The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  “Was it fair of you?” asked Joan.

  “Yes. Flash is a crooked gambler. I’d rather be a bandit.… Besides, all’s fair in love! And I was thinking of you when I saved Kells!”

  “Flash will be looking for you,” said Joan, fearfully.

  “Likely. And if he finds me he wants to be quick. But Kells will drive him out of camp or kill him. I tell you, Kells is the biggest man in Alder Creek. There’s talk of office—a mayor and all that—and if the miners can forget gold long enough they’ll elect Kells. But the riffraff, these bloodsuckers who live off the miners, they’d rather not have any office in Alder Creek.”

  And upon another night Cleve in serious and somber mood talked about the Border Legion and its mysterious workings. The name had found prominence, no one knew how, and Alder Creek knew no more peaceful sleep. This Legion was supposed to consist of a strange, secret band of unknown bandits and road-agents, drawing its members from all that wild and trackless region called the border. Rumor gave it a leader of cunning and ruthless nature. It operated all over the country at the same time, and must have been composed of numerous smaller bands, impossible to detect. Because its victims never lived to tell how or by whom they had been robbed! This Legion worked slowly and in the dark. It did not bother to rob for little gain. It had strange and unerring information of large quantities of gold-dust. Two prospectors going out on the Bannack road, packing fifty pounds of gold, were found shot to pieces. A miner named Black, who would not trust his gold to the stage-express, and who left Adler Creek against advice, was never seen or heard of again. Four other miners of the camp, known to carry considerable gold, were robbed and killed at night on their way to their cabins. And another was found dead in his bed. Robbers had crept to his tent, slashed the canvas, murdered him while he slept, and made off with his belt of gold.

  An evil day of blood had fallen upon Alder Creek. There were terrible and implacable men in the midst of the miners, by day at honest toil, learning who had gold, and murdering by night. The camp had never been united, but this dread fact disrupted any possible unity. Every man, or every little group of men, distrusted the other, watched and spied and lay awake at night. But the robberies continued, one every few days, and each one left no trace. For dead men could not talk.

  Thus was ushered in at Alder Creek a regime of wildness that had no parallel in the earlier days of ’49 and ’51. Men frenzied by the possession of gold or greed for it responded to the wildness of that time and took their cue from this deadly and mysterious Border Legion. The gold-lust created its own blood-lust. Daily the population of Alder Creek grew in the new gold-seekers and its dark records kept pace. With distrust came suspicion and with suspicion came fear, and with fear came hate—and these, in already distorted minds, inflamed a hell. So that the most primitive passions of mankind found outlet and held sway. The operations of the Border Legion were lost in deeds done in the gambling dens, in the saloons, and on the street, in broad day. Men fought for no other reason than that the incentive was in the charged air. Men were shot at gaming-tables—and the game went on. Men were killed in the dance-halls, dragged out, marking a line of blood on the rude floor—and the dance went on. Still the pursuit of gold went on, more frenzied than ever, and still the greater and richer claims were struck. The price of gold soared and the commodities of life were almost beyond the dreams of avarice. It was a tune in which the worst of men’s natures stalked forth, hydra-headed and deaf, roaring for gold, spitting fire, and shedding blood. It was a time when gold and fire and blood were one. It was a tune when a horde of men from every class and nation, of all ages and characters, met on a field were motives and ambitions and faiths and traits merged into one mad instinct of gain. It was worse than the time of the medieval crimes of religion; it made war seem a brave and honorable thing; it robbed manhood of that splendid and noble trait, always seen in shipwrecked men or those hopelessly lost in the barren north, the divine will not to retrograde to the savage. It was a time, for all it enriched the world with yellow treasure, when might was right, when men were hopeless, when death stalked rampant. The sun rose gold and it set red. It was the hour of Gold!

  One afternoon late, while Joan was half dreaming, half dozing the hours away, she was thoroughly aroused by the tramp of boots and loud voices of excited men. Joan slipped to the peephole in the partition. Bate Wood had raised a warning hand to Kells, who stood up, facing the door. Red Pearce came bursting in, wild-eyed and violent. Joan imagined he was about to cry out that Kells had been betrayed.

  “Kells, have you—heard?” he panted.

  “Not so loud, you—!” replied Kells, coolly. “My name’s Blight.… Who’s with you?”

  “Only Jesse an’ some of the gang. I couldn’t steer them away. But there’s nothin’ to fear.”

  “What’s happened? What haven’t I heard?”

  “The camp’s gone plumb ravin’ crazy.… Jim Cleve found the biggest nugget ever dug in Idaho!… Thirty pounds!”

  Kells seemed suddenly to inflame, to blaze with white passion. “Good for Jim!” he yelled, ringingly. He could scarcely have been more elated if he had made the strike himself.

  Jesse Smith came stamping in, with a crowd elbowing their way behind him. Joan had a start of the old panic at sight of Gulden. For once the giant was not slow nor indifferent. His big eyes glared. He brought back to Joan the sickening sense of the brute strength of his massive presence. Some of his cronies were with him. For the rest, there were Blicky and Handy Oliver and Chick Williams. The whole group bore resemblance to a pack of wolves about to leap upon its prey. Yet, in each man, excepting Gulden, there was that striking aspect of exultation.

  “Where’s Jim?” demanded Kells.

  “He’s comin’ along,” replied Pearce. “He’s sure been runnin’ a gantlet. His strike stopped work in the diggin’s. What do you think of that, Kells? The news spread like smoke before wind. Every last miner in camp has jest got to see thet lump of gold.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to see it!” exclaimed Kells. “A thirty-pounder! I heard of one once, sixty pounds, but I never saw it. You can’t believe till you see.”

  “Jim’s comin’ up the road now,” said one of the men near the door. “Thet crowd hangs on.… But I reckon he’s shakin’ them.”

  “What’ll Cleve do with this nugget?”

  Gulden’s big voice, so powerful, yet feelingless, caused a momentary silence. The expression of many faces changed. Kells looked startled, then annoyed.

  “Why, Gulden, that’s not my affair—nor yours,” replied Kells. “Cleve dug it and it belongs to him.”

  “Dug or stole—it’s all the same,” responded Gulden.

  Kell’s threw up his hands as if it were useless and impossible to reason with this man.

  Then the crowd surged round the door with shuffling boots and hoarse, mingled greetings to Cleve, who presently came plunging in out of the melee.

  His face wore a flush of radiance; his eyes were like diamonds. Joan thrilled and thrilled at sight of him. He was beautiful. Yet there was about him a more striking wildness. He carried a gun in one hand and in the other an object wrapped in his scarf. He flung this upon the table in front of Kells. It made a heavy, solid thump. The ends of the scarf flew aside, and there lay a magnificent nugget of gold, black and rusty in parts, but with a dull, yellow glitter in others.

  “Boss, what’ll you bet against that?” cried Cleve, with exulting laugh. He was like a boy.

  Kells reached for the nugget as if it were not an actual object, and when his hands closed on it he fondled it and weighed it and dug his nails into it and tasted it.

  “My God!” he ejaculated, in wondering ecstasy. Then this, and the excitement, and the obsession all changed into sincere gladness. “Jim, you’re born lucky. You, the youngster born unlucky in love! Why, you could buy any woman with this!”

  “Could I? Find me one,” responded Cleve, with swift boldness.

  Kells laughed. “I don’t k
now any worth so much.”

  “What’ll I do with it?” queried Cleve.

  “Why, you fool youngster! Has it turned your head, too? What’d you do with the rest of your dust? You’ve certainly been striking it rich.”

  “I spent it—lost it—lent it—gave some away and—saved a little.”

  “Probably you’ll do the same with this. You’re a good fellow, Jim.”

  “But this nugget means a lot of money. Between six and seven thousand dollars.”

  “You won’t need advice how to spend it, even if it was a million.… Tell me, Jim, how’d you strike it?”

  “Funny about that,” replied Cleve. “Things were poor for several days. Dug off branches into my claim. One grew to be a deep hole in gravel, hard to dig. My claim was once the bed of a stream, full of rocks that the water had rolled down once. This hole sort of haunted me. I’d leave it when my back got so sore I couldn’t bend, but always I’d return. I’d say there wasn’t a darned grain of gold in that gravel; then like a fool I’d go back and dig for all I was worth. No chance of finding blue dirt down there! But I kept on. And today when my pick hit what felt like a soft rock—I looked and saw the gleam of gold!… You ought to have seen me claw out that nugget! I whooped and brought everybody around. The rest was a parade.… Now I’m embarrassed by riches. What to do with it?”

  “Wal, go back to Montana an’ make thet fool girl sick,” suggested one of the men who had heard Jim’s fictitious story of himself.

  “Dug or stole is all the same!” boomed the imperturbable Gulden.

  Kells turned white with rage, and Cleve swept a swift and shrewd glance at the giant.

  “Sure, that’s my idea,” declared Cleve. “I’ll divide as—as we planned.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the kind,” retorted Kells. “You dug for that gold and it’s yours.”

  “Well, boss, then say a quarter share to you and the same to me—and divide the rest among the gang.”

  “No!” exclaimed Kells, violently.

  Joan imagined he was actuated as much by justice to Cleve as opposition to Gulden.

  “Jim Cleve, you’re a square pard if I ever seen one,” declared Pearce, admiringly. “An’ I’m here to say thet I wouldn’t hev a share of your nugget.”

  “Nor me,” spoke up Jesse Smith.

  “I pass, too,” said Chick Williams.

  “Jim, if I was dyin’ fer a drink I wouldn’t stand fer thet deal,” added Blicky, with a fine scorn.

  These men, and others who spoke or signified their refusal, attested to the living truth that there was honor even among robbers. But there was not the slightest suggestion of change in Gulden’s attitude or of those back of him.

  “Share and share alike for me!” he muttered, grimly, with those great eyes upon the nugget.

  Kells, with an agile bound, reached the table and pounded it with his fist, confronting the giant.

  “So you say!” he hissed in dark passion. “You’ve gone too far, Gulden. Here’s where I call you!… You don’t get a gram of that gold nugget. Jim’s worked like a dog. If he digs up a million I’ll see he gets it all. Maybe you loafers haven’t a hunch what Jim’s done for you. He’s helped our big deal more than you or I. His honest work has made it easy for me to look honest. He’s supposed to be engaged to marry my daughter. That more than anything was a blind. It made my stand, and I tell you that stand is high in this camp. Go down there and swear Blight is Jack Kells! See what you get!… That’s all.… I’m dealing the cards in this game!”

  Kells did not cow Gulden—for it was likely the giant lacked the feeling of fear—but he overruled him by sheer strength of spirit.

  Gulden backed away stolidly, apparently dazed by his own movements; then he plunged out the door, and the ruffians who had given silent but sure expression of their loyalty tramped after him.

  “Reckon thet starts the split!” declared Red Pearce.

  “Suppose you’d been in Jim’s place!” flashed Kells.

  “Jack, I ain’t sayin’ a word. You was square. I’d want you to do the same by me.… But fetchin’ the girl into the deal—”

  Kells’s passionate and menacing gesture shut Pearce’s lips. He lifted a hand, resignedly, and went out.

  “Jim,” said Kells, earnestly, “take my hunch. Hide your nugget. Don’t send it out with the stage to Bannack. It’d never get there.… And change the place where you sleep!”

  “Thanks,” replied Cleve, brightly. “I’ll hide my nugget all right. And I’ll take care of myself.”

  Later that night Joan waited at her window for Jim. It was so quiet that she could hear the faint murmur of the shallow creek. The sky was dusky blue; the stars were white, the night breeze sweet and cool. Her first flush of elation for Jim having passed, she experienced a sinking of courage. Were they not in peril enough without Jim’s finding a fortune? How dark and significant had been Kells’s hint! There was something splendid in the bandit. Never had Joan felt so grateful to him. He was a villain, yet he was a man. What hatred he showed for Gulden! These rivals would surely meet in a terrible conflict—for power—for gold. And for her!—she added, involuntarily, with a deep, inward shudder. Once the thought had flashed through her mind, it seemed like a word of revelation.

  Then she started as a dark form rose out of the shadow under her and a hand clasped hers. Jim! and she lifted her face.

  “Joan! Joan! I’m rich! rich!” he babbled, wildly.

  “Ssssh!” whispered Joan, softly, in his ear. “Be careful. You’re wild tonight.… I saw you come in with the nugget. I heard you.… Oh, you lucky Jim! I’ll tell you what to do with it!”

  “Darling! It’s all yours. You’ll marry me now?”

  “Sir! Do you take me for a fortune-hunter? I marry you for your gold? Never!”

  “Joan!”

  “I’ve promised,” she said.

  “I won’t go away now. I’ll work my claim,” he began, excitedly. And he went on so rapidly that Joan could not keep track of his words. He was not so cautious as formerly. She remonstrated with him, all to no purpose. Not only was he carried away by possession of gold and assurance of more, but he had become masterful, obstinate, and illogical. He was indeed hopeless tonight—the gold had gotten into his blood. Joan grew afraid he would betray their secret and realized there had come still greater need for a woman’s wit. So she resorted to a never-failing means of silencing him, of controlling him—her lips on his.

  THE BORDER LEGION [Part 3]

  CHAPTER 15

  For several nights these stolen interviews were apparently the safer because of Joan’s tender blinding of her lover. But it seemed that in Jim’s condition of mind this yielding of her lips and her whispers of love had really been a mistake. Not only had she made the situation perilously sweet for herself, but in Jim’s case she had added the spark to the powder. She realized her blunder when it was too late. And the fact that she did not regret it very much, and seemed to have lost herself in a defiant, reckless spell, warned her again that she, too, was answering to the wildness of the time and place. Joan’s intelligence had broadened wonderfully in this period of her life, just as all her feelings had quickened. If gold had developed and intensified and liberated the worst passions of men, so the spirit of that atmosphere had its baneful effect upon her. Joan deplored this, yet she had the keenness to understand that it was nature fitting her to survive.

  Back upon her fell that weight of suspense—what would happen next? Here in Alder Creek there did not at present appear to be the same peril which had menaced her before, but she would suffer through fatality to Cleve or Kells. And these two slept at night under a shadow that held death, and by day they walked on a thin crust over a volcano. Joan grew more and more fearful of the disclosures made when Kells met his men nightly in the cabin. She feared to hear, but she must hear, and even if she had not felt it necessary to keep informed of events, the fascination of the game would have impelled her to listen. And gradually the suspen
se she suffered augmented into a magnified, though vague, assurance of catastrophe, of impending doom. She could not shake off the gloomy presentiment. Something terrible was going to happen. An experience begun as tragically as hers could only end in a final and annihilating stroke. Yet hope was unquenchable, and with her fear kept pace a driving and relentless spirit.

  One night at the end of a week of these interviews, when Joan attempted to resist Jim, to plead with him, lest in his growing boldness he betray them, she found him a madman.

  “I’ll pull you right out of this window,” he said, roughly, and then with his hot face pressed against hers tried to accomplish the thing he threatened.

  “Go on—pull me to pieces!” replied Joan, in despair and pain. “I’d be better off dead! And—you—hurt me—so!”

  “Hurt you!” he whispered, hoarsely, as if he had never dreamed of such possibility. And then suddenly he was remorseful. He begged her to forgive him. His voice was broken, husky, pleading. His remorse, like every feeling of his these days, was exaggerated, wild, with that raw tinge of gold-blood in it. He made so much noise that Joan, more fearful than ever of discovery, quieted him with difficulty.

  “Does Kells see you often—these days?” asked Jim, suddenly.

  Joan had dreaded this question, which she had known would inevitably come. She wanted to lie; she knew she ought to lie; but it was impossible.

  “Every day,” she whispered. “Please—Jim—never mind that. Kells is good—he’s all right to me.… And you and I have so little time together.”

  “Good!” exclaimed Cleve. Joan felt the leap of his body under her touch. “Why, if I’d tell you what he sends that gang to do—you’d—you’d kill him in his sleep.”

  “Tell me,” replied Joan. She had a morbid, irresistible desire to learn.

  “No.… And what does Kells do—when he sees you every day?”

  “He talks.”

  “What about?”

  “Oh, everything except about what holds him here. He talks to me to forget himself.”