by Zane Grey
“Well, it was a lucky shot for us . . . and him, too.”
“Do you think he got away?” she asked eagerly.
“Sure. They all got away. Wasn’t that about the maddest crowd you ever saw?”
“No wonder. In a second every man there feared the man next to him would shoot. That showed the power of Kells’s Border Legion. If his men had been faithful and obedient, he never would have fallen.”
“Joan! You speak as if you regret it!”
“Oh, I am ashamed,” replied Joan. “I don’t mean that. I don’t know what I do mean. . . . But, still, I’m sorry for Kells. I suffered so much. . . . Those long, long hours of suspense. . . . His fortunes seemed my fortunes . . . my very life . . . and yours, too, Jim.”
“I think I understand, dear,” said Jim soberly.
“Jim, what’ll we do now? Isn’t it strange to feel free?”
“I feel as queer as you. Let me think,” replied Jim.
They huddled there in comparative seclusion for a long time after that. Joan tried to think of plans, but her mind seemed unproductive. She felt herself dazed. Jim, too, appeared to be laboring under the same kind of burden. Moreover, responsibility had been added to his.
The afternoon waned till the sun tipped the high range in the west. The excitement of the mining populace gradually wore away, and toward sunset strings of men filed up the road and across the open. The masked vigilantes disappeared, and presently only a quiet and curious crowd was left around the grim scaffold and its dark swinging forms. Joan’s one glance showed that the vigilantes had swung Frenchy’s dead body in the noose he would have escaped by treachery. They had hanged him dead. What a horrible proof of the temper of these new-born vigilantes! They had left the bandits swinging. What sight was so appalling as these limp, dark, swaying forms? Dead men on the ground had a dignity—at least the dignity of death. And death sometimes had a majesty. But here both life and death had been robbed, and here was only horror. Joan felt that all her life she would be haunted.
“Joan, we’ve got to leave Alder Creek,” declared Cleve finally. The words seemed to have given him decision. “At first I thought every bandit in the gang would run as far as he could from here. But . . . you can’t tell what these wild men will do. Gulden, for instance. Common sense ought to make them hide for a spell. Still, no matter what’s what, we must leave. Now, how to go?”
“Let’s walk. If we buy horses or wait for the stage, we’ll have to see men here . . . and I’m afraid.”
“But Joan, there’ll be bandits along the road sure. And the trails, wherever they are, would be less safe.”
“Let’s travel by night and rest by day.”
“That won’t do, with so far to go, and no pack.”
“Then part of the way.”
“No. We’d better take the stage for Bannack. If it starts at all, it’ll be under armed guard. The only thing is . . . will it leave soon? Come, Joan, we’ll go down into camp.”
Dusk had fallen and lights had begun to accentuate the shadows. Joan kept close beside Jim, down the slope, and into the road. She felt like a guilty thing and every passing man or low cowering group frightened her. Still she could not help but see that no one noticed her or Jim. And she began to gather courage. Jim also acquired confidence. The growing darkness seemed a protection. The farther up the street they passed, the more men they met. Again the saloons were in full blast. Alder Creek had returned to the free, careless tenor of its way. A few doors this side of the Last Nugget was the office of the stage and express company. It was a wide tent with the front canvas cut out and a shelf counter across the opening. There was a dim yellow lamplight. Half a dozen men lounged in front, and inside were several more, two of whom appeared to be armed guards. Jim addressed no one in particular.
“When does the next stage leave for Bannack?”
A man looked up sharply from the papers that littered a table before him.
“It leaves when we start it,” he replied curtly.
“Well, when will that be?”
“What’s that to you?” he replied with a question still more curt.
“I want to buy seats for two.”
“That’s different. Come in and let’s look you over. Hello, it’s young Cleve. I didn’t recognize you. Excuse me. We’re a little particular these days.”
The man’s face was lighted. Evidently he knew Jim and thought well of him. This reassured Joan and stilled the furious beating of her heart. She saw Jim hand over a sack of gold, from which the agent took the amount due for the passage. Then he returned the sack and whispered something in Jim’s ear. Jim rejoined her and led her away, pressing her arm close to her side.
“It’s all right,” he whispered excitedly. “Stage leaves just before daylight. It used to leave the middle of the forenoon. But they want a good start tomorrow.”
“They think it might be held up?”
“He didn’t say so. But there’s every reason to suspect that . . . Joan, I sure hope it won’t. Me with all this gold. Why, I feel as if I weighed a thousand pounds.”
“What’ll we do now?” she inquired.
Jim halted in the middle of the road. It was quite dark now. The lights of the camp were flaring; men were passing to and fro; the loose boards in the walks rattled to their tread; the saloons had begun to hum, and there were discordant blasts from the Last Nugget.
“That’sit . . . what’ll we do?” he asked in perplexity.
Joan had no idea to advance, but with the lessening of her fear and the gradual clearing of her mind, she felt that she would not much longer be witless.
“We’ve to eat and get some rest,” said Jim sensibly.
“I’ll try to eat . . . but I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight,” replied Joan.
Jim took her to a place kept by a Mexican. It appeared to consist of two tents, with opening in front and door between. The table was a plank resting upon two barrels, and another plank, resting upon kegs, served as a seat. There was a smoking lamp that flickered. The Mexican’s tableware was of a crudeness befitting his house, but it was clean and he could cook—two facts that Joan appreciated after her long experience of Bate Wood. She and Jim were the only customers of the Mexican, who spoke English rather well and was friendly. Evidently it pleased him to see the meal enjoyed. Both the food and the friendliness had good effect upon Jim Cleve. He ceased to listen all the time or to glance furtively outside at every footstep.
“Joan, I guess it’ll turn out all right,” he said, clasping her hand, as it rested upon the table. Suddenly he looked bright-eyed and shy. He leaned toward her. “Do you remember . . . we are married?” he whispered.
Joan was startled. “Of course,” she replied hastily. But had she forgotten?
“You’re my wife.”
Joan looked at him and felt her nerves begin to tingle. A soft warm wave stole over her.
Like a boy he laughed. “This was our first meal together . . . on our honeymoon.”
“Jim.” The blood burned in Joan’s face.
“There you sit . . . you’re beautiful . . . but you’re not a girl now. You’re Dandy Dale.”
“Don’t call me that!” exclaimed Joan.
“But I shall . . . always. We’ll keep that bandit suit always. You can dress up sometimes to show off . . . to make me remember . . . to scare the . . . the kids.”
“Jim Cleve!”
“Oh, Joan, I’m afraid to be happy. But I can’t help it. We’re going to get away. You belong to me. And I’ve sacks and sacks of gold dust. Lord, I’ve no idea how much. But you can never spend all the money. Isn’t it just like a dream?”
Joan smiled through tears, and failed trying to look severe. “Get me and the gold away . . . safe . . . before you crow,” she said.
That sobered him. He led her out again into the dark street with its dark forms crossing to and fro before the lights.
“It’s a long time before morning. Where can I take you . . . so you can
sleep a little?” he muttered.
“Find a place where we can sit down and wait,” she suggested.
“No.” He pondered a moment. “I guess there’s no risk.”
Then he led her up the street and through that end of camp out upon the rough open slope. They began to climb. The stars were bright, but even so Joan stumbled often over the stones. She wondered how Jim could get along so well in the dark and she clung to his arm. They did not speak often, and then only in a whisper. Jim halted occasionally to listen or to look up at the bold black bluff for his bearings. Presently he led her among broken fragments of cliff, and half carried her over rougher ground, into a kind of shadowy pocket or niche.
“Here’s where I slept,” he whispered.
He wrapped a blanket around her, and then they sat down against the rock, and she leaned upon his shoulder.
“I have your coat and the blankets,” she said. “Won’t you be cold?”
He laughed. “Now don’t talk anymore. You’re white and fagged-out. You need to rest . . . to sleep.”
“Sleep? How impossible,” she murmured.
“Why, your eyes are half shut now. Anyway, I’ll not talk to you. I want to think.”
“Jim . . . kiss me good night,” she whispered.
He bent over her rather violently, she imagined. His head blotted out the light of the stars. He held her tightly a moment. She felt him shake. Then he kissed her on the cheek, and abruptly drew away. How strange he seemed.
For that matter everything was strange. She had never seen the stars so bright, so full of power, so close. All about her the shadows gathered protectively, to hide her and Jim. The silence spoke. She saw Jim’s face in the starlight and it seemed so keen, so listening, so thoughtful and beautiful. He would sit there all night, wide-eyed and alert, guarding her, waiting for the gray of dawn. How he had changed. And she was his wife. But that seemed only a dream. It needed daylight and sight of her ring to make that real.
A warmth and languor stole over her; she relaxed comfortably; after all, she would sleep. But why did that intangible dread hang onto her soul? The night was so still and clear and perfect—a radiant white night of stars—and Jim was there, holding her—and tomorrow they would ride away. That might be, but dark dangling shapes haunted her—back in her mind, and there, too, loomed Kells. Where was he now? Gone—gone on his bloody trail with his broken fortunes and his desperate bitterness! He had lost her. The lunge of that wild mob had parted them. A throb of pain and shame went through her, for she was sorry. She could not understand why, unless it was because she had possessed some strange power to instill or to bring out good in him. No woman could have been proof against that. It was monstrous to know that she had power to turn him from an evil life, yet she could not do it. It was more than monstrous to realize that he had gone on spilling blood and would continue to go on when she could have prevented it—could have saved many poor miners who perhaps had wives or sweethearts somewhere. Yet there was no help for it. She loved Jim Cleve. She might have sacrificed herself, but she would not sacrifice him for all the bandits and miners on the border.
Joan felt that she would always be haunted and would always suffer that pang for Kells. She would never lie down in the peace and quiet of her home, wherever that might be, without picturing Kells, dark and forbidding and burdened, pacing some lonely cabin or riding a lonely trail or lying with his brooding face upturned to the lonely stars. Sooner or later he would meet his doom. It was inevitable. She pictured again that sinister scene of the dangling forms, but no—Kells would never end that way. Terrible as he was, he had never been born to be hanged. He might be murdered in his sleep, by one of that band of traitors who were traitors because in the nature of evil they had to be. But more likely some gambling hell, with gold and life at stake, would see his last fight. These bandits stole gold and gambled among themselves and fought. And the fight that finished Kells must necessarily be a terrible one. She seemed to see into a lonely cabin where a log fire burned low and lamps flickered and blue smoke floated in veils, and men lay prone on the floor—Kells, stark and bloody—and the giant Gulden, dead at last and more terrible in death—and on the rude table bags of gold, and scattered on the floor like streams of sand and useless as sand, dust of gold—the destroyer.
EIGHTEEN
All Joan’s fancies or dreams faded into obscurity, and, when she was aroused, it seemed she had scarcely closed her eyes. But there was the gray gloom of dawn.
Jim was shaking her gently.
“No, you weren’t sleepy . . . it’s just a mistake,” he said, helping her to arise. “Now we’ll get out of here.”
They threaded a careful way out of the rocks, then hurried down the slope. In the grayness Joan saw the dark shape of a cabin and it resembled the one Kells had built. It disappeared. Presently when Jim led her into a road, she felt sure that this cabin had been the one where she had been a prisoner for so long. They hurried down the road and entered the camp. There were no lights. The tents and cabins looked strange and gloomy. The road was empty. Not a sound broke the stillness. At the bend Joan saw a stagecoach and horses looming up in what seemed gray distance. Jim hurried her on.
They reached the stage. The horses were restive. The driver was on the seat, whip and reins in hand. Two men sat beside him with rifles across their knees. The door of the coach hung open. There were men inside, one of whom had his head out of the window. The barrel of a rifle protruded near him. He was talking in a low voice to a man apparently busy at the traces.
“Hello, Cleve, you’re late,” said another man, evidently the agent. “Climb aboard. When’ll you be back?”
“I hardly know,” replied Cleve with hesitation.
“All right. Good luck to you.” He closed the coach door after Joan and Jim. “Let ’em go, Bill.”
The stage started with a jerk. To Joan what an unearthly creak and rumble it made, disturbing that dead silent dawn. Jim squeezed her hand with joy. They were on the way!
Joan and Jim had a seat to themselves. Opposite sat three men,—the guard with his head half out of the window, a bearded miner who appeared stolid or drowsy, and a young man who did not look rough and robust enough to be a prospector. None of the three paid any particular attention to Joan and Jim.
The road had a decided slope downhill, and Bill, the driver, had the four horses in a trot. The rickety old stage appeared to be rattling to pieces. It lurched and swayed, and sometimes jolted over rocks and roots. Joan was hard put to it to keep from being bumped off the seat. She held to a brace on one side and to Jim on the other, and, when the stage rolled down into the creek and thumped over boulders, Joan was sure that every bone in her body would be broken. This crossing marked the mouth of the gulch, and on the other side the road was smooth.
“We’re going the way we came,” whispered Jim in her ear.
This was surprising, for Joan had been sure that Bannack lay in the opposite direction. Certainly this fact was not reassuring to her. Perhaps the road turned soon.
Meanwhile, the light brightened, the day broke, and the sun reddened the valley. Then it was as light inside the coach as outside. Joan might have spared herself concern as to her fellow passengers. The only one who noticed her was the young man, and he, after a stare and a half smile, lapsed into abstraction. He looked troubled, and there was about him no evidence of prosperity. Jim held her hand under a fold of the long coat, and occasionally he spoke of something or other outside that caught his eye. The stage rolled on rapidly, seemingly in pursuit of the steady roar of hoofs.
Joan imagined she recognized the brushy ravine out of which Jesse Smith had led that day when Kells’s party came upon the new road. She believed Jim thought so, too, for he gripped her hand unusually hard. Beyond that point Joan began to breathe more easily. There seemed no valid reason now why every mile should not separate them farther from the bandits, and she experienced relief.
Then the time did not drag so. She wanted to talk to Jim,
yet did not because of the other passengers. Jim himself appeared influenced by their absorption in themselves. Besides the keen, ceaseless vigilance of the guard was not without its quieting effect. Danger lurked ahead in the bends of that road. Joan remembered hearing Kells say that the Bannack stage had never been properly held up by road agents, but that, when he got ready for the job, it would be done right. Riding grew to be monotonous and tiresome. With the warmth of the sun came the dust and flies, and all three bothered Joan. She did not have her usual calmness, and, as the miles steadily passed, her nervousness increased.
The road left the valley and climbed between foothills and wound into rockier country. Every dark gulch brought to Joan a trembling breathless spell. What places for ambush! But the stage bowled on.
At last her apprehension wore out and she permitted herself the luxury of relaxing, of leaning back and closing her eyes. She was tired, drowsy, hot. There did not seem to be a breath of air.
Suddenly Joan’s ears burst to an infernal crash of guns. She felt the whip and sting of splinters sent flying by bullets. Harsh yells followed, then the scream of a horse in agony, the stage lurching and slipping to a halt, and thunder of heavy guns overhead.
Jim yelled at her—threw her down on the seat. She felt the body of the guard sink against her knees. Then she seemed to feel, to hear through an icy sickening terror.
A scattering volley silenced the guns overhead. Then came the pound of hoofs, the snort of frightened horses.
“Jesse Smith! Stop!” called Jim piercingly.
“Hold on thar, Beady!” replied a hoarse voice. “Damn if it ain’t Jim Cleve!”
“Ho, Gul, we’ve played hell!” yelled another voice, and Joan recognized it as Blicky’s.
Then Jim lifted her head, drew her up. He was white with fear. “Dear . . . are . . . you . . . hurt?”
“No. I’m only . . . scared,” she replied.
Joan looked out to see bandits on foot, guns in hand, and others mounted, all gathering near the coach. Jim opened the door and, stepping out, bade her follow. Joan had to climb over the dead guard. The miner and the young man huddled down on their seat.
