did not express satisfaction or exultation. He handed the gold-belt to
the grinning Budd, and turned to the young man.
“Got any gold?”
“No. I--I wasn't a miner,” replied the youth huskily.
Gulden felt for a gold-belt, then slapped at his pockets. “Turn round!”
ordered the giant.
“Aw, Gul let him go!” remonstrated Jesse Smith.
Blicky laid a restraining hand upon Gulden's broad shoulder.
“Turn round!” repeated Gulden, without the slightest sign of noticing
his colleagues.
But the youth understood and he turned a ghastly livid hue.
“For God's sake--don't murder me!” he gasped. “I had--nothing--no
gold--no gun!”
Gulden spun him round like a top and pushed him forward. They went half
a dozen paces, then the youth staggered, and turning, he fell on his
knees.
“Don't--kill--me!” he entreated.
Joan, seeing Jim Cleve stiffen and crouch, thought of him even in that
horrible moment; and she gripped his arm with all her might. They must
endure.
The other bandits muttered, but none moved a hand.
Gulden thrust out the big gun. His hair bristled on his head, and his
huge frame seemed instinct with strange vibration, like some object of
tremendous weight about to plunge into resistless momentum.
Even the stricken youth saw his doom. “Let--me--pray!” he begged.
Joan did not fault, but a merciful unclamping of muscle-bound rigidity
closed her eyes.
“Gul!” yelled Blicky, with passion. “I ain't a-goin' to let you kill
this kid! There's no sense in it. We're spotted back in Alder Creek....
Run, kid! Run!”
Then Joan opened her eyes to see the surly Gulden's arm held by Blicky,
and the youth running blindly down the road. Joan's relief and joy were
tremendous. But still she answered to the realizing shock of what Gulden
had meant to do. She leaned against Cleve, all within and without a
whirling darkness of fire. The border wildness claimed her then. She had
the spirit, though not the strength, to fight. She needed the sight
and sound of other things to restore her equilibrium. She would have
welcomed another shock, an injury. And then she was looking down upon
the gasping miner. He was dying. Hurriedly Joan knelt beside him to lift
his head. At her call Cleve brought a canteen. But the miner could not
drink and he died with some word unspoken.
Dizzily Joan arose, and with Cleve half supporting her she backed off
the road to a seat on the bank. She saw the bandits now at business-like
action. Blicky and Smith were cutting the horses out of their harness:
Beady Jones, like a ghoul, searched the dead men; the three bandits whom
Joan knew only by sight were making up a pack; Budd was standing beside
the stage with his, expectant grin; and Gulden, with the agility of the
gorilla he resembled, was clambering over the top of the stage. Suddenly
from under the driver's seat he hauled a buckskin sack. It was small,
but heavy. He threw it down to Budd, almost knocking over that bandit.
Budd hugged the sack and yelled like an Indian. The other men whooped
and ran toward him. Gulden hauled out another sack. Hands to the number
of a dozen stretched clutchingly. When he threw the sack there was a mad
scramble. They fought, but it was only play. They were gleeful. Blicky
secured the prize and he held it aloft in triumph. Assuredly he would
have waved it had it not been so heavy. Gulden drew out several small
sacks, which he provokingly placed on the seat in front of him. The
bandits below howled in protest. Then the giant, with his arm under the
seat, his huge frame bowed, heaved powerfully upon something, and
his face turned red. He halted in his tugging to glare at his bandit
comrades below. If his great cavernous eyes expressed any feeling it was
analogous to the reluctance manifest in his posture--he regretted
the presence of his gang. He would rather have been alone. Then with
deep-muttered curse and mighty heave he lifted out a huge buckskin sack,
tied and placarded and marked.
“ONE HUNDRED POUNDS!” he boomed.
It seemed to Joan then that a band of devils surrounded the stage, all
roaring at the huge, bristling demon above, who glared and bellowed down
at them.
Finally Gulden stilled the tumult, which, after all, was one of frenzied
joy.
“Share and share alike!” he thundered, now black in the face. “Do you
fools want to waste time here on the road, dividing up this gold?”
“What you say goes,” shouted Budd.
There was no dissenting voice.
“What a stake!” ejaculated Blicky. “Gul, the boss had it figgered.
Strange, though, he hasn't showed up!”
“Where'll we go?” queried Gulden. “Speak up, you men.”
The unanimous selection was Cabin Gulch. Plainly Gulden did not like
this, but he was just.
“All right. Cabin Gulch it is. But nobody outside of Kells and us gets a
share in this stake.”
Many willing hands made short work of preparation. Gulden insisted
on packing all the gold upon his saddle, and had his will. He seemed
obsessed; he never glanced at Joan. It was Jesse Smith who gave the
directions and orders. One of the stage-horses was packed. Another, with
a blanket for a saddle, was given Cleve to ride. Blicky gallantly gave
his horse to Joan, shortened his stirrups to fit her, and then whistled
at the ridgy back of the stage-horse he elected to ride. Gulden was in a
hurry, and twice he edged off, to be halted by impatient calls. Finally
the cavalcade was ready; Jesse Smith gazed around upon the scene with
the air of a general overlooking a vanquished enemy.
“Whoever fust runs acrost this job will have blind staggers, don't you
forgit thet!”
“What's Kells goin' to figger?” asked Blicky, sharply.
“Nothin' fer Kells! He wasn't in at the finish!” declared Budd.
Blicky gazed darkly at him, but made no comment.
“I tell you Blick, I can't git this all right in my head,” said Smith.
“Say, ask Jim again. Mebbe, now the job's done, he can talk,” suggested
Blicky.
Jim Cleve heard and appeared ready for that question.
“I don't know much more than I told you. But I can guess. Kells had this
big shipment of gold spotted. He must have sent us in the stage for some
reason. He said he'd tell me what to expect and do. But he didn't come
back. Sure he knew you'd do the job. And just as sure he expected to be
on hand. He'll turn up soon.”
This ruse of Jim's did not sound in the least logical or plausible to
Joan, but it was readily accepted by the bandits. Apparently what they
knew of Kells's movements and plans since the break-up at Alder Creek
fitted well with Cleve's suggestions.
“Come on!” boomed Gulden, from the fore. “Do you want to rot here?”
Then without so much as a backward glance at the ruin they left behind
the bandits fell into line. Jesse Smith led straight off the road into
a shallow brook and evidently meant to keep in it. Gulden followed; next
came Beady Jones; then the three bandits with the pack-horse and the
other horses; Cleve and Joan, close together, filed in here; and last
came Budd and Blicky. It was rough, slippery traveling and the riders
spread out. Cleve, however, rode beside Joan. Once, at an opportune
moment, he leaned toward her.
“We'd better run for it at the first chance,” he said, somberly.
“No!... GULDEN!” Joan had to moisten her lips to speak the monster's
name.
“He'll never think of you while he has all that gold.”
Joan's intelligence grasped this, but her morbid dread, terribly
augmented now, amounted almost to a spell. Still, despite the darkness
of her mind, she had a flash of inspiration and of spirit.
“Kells is my only hope!... If he doesn't join us soon--then we'll
run!... And if we can't escape that”--Joan made a sickening gesture
toward the fore--“you must kill me before--before--”
Her voice trailed off, failing.
“I will!” he promised through locked teeth.
And then they rode on, with dark, faces bent over the muddy water and
treacherous stones.
When Jesse Smith led out of that brook it was to ride upon bare rock. He
was not leaving any trail. Horses and riders were of no consideration.
And he was a genius for picking hard ground and covering it. He never
slackened his gait, and it seemed next to impossible to keep him in
sight.
For Joan the ride became toil and the toil became pain. But there was no
rest. Smith kept mercilessly onward. Sunset and twilight and night found
the cavalcade still moving. Then it halted just as Joan was about to
succumb. Jim lifted her off her horse and laid her upon the grass. She
begged for water, and she drank and drank. But she wanted no food. There
was a heavy, dull beating in her ears, a band tight round her forehead.
She was aware of the gloom, of the crackling of fires, of leaping
shadows, of the passing of men to and fro near her, and, most of all,
rendering her capable of a saving shred of self-control, she was aware
of Jim's constant companionship and watchfulness. Then sounds grew far
off and night became a blur.
Morning when it came seemed an age removed from that hideous night. Her
head had cleared, and but for the soreness of body and limb she would
have begun the day strong. There appeared little to eat and no time to
prepare it. Gulden was rampant for action. Like a miser he guarded the
saddle packed with gold. This tune his comrades were as eager as he to
be on the move. All were obsessed by the presence of gold. Only one hour
loomed in their consciousness--that of the hour of division. How fatal
and pitiful and terrible! Of what possible use or good was gold to them?
The ride began before sunrise. It started and kept on at a steady
trot. Smith led down out of the rocky slopes and fastnesses into
green valleys. Jim Cleve, riding bareback on a lame horse, had his
difficulties. Still he kept close beside or behind Joan all the way.
They seldom spoke, and then only a word relative to this stern business
of traveling in the trail of a hard-riding bandit. Joan bore up better
this day, as far as her mind was concerned. Physically she had all
she could do to stay in the saddle. She learned of what steel she was
actually made--what her slender frame could endure. That day's ride
seemed a thousand miles long, and never to end. Yet the implacable Smith
did finally halt, and that before dark.
Camp was made near water. The bandits were a jovial lot, despite a lack
of food. They talked of the morrow. All--the world--lay beyond the next
sunrise. Some renounced their pipes and sought their rest just to hurry
on the day. But Gulden, tireless, sleepless, eternally vigilant, guarded
the saddle of gold and brooded over it, and seemed a somber giant carved
out of the night. And Blicky, nursing some deep and late-developed
scheme, perhaps in Kells's interest or his own, kept watch over Gulden
and all.
Jim cautioned Joan to rest, and importuned her and promised to watch
while she slept.
Joan saw the stars through her shut eyelids. All the night seemed to
press down and softly darken.
The sun was shining red when the cavalcade rode up Cabin Gulch. The
grazing cattle stopped to watch and the horses pranced and whistled.
There were flowers and flitting birds, and glistening dew on leaves,
and a shining swift flow of water--the brightness of morning and nature
smiled in Cabin Gulch.
Well indeed Joan remembered the trail she had ridden so often. How that
clump of willow where first she had confronted Jim thrilled her now! The
pines seemed welcoming her. The gulch had a sense of home in it for her,
yet it was fearful. How much had happened there! What might yet happen!
Then a clear, ringing call stirred her pulse. She glanced up the slope.
Tall and straight and dark, there on the bench, with hand aloft, stood
the bandit Kells.
19
The weary, dusty cavalcade halted on the level bench before the bandit's
cabin. Gulden boomed a salute to Kells. The other men shouted greeting.
In the wild exultation of triumph they still held him as chief.
But Kells was not deceived. He even passed by that heavily laden,
gold-weighted saddle. He had eyes only for Joan.
“Girl, I never was so glad to see any one!” he exclaimed in husky amaze.
“How did it happen? I never--”
Jim Cleve leaned over to interrupt Kells. “It was great, Kells--that
idea of yours putting us in the stagecoach you meant to hold up,” said
Cleve, with a swift, meaning glance. “But it nearly was the end of us.
You didn't catch up. The gang didn't know we were inside, and they shot
the old stage full of holes.”
“Aha! So that's it,” replied Kells, slowly. “But the main point is--you
brought her through. Jim, I can't ever square that.”
“Oh, maybe you can,” laughed Cleve, as he dismounted.
Suddenly Kells became aware of Joan's exhaustion and distress. “Joan,
you're not hurt?” he asked in swift anxiety.
“No, only played out.”
“You look it. Come.” He lifted her out of the saddle and, half carrying,
half leading her, took her into the cabin, and through the big room to
her old apartment. How familiar it seemed to Joan! A ground-squirrel
frisked along a chink between the logs, chattering welcome. The place
was exactly as Joan had left it.
Kells held Joan a second, as if he meant to embrace her, but he did not.
“Lord, it's good to see you! I never expected to again.... But you
can tell me all about yourself after you rest.... I was just having
breakfast. I'll fetch you some.”
“Were you alone here?” asked Joan.
“Yes. I was with Bate and Handy--”
“Hey, Kells!” roared the gang, from the outer room.
Kells held aside the blanket curtain so that Joan was able to see
through the door. The men were drawn up in a half-circle round the
table, upon which were the bags of gold.
Kells whistled low. “Joan, there'll be trouble now,” he said, “but don't
you fear. I'll not forget you.”
Despite his undoubted sincerity Joan felt a subtle change in him, and
that, coupled with the significance of his words, brought a return of
the strange dread. Kells went out and dropped the curtain behind him.
Joan listened.
“Share and share alike!” boomed the giant Gulden.
“Say!” called Kells, gaily, “aren't you fellows going to eat first?”
Shouts of derision greeted his sally.
“I'll eat gold-dust,” added Budd.
“Have it your own way, men,” responded Kells. “Blicky, get the scales
down off of that shelf.... Say, I'll bet anybody I'll have the most dust
by sundown.”
More shouts of derision were flung at him.
“Who wants to gamble now?”
“Boss, I'll take thet bet.”
“Haw! Haw! You won't look so bright by sundown.”
Then followed a moment's silence, presently broken by a clink of metal
on the table.
“Boss, how'd you ever git wind of this big shipment of gold?” asked
Jesse Smith.
“I've had it spotted. But Handy Oliver was the scout.”
“We'll shore drink to Handy!” exclaimed one of the bandits.
“An' who was sendin' out this shipment?” queried the curious Smith.
“Them bags are marked all the same.”
“It was a one-man shipment,” replied Kells. “Sent out by the boss miner
of Alder Creek. They call him Overland something.”
That name brought Joan to her feet with a thrilling fire. Her uncle, old
Bill Hoadley, was called “Overland.” Was it possible that the bandits
meant him? It could hardly be; that name was a common one in the
mountains.
“Shore, I seen Overland lots of times,” said Budd. “An' he got wise to
my watchin' him.”
“Somebody tipped it off that the Legion was after his gold,” went on
Kells. “I suppose we have Pearce to thank for that. But it worked out
well for us. The hell we raised there at the lynching must have thrown
a scare into Overland. He had nerve enough to try to send his dust to
Bannack on the very next stage. He nearly got away with it, too. For it
was only lucky accident that Handy heard the news.”
The name Overland drew Joan like a magnet and she arose to take her old
position, where she could peep in upon the bandits. One glance at Jim
Cleve told her that he, too, had been excited by the name. Then it
occurred to Joan that her uncle could hardly have been at Alder Creek
without Jim knowing it. Still, among thousands of men, all wild and
toiling and self-sufficient, hiding their identities, anything might be
possible. After a few moments, however, Joan leaned to the improbability
of the man being her uncle.
Kells sat down before the table and Blicky stood beside him with the
gold-scales. The other bandits lined up opposite. Jim Cleve stood to one
side, watching, brooding.
“You can't weigh it all on these scales,” said Blicky.
“That's sure,” replied Kells. “We'll divide the small bags first.... Ten
shares--ten equal parts!... Spill out the bags. Blick. And hurry. Look
how hungry Gulden looks!... Somebody cook your breakfast while we divide
the gold.”
“Haw! Haw!”
“Ho! Ho!”
“Who wants to eat?”
The bandits were gay, derisive, scornful, eager, like a group of boys,
half surly, half playful, at a game.
“Wal, I shore want to see my share weighted,” drawled Budd.
Kells moved--his gun flashed--he slammed it hard upon the table.
“Budd, do you question my honesty?” he asked, quick and hard.
“No offense, boss. I was just talkin'.”
That quick change of Kells's marked a subtle difference in the spirit of
the bandits and the occasion. Gaiety and good humor and badinage ended.
There were no more broad grins or friendly leers or coarse laughs.
Gulden and his groups clustered closer to the table, quiet, intense,
watchful, suspicious.
It did not take Kells and his assistant long to divide the smaller
quantity of the gold.
“Here, Gulden,” he said, and handed the giant a bag. Jesse....
Bossert.... Pike.... Beady.... Braverman... “Blicky.”
“Here, Jim Cleve, get in the game,” he added, throwing a bag at Jim. It
was heavy. It hit Jim with a thud and dropped to the ground. He stooped
to reach it.
“That leaves one for Handy and one for me,” went on Kells. “Blicky,
spill out the big bag.”
Presently Joan saw a huge mound of dull, gleaming yellow. The color of
it leaped to the glinting eyes of the bandits. And it seemed to her
that a shadow hovered over them. The movements of Kells grew tense and
hurried. Beads of sweat stood out upon his brow. His hands were not
steady.
Soon larger bags were distributed to the bandits. That broke the
waiting, the watchfulness, but not the tense eagerness. The bandits were
now like leashed hounds. Blicky leaned before Kells and hit the table
with his fist.
“Boss, I've a kick comin',” he said.
“Come on with it,” replied the leader.
“Ain't Gulden a-goin' to divide up thet big nugget?”
“He is if he's square.”
A chorus of affirmatives from the bandits strengthened Kells's
statement. Gulden moved heavily and ponderously, and he pushed some of
his comrades aside to get nearer to Kells.
“Wasn't it my right to do a job by myself--when I wanted?” he demanded.
“No. I agreed to let you fight when you wanted. To kill a man when you
liked!... That was the agreement.”
“What'd I kill a man for?”
No one answered that in words, but the answer was there, in dark faces.
“I know what I meant,” continued Gulden. “And I'm going to keep this
nugget.”
There was a moment's silence. It boded ill to the giant.
“So--he declares himself,” said Blicky, hotly. “Boss, what you say
goes.”
“Let him keep it,” declared Kells, scornfully. “I'll win it from him and
divide it with the gang.”
That was received with hoarse acclaims by all except Gulden. He glared
sullenly. Kells stood up and shook a long finger in the giant's face.
“I'll win your nugget,” he shouted. “I'll beat you at any game.... I
call your hand.... Now if you've got any nerve!”
“Come on!” boomed the giant, and he threw his gold down upon the table
with a crash.
The bandits closed in around the table with sudden, hard violence, all
crowding for seats.
“I'm a-goin' to set in the game!” yelled Blicky.
“We'll all set in,” declared Jesse Smith.
“Come on!” was Gulden's acquiescence.
“But we all can't play at once,” protested Kells. “Let's make up two
games.”
“Naw!”
“Some of you eat, then, while the others get cleaned out.”
“Thet's it--cleaned out!” ejaculated Budd, meanly. “You seem to be sure,
Kells. An' I guess I'll keep shady of thet game.”
“That's twice for you, Budd,” flashed the bandit leader. “Beware of the
third time!”
“Hyar, fellers, cut the cards fer who sets in an' who sets out,” called
Blicky, and he slapped a deck of cards upon the table.
With grim eagerness, as if drawing lots against fate, the bandits bent
over and drew cards. Budd, Braverman, and Beady Jones were the ones
excluded from the game.
“Beady, you fellows unpack those horses and turn them loose. And bring
the stuff inside,” said Kells.
Budd showed a surly disregard, but the other two bandits got up
willingly and went out.
Then the game began, with only Cleve standing, looking on. The bandits
were mostly silent; they moved their hands, and occasionally bent
forward. It was every man against his neighbor. Gulden seemed implacably
indifferent and played like a machine. Blicky sat eager and excited,
under a spell. Jesse Smith was a slow, cool, shrewed gambler. Bossert
and Pike, two ruffians almost unknown to Joan, appeared carried away
by their opportunity. And Kells began to wear that strange, rapt, weak
expression that gambling gave him.
Presently Beady Jones and Braverman bustled in, carrying the packs. Then
Budd jumped up and ran to them. He returned to the table, carrying a
demijohn, which he banged upon the table.
“Whisky!” exclaimed Kells. “Take that away. We can't drink and gamble.”
“Watch me!” replied Blicky.
“Let them drink, Kells,” declared Gulden. “We'll get their dust quicker.
Then we can have our game.”
Kells made no more comment. The game went on and the aspect of it
changed. When Kells himself began to drink, seemingly unconscious of the
fact, Joan's dread increased greatly, and, leaving the peep-hole, she
lay back upon the bed. Always a sword had hung over her head. Time after
time by some fortunate circumstance or by courage or wit or by an act of
Providence she had escaped what strangely menaced. Would she escape it
again? For she felt the catastrophe coming. Did Jim recognize that fact?
Remembering the look on his face, she was assured that he did. Then he
would be quick to seize upon any possible chance to get her away; and
always he would be between her and those bandits. At most, then, she had
only death to fear--death that he would mercifully deal to her if the
worst came. And as she lay there listening to the slow-rising murmur of
the gamblers, with her thought growing clearer, she realized it was love
of Jim and fear for him--fear that he would lose her--that caused her
cold dread and the laboring breath and the weighted heart. She had cost
Jim this terrible experience and she wanted to make up to him for it, to
give him herself and all her life.
Joan lay there a long time, thinking and suffering, while the strange,
morbid desire to watch Kells and Gulden grew stronger and stronger,
until it was irresistible. Her fate, her life, lay in the balance
between these two men. She divined that.
She returned to her vantage-point, and as she glanced through she
vibrated to a shock. The change that had begun subtly, intangibly, was
now a terrible and glaring difference. That great quantity of gold, the
equal chance of every gambler, the marvelous possibilities presented to
evil minds, and the hell that hid in that black bottle--these had made
playthings of every bandit except Gulden. He was exactly the same as
ever. But to see the others sent a chill of ice along Joan's veins.
Kells was white and rapt. Plain to see--he had won! Blicky was wild with
rage. Jesse Smith sat darker, grimmer, but no longer cool. There was
hate in the glance he fastened upon Kells as he bet. Beady Jones and
Braverman showed an inflamed and impotent eagerness to take their turn.
Budd sat in the game now, and his face wore a terrible look. Joan could
not tell what passion drove him, but she knew he was a loser. Pike and
Bossert likewise were losers, and stood apart, sullen, watching with
sick, jealous rage. Jim Cleve had reacted to the strain, and he was
white, with nervous, clutching hands and piercing glances. And the game
went on with violent slap of card or pound of fist upon the table, with
the slide of a bag of gold or the little, sodden thump of its weight,
with savage curses at loss and strange, raw exultation at gain, with
hurry and violence--more than all, with the wildness of the hour and
the wildness of these men, drawing closer and closer to the dread climax
that from the beginning had been foreshadowed.