hand swept out for the belt, lifted and weighed it. Likewise the other
bandits, with gold in sight, surged round Kells, forgetting Cleve.
“Twenty pounds!” exclaimed Kells, with a strange rapture in his voice.
“Let me heft it?” asked Pearce, thrillingly.
Joan saw and heard so much, then through a kind of dimness, that she
could not wipe away, her eyes beheld Jim. What was the awful thing that
she interpreted from his face, his mien? Was this a part he was playing
to deceive Kells? The slow-gathering might of her horror came with the
meaning of that gold-belt. Jim had brought back the gold-belt of the
miner Creede. He had, in his passion to remain near her, to save her in
the end, kept his word to Kells and done the ghastly deed.
Joan reeled and sank back upon the bed, blindly, with darkening sight
and mind.
16
Joan returned to consciousness with a sense of vague and unlocalized
pain which she thought was that old, familiar pang of grief. But once
fully awakened, as if by a sharp twinge, she became aware that the pain
was some kind of muscular throb in her shoulder. The instant she was
fully sure of this the strange feeling ceased. Then she lay wide-eyed in
the darkness, waiting and wondering.
Suddenly the slight sharp twing was repeated. It seemed to come from
outside her flesh. She shivered a little, thinking it might be a
centipede. When she reached for her shoulder her hand came in contact
with a slender stick that had been thrust through a crack between the
boards. Jim was trying to rouse her. This had been his method on several
occasions when she had fallen asleep after waiting long for him.
Joan got up to the window, dizzy and sick with the resurging memory of
Jim's return to Kells with that gold-belt.
Jim rose out of the shadow and felt for her, clasped her close. Joan
had none of the old thrill; her hands slid loosely round his; and every
second the weight inwardly grew heavier.
“Joan! I had a time waking you,” whispered Jim, and then he kissed her.
“Why, you're as cold as ice.”
“Jim--I--I must have fainted,” she replied.
“What for?” “I was peeping into Kells's cabin, when you--you--”
“Poor kid!” he interrupted, tenderly. “You've had so much to bear!...
Joan, I fooled Kells. Oh, I was slick!... He ordered me out on a job--to
kill a miner! Fancy that! And what do you think? I know Creede well.
He's a good fellow. I traded my big nugget for his gold-belt!”
“You TRADED--you--didn't--kill him!” faltered Joan.
“Hear the child talk!” exclaimed Cleve, with a low laugh.
Joan suddenly clung to him with all her might, quivering in a silent
joy. It had not occurred to Jim what she might have thought.
“Listen,” he went on. “I traded my nugget. It was worth a great deal
more than Creede's gold-belt. He knew this. He didn't want to trade. But
I coaxed him. I persuaded him to leave camp--to walk out on the road to
Bannack. To meet the stage somewhere and go on to Bannack, and stay a
few days. He sure was curious. But I kept my secret.... Then I came
back here, gave the belt to Kells, told him I had followed Creede in
the dark, had killed him and slid him into a deep hole in the creek....
Kells and Pearce--none of them paid any attention to my story. I had
the gold-belt. That was enough. Gold talks--fills the ears of these
bandits.... I have my share of Creede's gold-dust in my pocket. Isn't
that funny? Alas for my--YOUR big nugget! But we've got to play the
game. Besides, I've sacks and cans of gold hidden away. Joan, what'll
we do with it all? You're my wife now. And, oh! If we can only get away
with it you'll be rich!”
Joan could not share his happiness any more than she could understand
his spirit. She remembered.
“Jim--dear--did Kells tell you what your--next job was to be?” she
whispered, haltingly.
Cleve swore under his breath, but loud enough to make Joan swiftly put
her hand over his lips and caution him.
“Joan, did you hear that about Gulden?” he asked.
“Oh yes.”
“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to tell you. Yes, I've got my second job. And
this one I can't shirk or twist around.”
Joan held to him convulsively. She could scarcely speak.
“Girl, don't lose your nerve!” he said, sternly. “When you married me
you made me a man. I'll play my end of the game. Don't fear for me. You
plan when we can risk escape. I'll obey you to the word.”
“But Jim--oh, Jim!” she moaned. “You're as wild as these bandits. You
can't see your danger.... That terrible Gulden!... You don't mean to
meet him--fight him?... Say you won't!”
“Joan, I'll meet him--and I'll KILL him,” whispered Jim, with a piercing
intensity. “You never knew I was swift with a gun. Well, I didn't,
either, till I struck the border. I know now. Kells is the only man
I've seen who can throw a gun quicker than I. Gulden is a big bull. He's
slow. I'll get into a card-game with him--I'll quarrel over gold--I'll
smash him as I did once before--and this time I won't shoot off his ear.
I've my nerve now. Kells swore he'd do anything for me if I stand by
him now. I will. You never can tell. Kells is losing his grip. And my
standing by him may save you.”
Joan drew a deep breath. Jim Cleve had indeed come into manhood. She
crushed down her womanish fears and rose dauntless to the occasion. She
would never weaken him by a lack of confidence.
“Jim, Kells's plot draws on to a fatal close,” she said, earnestly. “I
feel it. He's doomed. He doesn't realize that yet. He hopes and plots
on. When he falls, then he'll be great--terrible. We must get away
before that comes. What you said about Creede has given me an idea.
Suppose we plan to slip out some night soon, and stop the stage next day
on its way to Bannack?”
“I've thought of that. But we must have horses.”
“Let's go afoot. We'd be safer. There'd not be so much to plan.”
“But if we go on foot we must pack guns and grub--and there's my
gold-dust. Fifty pounds or more! It's yours, Joan.... You'll need it
all. You love pretty clothes and things. And now I'll get them for you
or--or die.”
“Hush! That's foolish talk, with our very lives at stake. Let me plan
some more. Oh, I think so hard!... And, Jim, there's another thing. Red
Pearce was more than suspicious about your absence from the cabin at
certain hours. What he hinted to Kells about a woman in the case! I'm
afraid he suspects or knows.”
“He had me cold, too,” replied Cleve, thoughtfully. “But he swore he
knew nothing.”
“Jim, trust a woman's instinct. Pearce lied. That gun at his side made
him a liar. He knew you'd kill him if he betrayed himself by a word. Oh,
look out for him!”
Cleve did not reply. It struck Joan that he was not listening, at least
to her. His head was turned, rigid and alert. He had his ear to the soft
wind. Suddenly Joan heard a faint rustle-then another. They appeared
to come from the corner of the cabin. Silently Cleve sank down into the
shadow and vanished. Low, stealthy footsteps followed, but Joan was not
sure whether or not Cleve made them. They did not seem to come from the
direction he usually took. Besides, when he was careful he never made
the slightest noise. Joan strained her ears, only to catch the faint
sounds of the night. She lay back upon her bed, worried and anxious
again, and soon the dread returned. There were to be no waking or
sleeping hours free from this portent of calamity.
Next morning Joan awaited Kells, as was her custom, but he did not
appear. This was the third time in a week that he had forgotten or
avoided her or had been prevented from seeing her. Joan was glad,
yet the fact was not reassuring. The issue for Kells was growing from
trouble to disaster.
Early in the afternoon she heard Kells returning from camp. He had men
with him. They conversed in low, earnest tones. Joan was about to spy up
on them when Kells's step approached her door. He rapped and spoke:
“Put on Dandy Dale's suit and mask, and come out here,” he said.
The tone of his voice as much as the content of his words startled Joan
so that she did not at once reply.
“Do you hear?” he called, sharply.
“Yes,” replied Joan.
Then he went back to his men, and the low, earnest conversation was
renewed.
Reluctantly Joan took down Dandy Dale's things from the pegs, and with
a recurring shame she divested herself of part of her clothes and donned
the suit and boots and mask and gun. Her spirit rose, however, at the
thought that this would be a disguise calculated to aid her in the
escape with Cleve. But why had Kells ordered the change? Was he
in danger and did he mean to flee from Alder Creek? Joan found the
speculation a relief from that haunting, persistent thought of Jim Cleve
and Gulden. She was eager to learn, still she hesitated at the door. It
was just as hard as ever to face those men.
But it must be, so with a wrench she stepped out boldly.
Kells looked worn and gray. He had not slept. But his face did not wear
the shade she had come to associate with his gambling and drinking. Six
other men were present, and Joan noted coats and gloves and weapons and
spurs. Kells turned to address her. His face lighted fleetingly.
“I want you to be ready to ride any minute,” he said.
“Why?” asked Joan.
“We may HAVE to, that's all,” he replied.
His men, usually so keen when they had a chance to ogle Joan, now
scarcely gave her a glance. They were a dark, grim group, with hard eyes
and tight lips. Handy Oliver was speaking.
“I tell you, Gulden swore he seen Creede--on the road--in the
lamplight--last night AFTER Jim Cleve got here.”
“Gulden must have been mistaken,” declared Kells, impatiently.
“He ain't the kind to make mistakes,” replied Oliver.
“Gul's seen Creede's ghost, thet's what,” suggested Blicky, uneasily.
“I've seen a few in my time.”
Some of the bandits nodded gloomily.
“Aw!” burst out Red Pearce. “Gulden never seen a ghost in his life. If
he seen Creede he's seen him ALIVE!”
“Shore you're right, Red,” agreed Jesse Smith.
“But, men--Cleve brought in Creede's belt--and we've divided the gold,”
said Kells. “You all know Creede would have to be dead before that belt
could be unbuckled from him. There's a mistake.”
“Boss, it's my idee thet Gul is only makin' more trouble,” put in Bate
Wood. “I seen him less than an hour ago. I was the first one Gul talked
to. An' he knew Jim Cleve did for Creede. How'd he know? Thet was
supposed to be a secret. What's more, Gul told me Cleve was on the job
to kill him. How'd he ever find thet out?... Sure as God made little
apples Cleve never told him!”
Kells's face grew livid and his whole body vibrated. “Maybe one of
Gulden's gang was outside, listening when we planned Cleve's job,” he
suggested. But his look belied his hope.
“Naw! There's a nigger in the wood-pile, you can gamble on thet,”
blurted out the sixth bandit, a lean faced, bold-eye, blond-mustached
fellow whose name Joan had never heard.
“I won't believe it,” replied Kells, doggedly. “And you, Budd, you're
accusing somebody present of treachery--or else Cleve. He's the only one
not here who knew.”
“Wal, I always said thet youngster was slick,” replied Budd.
“Will you accuse him to his face?”
“I shore will. Glad of the chance.”
“Then you're drunk or just a fool.”
“Thet so?”
“Yes, that's so,” flashed Kells. “You don't know Cleve. He'll kill you.
He's lightning with a gun. Do you suppose I'd set him on Gulden's trail
if I wasn't sure? Why I wouldn't care to--”
“Here comes Cleve,” interrupted Pearce, sharply.
Rapid footsteps sounded without. Then Joan saw Jim Cleve darken the
doorway. He looked keen and bold. Upon sight of Joan in her changed
attire he gave a slight start.
“Budd, here's Cleve,” called out Red Pearce, mockingly. “Now, say it to
his face!”
In the silence that ensued Pearce's spirit dominated the moment with its
cunning, hate, and violence. But Kells savagely leaped in front of the
men, still master of the situation.
“Red, what's got into you?” he hissed. “You're cross-grained lately.
You're sore. Any more of this and I'll swear you're a disorganizer....
Now, Budd, you keep your mouth shut. And you, Cleve, you pay no heed to
Budd if he does gab.... We're in bad and all the men have chips on their
shoulders. We've got to stop fighting among ourselves.”
“Wal, boss, there's a power of sense in a good example,” dryly remarked
Bate Wood. His remark calmed Kells and eased the situation.
“Jim, did you meet Gulden?” queried Kells, eagerly.
“Can't find him anywhere,” replied Cleve. “I've loafed in the saloons
and gambling-hells where he hangs out. But he didn't show up. He's in
camp. I know that for a fact. He's laying low for some reason.”
“Gulden's been tipped off, Jim,” said Kells, earnestly. “He told Bate
Wood you were out to kill him.”
“I'm glad. It wasn't a fair hand you were going to deal him,” responded
Cleve. “But who gave my job away? Someone in this gang wants me done
for--more than Gulden.”
Cleve's flashing gaze swept over the motionless men and fixed hardest
upon Red Pearce. Pearce gave back hard look for hard look.
“Gulden told Oliver more,” continued Kells, and he pulled Cleve around
to face him. “Gulden swore he saw Creede alive last night.... LATE LAST
NIGHT!”
“That's funny,” replied Cleve, without the flicker of an eyelash.
“It's not funny. But it's queer. Gulden hasn't the moral sense to lie.
Bate says he wants to make trouble between you and me. I doubt that.
I don't believe Gulden could see a ghost, either. He's simply mistaken
some miner for Creede.”
“He sure has, unless Creede came back to life. I'm not sitting on his
chest now, holding him down.”
Kells drew back, manifestly convinced and relieved. This action seemed
to be a magnet for Pearce. He detached himself from the group, and,
approaching Kells, tapped him significantly on the shoulder; and whether
by design or accident the fact was that he took a position where Kells
was between him and Cleve.
“Jack, you're being double-crossed here--an' by more 'n one,” he said,
deliberately. “But if you want me to talk you've got to guarantee no
gun-play.”
“Speak up, Red,” replied Kells, with a glinting eye. “I swear there
won't be a gun pulled.”
The other men shifted from one foot to another and there were deep-drawn
breaths. Jim Cleve alone seemed quiet and cool. But his eyes were
ablaze.
“Fust off an' for instance here's one who's double-crossin' you,” said
Pearce, in slow, tantalizing speech, as if he wore out this suspense to
torture Kells. And without ever glancing at Joan he jerked a thumb, in
significant gesture, at her.
Joan leaned back against the wall, trembling and cold all over. She read
Pearce's mind. He knew her secret and meant to betray her and Jim. He
hated Kells and wanted to torture him. If only she could think quickly
and speak! But she seemed dumb and powerless.
“Pearce, what do you mean?” demanded Kells.
“The girl's double-crossin' you,” replied Pearce. With the uttered words
he grew pale and agitated.
Suddenly Kells appeared to become aware of Joan's presence and that the
implication was directed toward her. Then, many and remarkable as had
been the changes Joan had seen come over him, now occurred one wholly
greater. It had all his old amiability, his cool, easy manner, veiling a
deep and hidden ruthlessness, terrible in contrast.
“Red, I thought our talk concerned men and gold and--things,” he said,
with a cool, slow softness that had a sting, “but since you've nerve
enough or are crazy enough to speak of--her--why, explain your meaning.”
Pearce's jaw worked so that he could scarcely talk. He had gone too
far--realized it too late.
“She meets a man--back there--at her window,” he panted. “They whisper
in the dark for hours. I've watched an' heard them. An' I'd told you
before, but I wanted to make sure who he was.... I know him now!... An'
remember I seen him climb in an' out--”
Kells's whole frame leaped. His gun was a flash of blue and red and
white all together. Pearce swayed upright, like a tree chopped at the
roots, and then fell, face up, eyes set--dead. The bandit leader stood
over him with the smoking gun.
“My Gawd, Jack!” gasped Handy Oliver. “You swore no one would pull
a gun--an' here you've killed him yourself!... YOU'VE DOUBLE-CROSSED
YOURSELF! An' if I die for it I've got to tell you Red wasn't lyin'
then!”
Kells's radiance fled, leaving him ghastly. He stared at Oliver.
“You've double-crossed yourself an' your pards,” went on Oliver,
pathetically. “What's your word amount to? Do you expect the gang
to stand for this?... There lays Red Pearce dead. An' for what? Jest
once--relyin' on your oath--he speaks out what might have showed you.
An' you kill him!... If I knowed what he knowed I'd tell you now with
thet gun in your hand! But I don't know. Only I know he wasn't lyin'....
Ask the girl!... An' as for me, I reckon I'm through with you an' your
Legion. You're done, Kells--your head's gone--you've broke over thet
slip of a woman!”
Oliver spoke with a rude and impressive dignity. When he ended he strode
out into the sunlight.
Kells was shaken by this forceful speech, yet he was not in any sense
a broken man. “Joan--you heard Pearce,” said he, passionately. “He lied
about you. I had to kill him. He hinted--Oh, the low-lived dog! He could
not know a good woman. He lied--and there he is--dead! I wouldn't fetch
him back for a hundred Legions!”
“But it--it wasn't--all--a lie,” said Joan, and her words came haltingly
because a force stronger than her cunning made her speak. She had
reached a point where she could not deceive Kells to save her life.
“WHAT!” he thundered.
“Pearce told the truth--except that no one ever climbed in my window.
That's false. No one could climb in. It's too small.... But I did
whisper--to someone.”
Kells had to moisten his lips to speak. “Who?”
“I'll never tell you.”
“Who?... I'll kill him!”
“No--no. I won't tell. I won't let you kill another man on my account.”
“I'll choke it out of you.”
“You can't. There's no use to threaten me, or hurt me, either.”
Kells seemed dazed. “Whisper! For hours! In the dark!... But, Joan, what
for? Why such a risk?”
Joan shook her head.
“Were you just unhappy--lonesome? Did some young miner happen to see
you there in daylight--then come at night? Wasn't it only accident? Tell
me.”
“I won't--and I won't because I don't want you to spill more blood.”
“For my sake,” he queried, with the old, mocking tone. Then he grew dark
with blood in his face, fierce with action of hands and body as he
bent nearer her. “Maybe you like him too well to see him shot?... Did
you--whisper often to this stranger?”
Joan felt herself weakening. Kells was so powerful in spirit and passion
that she seemed unable to fight him. She strove to withhold her reply,
but it burst forth, involuntarily.
“Yes--often.”
That roused more than anger and passion. Jealousy flamed from him and it
transformed him into a devil.
“You held hands out of that window--and kissed--in the dark?” he cried,
with working lips.
Joan had thought of this so fearfully and intensely--she had battled so
to fortify herself to keep it secret--that he had divined it, had read
her mind. She could not control herself. The murder of Pearce had almost
overwhelmed her. She had not the strength to bite her tongue. Suggestion
alone would have drawn her then--and Kells's passionate force was
hypnotic.
“Yes,” she whispered.
He appeared to control a developing paroxysm of rage.
“That settles you,” he declared darkly. “But I'll do one more decent
thing by you. I'll marry you.” Then he wheeled to his men. “Blicky,
there's a parson down in camp. Go on the run. Fetch him back if you have
to push him with a gun.”
Blicky darted through the door and his footsteps thudded out of hearing.
“You can't force me to marry you,” said Joan. “I--I won't open my lips.”
“That's your affair. I've no mind to coax you,” he replied, bitterly.
“But if you don't I'll try Gulden's way with a woman.... You remember.
Gulden's way! A cave and a rope!”
Joan's legs gave out under her and she sank upon a pile of blankets.
Then beyond Kells she saw Jim Cleve. With all that was left of her
spirit she flashed him a warning--a meaning--a prayer not to do the
deed she divined was his deadly intent. He caught it and obeyed. And he
flashed back a glance which meant that, desperate as her case was, it
could never be what Kells threatened.
“Men, see me through this,” said Kells to the silent group. “Then any
deal you want--I'm on. Stay here or--sack the camp! Hold up the stage
express with gold for Bannack! Anything for a big stake! Then the trail
and the border.”
He began pacing the floor. Budd and Smith strolled outside. Bate Wood
fumbled in his pockets for pipe and tobacco. Cleve sat down at the table
and leaned on his hands. No one took notice of the dead Pearce. Here was
somber and terrible sign of the wildness of the border clan--that Kells
could send out for a parson to marry him to a woman he hopelessly loved,
there in the presence of murder and death, with Pearce's distorted face
upturned in stark and ghastly significance.
It might have been a quarter of an hour, though to Joan it seemed an
endless time, until footsteps and voices outside announced the return of
Blicky.
He held by the arm a slight man whom he was urging along with no gentle
force. This stranger's face presented as great a contrast to Blicky's as
could have been imagined. His apparel proclaimed his calling. There were
consternation and bewilderment in his expression, but very little fear.
“He was preachin' down there in a tent,” said Blicky, “an I jest waltzed
him up without explainin'.”
“Sir, I want to be married at once,” declared Kells, peremptorily.
“Certainly. I'm at your service,” replied the preacher. “But I deplore
the--the manner in which I've been approached.”
“You'll excuse haste,” rejoined the bandit. “I'll pay you well.” Kells
threw a small buckskin sack of gold-dust upon the table, and then he
turned to Joan. “Come, Joan,” he said, in the tone that brooked neither
resistance nor delay.
It was at that moment that the preacher first noticed Joan. Was her
costume accountable for his start? Joan had remembered his voice and she
wondered if he would remember hers. Certainly Jim had called her Joan
more than once on the night of the marriage. The preacher's eyes grew
keener. He glanced from Joan to Kells, and then at the other men, who
had come in. Jim Cleve stood behind Jesse Smith's broad person, and
evidently the preacher did not see him. That curious gaze, however, next
discovered the dead man on the floor. Then to the curiosity and anxiety
upon the preacher's face was added horror.
“A minister of God is needed here, but not in the capacity you name,” he
said. “I'll perform no marriage ceremony in the presence of--murder.”
“Mr. Preacher, you'll marry me quick or you'll go along with him,”
replied Kells, deliberately.
“I cannot be forced.” The preacher still maintained some dignity, but he
had grown pale.
“_I_ can force you. Get ready now!... Joan, come here!”
Kells spoke sternly, yet something of the old, self-mocking spirit was
in his tone. His intelligence was deriding the flesh and blood of him,
the beast, the fool. It spoke that he would have his way and that the
choice was fatal for him.
Joan shook her head. In one stride Kells reached her and swung her
spinning before him. The physical violence acted strangely upon
Joan--roused her rage.
“I wouldn't marry you to save my life--even if I could!” she burst out.
At her declaration the preacher gave a start that must have been
suspicion or confirmation, or both. He bent low to peer into the face of
the dead Pearce. When he arose he was shaking his head. Evidently he had
decided that Pearce was not the man to whom he had married Joan.
“Please remove your mask,” he said to Joan.
She did so, swiftly, without a tremor. The preacher peered into her
face again, as he had upon the night he had married her to Jim. He faced
Kells again.
“I am beyond your threats,” he said, now with calmness. “I can't marry
you to a woman who already has a husband.... But I don't see that
husband here.”
“You don't see that husband here!” echoed the bewildered Kells. He
stared with open mouth. “Say, have you got a screw loose?”
The preacher, in his swift glance, had apparently not observed the
half-hidden Cleve. Certainly it appeared now that he would have
no attention for any other than Kells. The bandit was a study. His
astonishment was terrific and held him like a chain. Suddenly he
lurched.
“What did you say?” he roared, his face flaming.
“I can't marry you to a woman who already has a husband.”