Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
THE BORDER LEGION
By Zane Grey
1
Joan Randle reined in her horse on the crest of the cedar ridge, and
with remorse and dread beginning to knock at her heart she gazed before
her at the wild and looming mountain range.
“Jim wasn't fooling me,” she said. “He meant it. He's going straight for
the border... Oh, why did I taunt him!”
It was indeed a wild place, that southern border of Idaho, and that year
was to see the ushering in of the wildest time probably ever known
in the West. The rush for gold had peopled California with a horde of
lawless men of every kind and class. And the vigilantes and then the
rich strikes in Idaho had caused a reflux of that dark tide of humanity.
Strange tales of blood and gold drifted into the camps, and prospectors
and hunters met with many unknown men.
Joan had quarreled with Jim Cleve, and she was bitterly regretting it.
Joan was twenty years old, tall, strong, dark. She had been born in
Missouri, where her father had been well-to-do and prominent, until,
like many another man of his day, he had impeded the passage of a
bullet. Then Joan had become the protegee of an uncle who had responded
to the call of gold; and the latter part of her life had been spent in
the wilds.
She had followed Jim's trail for miles out toward the range. And now she
dismounted to see if his tracks were as fresh as she had believed. He
had left the little village camp about sunrise. Someone had seen him
riding away and had told Joan. Then he had tarried on the way, for it
was now midday. Joan pondered. She had become used to his idle threats
and disgusted with his vacillations. That had been the trouble--Jim
was amiable, lovable, but since meeting Joan he had not exhibited any
strength of character. Joan stood beside her horse and looked away
toward the dark mountains. She was daring, resourceful, used to horses
and trails and taking care of herself; and she did not need anyone to
tell her that she had gone far enough. It had been her hope to come up
with Jim. Always he had been repentant. But this time was different. She
recalled his lean, pale face--so pale that freckles she did not know he
had showed through--and his eyes, usually so soft and mild, had glinted
like steel. Yes, it had been a bitter, reckless face. What had she said
to him? She tried to recall it.
The night before at twilight Joan had waited for him. She had given
him precedence over the few other young men of the village, a fact she
resentfully believed he did not appreciate. Jim was unsatisfactory in
every way except in the way he cared for her. And that also--for he
cared too much.
When Joan thought how Jim loved her, all the details of that night
became vivid. She sat alone under the spruce-trees near the cabin. The
shadows thickened, and then lightened under a rising moon. She heard the
low hum of insects, a distant laugh of some woman of the village, and
the murmur of the brook. Jim was later than usual. Very likely, as
her uncle had hinted, Jim had tarried at the saloon that had lately
disrupted the peace of the village. The village was growing, and
Joan did not like the change. There were too many strangers, rough,
loud-voiced, drinking men. Once it had been a pleasure to go to the
village store; now it was an ordeal. Somehow Jim had seemed to be
unfavorably influenced by these new conditions. Still, he had never
amounted to much. Her resentment, or some feeling she had, was reaching
a climax. She got up from her seat. She would not wait any longer for
him, and when she did see him it would be to tell him a few blunt facts.
Just then there was a slight rustle behind her. Before she could turn
someone seized her in powerful arms. She was bent backward in a bearish
embrace, so that she could neither struggle nor cry out. A dark face
loomed over hers--came closer. Swift kisses closed her eyes, burned her
cheeks, and ended passionately on her lips. They had some strange power
over her. Then she was released.
Joan staggered back, frightened, outraged. She was so dazed she did not
recognize the man, if indeed she knew him. But a laugh betrayed him. It
was Jim.
“You thought I had no nerve,” he said. “What do you think of that?”
Suddenly Joan was blindly furious. She could have killed him. She had
never given him any right, never made him any promise, never let him
believe she cared. And he had dared--! The hot blood boiled in her
cheeks. She was furious with him, but intolerably so with herself,
because somehow those kisses she had resented gave her unknown pain
and shame. They had sent a shock through all her being. She thought she
hated him.
“You--you--” she broke out. “Jim Cleve, that ends you with me!”
“Reckon I never had a beginning with you,” he replied, bitterly. “It was
worth a good deal... I'm not sorry... By Heaven--I've--kissed you!”
He breathed heavily. She could see how pale he had grown in the shadowy
moonlight. She sensed a difference in him--a cool, reckless defiance.
“You'll be sorry,” she said. “I'll have nothing to do with you any
more.”
“All right. But I'm not, and I won't be sorry.”
She wondered whether he had fallen under the influence of drink. Jim
had never cared for liquor, which virtue was about the only one he
possessed. Remembering his kisses, she knew he had not been drinking.
There was a strangeness about him, though, that she could not fathom.
Had he guessed his kisses would have that power? If he dared again--!
She trembled, and it was not only rage. But she would teach him a
lesson.
“Joan, I kissed you because I can't be a hangdog any longer,” he said.
“I love you and I'm no good without you. You must care a little for me.
Let's marry... I'll--”
“Never!” she replied, like flint. “You're no good at all.”
“But I am,” he protested, with passion. “I used to do things. But
since--since I've met you I've lost my nerve. I'm crazy for you. You
let the other men run after you. Some of them aren't fit to--to--Oh, I'm
sick all the time! Now it's longing and then it's jealousy. Give me a
chance, Joan.”
“Why?” she queried, coldly. “Why should I? You're shiftless. You won't
work. When you do find a little gold you squander it. You have nothing
but a gun. You can't do anything but shoot.”
“Maybe that'll come in handy,” he said, lightly.
“Jim Cleve, you haven't it in you even to be BAD,” she went on,
stingingly.
At that he made a violent gesture. Then he loomed over her. “Joan
Handle, do you mean that?” he asked.
“I surely do,” she responded. At last she had struck fire from him. The
fact was interesting. It lessened her anger.
“Then I'm so low, so worthless, so spineless that I can't even be bad?”
“Yes, you are.”
“That's what you think of me--after I've ruined myself for love of you?”
She laughed tauntingly. How strange and hot a glee she felt in hurting
him!
“By God, I'll show you!” he cried, hoarsely.
“What will you do, Jim?” she asked, mockingly.
“I'll shake this camp. I'll rustle for the border. I'll get in with
Kells and Gulden... You'll hear of me, Joan Randle!”
These were names of strange, unknown, and wild men of a growing and
terrible legion on the border. Out there, somewhere, lived desperados,
robbers, road-agents, murderers. More and more rumor had brought tidings
of them into the once quiet village. Joan felt a slight cold sinking
sensation at her heart. But this was only a magnificent threat of Jim's.
He could not do such a thing. She would never let him, even if he could.
But after the incomprehensible manner of woman, she did not tell him
that.
“Bah! You haven't 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 these border ruffians 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. And 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 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 discerned 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 the 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 give 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 just fool
enough. He had been gettrn' recklessler 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 Bradley. But I reckon you know.”
“I've heard nothing,” she replied. “Tell me. Why did they fight?”
“Report was that Bradley talked oncomplementary about you.”
Joan experienced a sweet, warm rush of blood--another new and strange
emotion. She did not like Bradley. 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 Bradley 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
ridges toward the great gray and black walls. Something stirred deep
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 which 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
round 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. And 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. And 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.
2
“It ain't you--KELLS?”
Roberts's query was a confirmation of his own recognition. And 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 to-night.”
“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 near-by, 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 gun fighter--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 heerd
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 with 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 round
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 camp-fire use; one of the strangers
whom 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 red and a ruddy twilight fell. It soon passed. Darkness had
about set in when Roberts came over to Joan, carrying bread, coffee, and
venison.
“Here's your supper, Joan,” he called, quite loud 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 dam' 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 camp-fire. Joan was hungry. She ate and drank
what had been given her, and that helped her to realize reality. And
although dread abided with her, she grew curious. Almost she imagined
she was 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 these 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 camp-fire. Sparks flew away into the
shadows. And on 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 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 round and bump against his leg. And he
certainly would 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.”
“I'll let you have one,” said Kells, walking away from the fire. “It
will be cold.” He returned with a blanket, which 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.
“Pretty 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 big hand to his mouth,
“an' I ain't a-goin' to sleep none.”
Whereupon he returned to the camp-fire. 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 by 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. And 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 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 were gone. She could
no longer open her eyes. They seemed glued shut. And then gradually all
sense of the night and the wild, of the drowsy warmth, faded.
When she awoke the air was nipping cold. Her eyes snapped open clear and
bright. The tips of the cedars were ruddy in the sunrise. A camp-fire
crackled. Blue smoke curled upward. Joan sat up with a rush of memory.
Roberts and Kells were bustling round the fire. The man Bill was
carrying water. The other fellow had brought in the horses and was
taking off the hobbles. No one, apparently, paid any attention to Joan.
She got up and smoothed out her tangled hair, which she always wore in
a braid down her back when she rode. She had slept, then, and in her
boots! That was the first time she had ever done that. When she went
down to the brook to bathe her face and wash her hands, the men still,
apparently, took no notice of her. She began to hope that Roberts had
exaggerated their danger. Her horse was rather skittish and did not care
for strange hands. He broke away from the bunch. Joan went after him,
even lost sight of camp. Presently, after she caught him, she led him
back to camp and tied him up. And then she was so far emboldened as to
approach the fire and to greet the men.
“Good morning,” she said, brightly.
Kells had his back turned at the moment. He did not move or speak or
give any sign he had heard. The man Bill stared boldly at her, but
without a word. Roberts returned her greeting, and as she glanced
quickly at him, drawn by his voice, he turned away. But she had seen
that his face was dark, haggard, worn.
Joan's cheer and hope sustained a sudden and violent check. There was
something wrong in this group, and she could not guess what it was. She
seemed to have a queer, dragging weight at her limbs. She was glad
to move over to a stone and sink down upon it. Roberts brought her
breakfast, but he did not speak or look at her. His hands shook. And
this frightened Joan. What was going to happen? Roberts went back to
the camp-fire. Joan had to force herself to eat. There was one thing of
which she was sure--that she would need all the strength and fortitude
she could summon.
Joan became aware, presently, that Kells was conversing with Roberts,
but too low for her to hear what was said. She saw Roberts make a
gesture of fierce protest. About the other man there was an air cool,
persuading, dominant. He ceased speaking, as if the incident were
closed. Roberts hurried and blundered through his task with his pack and
went for his horse. The animal limped slightly, but evidently was not in
bad shape. Roberts saddled him, tied on the pack. Then he saddled Joan's
horse. That done, he squared around with the front of a man who had to
face something he dreaded.
“Come on, Joan. We're ready,” he called. His voice was loud, but not
natural.
Joan started to cross to him when Kells strode between them. She might
not have been there, for all the sign this ominous man gave of her
presence. He confronted Roberts in the middle of the camp-circle, and
halted, perhaps a rod distant.
“Roberts, get on your horse and clear out,” he said.
Roberts dropped his halter and straightened up. It was a bolder action
than any he had heretofore given. Perhaps the mask was off now; he was
wholly sure of what he had only feared; subterfuge and blindness were
in vain; and now he could be a man. Some change worked in his face--a
blanching, a setting.
“No, I won't go without the girl,” he said.
“But you can't take her!”
Joan vibrated to a sudden start. So this was what was going to happen.
Her heart almost stood still. Breathless and quivering, she watched
these two men, about whom now all was strangely magnified.
“Reckon I'll go along with you, then,” replied Roberts.
“Your company's not wanted.”
“Wal, I'll go anyway.”
This was only play at words, Joan thought. She divined in Roberts a
cold and grim acceptance of something he had expected. And the voice
of Kells--what did that convey? Still the man seemed slow, easy, kind,
amiable.
“Haven't you got any sense, Roberts?” he asked.
Roberts made no reply to that.
“Go on home. Say nothing or anything--whatever you like,” continued
Kells. “You did me a favor once over in California. I like to remember
favors. Use your head now. Hit the trail.”
“Not without her. I'll fight first,” declared Roberts, and his hands
began to twitch and jerk.
Joan did not miss the wonderful intentness of the pale-gray eyes that
watched Roberts--his face, his glance, his hands.
“What good will it do to fight?” asked Kells. He laughed coolly. “That
won't help her... You ought to know what you'll get.”
“Kells--I'll die before I leave that girl in your clutches,” flashed
Roberts. “An' I ain't a-goin' to stand here an' argue with you. Let her
come--or--”
“You don't strike me as a fool,” interrupted Kells. His voice was suave,
smooth, persuasive, cool. What strength--what certainty appeared behind
it! “It's not my habit to argue with fools. Take the chance I offer
you. Hit the trail. Life is precious, man!... You've no chance here. And
what's one girl more or less to you?”
“Kells, I may be a fool, but I'm a man,” passionately rejoined Roberts.
“Why, you're somethin' inhuman! I knew that out in the gold-fields. But
to think you can stand there--an' talk sweet an' pleasant--with no idee
of manhood!... Let her come now--or--or I'm a-goin' for my gun!”
“Roberts, haven't you a wife--children?”
“Yes, I have,” shouted Roberts, huskily. “An' that wife would disown me
if I left Joan Randle to you. An' I've got a grown girl. Mebbe some day
she might need a man to stand between her an' such as you, Jack Kells!”
All Roberts' pathos and passion had no effect, unless to bring out by
contrast the singular and ruthless nature of Jack Kells.
“Will you hit the trail?”
“No!” thundered Roberts.
Until then Joan Randle had been fascinated, held by the swift
interchange between her friend and enemy. But now she had a convulsion
of fear. She had seen men fight, but never to the death. Roberts
crouched like a wolf at bay. There was a madness upon him. He shook like
a rippling leaf. Suddenly his shoulder lurched--his arm swung.
Joan wheeled away in horror, shutting her eyes, covering her ears,
running blindly. Then upon her muffled hearing burst the boom of a gun.
3
Joan ran on, stumbling over rocks and brush, with a darkness before her
eyes, the terror in her soul. She was out in the cedars when someone
grasped her from behind. She felt the hands as the coils of a snake.
Then she was ready to faint, but she must not faint. She struggled away,
stood free. It was the man Bill who had caught her. He said something
that was unintelligible. She reached for the snag of a dead cedar and,
leaning there, fought her weakness, that cold black horror which seemed
a physical thing in her mind, her blood, her muscles.
When she recovered enough for the thickness to leave her sight she saw
Kells coming, leading her horse and his own. At sight of him a strange,
swift heat shot through her. Then she was confounded with the thought of
Roberts.
“Ro--Roberts?” she faltered.
Kells gave her a piercing glance. “Miss Randle, I had to take the fight
out of your friend,” he said.
“You--you--Is he--dead?”
“I just crippled his gun arm. If I hadn't he would have hurt somebody.
He'll ride back to Hoadley and tell your folks about it. So they'll know
you're safe.”
“Safe!” she whispered.
“That's what I said, Miss Randle. If you're going to ride out into the
border--if it's possible to be safe out there you'll be so with me.”
“But I want to go home. Oh, please let me go!”
“I couldn't think of it.”
“Then--what will you--do with me?”
Again that gray glance pierced her. His eyes were clear, flawless, like
crystal, without coldness, warmth, expression. “I'll get a barrel of
gold out of you.”
“How?” she asked, wonderingly.
“I'll hold you for ransom. Sooner or later those prospectors over there
are going to strike gold. Strike it rich! I know that. I've got to make
a living some way.”
Kells was tightening the cinch on her saddle while he spoke. His voice,
his manner, the amiable smile on his intelligent face, they all appeared
to come from sincerity. But for those strange eyes Joan would have
wholly believed him. As it was, a half doubt troubled her. She
remembered the character Roberts had given this man. Still, she was
recovering her nerve. It had been the certainty of disaster to Roberts
that had made her weaken. As he was only slightly wounded and free to
ride home safely, she had not the horror of his death upon her.
Indeed, she was now so immensely uplifted that she faced the situation
unflinchingly.
“Bill,” called Kells to the man standing there with a grin on his coarse
red face, “you go back and help Halloway pack. Then take my trail.”
Bill nodded, and was walking away when Kells called after him: “And say,
Bill, don't say anything to Roberts. He's easily riled.”
“Haw! Haw! Haw!” laughed Bill.
His harsh laughter somehow rang jarringly in Joan's ears. But she was
used to violent men who expressed mirth over mirthless jokes.
“Get up, Miss Randle,” said Kells as he mounted. “We've a long ride.
You'll need all your strength. So I advise you to come quietly with me
and not try to get away. It won't be any use trying.”
Joan climbed into her saddle and rode after him. Once she looked back
in hope of seeing Roberts, of waving a hand to him. She saw his horse
standing saddled, and she saw Bill struggling under a pack, but there
was no sign of Roberts. Then more cedars intervened and the camp site
was lost to view. When she glanced ahead her first thought was to take
in the points of Kells's horse. She had been used to horses all her
life. Kells rode a big rangy bay--a horse that appeared to snort speed
and endurance. Her pony could never run away from that big brute. Still
Joan had the temper to make an attempt to escape, if a favorable way
presented.
The morning was rosy, clear, cool; there was a sweet, dry tang in
the air; white-tailed deer bounded out of the open spaces; and the
gray-domed, glistening mountains, with their bold, black-fringed slopes,
overshadowed the close foot-hills.
Joan was a victim to swift vagaries of thought and conflicting emotions.
She was riding away with a freebooter, a road-agent, to be held for
ransom. The fact was scarcely credible. She could not shake the dread
of nameless peril. She tried not to recall Roberts's words, yet they
haunted her. If she had not been so handsome, he had said! Joan knew
she possessed good looks, but they had never caused her any particular
concern. That Kells had let that influence him--as Roberts had
imagined--was more than absurd. Kells had scarcely looked at her. It was
gold such men wanted. She wondered what her ransom would be, where her
uncle would get it, and if there really was a likelihood of that rich
strike. Then she remembered her mother, who had died when she was a
little girl, and a strange, sweet sadness abided with her. It passed.
She saw her uncle--that great, robust, hearty, splendid old man, with
his laugh and his kindness, and his love for her, and his everlasting
unquenchable belief that soon he would make a rich gold-strike. What a
roar and a stampede he would raise at her loss! The village camp might
be divided on that score, she thought, because the few young women in
that little settlement hated her, and the young men would have more
peace without her. Suddenly her thought shifted to Jim Cleve, the
cause of her present misfortune. She had forgotten Jim. In the interval
somehow he had grown. Sweet to remember how he had fought for her and
kept it secret! After all, she had misjudged him. She had hated him
because she liked him. Maybe she did more! That gave her a shock. She
recalled his kisses and then flamed all over. If she did not hate him
she ought to. He had been so useless; he ran after her so; he was the
laughing-stock of the village; his actions made her other admirers and
friends believe she cared for him, was playing fast-and-loose with him.
Still, there was a difference now. He had terribly transgressed. He had
frightened her with threats of dire ruin to himself. And because of that
she had trailed him, to fall herself upon a hazardous experience.
Where was Jim Cleve now? Like a flash then occurred to her the singular
possibility. Jim had ridden for the border with the avowed and desperate
intention of finding Kells and Gulden and the bad men of that trackless
region. He would do what he had sworn he would. And here she was, the
cause of it all, a captive of this notorious Kells! She was being led
into that wild border country. Somewhere out there Kells and Jim Cleve
would meet. Jim would find her in Kells's hands. Then there would be
hell, Joan thought. The possibility, the certainty, seemed to strike
deep into her, reviving that dread and terror. Yet she thrilled again; a
ripple that was not all cold coursed through her. Something had a birth
in her then, and the part of it she understood was that she welcomed
the adventure with a throbbing heart, yet looked with awe and shame and
distrust at this new, strange side of her nature.
And while her mind was thus thronged the morning hours passed swiftly,
the miles of foot-hills were climbed and descended. A green gap of
canon, wild and yellow-walled, yawned before her, opening into the
mountain.
Kells halted on the grassy bank of a shallow brook. “Get down. We'll
noon here and rest the horses,” he said to Joan. “I can't say that
you're anything but game. We've done perhaps twenty-five miles this
morning.”
The mouth of this canon was a wild, green-flowered, beautiful place.
There were willows and alders and aspens along the brook. The green
bench was like a grassy meadow. Joan caught a glimpse of a brown object,
a deer or bear, stealing away through spruce-trees on the slope. She
dismounted, aware now that her legs ached and it was comfortable
to stretch them. Looking backward across the valley toward the last
foot-hill, she saw the other men, with horses and packs, coming. She had
a habit of close observation, and she thought that either the men with
the packs had now one more horse than she remembered, or else she had
not seen the extra one. Her attention shifted then. She watched Kells
unsaddle the horses. He was wiry, muscular, quick with his hands. The
big, blue-cylindered gun swung in front of him. That gun had a queer
kind of attraction for her. The curved black butt made her think of a
sharp grip of hand upon it. Kells did not hobble the horses. He slapped
his bay on the haunch and drove him down toward the brook. Joan's pony
followed. They drank, cracked the stones, climbed the other bank, and
began to roll in the grass. Then the other men with the packs trotted
up. Joan was glad. She had not thought of it before, but now she felt
she would rather not be alone with Kells. She remarked then that there
was no extra horse in the bunch. It seemed strange, her thinking that,
and she imagined she was not clear-headed.
“Throw the packs, Bill,” said Kells.
Another fire was kindled and preparations made toward a noonday meal.
Bill and Halloway appeared loquacious, and inclined to steal glances at
Joan when Kells could not notice. Halloway whistled a Dixie tune. Then
Bill took advantage of the absence of Kells, who went down to the brook,
and he began to leer at Joan and make bold eyes at her. Joan appeared
not to notice him, and thereafter averted; her gaze. The men chuckled.
“She's the proud hussy! But she ain't foolin' me. I've knowed a heap of
wimmen.” Whereupon Halloway guffawed, and between them, in lower tones,
they exchanged mysterious remarks. Kells returned with a bucket of
water.
“What's got into you men?” he queried.
Both of them looked around, blusteringily innocent.
“Reckon it's the same that's ailin' you,” replied Bill. He showed that
among wild, unhampered men how little could inflame and change.
“Boss, it's the onaccustomed company,” added Halloway, with a
conciliatory smile. “Bill sort of warms up. He jest can't help it. An'
seein' what a thunderin' crab he always is, why I'm glad an' welcome.”
Kells vouchsafed no reply to this and, turning away, continued his
tasks. Joan had a close look at his eyes and again she was startled.
They were not like eyes, but just gray spaces, opaque openings, with
nothing visible behind, yet with something terrible there.
The preparations for the meal went on, somewhat constrainedly on the
part of Bill and Halloway, and presently were ended. Then the men
attended to it with appetites born of the open and of action. Joan sat
apart from them on the bank of the brook, and after she had appeased
her own hunger she rested, leaning back in the shade of an alderbush.
A sailing shadow crossed near her, and, looking up, she saw an eagle
flying above the ramparts of the canon. Then she had a drowsy spell, but
she succumbed to it only to the extent of closing her eyes. Time dragged
on. She would rather have been in the saddle. These men were leisurely,
and Kells was provokingly slow. They had nothing to do with time but
waste it. She tried to combat the desire for hurry, for action; she
could not gain anything by worry. Nevertheless, resignation would
not come to her and her hope began to flag. Something portended
evil--something hung in the balance.
The snort and tramp of horses roused her, and upon sitting up she saw
the men about to pack and saddle again. Kells had spoken to her only
twice so far that day. She was grateful for his silence, but could not
understand it. He seemed to have a preoccupied air that somehow did not
fit the amiableness of his face. He looked gentle, good-natured; he
was soft-spoken; he gave an impression of kindness. But Joan began to
realize that he was not what he seemed. He had something on his mind. It
was not conscience, nor a burden: it might be a projection, a plan,
an absorbing scheme, a something that gained food with thought. Joan
wondered doubtfully if it were the ransom of gold he expected to get.
Presently, when all was about in readiness for a fresh start, she rose
to her feet. Kells's bay was not tractable at the moment. Bill held
out Joan's bridle to her and their hands touched. The contact was an
accident, but it resulted in Bill's grasping back at her hand. She
jerked it away, scarcely comprehending. Then all under the brown of his
face she saw creep a dark, ruddy tide. He reached for her then--put
his hand on her breast. It was an instinctive animal action. He meant
nothing. She divined that he could not help it. She had lived with rough
men long enough to know he had no motive--no thought at all. But at the
profanation of such a touch she shrank back, uttering a cry.
At her elbow she heard a quick step and a sharp-drawn breath or hiss.
“AW, JACK!” cried Bill.
Then Kells, in lithe and savage swiftness, came between them. He swung
his gun, hitting Bill full in the face. The man fell, limp and heavy,
and he lay there, with a bloody gash across his brow. Kells stood over
him a moment, slowly lowering the gun. Joan feared he meant to shoot.
“Oh, don't--don't!” she cried. “He--he didn't hurt me.”
Kells pushed her back. When he touched her she seemed to feel the shock
of an electric current. His face had not changed, but his eyes were
terrible. On the background of gray were strange, leaping red flecks.
“Take your horse,” he ordered. “No. Walk across the brook. There's a
trail. Go up the canon. I'll come presently. Don't run and don't hide.
It'll be the worse for you if you do. Hurry!”
Joan obeyed. She flashed past the open-jawed Halloway, and, running down
to the brook, stepped across from stone to stone. She found the trail
and hurriedly followed it. She did not look back. It never occurred
to her to hide, to try to get away. She only obeyed, conscious of some
force that dominated her. Once she heard loud voices, then the shrill
neigh of a horse. The trail swung under the left wall of the canon and
ran along the noisy brook. She thought she heard shots and was startled,
but she could not be sure. She stopped to listen. Only the babble of
swift water and the sough of wind in the spruces greeted her ears.
She went on, beginning to collect her thoughts, to conjecture on the
significance of Kells's behavior.
But had that been the spring of his motive? She doubted it--she doubted
all about him, save that subtle essence of violence, of ruthless force
and intensity, of terrible capacity, which hung round him.
A halloo caused her to stop and turn. Two pack-horses were jogging up
the trail. Kells was driving them and leading her pony. Nothing could be
seen of the other men. Kells rapidly overhauled her, and she had to get
out of the trail to let the pack-animals pass. He threw her bridle to
her.
“Get up,” he said.
She complied. And then she bravely faced him. “Where are--the other
men?”
“We parted company,” he replied, curtly.
“Why?” she persisted.
“Well, if you're anxious to know, it was because you were winning
their--regard--too much to suit me.”
“Winning their regard!” Joan exclaimed, blankly.
Here those gray, piercing eyes went through her, then swiftly shifted.
She was quick to divine from that the inference in his words--he
suspected her of flirting with those ruffians, perhaps to escape him
through them. That had only been his suspicion--groundless after his
swift glance at her. Perhaps unconsciousness of his meaning, a simulated
innocence, and ignorance might serve her with this strange man. She
resolved to try it, to use all her woman's intuition and wit and
cunning. Here was an educated man who was a criminal--an outcast. Deep
within him might be memories of a different life. They might be stirred.
Joan decided in that swift instant that, if she could understand him,
learn his real intentions toward her, she could cope with him.
“Bill and his pard were thinking too much of--of the ransom I'm after,”
went on Kells, with a short laugh. “Come on now. Ride close to me.”
Joan turned into the trail with his laugh ringing in her ears. Did she
only imagine a mockery in it? Was there any reason to believe a word
this man said? She appeared as helpless to see through him as she was in
her predicament.
They had entered a canon, such as was typical of that mountain range,
and the winding trail which ran beneath the yellow walls was one unused
to travel. Joan could not make out any old tracks, except those of deer
and cougar. The crashing of wild animals into the chaparral, and
the scarcely frightened flight of rabbits and grouse attested to the
wildness of the place. They passed an old tumbledown log cabin, once
used, no doubt, by prospectors and hunters. Here the trail ended. Yet
Kells kept on up the canon. And for all Joan could tell the walls grew
only the higher and the timber heavier and the space wilder.