed and writhed. Doubt, hopelessness, despair, again seized upon her, and some strange, yearning maddening emotion. What had she sacrificed? His happiness and her own—and both their lives!
The clamor in the other cabin grew so boisterous that suddenly when it stilled Joan was brought sharply to the significance of it. Again she drew aside the curtain and peered out.
Gulden, huge, stolid, gloomy, was entering the cabin. The man fell into the circle and faced Kell with the fire-light dancing in his cavernous eyes.
“Hello, Gulden!” said Kells, coolly. “What ails you?”
“Anybody tell you about Bill Bailey?” asked Gulden, heavily.
Kells did not show the least concern. “Tell me what?”
“That he died in a cabin, down in the valley?”
Kells gave a slight start and his eyes narrowed and shot steely glints. “No. It’s news to me.”
“Kells, you left Bailey for dead. But he lived. He was shot through, but he got there somehow—nobody knows. He was far gone when Beady Jones happened along. Before he died he sent word to me by Beady.… Are you curious to know what it was?”
“Not the least,” replied Kells. “Bailey was—well, offensive to my wife. I shot him.”
“He swore you drew on him in cold blood,” thundered Gulden. “He swore it was for nothing—just so you could be alone with that girl!”
Kells rose in wonderful calmness, with only his pallor and a slight shaking of his hands to betray excitement. An uneasy stir and murmur ran through the room. Red Pearce, nearest at hand, stepped to Kells’s side. All in a moment there was a deadly surcharged atmosphere there.
“Well, he swore right!… Now what’s it to you?”
Apparently the fact and its confession were nothing particular to Gulden, or else he was deep where all considered him only dense and shallow.
“It’s done. Bill’s dead,” continued Gulden. “But why do you double-cross the gang? What’s the game? You never did it before.… That girl isn’t your—”
“Shut up!” hissed Kells. Like a flash his hand flew out with his gun, and all about him was dark menace.
Gulden made no attempt to draw. He did not show surprise nor fear nor any emotion. He appeared plodding in mind. Red Pearce stepped between Kells and Gulden. There was a realization in the crowd, loud breaths, scraping of feet. Gulden turned away. Then Kells resumed his seat and his pipe as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.
CHAPTER 9
Joan turned away from the door in a cold clamp of relief. The shadow of death hovered over these men. She must fortify herself to live under that shadow, to be prepared for any sudden violence, to stand a succession of shocks that inevitably would come. She listened. The men were talking and laughing now; there came a click of chips, the spat of a thrown card, the thump of a little sack of gold. Ahead of her lay the long hours of night in which these men would hold revel. Only a faint ray of light penetrated her cabin, but it was sufficient for her to distinguish objects. She set about putting the poles in place to barricade the opening. When she had finished she knew she was safe at least from intrusion. Who had constructed that rude door and for what purpose? Then she yielded to the temptation to peep once more under the edge of the curtain.
The room was cloudy and blue with smoke. She saw Jim Cleve at a table gambling with several ruffians. His back was turned, yet Joan felt the contrast of his attitude toward the game, compared with that of the others. They were tense, fierce, and intent upon every throw of a card. Cleve’s very poise of head and movement of arm betrayed his indifference. One of the gamblers howled his disgust, slammed down his cards, and got up.
“He’s cleaned out,” said one, in devilish glee.
“Naw, he ain’t,” voiced another. “He’s got two fruit-cans full of dust. I saw ’em.… He’s just lay down—like a poisoned coyote.”
“Shore I’m glad Cleve’s got the luck, fer mebbe he’ll give my gold back,” spoke up another gamester, with a lau
gh.
“Wal, he certainlee is the chilvalus card sharp,” rejoined the last player. “Jim, was you allus as lucky in love as in cards?”
“Lucky in love?… Sure!” answered Jim Cleve, with a mocking, reckless ring in his voice.
“Funny, ain’t thet, boys? Now there’s the boss. Kells can sure win the gurls, but he’s a pore gambler.” Kells heard this speech, and he laughed with the others. “Hey, you greaser, you never won any of my money,” he said.
“Come an’ set in, boss. Come an’ see your gold fade away. You can’t stop this Jim Cleve. Luck—bull luck straddles his neck. He’ll win your gold—your hosses an’ saddles an’ spurs an’ guns—an’ your shirt, if you’ve nerve enough to bet it.”
The speaker slapped his cards upon the table while he gazed at Cleve in grieved admiration. Kells walked over to the group and he put his hand on Cleve’s shoulder.
“Say youngster,” he said, genially, “you said you were just as lucky in love.… Now I had a hunch some bad luck with a girl drove you out here to the border.”
Kells spoke jestingly, in a way that could give no offense, even to the wildest of boys, yet there was curiosity, keenness, penetration, in his speech. It had not the slightest effect upon Jim Cleve.
“Bad luck and a girl?… To hell with both!” he said.
“Shore you’re talkin’ religion. Thet’s where both luck an’ gurls come from,” replied the unlucky gamester. “Will one of you hawgs pass the whiskey?”
