with only a pang and a weight in her breast. The past seemed far away.
The present was nothing. Only the future, that contained Jim Cleve,
mattered to her. She would not have left the clutches of Kells, if at
that moment she could have walked forth free and safe. She was going on
to Cabin Gulch. And that thought was the last one in her weary mind as
she dropped to sleep.
8
In three days--during which time Joan attended Kells as faithfully as if
she were indeed his wife--he thought that he had gained sufficiently to
undertake the journey to the main camp, Cabin Gulch. He was eager to get
back there and imperious in his overruling of any opposition. The men
could take turns at propping him in a saddle. So on the morning of the
fourth day they packed for the ride.
During these few days Joan had verified her suspicion that Kells had
two sides to his character; or it seemed, rather, that her presence
developed a latent or a long-dead side. When she was with him, thereby
distracting his attention, he was entirely different from what he was
when his men surrounded him. Apparently he had no knowledge of this. He
showed surprise and gratitude at Joan's kindness though never pity or
compassion for her. That he had become infatuated with her Joan could no
longer doubt. His strange eyes followed her; there was a dreamy light in
them; he was mostly silent with her.
Before those few days had come to an end he had developed two things--a
reluctance to let Joan leave his sight and an intolerance of the
presence of the other men, particularly Gulden. Always Joan felt the
eyes of these men upon her, mostly in unobtrusive glances, except
Gulden's. The giant studied her with slow, cavernous stare, without
curiosity or speculation or admiration. Evidently a woman was a new and
strange creature to him and he was experiencing unfamiliar sensations.
Whenever Joan accidentally met his gaze--for she avoided it as much as
possible--she shuddered with sick memory of a story she had heard--how
a huge and ferocious gorilla had stolen into an African village and run
off with a white woman. She could not shake the memory. And it was this
that made her kinder to Kells than otherwise would have been possible.
All Joan's faculties sharpened in this period. She felt her own
development--the beginning of a bitter and hard education--an
instinctive assimilation of all that nature taught its wild people
and creatures, the first thing in elemental life--self-preservation.
Parallel in her heart and mind ran a hopeless despair and a driving,
unquenchable spirit. The former was fear, the latter love. She believed
beyond a doubt that she had doomed herself along with Jim Cleve; she
felt that she had the courage, the power, the love to save him, if
not herself. And the reason that she did not falter and fail in this
terrible situation was because her despair, great as it was, did not
equal her love.
That morning, before being lifted upon his horse, Kells buckled on his
gun-belt. The sheath and full round of shells and the gun made this belt
a burden for a weak man. And so Red Pearce insisted. But Kells laughed
in his face. The men, always excepting Gulden, were unfailing in
kindness and care. Apparently they would have fought for Kells to the
death. They were simple and direct in their rough feelings. But in
Kells, Joan thought, was a character who was a product of this border
wildness, yet one who could stand aloof from himself and see the
possibilities, the unexpected, the meaning of that life. Kells knew that
a man and yet another might show kindness and faithfulness one moment,
but the very next, out of a manhood retrograded to the savage, out
of the circumstance or chance, might respond to a primitive force far
sundered from thought or reason, and rise to unbridled action. Joan
divined that Kells buckled on his gun to be ready to protect her. But
his men never dreamed his motive. Kells was a strong, bad man set among
men like him, yet he was infinitely different because he had brains.
On the start of the journey Joan was instructed to ride before Kells
and Pearce, who supported the leader in his saddle. The pack-drivers
and Bate Wood and Frenchy rode ahead; Gulden held to the rear. And this
order was preserved till noon, when the cavalcade halted for a rest in
a shady, grassy, and well-watered nook. Kells was haggard, and his
brow wet with clammy dew, and lined with pain. Yet he was cheerful and
patient. Still he hurried the men through their tasks.
In an hour the afternoon travel was begun. The canon and its
surroundings grew more rugged and of larger dimensions. Yet the
trail appeared to get broader and better all the time. Joan noticed
intersecting trails, running down from side canons and gulches. The
descent was gradual, and scarcely evident in any way except in the
running water and warmer air.
Kells, tired before the middle of the afternoon, and he would have
fallen from his saddle but for the support of his fellows. One by one
they held him up. And it was not easy work to ride alongside, holding
him up. Joan observed that Gulden did not offer his services. He seemed
a part of this gang, yet not of it. Joan never lost a feeling of his
presence behind her, and from time to time, when he rode closer, the
feeling grew stronger. Toward the close of that afternoon she became
aware of Gulden's strange attention. And when a halt was made for camp
she dreaded something nameless.
This halt occurred early, before sunset, and had been necessitated by
the fact that Kells was fainting. They laid him out on blankets, with
his head in his saddle. Joan tended him, and he recovered somewhat,
though he lacked the usual keenness.
It was a busy hour with saddles, packs, horses, with wood to cut and
fire to build and meal to cook. Kells drank thirstily, but refused food.
“Joan,” he whispered, at an opportune moment, “I'm only tired--dead for
sleep. You stay beside me. Wake me quick--if you want to!”
He closed his eyes wearily, without explaining, and soon slumbered.
Joan did not choose to allow these men to see that she feared them or
distrusted them or disliked them. She ate with them beside the fire.
And this was their first opportunity to be close to her. The fact had
an immediate and singular influence. Joan had no vanity, though she knew
she was handsome. She forced herself to be pleasant, agreeable, even
sweet. Their response was instant and growing. At first they were bold,
then familiar and coarse. For years she had been used to rough men
of the camps. These however, were different, and their jokes and
suggestions had no effect because they were beyond her. And when this
became manifest to them that aspect of their relation to her changed.
She grasped the fact intuitively, and then she verified it by proof. Her
heart beat strong and high. If she could hide her hate, her fear, her
abhorrence, she could influence these wild men. But it all depended upon
her charm, her strangeness, her femininity. Insensibly they had been
influenced, and it proved that in the worst of men there yet survived
some good. Gulden alone presented a contrast and a problem. He appeared
aware of her presence while he sat there eating like a wolf, but it was
as if she were only an object. The man watched as might have an animal.
Her experience at the camp-fire meal inclined her to the belief that,
if there were such a possibility as her being safe at all, it would be
owing to an unconscious and friendly attitude toward the companions she
had been forced to accept. Those men were pleased, stirred at being in
her vicinity. Joan came to a melancholy and fearful cognizance of her
attraction. While at home she seldom had borne upon her a reality--that
she was a woman. Her place, her person were merely natural. Here it
was all different. To these wild men, developed by loneliness,
fierce-blooded, with pulses like whips, a woman was something that
thrilled, charmed, soothed, that incited a strange, insatiable,
inexplicable hunger for the very sight of her. They did not realize it,
but Joan did.
Presently Joan finished her supper and said: “I'll go hobble my horse.
He strays sometimes.”
“Shore I'll go, miss,” said Bate Wood. He had never called her Mrs.
Kells, but Joan believed he had not thought of the significance.
Hardened old ruffian that he was. Joan regarded him as the best of a bad
lot. He had lived long, and some of his life had not been bad.
“Let me go,” added Pearce.
“No, thanks. I'll go myself,” she replied.
She took the rope hobble off her saddle and boldly swung down the trail.
Suddenly she heard two or more of the men speak at once, and then, low
and clear: “Gulden, where'n hell are you goin'?” This was Red Pearce's
voice.
Joan glanced back. Gulden had started down the trail after her. Her
heart quaked, her knees shook, and she was ready to run back. Gulden
halted, then turned away, growling. He acted as if caught in something
surprising to himself.
“We're on to you, Gulden,” continued Pearce, deliberately. “Be careful
or we'll put Kells on.”
A booming, angry curse was the response. The men grouped closer and a
loud altercation followed. Joan almost ran down the trail and heard no
more. If any one of them had started her way now she would have plunged
into the thickets like a frightened deer. Evidently, however, they meant
to let her alone. Joan found her horse, and before hobbling him she was
assailed by a temptation to mount him and ride away. This she did not
want to do and would not do under any circumstances; still, she could
not prevent the natural instinctive impulse of a woman.
She crossed to the other side of the brook and returned toward camp
under the spruce and balsam trees, She did not hurry. It was good to
be alone, out of sight of those violent men, away from that constant
wearing physical proof of catastrophe. Nevertheless, she did not feel
free or safe for a moment; she peered fearfully into the shadows of the
rocks and trees; and presently it was a relief to get back to the side
of the sleeping Kells. He lay in a deep slumber of exhaustion. She
arranged her own saddle and blankets near him, and prepared to meet the
night as best she could. Instinctively she took a position where in one
swift snatch she could get possession of Kells's gun.
It was about time of sunset, warm and still in the canon, with rosy
lights fading upon the peaks. The men were all busy with one thing and
another. Strange it was to see that Gulden, who Joan thought might be
a shirker, did twice the work of any man, especially the heavy work. He
seemed to enjoy carrying a log that would have overweighted two ordinary
men. He was so huge, so active, so powerful that it was fascinating to
watch him. They built the camp-fire for the night uncomfortably near
Joan's position; however, remembering how cold the air would become
later, she made no objection. Twilight set in and the men, through for
the day, gathered near the fire.
Then Joan was not long in discovering that the situation had begun
to impinge upon the feelings of each of these men. They looked at her
differently. Some of them invented pretexts to approach her, to ask
something, to offer service--anything to get near her. A personal and
individual note had been injected into the attitude of each. Intuitively
Joan guessed that Gulden's arising to follow her had turned their eyes
inward. Gulden remained silent and inactive at the edge of the camp-fire
circle of light, which flickered fitfully around him, making him seem a
huge, gloomy ape of a man. So far as Joan could tell, Gulden never cast
his eyes in her direction. That was a difference which left cause for
reflection. Had that hulk of brawn and bone begun to think? Bate Wood's
overtures to Joan were rough, but inexplicable to her because she dared
not wholly trust him.
“An' shore, miss,” he had concluded, in a hoarse whisper, “we-all know
you ain't Kells's wife. Thet bandit wouldn't marry no woman. He's a
woman-hater. He was famous fer thet over in California. He's run off
with you--kidnapped you, thet's shore.... An' Gulden swears he shot his
own men an' was in turn shot by you. Thet bullet-hole in his back was
full of powder. There's liable to be a muss-up any time.... Shore, miss,
you'd better sneak off with me tonight when they're all asleep. I'll git
grub an' hosses, an' take you off to some prospector's camp. Then you
can git home.”
Joan only shook her head. Even if she could have felt trust in Wood--and
she was of half a mind to believe him--it was too late. Whatever befell
her mattered little if in suffering it she could save Jim Cleve from the
ruin she had wrought.
Since this wild experience of Joan's had begun she had been sick so
many times with raw and naked emotions hitherto unknown to her, that
she believed she could not feel another new fear or torture. But these
strange sensations grew by what they had been fed upon.
The man called Frenchy, was audacious, persistent, smiling,
amorous-eyed, and rudely gallant. He cared no more for his companions
than if they had not been there. He vied with Pearce in his attention,
and the two of them discomfited the others. The situation might have
been amusing had it not been so terrible. Always the portent was a
shadow behind their interest and amiability and jealousy. Except for
that one abrupt and sinister move of Gulden's--that of a natural man
beyond deceit--there was no word, no look, no act at which Joan could
have been offended. They were joking, sarcastic, ironical, and sullen
in their relation to each other; but to Joan each one presented what was
naturally or what he considered his kindest and most friendly front. A
young and attractive woman had dropped into the camp of lonely wild men;
and in their wild hearts was a rebirth of egotism, vanity, hunger
for notice. They seemed as foolish as a lot of cock grouse preening
themselves and parading before a single female. Surely in some heart was
born real brotherhood for a helpless girl in peril. Inevitably in some
of them would burst a flame of passion as it had in Kells.
Between this amiable contest for Joan's glances and replies, with its
possibility of latent good to her, and the dark, lurking, unspoken
meaning, such as lay in Gulden's brooding, Joan found another new and
sickening torture.
“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 hers.
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 hand.
For a man as weak and weary as he had been, it was remarkable how
quickly a 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' I 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 camp-fire. Presently they sought their blankets, leaving Gulden
hunching there silent 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.”
“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 in her saddle, and
pulling a blanket up over her, relaxed her limbs to rest. Sleep seemed
the furthest 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 dull and red. Joan watched the black,
shapeless hulk 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 round 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, dreading
to meet him, longing to see him, and praying and planning for him.
About noon the cavalcade rode out of the mouth of a canon into a wide
valley, surrounded by high, rounded foot-hills. 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 canons. 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 wild flowers 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. And Red Pearce, who was beside Kells, instructed Joan
to follow them. They rode up to a bench of straggling 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 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 one 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 round 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 smaller,
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. And 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
crosspieces 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 nesting in the chinks; a ground squirrel ran along one of the
logs and chirped at her; through an opening near her face she saw a
wild rose-bush 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 time was
the same here as elsewhere; that the sun shone and the sky gleamed blue.
Presently she discovered that a lassitude weighted 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.