by Zane Grey
Twilight was stealing down from the hills when Kells announced to his party: “Bate, you and Jesse keep camp. Pearce, you look out for any of the gang. But meet in the dark! Cleve, you can go with me.” Then he turned to Joan. “Do you want to go with me to see the sights or would you rather stay here?”
“I’d like to go, if only I didn’t look . . . so dreadful in this suit,” she replied.
Kells laughed, and the campfire glare lighted the smiling faces of Pearce and Smith.
“Why, you’ll not be seen. And you look far from dreadful.”
“Can’t you give me a . . . a longer coat?” faltered Joan.
Cleve heard, and without speaking he went to his saddle, and unrolled his pack. Inside a slicker he had a gray coat. Joan had seen it many a time, and it brought a pang with memories of Hoadley. Had that been years ago? Cleve handed this coat to Joan.
“Thank you,” she said.
Kells held the coat for her and she slipped into it. She seemed lost. It was long, coming way below her hips, and for the first time in days she felt she was Joan Randle again.
“Modesty is all very well in a woman, but it’s not always becoming,” remarked Kells. “Turn up your collar. Pull down your hat . . . farther. . . . There! If you won’t go as a youngster now, I’ll eat Dandy Dale’s outfit, and get you silk dresses. Ha! Ha!”
Joan was not deceived by his humor. He might like to look at her in that outrageous bandit costume; it might have pleased certain vain and notoriety-seeking proclivities of his, habits of his California road agent days, but she felt that, notwithstanding this, once she had donned the long coat, he was relieved and glad in spite of himself. Joan had a little rush of feeling. Sometimes she almost liked this bandit. Once he must have been something very different.
They set out, Joan between Kells and Cleve. How strange for her! She had been daring enough to feel for Jim’s hand in the dark and to give it a squeeze. Then he nearly broke her fingers. She felt the fire in him. It was indeed a hard situation for him. The walking was rough, owing to the uneven road and the stones. Several times Joan stumbled and her spurs jangled. They passed ruddy campfires, where steam and smoke arose with savory odors, where red-faced men were eating, and they passed other campfires, burned out and smoldering. Some tents had dim lights, throwing shadows on the canvas, and others were dark. There were men on the road, all headed for town, gay, noisy, and profane.
Then Joan saw uneven rows of lights, some dim and some bright and, crossing before them, were moving dark figures. Again Kells bethought himself of his own disguise, and buried his chin in his scarf and pulled his wide-brimmed hat down so that hardly a glimpse of his face could be seen. Joan could not have recognized him at the distance of a yard.
They walked down the middle of the road, past the noisy saloons, past the big flat structure with its sign LAST NUGGET and its open windows, where shafts of light shone forth, and all the way down to the end of town. Then Kells turned back. He scrutinized each group of men he met. He was looking for members of his Border Legion. Several times he left Cleve and Joan standing in the road while he peered into saloons. At these brief intervals Joan looked at Cleve with all her heart in her eyes. He never spoke. He seemed under a strain. Upon the return, when they reached the Last Nugget, Kells said: “Jim, hang on to her like grim death! She’s worth more than all the gold in Alder Creek!”
Then they started for the door.
Joan clung to Cleve on one side, and on the other, instinctively with a frightened girl’s action, she let go Kells’s arm and slipped her hand in his. He seemed startled. He bent to her ear, for the din made ordinary talk indistinguishable. That involuntary hand in his evidently had pleased and touched him, even hurt him, for his whisper was husky.
“It’s all right . . . you’re perfectly safe.”
First Joan made out a glare of murky lamps, a huge place full of smoke and men and sounds. Kells led the way slowly. He had his own reason for observance. There was a stench that sickened Joan—a blended odor of tobacco and rum and wet sawdust and smoking oil. There was a noise that appeared about deafening—the loud talk and vacant laughter of drinking men, and a din of creaky fiddles and scraping boots and boisterous mirth. This last and dominating sound came from an adjoining room, which Joan could see through a wide opening. There was dancing, but Joan could not see the dancers because of the intervening crowd. Then her gaze came back to the features nearer at hand. Men and youths were lined up to a long bar, as high as her head. Then there were excitedly shouting groups around gambling games. There were men in clusters, sitting on upturned kegs, around a box for a table, and dirty bags of gold dust were in evidence. The gamblers at the cards were silent, in strange contrast with the others, and in each group was at least one dark-garbed hard-eyed gambler who was not a miner. Joan saw boys not yet of age, flushed and haggard, wild with the frenzy of winning or cast down in defeat. There were jovial grizzled old prospectors to whom this scene and company were pleasant reminders of bygone days. There were desperadoes whose glittering eyes showed they had no gold with which to gamble.
Joan suddenly felt Kells start and she believed she heard a low hissing exclamation. She looked for the cause. Then she saw familiar dark faces; they belonged to men of Kells’s legion. And with his broad back to her there sat the giant Gulden. Already he and his allies had gotten together in defiance of, or indifference to, Kells’s orders. Some of them were now already under the influence of drink, but, although they saw Kells, they gave no sign of recognition. Gulden did not see Joan, and for that she was thankful. And whether or not his presence caused it, the fact was that she suddenly felt as much of a captive as she had in Cabin Gulch, and feared that here escape would be harder because in a community like this Kells would watch her closely.
Kells led Joan and Cleve from one part of the smoky hall to another, and they looked on at the games and the strange raw life manifested there. The place was getting packed with men. Kells’s party encountered Blicky and Beady Jones together. They passed by as strangers. Then Joan saw Beard and Chick Williams, arm in arm, strolling about like roistering miners. Williams telegraphed a keen fleeting glance at Kells, then went on to be lost in the crowd. Handy Oliver brushed by Kells, jostled him, apparently by accident, and he said: “Excuse me, mister!” There were other familiar faces. Kells’s gang was all in Alder Creek and the dark machinations of the bandit leader had been put into operation. What struck Joan forcibly was that, although there were hilarity and comradeship, they were not manifested in any general way. These miners were strangers to each other—the groups were strangers—the newcomers were strangers, and over all hung an atmosphere of distrust. Good fellowship abided only in the many small companies of men who stuck together. The mining camps that Joan had visited had been composed of an assortment of prospectors and hunters who made one big jolly family. This was a gold strike, and the difference was obvious. The hunting for gold was one thing, in its relation to the searchers; after it had been found, in a rich field, the conditions of life and character changed. Gold had always seemed wonderful and beautiful to Joan; she absorbed here something that was the nucleus of hate. Why could not these miners, young and old, stay in their camps and keep their gold? That was the fatality. The pursuit was a dream—a glittering allurement; the possession incited a lust for more, and that was madness. Joan felt that in these reckless honest miners there was a liberation of the same wild element that was the driving passion of Kells’s Border Legion. Gold then was a terrible thing.
“Take me in there,” said Joan, conscious of her own excitement, and she indicated the dance hall.
Kells laughed as if at her audacity. But he appeared reluctant.
“Please take me . . . unless. . . .” Joan did not know what to add, but she meant unless it was not right for her to see any more. A strange curiosity had stirred in her. After all, this place where she now stood was not greatly different from the picture imagination had conjured up. That dance hall, however, was
beyond any creation of Joan’s mind.
“Let me have a look first,” said Kells, and he left Joan with Cleve.
When he had gone, Joan spoke without looking at Cleve, although she held fast to his arm.
“Jim, it could be dreadful here . . . all in a minute,” she whispered.
“You’ve struck it exactly,” he replied. “All Alder Creek needed to make it hell was Kells and his gang.”
“Thank heaven I turned you back in time. Jim, you’d have . . . have gone the pace here.”
He nodded grimly. Then Kells returned and led them back through the room to another door where spectators were fewer. Joan saw perhaps a dozen couples of rough whirling, jigging dancers in a half circle of watching men. The hall was a wide platform of boards with posts holding a canvas roof. The sides were open; the lights were situated at each end—huge round circus-tent lamps. There were rude benches and tables where reeling men surrounded a woman. Joan saw a young miner in dusty boots and corduroys, lying drunk or dead in the sawdust. Her eyes were drawn back to the dancers, and to the dance that bore some semblance to a waltz. In the din the music could scarcely be heard. As far as the men were concerned, this dance was a bold and violent expression of excitement on the part of some, and for the rest a drunken mad fling. Sight of the women gave Joan’s curiosity a blunt check. She felt queer. She had not seen women like these, and their dancing, their actions, their looks were beyond her understanding. Nevertheless, they shocked her, disgusted her, sickened her. Suddenly, when it dawned upon her in unbelievable vivid suggestion that they were the wildest and most terrible element of this dark stream of humanity lured by gold, she was appalled.
“Take me out of here!” she besought Kells, and he led her out instantly. They went through the gambling hall, and into the crowded street, back toward camp.
“You saw enough,” said Kells, “but nothing to what will break out by and by. This camp is new. It’s rich. Gold is the cheapest thing. It passes from hand to hand. Ten dollars an ounce! Buyers don’t look at the scales. Only the gamblers are crooked. But all this will change.”
Kells did not say what that change might be, but the click of his teeth was expressive. Joan did not, however, gather from it and the dark meaning of his tone that the Border Legion would cause this change. That was in the nature of events. A great strike of gold might enrich the world, but it was a catastrophe.
Long into the night Joan lay awake, and at times, stirring the silence, there was wafted to her in a breeze the low strange murmur of the gold camp’s strife.
Joan slept late next morning, and was awakened by the unloading of lumber. Teams were drawing planks from the sawmill. Already a skeleton framework for Kells’s cabin had been erected. Jim Cleve was working with the others, and they were sacrificing thoroughness to haste. Joan had to cook her own breakfast, which task was welcome, and, after it had been finished, she wished for something more to occupy her mind. But nothing offered. Finding a comfortable seat among some rocks, where she would be inconspicuous, she looked on at the building of Kells’s cabin. It seemed strange, and somehow comforting, to watch Jim Cleve work. He had never been a great worker. Would this experience on the border make a man of him? She felt assured of that.
If ever a cabin sprung up like a mushroom, that bandit rendezvous was the one. Kells worked himself and proved no mean hand. By noon the roof of clapboards was on, and the siding of the same material had been started. Evidently there was not to be a fireplace inside.
Then a teamster drove up with a wagonload of purchases Kells had ordered. Kells helped unload this and evidently was in search of articles. Presently he found them, and then approached Joan, to deposit before her an assortment of bundles little and big.
“There, Miss Modesty,” he said, “make yourself some clothes. You can shake Dandy Dale’s outfit, except when we’re on the trail. And, say, if you know what I had to pay for this stuff, you’d think there was a bigger robber in Alder Creek than Jack Kells. Come to think of it, my name’s now Blight. You’re my daughter, if anyone asks.”
Joan was so grateful to him for the goods, and the permission to get out of Dandy Dale’s suit as soon as possible, that she could only smile her thanks. Kells stared at her, then turned abruptly away. Those little unconscious acts of hers seemed to affect him strangely. Joan remembered that he had intended to parade her in Dandy Dale’s costume, to gratify some vain abnormal side of his bandit’s proclivities. He had weakened. Here was another subtle indication of the deterioration of the evil of him. How far would it go? Joan thought dreamily, and with a swelling heart, of her influence upon this hardened bandit, upon that wild boy, Jim Cleve.
All that afternoon, and part of the evening in the campfire light, and all of the next day Joan sewed and cut and sewed, so busy that she scarcely lifted her eyes from her work. The following day she finished her dress, and with no little pride, for she had both tools and skill. Of the men Bate Wood had been most interested in her task, and he would let things burn on the fire to watch her.
That same day the rude cabin was completed. It contained one long room, and at the back a small compartment partitioned off from the rest, and built against and around a shallow cavern in the huge rock. This compartment was for Joan. There was a rude board door with padlock and key, a bench upon which blankets had been flung, a small square hole cut in the wall to serve as a window. What with her own few belongings, and the articles of furniture that Kells bought for her, Joan soon had a comfortable room, even a luxury compared to what she had been used to for weeks. Certain it was that Kells meant to keep her a prisoner, or virtually so. Joan had no sooner spied the little window than she thought that it would be possible for Jim Cleve to talk to her there from the outside.
Kells verified Joan’s suspicion by telling her that she was not to leave the cabin of her own accord, as she had been permitted to do back in Cabin Gulch, and Joan retorted that there she had made him a promise not to run away, which promise she now took back. That promise had worried her. She was glad to be honest with Kells. He gazed at her somberly.
“You’ll be worse off if you do . . . and I’ll be better off,” he said. And then as an afterthought he added: “Gulden might not think you . . . a white elephant on his hands. Remember his way . . . the cave and the rope.”
So instinctively or cruelly he chose the right name to bring shuddering terror into Joan’s soul.
FOURTEEN
Joan’s opportunity for watching Kells and his men and overhearing their colloquialisms was as good as it had been in Cabin Gulch. But it developed that where Kells had been open and frank, he now became secretive and cautious. She was aware that men, simply and in couples, visited him during the early hours of the night, and they had conferences in low earnest tones. She could peer out of her little window and see dark silent forms come up from the ravine at the back of the cabin, and leave the same way. None of them went around to the front door, where Bate Wood smoked and kept guard. Joan was able to hear only scraps of these earnest talks, and from part of one she gathered that for some reason or other Kells desired to bring himself into notice. Alder Creek must be made to know that a man of importance had arrived. It seemed to Joan that this was the very last thing Kells ought to do. What magnificent daring the bandit had! Famous years before in California—with a price set upon his life in Nevada—and now the noted, if unknown leader of border robberies in Idaho wanted to be prominent, respected, and powerful. Joan found that in spite of her horror at the sinister and deadly nature of the bandit’s enterprise she could not help an absorbing interest in his fortunes.
Next day Joan watched for an opportunity to tell Jim Cleve that he might come to her little window any time after dark to talk and plan with her. No chance presented itself. Joan wore the dress she had made, to the evident pleasure of Bate Wood and Pearce. They had conceived as strong an interest in her fortunes as she had in Kells’s. Wood nodded his approval and Pearce said she was a lady once more. Strange it was to Joan
that this villain, Pearce, who she would not have dared trust, grew open in his insinuating hints of Kells’s blackguardism. Strange because Pearce was absolutely sincere. When Jim Cleve did see Joan in her dress, the first time, he appeared so glad and relieved and grateful that she feared he might betray himself, so she got out of his sight.
Not long after that Kells called her from her room. He wore his somber and thoughtful cast of countenance. Red Pearce and Jesse Smith were standing at attention. Cleve was sitting on the threshold of the door and Wood leaned against the wall.
“Is there anything in the pack of stuff I bought you that you could use for a veil?” asked Kells of Joan.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Get it,” he ordered. “And your hat, too.”
Joan went to her room and returned with the designated article, the hat being that which she had worn when she had left Hoadley.
“That’ll do. Put it on . . . over your face . . . and let’s see how you look.”
Joan complied with this request, all the time wondering what Kells meant.
“I want it to disguise you, but not to hide your youth . . . your good looks,” he said, and he arranged it differently about her face. “There! You’d sure make every man curious to see you now. Put on the hat.”
Joan did it. Then Kells appeared to become more forcible.
“You’re to go down into the town. Walk slow as far as the Last Nugget. Cross the road and come back. Look at every man you meet or see standing by. Don’t be in the least frightened. Pearce and Smith will be right behind you. They’d get to you before anything could happen. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” replied Joan.
Red Pearce stirred uneasily. “Jack, I’m thinkin’ some rough talk’ll come her way,” he said darkly.
“Will you shut up,” replied Kells in quiet passion. He resented some implication. “I’ve thought of that. She won’t hear what’s said to her. Here”—and he turned again to Joan—“take some cotton . . . or anything, and stuff up your ears. Make a good job of it.”
