Cabin Gulch

by Zane Grey

  “Bah! You haven’t got the nerve!” she retorted with another mocking laugh.

  Haggard and fierce he glared down at her a moment, and then without another word he strode away. Joan was amazed, and a little sick, a little uncertain; still she did not call him back.

  And now at noon of the next day she had tracked him miles toward the mountains. It was a broad trail he had taken, one used by prospectors and hunters. There was no danger of her getting lost. What risk she ran was of meeting some of the border visitors that had of late been frequent visitors in the village. Presently she mounted again and rode down the ridge. She would go a mile or so farther.

  Behind every rock and cedar she expected to find Jim. Surely he had only threatened her. But she had taunted him in a way no man could stand, and, if there were any strength of character in him, he would show it now. Her remorse and dread increased. After all he was only a boy—only a couple of years older than she was. Under stress of feeling he might go to any extreme. Had she misjudged him? If she had not, she had at least been brutal. But he had dared to kiss her! Every time she thought of that a tingling, a confusion, a hot shame went over her. At length, Joan marveled to find that out of the affront to her pride, and the quarrel, and the fact of his going and of her following, and especially out of this increasing remorseful dread there had flourished up a strange and reluctant respect for Jim Cleve.

  She climbed another ridge, and halted again. This time she saw a horse and rider away down in the green. Her heart leaped. It must be Jim returning. After all, then, he had only threatened. She felt relieved and glad, yet vaguely sorry. She had been right in her conviction.

  She had not watched long, however, before she saw that this was not the horse Jim usually rode. She took the precaution then to hide behind some bushes, and watched from there. When the horseman approached closer, she discovered that, instead of Jim, it was Harvey Roberts, a man of the village and a good friend of her uncle’s. Therefore she rode out of her covert and hailed him. It was a significant thing that at sound of her voice Roberts started suddenly and reached for his gun. Then he recognized her.

  “Hello, Joan!” he exclaimed, turning her way. “Reckon you gave me a scare. You ain’t alone ’way out here?”

  “Yes. I was trailing Jim when I saw you,” she replied. “Thought you were Jim.”

  “Trailin’ Jim? What’s up?”

  “We quarreled. He swore he was going to the devil. Over on the border. I was mad and told him to go. But I’m sorry now . . . and have been trying to catch up with him.”

  “Ahuh. So that’s Jim’s trail. I sure was wonderin’. Joan, it turns off a few miles back, an’ takes the trail for the border. I know. I’ve been in there.”

  Joan glanced up sharply at Roberts. His scarred and grizzled face seemed grave and he avoided her gaze.

  “You don’t believe . . . Jim’ll really go?” she asked hurriedly.

  “Reckon I do, Joan,” he replied, after a pause. “Jim is jest fool enough. He has been gettin’ recklesser lately. An’ Joan, the times ain’t provocatin’ a young feller to be good. Jim had a bad fight the other night. He about half killed young Bailey. But I reckon you know.”

  “I’ve heard nothing,” she replied. “Tell me. Why did they fight?”

  “Report was that Bailey talked uncomplimentary about you.”

  Joan experienced a sweet warm rush of blood—another new and strange sensation. She did not like Bailey. He had been persistent and offensive.

  “Why didn’t Jim tell me?” she queried, half to herself.

  “Reckon he wasn’t proud of the shape he left Bailey in,” replied Roberts with a laugh. “Come on, Joan, an’ make back tracks for home.”

  Joan was silent a moment while she looked over the undulating green ridge toward the great gray and black walls. Something stirred deeply within her. Her father, in his youth, had been an adventurer. She felt the thrill and the call of her blood. And she had been unjust to a man who loved her.

  “I’m going after him,” she said.

  Roberts did not show any surprise. He looked at the position of the sun.

  “Reckon we might overtake him an’ get home before sundown,” he said laconically as he turned his horse. “We’ll make a short cut across here a few miles, an’ strike his trail. Can’t miss it.”

  Then he set off at a brisk trot, and Joan fell in behind. She had a busy mind, and it was a sign of her preoccupation that she forgot to thank Roberts. Presently they struck into a valley, a narrow depression between the foothills and the ridges, and here they made faster time. The valley appeared miles long. Toward the middle of it, Roberts called out to Joan, and, looking down, she saw they had come up with Jim’s trail. Here Roberts put his mount to a canter and at that gait they trailed Jim out of the valley and up a slope that appeared to be a pass into the mountains. Time flew by for Joan because she was always peering ahead in the hope and expectation of seeing Jim off in the distance. But she had no glimpse of him. Now and then Roberts would glance around at the westering sun. The afternoon had far advanced. Joan began to worry about home. She had been so sure of coming up with Jim and returning early in the day that she had left no word as to her intentions. Probably by this time somebody was out looking for her.

  The country grew rougher, rock-strewn, covered with cedars and patches of pine. Deer crashed out of the thickets, and grouse whirred up from under the horses. The warmth of the summer afternoon chilled.

  “Reckon we’d better give it up!” called Roberts back to her.

  “No . . . no. Go on,” replied Joan.

  And they urged their horses faster. Finally they reached the summit of the slope. From that height they saw down into a round shallow valley, which led on, like all the deceptive reaches, to the ranges. There was water down there. It glinted like red ribbon in the sunlight. Not a living thing was in sight. Joan grew more discouraged. It seemed there was scarcely any hope of overtaking Jim that day. His trail led off around to the left and grew difficult to follow. Finally, to make matters worse, Roberts’s horse slipped in a rocky wash and lamed himself. He did not want to go on and, when urged, could hardly walk.

  Roberts got off to examine the injury.

  “Wal, he didn’t break his leg,” he said, which was his manner of telling how bad the injury was. “Joan, I reckon there’ll be some worryin’ back home tonight. For your horse can’t carry double an’ I can’t walk.”

  Joan dismounted. There was water in the wash, and she helped Roberts bathe the sprained and swelling joint. In the interest and sympathy of the moment she forgot her own trouble.

  “Reckon we’ll have to make camp right here,” said Roberts, looking around. “Lucky I’ve a pack on that saddle. I can make you comfortable. But we’d better be careful about a fire an’ not have one after dark.”

  “There’s no help for it,” replied Joan. “Tomorrow we’ll go on after Jim. He can’t be far ahead now.”

  She was glad that it was impossible to return home until the next day.

  Roberts took the pack off his horse, and then the saddle. He was bending over in the act of loosening the cinches of Joan’s saddle when suddenly he straightened up with a jerk.

  “What’s that?”

  Joan heard soft dull thumps on the turf, and then the sharp crack of an unshod hoof upon stone. Wheeling, she saw three horsemen. They were just across the wash and coming toward her. One rider pointed in her direction. Silhouetted against the red of the sunset they made dark and sinister figures. Joan glanced apprehensively at Roberts. He was staring with a look of recognition in his eyes. Under his breath he muttered a curse. Although Joan was not certain, she believed that his face had shaded gray.

  The three horsemen halted on the rim of the wash. One of them was leading a mule that carried a pack and a deer carcass. Joan had seen many riders apparently just like these, but none had ever so subtly and powerfully affected her.

  “Howdy,” greeted one of the men.

  And
then Joan was positive that the face of Roberts had turned ashen gray.

  TWO

  “It ain’t you . . . Kells?”

  Roberts’s query was a confirmation of his own recognition. The other’s laugh was an answer, if one were needed.

  The three horsemen crossed the wash, and again halted, leisurely, as if time was no object. They were all young, under thirty. The two who had not spoken were rough-garbed, coarse-featured, and resembled in general a dozen men Joan saw every day. Kells was of a different stamp. Until he looked at her, he reminded her of someone she had known back in Missouri; after he looked at her, she was aware in a curious sickening way that no such person as he had ever before seen her. He was pale, gray-eyed, intelligent, amiable. He appeared to be a man who had been a gentleman. But there was something strange, intangible, immense about him. Was that the effect of his presence or of his name? Kells? It was only a word to Joan. But it carried a nameless and terrible suggestion. During the last year many dark tales had gone from camp to camp in Idaho—some too strange, too horrible for credence—and with every rumor the fame of Kells had grown, and also a fearful certainty of the rapid growth of a legion of evil men out on the border. But no one in the village or from any of the camps ever admitted having seen this Kells. Had fear kept them silent? Joan was amazed that Roberts evidently knew this man.

  Kells dismounted and offered his hand. Roberts took it and shook it constrainedly.

  “Where did we meet last?” asked Kells.

  “Reckon it was out of Fresno,” replied Roberts, and it was evident that he tried to hide the effect of a memory.

  Then Kells touched his hat to Joan, giving her the fleetest kind of a glance.

  “Rather off the track, aren’t you?” he asked Roberts.

  “Reckon we are,” replied Roberts, and he began to lose some of his restraint. His voice sounded clearer and did not halt. “Been trailin’ Miss Randle’s favorite hoss. He’s lost. An’ we got farther’n we had any idee. Then my hoss went lame. ’Fraid we can’t start home tonight.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Hoadley. Bill Hoadley’s town back thirty miles or so.”

  “Well, Roberts, if you’ve no objection, we’ll camp here with you,” continued Kells. “We’ve got some fresh meat.”

  With that he addressed a word to his comrades, and they repaired to a cedar tree nearby where they began to unsaddle and unpack.

  Then Roberts, bending nearer Joan, as if intent on his own pack, began to whisper hoarsely: “That’s Jack Kells . . . the California road agent. He’s a gunfighter . . . a hell-bent rattlesnake. When I saw him last, he had a rope ’round his neck an’ was bein’ led away to be hanged. I heard afterward he was rescued by pals. Joan, if the idee comes into his head, he’ll kill me. I don’t know what to do. For God’s sake think of somethin’. Use your woman’s wits. We couldn’t be in a wuss fix.”

  Joan felt rather unsteady on her feet, so that it was a relief to sit down. She was cold and sick inwardly, almost stunned. Some great peril menaced her. Men like Roberts did not talk that way without cause. She was brave; she was not unused to danger. But this must be a different kind—compared to which all she had experienced was but insignificant. She could not grasp Roberts’s intimation. Why should he be killed? They had no gold—no valuables. Even their horses were nothing to inspire robbery. It must be that there was peril to Roberts and to her because she was a girl, caught out in the wilds, easy prey for beasts of evil men. She had heard of such things happening. Still she could not believe it possible for her. Roberts could protect her. Then this amiable well-spoken Kells—he was no Western rough—he spoke like an educated man—surely he would not harm her. So her mind revolved around fears, conjectures, possibilities; she could not find her wits. She could not think how to meet the situation, even had she divined what the situation was to be.

  While she sat there in the shade of a cedar, the men busied themselves with camp duties. None of them appeared to pay any attention to Joan. They talked while they worked as any other group of campers might have talked, and jested and laughed. Kells made a fire, and carried water, then broke cedar boughs for later campfire use; one of the strangers who they called Bill hobbled the horses; the other unrolled the pack, spread a tarpaulin, and emptied the greasy sacks; Roberts made biscuit dough for the oven.

  The sun sank and a ruddy twilight fell. It soon passed. Darkness had about set in when Roberts came over to Joan, carrying bread and coffee and venison.

  “Here’s your supper, Joan,” he called quite loudly and cheerily, and then he whispered: “Mebbe it ain’t so bad. They-all seem friendly. But I’m scared, Joan. If you jest wasn’t so damn’ handsome, or if only he hadn’t seen you.”

  “Can’t we slip off in the dark?” she whispered in return.

  “We might try. But it’d be no use if they mean bad. I can’t make up my mind yet what’s comin’ off. It’s all right for you to pretend you’re bashful. But don’t lose your nerve.”

  Then he returned to the campfire. Joan was hungry. She ate and drank what had been given her, and that helped her to realize reality. Although dread abided with her, she grew curious. She imagined she was almost fascinated by her predicament. She had always been an emotional girl of strong will and self-restraint. She had always longed for she knew not what—perhaps freedom. Certain places had haunted her. She had felt that something should have happened to her there. Yet nothing ever had happened. Certain books had obsessed her, even when a child, and often to her mother’s dismay, for those books had been of wild places and life on the sea, adventure and bloodshed. It had always been said of her that she should have been a boy.

  Night settled down black. A pale narrow cloud, marked by a train of stars, extended across the dense blue sky. The wind moaned in the cedars and roared in the replenished campfire. Sparks flew away into the shadows. In the puffs of smoke that blew toward her came the sweet pungent odor of burning cedar. Coyotes barked off under the brush, and from away on the ridge drifted the dismal defiance of a wolf.

  Camp life was no new thing to Joan. She had crossed the plains in a wagon train, that more than once had known the long-drawn yell of hostile Indians. She had prospected and hunted in the mountains with her uncle, weeks at a time. But never before this night had the wildness, the loneliness been so vivid to her.

  Roberts was on his knees, scouring his oven with wet sand. His big shaggy head nodded in the firelight. He seemed pondering and thick and slow. There was a burden upon him. The man Bill and his companion lay back against stones and conversed low. Kells stood up in the light of the blaze. He had a pipe at which he took long pulls and then sent up clouds of smoke. There was nothing imposing in his build or striking in his face, at that distance, but it took no second look to see that here was a man remarkably out of the ordinary. Some kind of power and intensity emanated from him. From time to time he appeared to glance in Joan’s direction; still she could not be sure, for his eyes were but shadows. He had cast aside his coat. He wore a vest open all the way and a checked soft shirt with a black tie, hanging untidily. A broad belt swung below his hip and in the holster was a heavy gun. That was a strange place to carry a gun, Joan thought. It looked awkward to her. When he walked, it might swing around and bump against his leg, and he would certainly have to put it some other place when he rode.

  “Say, have you got a blanket for that girl?” asked Kells, removing his pipe from his lips to address Roberts.

  “I got saddle blankets,” responded Roberts. “You see, we didn’t expect to be caught out.”

  He returned with a blanket that he threw to Roberts.

  “Much obliged,” muttered Roberts.

  “I’ll bunk by the fire,” went on the other, and with that he sat down and appeared to become absorbed in thought.

  Roberts brought the borrowed blanket and several saddle blankets over to where Joan was, and, laying them down, he began to kick and scrape stones and brush aside.

  “P
retty rocky place . . . this here is,” he said. “Reckon you’ll sleep some, though.”

  Then he began arranging the blankets into a bed. Presently Joan felt a tug at her riding skirt. She looked down.

  “I’ll be right by you,” he whispered, with his hand to his mouth, “an’ I ain’t a-goin’ to sleep none.”

  Whereupon he returned to the campfire. Presently Joan, not because she was tired or sleepy, but because she wanted to act naturally, lay down on the bed and pulled a blanket up over her. There was no more talking among the men. Once she heard the jingle of spurs and the rustle of cedar brush. By and by Roberts came back to her, dragging his saddle, and lay down near her. Joan raised up a little to see Kells, motionless and absorbed beside the fire. He had a strained and tense position. She sank back softly and looked up at the cold bright stars. What was going to happen to her? Something terrible! The very night shadows, the silence, the presence of strange men—all told her. A shudder that was a thrill ran over and over her.

  She would lie awake. It would be impossible to sleep. And suddenly into her full mind flashed an idea to slip away in the darkness, find her horse, and so escape from any possible menace. This plan occupied her thoughts for a long while. If she had not been used to Western ways, she would have tried just that thing. But she rejected it. She was not sure that she could slip away—or find her horse—or elude pursuit—and certainly she was not sure of her way home. It would be best to stay with Roberts.

  When that was settled, her mind ceased to race. She grew languid and sleepy. The warmth of the blankets stole over her. She had no idea of sleeping, yet she found sleep more and more difficult to resist. Time that must have been hours passed. The fire died down, and then brightened; the shadows darkened, and then lightened. Someone now and then got up to throw on wood. The thump of hobbled hoofs sounded out in the darkness. The wind was still and the coyotes had gone. She could no longer open her eyes. They seemed glued shut. Then, gradually, all sense of the night and the wild faded in the drowsy warmth.