Zane Grey (11 page)

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.

"Shore I'm a first-rate cook, miss, when I've somethin' to cook," he
said with a smile that changed his hard face.

She returned the smile with her thanks. Evidently Kells had a
well-filled larder, and as Joan had fared on coarse and hard food for
long, this supper was a luxury and exceedingly appetizing. While she was
eating, the blanket curtain moved aside and Kells appeared. He dropped
it behind him, but did not step up into the room. He was in his
shirt-sleeves, had been clean shaven, and looked a different man.

"How do you like your—home?" he inquired, with a hint of his former
mockery.

"I'm grateful for the privacy," she replied.

"You think you could be worse off, then?"

"I know it."

"Suppose Gulden kills me—and rules the gang—and takes you?... There's
a story about him, the worst I've heard on this border. I'll tell you
some day when I want to scare you bad."

"Gulden!" Joan shivered as she pronounced the name. "Are you and he
enemies?"

"No man can have a friend on this border. We flock together like
buzzards. There's safety in numbers, but we fight together, like
buzzards over carrion."

"Kells, you hate this life?"

"I've always hated my life, everywhere. The only life I ever loved was
adventure.... I'm willing to try a new one, if you'll go with me."

Joan shook her head.

"Why not? I'll marry you," he went on, speaking lower. "I've got gold;
I'll get more."

"Where did you get the gold?" she asked

"I've relieved a good many overburdened travelers and prospectors," he
replied.

"Kells, you're a—a villain!" exclaimed Joan, unable to contain her
sudden heat. "You must be utterly mad—to ask me to marry you."

"No, I'm not mad," he rejoined, with a laugh. "Gulden's the mad one.
He's crazy. He's got a twist in his brain. I'm no fool.... I've only
lost my head over you. But compare marrying me, living and traveling
among decent people and comfort, to camps like this. If I don't get
drunk I'll be half decent to you. But I'll get shot sooner or later.
Then you'll be left to Gulden."

"Why do you say HIM?" she queried, in a shudder of curiosity.

"Well, Gulden haunts me."

"He does me, too. He makes me lose my sense of proportion. Beside him
you and the others seem good. But you ARE wicked."

"Then you won't marry me and go away somewhere?... Your choice is
strange. Because I tell you the truth."

"Kells! I'm a woman. Something deep in me says you won't keep me
here—you can't be so base. Not now, after I saved your life! It would
be horrible—inhuman. I can't believe any man born of a woman could do
it."

"But I want you—I love you!" he said, low and hard.

"Love! That's not love," she replied in scorn. "God only knows what it
is."

"Call it what you like," he went on, bitterly. "You're a young,
beautiful, sweet woman. It's wonderful to be near you. My life has been
hell. I've had nothing. There's only hell to look forward to—and hell
at the end. Why shouldn't I keep you here?"

"But, Kells, listen," she whispered, earnestly, "suppose I am young
and beautiful and sweet—as you said. I'm utterly in your power. I'm
compelled to seek your protection from even worse men. You're different
from these others. You're educated. You must have had—a—a good mother.
Now you're bitter, desperate, terrible. You hate life. You seem to think
this charm you see in me will bring you something. Maybe a glimpse of
joy! But how can it? You know better. How can it... unless I—I love
you?"

Kells stared at her, the evil and hardness of his passion corded in
his face. And the shadows of comprehending thought in his strange eyes
showed the other side of the man. He was still staring at her while he
reached to put aside the curtains; then he dropped his head and went
out.

Joan sat motionless, watching the door where he had disappeared,
listening to the mounting beats of her heart. She had only been frank
and earnest with Kells. But he had taken a meaning from her last
few words that she had not intended to convey. All that was woman in
her—mounting, righting, hating—leaped to the power she sensed in
herself. If she could be deceitful, cunning, shameless in holding out to
Kells a possible return of his love, she could do anything with him. She
knew it. She did not need to marry him or sacrifice herself. Joan was
amazed that the idea remained an instant before her consciousness. But
something had told her this was another kind of life than she had known,
and all that was precious to her hung in the balance. Any falsity
was justifiable, even righteous, under the circumstances. Could she
formulate a plan that this keen bandit would not see through? The
remotest possibility of her even caring for Kells—that was as much as
she dared hint. But that, together with all the charm and seductiveness
she could summon, might be enough. Dared she try it? If she tried and
failed Kells would despise her, and then she was utterly lost. She was
caught between doubt and hope. All that was natural and true in her
shrank from such unwomanly deception; all that had been born of her wild
experience inflamed her to play the game, to match Kells's villainy with
a woman's unfathomable duplicity.