by Zane Grey
“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 the 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.
CHAPTER 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!
All that afternoon the bandits left camp in twos and threes, each party with pack burros and horses, packed as Joan had not seen them before on the border. Shovels and picks and old sieves and pans, these swinging or tied in prominent places, were evidence that the bandits meant to assume the characters of miners and prospectors. They whistled and sang. It was a lark. The excitement had subsided and the action begun. Only in Kells, under his radiance, could be felt the dark and sinister plot. He was the heart of the machine.
By sundown Kells, Pearce, Wood, Jim Cleve, and a robust, grizzled bandit, Jesse Smith, were left in camp. Smith was lame from his ride, and Joan gathered that Kells would have left camp but for the fact that Smith needed rest. He and Kells were together all the time, talking endlessly. Joan heard them argue a disputed point—would the men abide by Kells’s plan and go by twos and threes into the gold-camp, and hide their relations as a larger band? Kells contended they would and Smith had his doubts.
“Jack, wait till you see Alder Creek!”
ejaculated Smith, wagging his grizzled head. “Three thousand men, old an’ young, of all kinds—gone gold—crazy! Alder Creek has got California’s ’49 and’ ’51 cinched to the last hole!” And the bandit leader rubbed his palms in great glee.
That evening they all had supper together in Kell’s cabin. Bate Wood grumbled because he had packed most of his outfit. It so chanced that Joan sat directly opposite Jim Cleve, and while he ate he pressed her foot with his under the table. The touch thrilled Joan. Jim did not glance at her, but there was such a change in him that she feared it might rouse Kells’s curiosity. This night, however, the bandit could not have seen anything except a gleam of yellow. He talked, he sat at table, but did not eat. After supper he sent Joan to her cabin, saying they would be on the trail at daylight. Joan watched them awhile from her covert. They had evidently talked themselves out, and Kells grew thoughtful. Smith and Pearce went outside, apparently to roll their beds on the ground under the porch roof. Wood, who said he was never a good sleeper, smoked his pipe. And Jim Cleve spread blankets along the wall in the shadow and and lay down. Joan could see his eyes shining toward the door. Of course he was thinking of her. But could he see her eyes? Watching her chance, she slipped a hand from behind the curtain, and she knew Cleve saw it. What a comfort that was! Joan’s heart swelled. All might yet be well. Jim Cleve would be near her while she slept. She could sleep now without those dark dreams—without dreading to awaken to the light. Again she saw Kells pacing the room, silent, bent, absorbed, hands behind his back, weighted with his burden. It was impossible not to feel sorry for him. With all his intelligence and cunning power, his cause was hopeless. Joan knew that as she knew so many other things without understanding why. She had not yet sounded Jesse Smith, but not a man of all the others was true to Kells. They would be of his Border Legion, do his bidding, revel in their ill-gotten gains, and then, when he needed them most, be false to him.
When Joan was awakened her room was shrouded in gray gloom. A bustle sound from the big cabin, and outside horses stamped and men talked.
She sat alone at breakfast and ate by lantern-light. It was necessary to take a lantern back to her cabin, and she was so long in her preparations there that Kells called again. Somehow she did not want to leave this cabin. It seemed protective and private, and she feared she might not find such quarters again. Besides, upon the moment of leaving she discovered that she had grown attached to the place where she had suffered and thought and grown so much.
Kells had put out the lights. Joan hurried through the cabin and outside. The gray obscurity had given way to dawn. The air was cold, sweet, bracing with the touch of mountain purity in it. The men, except Kells, were all mounted, and the pack-train was in motion. Kells dragged the rude door into position, and then, mounting, he called to Joan to follow. She trotted her horse after him, down the slope, across the brook and through the wet willows, and out upon the wide trail. She glanced ahead, discerning that the third man from her was Jim Cleve; and that fact, in the start for Alder Creek, made all the difference in the world.
When they rode out of the narrow defile into the valley the sun was rising red and bright in a notch of the mountains. Clouds hung over distant peaks, and the patches of snow in the high canyons shone blue and pink. Smith in the lead turned westward up the valley. Horses trooped after the cavalcade and had to be driven back. There were also cattle in the valley, and all these Kells left behind like an honest rancher who had no fear for his stock. Deer stood off with long ears pointed forward, watching the horses go by. There were flocks of quail, and whirring grouse, and bounding jack-rabbits, and occasionally a brace of sneaking coyotes. These and the wild flowers, and the waving meadow-grass, the yellow-stemmed willows, and the patches of alder, all were pleasurable to Joan’s eyes and restful to her mind.
Smith soon led away from this valley up out of the head of a ravine, across a rough rock-strewn ridge, down again into a hollow that grew to be a canyon. The trail was bad. Part of the time it was the bottom of a boulder-strewn brook where the horses slipped on the wet, round stones. Progress was slow and time passed. For Joan, however, it was a relief; and the slower they might travel the better she would like it. At the end of that journey there were Gulden and the others, and the gold-camp with its illimitable possibilities for such men.
At noon the party halted for a rest. The camp site was pleasant and the men were all agreeable. During the meal Kells found occasion to remark to Cleve:
“Say youngster, you’ve brightened up. Must be because of our prospects over here.”
“Not that so much,” replied Cleve. “I quit the whisky. To be honest, Kells, I was almost seeing snakes.”
“I’m glad you quit. When you’re drinking you’re wild. I never yet saw the man who could drink hard and keep his head. I can’t. But I don’t drink much.”
His last remark brought a response in laughter. Evidently his companions thought he was joking. He laughed himself and actually winked at Joan.
It happened to be Cleve whom Kells told to saddle Joan’s horse, and as Joan tried the cinches, to see if they were too tight to suit her, Jim’s hand came in contact with hers. That touch was like a message. Joan was thrilling all over as she looked at Jim, but he kept his face averted. Perhaps he did not trust his eyes.
Travel was resumed up the canyon and continued steadily, though leisurely. But the trail was so rough, and so winding, that Joan believed the progress did not exceed three miles an hour. It was the kind of travel in which a horse could be helped and that entailed attention to the lay of the ground. Before Joan realized the hours were flying, the afternoon had waned. Smith kept on, however, until nearly dark before halting for camp.
The evening camp was a scene of activity, and all except Joan had work to do. She tried to lend a hand, but Wood told her to rest. This she was glad to do. When called to supper she had almost fallen asleep. After a long day’s ride the business of eating precluded conversation. Later, however, the men began to talk between puffs on their pipes, and from the talk no one could have guessed that here was a band of robbers on their way to a gold camp. Jesse Smith had a sore foot and he was compared to a tenderfoot on his first ride. Smith retaliated in kind. Every consideration was shown Joan, and Wood particularly appeared assiduous in his desire for her comfort. All the men except Cleve paid her some kind attention; and he, of course, neglected her because he was afraid to go near her. Again she felt in Red Pearce a condemnation of the bandit leader who was dragging a girl over hard trails, making her sleep in the open, exposing her to danger and to men like himself and Gulden. In his own estimate Pearce, like every one of his kind, was not so slow as the others.
Joan watched and listened from her blankets, under a leafy tree, some few yards from the camp-fire. Once Kells turned to see how far distant she was, and then, lowering his voice, he told a story. The others laughed. Pearce followed with another, and he, too, took care that Joan could not hear. They grew closer for the mirth, and Smith, who evidently was a jolly fellow, set them to roaring. Jim Cleve laughed with them.
“Say, Jim, you’re getting over it,” remarked Kells.
“Over what?”
Kells paused, rather embarrassed for a reply, as evidently in the humor of the hour he had spoken a thought better left unsaid. But there was no more forbidding atmosphere about Cleve. He appeared to have rounded to good-fellowship after a moody and quarrelsome drinking spell.
“Why, over what drove you out here—and gave me a lucky chance at you,” replied Kells, with a constrained laugh.
“Oh, you mean the girl?… Sure, I’m getting over that, except when I drink.”
“Tell us, Jim,” said Kells, curiously.
“Aw, you’ll give me the laugh!” retorted Cleve.
“No, we won’t unless your story’s funny.”
“You can gamble it wasn’t funny,” put in Red Pearce.
They all coaxed him, yet none of them, except Kells, was particularly curious; it was just that h
our when men of their ilk were lazy and comfortable and full fed and good-humored round the warm, blazing camp-fire.
“All right,” replied Cleve, and apparently, for all his complaisance, a call upon memory had its pain. “I’m from Montana. Range-rider in winter and in summer I prospected. Saved quite a little money, in spite of a fling now and then at faro and whisky.… Yes, there was a girl, I guess yes. She was pretty. I had a bad case over her. Not long ago I left all I had—money and gold and things—in her keeping, and I went prospecting again. We were to get married on my return. I stayed out six months, did well, and got robbed of all my dust.”
Cleve was telling this fabrication in a matter-of-fact way, growing a little less frank as he proceeded, and he paused while he lifted sand and let it drift through his fingers, watching it curiously. All the men were interested and Kells hung on every word.
“When I got back,” went on Cleve, “my girl had married another fellow. She’d given him all I left with her. Then I got drunk. While I was drunk they put up a job on me. It was her word that disgraced me and run me out of town.… So I struck west and drifted to the border.”
“That’s not all,” said Kells, bluntly.
“Jim, I reckon you ain’t tellin’ what you did to thet lyin’ girl an’ the feller. How’d you leave them?” added Pearce.
But Cleve appeared to become gloomy and reticent.
“Wimmen can hand the double-cross to a man, hey, Kells?” queried Smith, with a broad grin.
“By gosh! I thought you’d been treated powerful mean!” exclaimed Bate Wood, and he was full of wrath.
“A treacherous woman!” exclaimed Kells, passionately. He had taken Cleve’s story hard. The man must have been betrayed by women, and Cleve’s story had irritated old wounds.
Directly Kells left the fire and repaired to his blankets, near where Joan lay. Probably he believed her asleep, for he neither looked nor spoke. Cleve sought his bed, and likewise Wood and Smith. Pearce was the last to leave, and as he stood up the light fell upon his red face, lean and bold like an Indian’s. Then he passed Joan, looking down upon her and then upon the recumbent figure of Kells; and if his glance was not baleful and malignant, as it swept over the bandit, Joan believed her imagination must be vividly weird, and running away with her judgment.
