by Zane Grey
“Say, Frenchy, you’re no lady’s man,” declared Red Pearce, “an’ you, Bate, you’re too old. Move . . . pass by . . . sashay!”
Pearce good-naturedly, but deliberately, pushed the two men back.
“Shore she’s Kells’s lady, ain’t she?” drawled Wood. “Ain’t you-all forgettin’ thet?”
“Kells is asleep or dead,” replied Pearce, and he succeeded in getting the field to himself.
“Where’d you meet Kells, anyway?” he asked Joan, with his red face bending near her.
Joan had her part to play. It was difficult, because she divined Pearce’s curiosity held a trap to catch her in a falsehood. He knew—they all knew she was not Kells’s wife. But if she were a prisoner, she seemed a willing and contented one. The query that breathed in Pearce’s presence was how was he to reconcile the fact of her submission with what he and his comrades had potently felt as her goodness?
“That doesn’t concern anybody,” replied Joan.
“Reckon not,” said Pearce. Then he leaned nearer with intense face. “What I want to know . . . is Gulden right? Did you shoot Kells?”
In the dusk Joan reached back and clasped Kells’s hand. For a man as weak and weary as he had been, it was remarkable how quickly touch awakened him. He lifted his head.
“Hello! Who’s that?” he called out sharply.
Pearce rose guardedly, startled, but not confused. “It’s only me, boss,” he replied. “I was about to turn in, an’ wanted to know how you are . . . if I could do anythin’.”
“I’m all right, Red,” replied Kells coolly. “Clear out and let me alone. All of you.”
Pearce moved away with an amiable good night and joined the others at the campfire. Presently they sought their blankets, leaving Gulden hunching there silently in the gloom.
“Joan, why did you wake me?” whispered Kells. “Pearce asked me if I shot you,” replied Joan. “I woke you instead of answering him.”
“The hell he did!” exclaimed Kells under his breath. Then he laughed. “Can’t fool that gang. I guess it doesn’t matter. Maybe it’d be well if they knew you shot me.”
He appeared thoughtful, and lay there with the fading flare of the fire on his pale face. But he did not speak again. Presently he fell asleep.
Joan leaned back, within reach of him, with her head on her saddle, and, pulling a blanket over her, relaxed her limbs to rest. Sleep seemed the farthest thing from her. She wondered that she dared to think of it. The night had grown chilly; the wind was sweeping with low roar through the balsams; the fire burned low and dull and red. Joan watched the black shapeless bulk that she knew to be Gulden. For a long time he remained motionless. By and by he moved, approached the fire, stood one moment in the dying ruddy glow, his great breadth and bulk magnified, with all about him vague and shadowy, but the more sinister for that. The cavernous eyes were only black spaces in that vast face, yet Joan saw them upon her. He lay down then among the other men and soon his deep and heavy breathing denoted the tranquil slumber of an ox.
For hours, through changing shadows and starlight, Joan lay awake, while a thousand thoughts besieged her, all centering around that vital and compelling one of Jim Cleve.
Only upon awakening, with the sun in her face, did Joan realize that she had actually slept.
The camp was bustling with activity. The horses were in, fresh and quarrelsome, with ears laid back. Kells was sitting upon a rock near the fire with a cup of coffee in his hand. He was looking better. When he greeted Joan, his voice sounded stronger. She walked by Pearce and Frenchy and Gulden on her way to the brook, but they took no notice of her. Bate Wood, however, touched his sombrero and said: “ ‘Mornin’, miss.” Joan wondered if her memory of the preceding night were only a bad dream. There was a different atmosphere by daylight and it was dominated by Kells. Presently she returned to camp, refreshed and hungry. Gulden was throwing a pack, which action he performed with ease and dexterity. Pearce was cinching her saddle. Kells was talking, more like his old self than at any time since his injury.
Soon they were on the trail. For Joan time always passed swiftly on horseback. Movement and changing scene were pleasurable to her. The passing of time now held a strange expectancy, a mingled fear and hope and pain—for at the end of this trail was Jim Cleve. In other days she had flouted him, made fun of him, dominated him, everything except loved and feared him. And now she was assured of her love and almost convinced of her fear. The reputation these wild bandits gave Jim was astounding and inexplicable to Joan. She rode the miles thinking of Jim, praying and planning for him.
About noon the cavalcade rode out of the mouth of a cañon into a wide valley, surrounded by high, rounded foothills. Horses and cattle were grazing on the green levels. A wide shallow noisy stream split the valley. Joan could tell from the tracks at the crossing that this place, whatever and wherever it was, saw considerable travel, and she concluded the main rendezvous of the bandits was close at hand.
The pack drivers led across the stream and the valley to enter an intersecting ravine. It was narrow, rough-sided, and floored, but the trail was good. Presently it opened out into a beautiful V-shaped gulch, very different from the high-walled, shut-in cañons. It had a level floor, through which a brook flowed, and clumps of spruce and pine, with here and there a giant balsam. Huge patches of wildflowers gave rosy color to the grassy slopes. At the upper end of this gulch Joan saw a number of widely separated cabins. This place, then, was Cabin Gulch.
Upon reaching the first cabin, the cavalcade split up. There were men here who hallooed a welcome. Gulden halted with his pack horse. Some of the others rode on. Wood drove other pack animals off to the right, up the gentle slope. Red Pearce, who was beside Kells, instructed Joan to follow them. They rode up to a bench of struggling spruce trees, in the midst of which stood a large log cabin. It was new, as, in fact, all the structures in the gulch appeared to be, and none of them had seen a winter. The chinks between the logs were yet open. This cabin was of the rudest make of notched logs one upon another, and the roof of brush and earth. It was low and flat, but very long, and extending before the whole of it was a porch roof, supported by posts. At the end was a corral. There were doors and windows with nothing in them. Upon the front wall, outside, hung saddles and bridles.
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 around 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 small 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. 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 cross-pieces 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 resting in the chinks; a ground squirrel ran along one of the logs and chirped at her; through the opening near her face she saw a wild rosebush 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 the sun shone and the sky gleamed blue. Presently she discovered that a lassitude weighed 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 someday, 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 had 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 over-burdened travelers and prospectors,” he replied.
“Kells, you’re 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 beam. 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 to 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 here 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 . . . unless I . . . I love you?”
Kells stared at her, the evil and hardness of his passion corded in his face. 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 curtain, then he dropped his head, and went out.
Joan sat motionlessly, watching the door where he had disappeared, listening to the mounting beats of her heart. She had been only 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, fighting, 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 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 ever 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 borne of her wild experience inflamed her to play the game, to match Kells’s villainy with a woman’s unfathomable duplicity.
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 deep 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 groped 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 fully 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.
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“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 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 but not distinguished what was said. Kells was unmistakably friendly, as were the other men within range of Joan’s sight. Cleve was surrounded; there was jesting and laughter; 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!
