The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  “Does he make love to you?”

  Joan maintained silence. What would she do with this changed and hopeless Jim Cleve?

  “Tell me!” Jim’s hands gripped her with a force that made her wince. And now she grew as afraid of him as she had been for him. But she had spirit enough to grow angry, also.

  “Certainly he does.”

  Jim Cleve echoed her first word, and then through grinding teeth he cursed. “I’m going to—stop it!” he panted, and his eyes looked big and dark and wild in the starlight.

  “You can’t. I belong to Kells. You at least ought to have sense enough to see that.”

  “Belong to him!… For God’s sake! By what right?”

  “By the right of possession. Might is right here on the border. Haven’t you told me that a hundred times? Don’t you hold your claim—your gold—by the right of your strength? It’s the law of this border. To be sure Kells stole me. But just now I belong to him. And lately I see his consideration—his kindness in the light of what he could do if he held to that border law.… And of all the men I’ve met out here Kells is the least wild with this gold fever. He sends his men out to do murder for gold; he’d sell his soul to gamble for gold; but just the same, he’s more of a man than—”

  “Joan!” he interrupted, piercingly. “You love this bandit!”

  “You’re a fool!” burst out Joan.

  “I guess—I—am,” he replied in terrible, slow earnestness. He raised himself and appeared to loom over her and released his hold.

  But Joan fearfully retained her clasp on his arm, and when he surged to get away she was hard put to it to hold him.

  “Jim! Where are you going?”

  He stood there a moment, a dark form against the night shadow, like an outline of a man cut from black stone.

  “I’ll just step around—there.”

  “Oh, what for?” whispered Joan.

  “I’m going to kill Kells.”

  Joan got both arms round his neck and with her head against him she held him tightly, trying, praying to think how to meet this long-dreaded moment. After all, what was the use to try? This was the hour of Gold! Sacrifice, hope, courage, nobility, fidelity—these had no place here now. Men were the embodiment of passion—ferocity. They breathed only possession, and the thing in the balance was death. Women were creatures to hunger and fight for, but womanhood was nothing. Joan knew all this with a desperate hardening certainty, and almost she gave in. Strangely, thought of Gulden flashed up to make her again strong! Then she raised her face and began the old pleading with Jim, but different this time, when it seemed that absolutely all was at stake. She begged him, she importuned him, to listen to reason, to be guided by her, to fight the wildness that had obsessed him, to make sure that she would not be left alone. All in vain! He swore he would kill Kells and any other bandit who stood in the way of his leading her free out of that cabin. He was wild to fight. He might never have felt fear of these robbers. He would not listen to any possibility of defeat for himself, or the possibility that in the event of Kells’s death she would be worse off. He laughed at her strange, morbid fears of Gulden. He was immovable.

  “Jim!… Jim! You’ll break my heart!” she whispered, wailingly. “Oh! What can I do?”

  Then Joan released her clasp and gave up to utter defeat. Cleve was silent. He did not seem to hear the shuddering little sobs that shook her. Suddenly he bent close to her.

  “There’s one thing you can do. If you’ll do it I won’t kill Kells. I’ll obey your every word.”

  “What is it? Tell me!”

  “Marry me!” he whispered, and his voice trembled.

  “Marry you!” exclaimed Joan. She was confounded. She began to fear Jim was out of his head.

  “I mean it. Marry me. Oh, Joan, will you—will you? It’ll make the difference. That’ll steady me. Don’t you want to?”

  “Jim, I’d be the happiest girl in the world if—if I only could marry you!” she breathed, passionately.

  “But will you—will you? Say yes! Say yes!”

  “Yes!” replied Joan in her desperation. “I hope that pleases you. But what on earth is the use to talk about it now?”

  Cleve seemed to expand, to grow taller, to thrill under her nervous hands. And then he kissed her differently. She sensed a shyness, a happiness, a something hitherto foreign to his attitude. It was spiritual, and somehow she received an uplift of hope.

  “Listen,” he whispered. “There’s a preacher down in camp. I’ve seen him—talked with him. He’s trying to do good in that hell down there. I know I can trust him. I’ll confide in him—enough. I’ll fetch him up here tomorrow night—about this time. Oh, I’ll be careful—very careful. And he can marry us right here by the window. Joan, will you do it?… Somehow, whatever threatens you or me—that’ll be my salvation!… I’ve suffered so. It’s been burned in my heart that you would never marry me. Yet you say you love me!… Prove it!… My wife!… Now, girl, a word will make a man of me!”

  “Yes!” And with the word she put her lips to his with all her heart in them. She felt him tremble. Yet almost instantly he put her from him.

  “Look for me tomorrow about this time,” he whispered. “Keep your nerve.… Good night.”

  That night Joan dreamed strange, weird, unremembered dreams. The next day passed like a slow, unreal age. She ate little of what was brought to her. For the first time she denied Kells admittance and she only vaguely sensed his solicitations. She had no ear for the murmur of voices in Kells’s room. Even the loud and angry notes of a quarrel between Kells and his men did not distract her.

  At sunset she leaned out of the little window, and only then, with the gold fading on the peaks and the shadow gathering under the bluff, did she awaken to reality. A broken mass of white cloud caught the glory of the sinking sun. She had never seen a golden radiance like that. It faded and dulled. But a warm glow remained. At twilight and then at dusk this glow lingered.

  Then night fell. Joan was exceedingly sensitive to the sensations of light and shadow, of sound and silence, of dread and hope, of sadness and joy.

  That pale, ruddy glow lingered over the bold heave of the range in the west. It was like a fire that would not go out, that would live tomorrow, and burn golden. The sky shone with deep, rich blue color fired with a thousand stars, radiant, speaking, hopeful. And there was a white track across the heavens. The mountains flung down their shadows, impenetrable, like the gloomy minds of men; and everywhere under the bluffs and slopes, in the hollows and ravines, lay an enveloping blackness, hiding its depth and secret and mystery.

  Joan listened. Was there sound or silence? A faint and indescribably low roar, so low that it might have been real or false, came on the soft night breeze. It was the roar of the camp down there—the strife, the agony, the wild life in ceaseless action—the strange voice of gold, roaring greed and battle and death over the souls of men. But above that, presently, rose the murmur of the creek, a hushed and dreamy flow of water over stones. It was hurrying to get by this horde of wild men, for it must bear the taint of gold and blood. Would it purge itself and clarify in the valleys below, on its way to the sea? There was in its murmur an imperishable and deathless note of nature, of time; and this was only a fleeting day of men and gold.

  Only by straining her ears could Joan hear these sounds, and when she ceased that, then she seemed to be weighed upon and claimed by silence. It was not a silence like that of Lost Canon, but a silence of solitude where her soul stood alone. She was there on earth, yet no one could hear her mortal cry. The thunder of avalanches or the boom of the sea might have lessened her sense of utter loneliness.

  And that silence fitted the darkness, and both were apostles of dread. They spoke to her. She breathed dread on that silent air and it filled her breast. There was nothing stable in the night shadows. The ravine seemed to send forth stealthy, noiseless shapes, specter and human, man and phantom, each on the other’s trail.

  If Jim would
only come and let her see that he was safe for the hour! A hundred times she imagined she saw him looming darker than the shadows. She had only to see him now, to feel his hand, and dread might be lost. Love was something beyond the grasp of mind. Love had confounded Jim Cleve; it had brought up kindness and honor from the black depths of a bandit’s heart; it had transformed her from a girl into a woman. Surely with all its greatness it could not be lost; surely in the end it must triumph over evil.

  Joan found that hope was fluctuating, but eternal. It took no stock of intelligence. It was a matter of feeling. And when she gave rein to it for a moment, suddenly it plunged her into sadness. To hope was to think! Poor Jim! It was his fool’s paradise. Just to let her be his wife! That was the apex of his dream. Joan divined that he might yield to her wisdom, he might become a man, but his agony would be greater. Still, he had been so intense, so strange, so different that she could not but feel joy in his joy.

  Then at a soft footfall, a rustle, and a moving shadow Joan’s mingled emotions merged into a poignant sense of the pain and suspense and tenderness of the actual moment.

  “Joan—Joan,” came the soft whisper.

  She answered, and there was a catch in her breath.

  The moving shadow split into two shadows that stole closer, loomed before her. She could not tell which belonged to Jim till he touched her. His touch was potent. It seemed to electrify her.

  “Dearest, we’re here—this is the parson,” said Jim, like a happy boy. “I—”

  “Ssssh!” whispered Joan. “Not so loud.… Listen!”

  Kells was holding a rendezvous with members of his Legion. Joan even recognized his hard and somber tone, and the sharp voice of Red Pearce, and the drawl of Handy Oliver.

  “All right. I’ll be quiet,” responded Cleve, cautiously. “Joan, you’re to answer a few questions.”

  Then a soft hand touched Joan, and a voice differently keyed from any she had heard on the border addressed her.

  “What is your name?” asked the preacher.

  Joan told him.

  “Can you tell anything about yourself? This young man is—is almost violent. I’m not sure. Still I want to—”

  “I can’t tell much,” replied Joan, hurriedly. “I’m an honest girl. I’m free to—to marry him. I—I love him!… Oh, I want to help him. We—we are in trouble here. I daren’t say how.”

  “Are you over eighteen?” “Yes, sir.”

  “Do your parents object to this young man?”

  “I have no parents. And my uncle, with whom I lived before I was brought to this awful place, he loves Jim. He always wanted me to marry him.”

  “Take his hand, then.”

  Joan felt the strong clasp of Jim’s fingers, and that was all which seemed real at the moment. It seemed so dark and shadowy round these two black forms in front of her window. She heard a mournful wail of a lone wolf and it intensified the weird dream that bound her. She heard her shaking, whispered voice repeating the preacher’s words. She caught a phrase of a low-murmured prayer. Then one dark form moved silently away. She was alone with Jim.

  “Dearest Joan!” he whispered. “It’s over! It’s done!… Kiss me!”

  She lifted her lips and Jim seemed to kiss her more sweetly, with less violence.

  “Oh, Joan, that you’d really have me! I can’t believe it.… Your husband.”

  That word dispelled the dream and the pain which had held Joan, leaving only the tenderness, magnified now a hundredfold.

  And that instant when she was locked in Cleve’s arms, when the silence was so beautiful and full, she heard the heavy pound of a gun-butt upon the table in Kells’s room.

  “Where is Cleve?” That was the voice of Kells, stern, demanding.

  Joan felt a start, a tremor run over Jim. Then he stiffened.

  “I can’t locate him,” replied Red Pearce. “It was the same last night an’ the one before. Cleve jest disappears these nights—about this time.… Some woman’s got him!”

  “He goes to bed. Can’t you find where he sleeps?”

  “No.”

  “This job’s got to go through and he’s got to do it.”

  “Bah!” taunted Pearce. “Gulden swears you can’t make Cleve do a job. And so do I!”

  “Go out and yell for Cleve!… Damn you all! I’ll show you!”

  Then Joan heard the tramp of heavy boots, then a softer tramp on the ground outside the cabin. Joan waited, holding her breath. She felt Jim’s heart beating. He stood like a post. He, like Joan, was listening, as if for a trumpet of doom.

  “Hallo, Jim!” rang out Pearce’s stentorian call. It murdered the silence. It boomed under the bluff, and clapped in echo, and wound away, mockingly. It seemed to have shrieked to the whole wild borderland the breaking-point of the bandit’s power.

  So momentous was the call that Jim Cleve seemed to forget Joan, and she let him go without a word. Indeed, he was gone before she realized it, and his dark form dissolved in the shadows. Joan waited, listening with abated breathing. On this side of the cabin there was absolute silence. She believed that Jim would slip around under cover of night and return by the road from camp. Then what would he do? The question seemed to puzzle her.

  Joan leaned there at her window for moments greatly differing from those vaguely happy ones just passed. She had sustained a shock that had left her benumbed with a dull pain. What a rude, raw break the voice of Kells had made in her brief forgetfulness! She was returning now to reality. Presently she would peer through the crevice between the boards into the other room, and she shrank from the ordeal. Kells, and whoever was with him, maintained silence. Occasionally she heard the shuffle of a boot and a creak of the loose floor boards. She waited till anxiety and fear compelled her to look.

  The lamps were burning; the door was wide open. Apparently Kells’s rule of secrecy had been abandoned. One glance at Kells was enough to show Joan that he was sick and desperate. Handy Oliver did not wear his usual lazy good humor. Red Pearce sat silent and sullen, a smoking, unheeded pipe in his hand. Jesse Smith was gloomy. The only other present was Bate Wood, and whatever had happened had in no wise affected him. These bandits were all waiting. Presently quick footsteps on the path outside caused them all to look toward the door. That tread was familiar to Joan, and suddenly her mouth was dry, her tongue stiff. What was Jim Cleve coming to meet? How sharp and decided his walk! Then his dark form crossed the bar of light outside the door, and he entered, bold and cool, and with a weariness that must have been simulated.

  “Howdy boys!” he said.

  Only Kells greeted him in response. The bandit eyed him curiously. The others added suspicion to their glances.

  “Did you hear Red’s yell?” queried Kells, presently.

  “I’d have heard that roar if I’d been dead,” replied Cleve, bluntly. “And I didn’t like it!… I was coming up the road and I heard Pearce yell. I’ll bet every man in camp heard it.”

  “How’d you know Pearce yelled for you?”

  “I recognized his voice.”

  Cleve’s manner recalled to Joan her first sight of him over in Cabin Gulch. He was not so white or haggard, but his eyes were piercing, and what had once been recklessness now seemed to be boldness. He deliberately studied Pearce. Joan trembled, for she divined what none of these robbers knew, and it was that Pearce was perilously near death. It was there for Joan to read in Jim’s dark glance.

  “Where’ve you been all these nights?” queried the bandit leader.

  “Is that any of your business—when you haven’t had need of me?” returned Cleve.

  “Yes, it’s my business. And I’ve sent for you. You couldn’t be found.”

  “I’ve been here for supper every night.”

  “I don’t talk to any men in daylight. You know my hours for meeting. And you’ve not come.”

  “You should have told me. How was I to know?”

  “I guess you’re right. But where’ve you been?”

  “Do
wn in camp. Faro, most of the time. Bad luck, too.”

  Red Pearce’s coarse face twisted into a scornful sneer. It must have been a lash to Kells.

  “Pearce says you’re chasing a woman,” retorted the bandit leader.

  “Pearce lies!” flashed Cleve. His action was as swift. And there he stood with a gun thrust hard against Pearce’s side.

  “Jim! Don’t kill him!” yelled Kells, rising.

  Pearce’s red face turned white. He stood still as a stone, with his gaze fixed in fascinated fear upon Cleve’s gun.

  A paralyzing surprise appeared to hold the group.

  “Can you prove what you said?” asked Cleve, low and hard.

  Joan knew that if Pearce did have the proof which would implicate her he would never live to tell it.

  “Cleve—I don’t—know nothin’,” choked out Pearce. “I jest figgered—it was a woman!”

  Cleve slowly lowered the gun and stepped back. Evidently that satisfied him. But Joan had an intuitive feeling that Pearce lied.

  “You want to be careful how you talk about me,” said Cleve.

  Kells purled out a suspended breath and he flung the sweat from his brow. There was about him, perhaps more than the others, a dark realization of how close the call had been for Pearce.

  “Jim, you’re not drunk?”

  “No.”

  “But you’re sore?”

  “Sure I’m sore. Pearce put me in bad with you, didn’t he?”

  “No. You misunderstood me. Red hasn’t a thing against you. And neither he nor anybody else could put you in bad with me.”

  “All right. Maybe I was hasty. But I’m not wasting time these days,” replied Cleve. “I’ve no hard feelings.… Pearce, do you want to shake hands—or hold that against me?”

  “He’ll shake, of course,” said Kells.

  Pearce extended his hand, but with a bad grace. He was dominated. This affront of Cleve’s would rankle in him.

  “Kells, what do you want with me?” demanded Cleve.

  A change passed over Kells, and Joan could not tell just what it was, but somehow it seemed to suggest a weaker man.