Zane Grey (12 page)

And while Joan was absorbed in thought the sun set, the light failed,
twilight stole into the cabin, and then darkness. All this hour there
had been a continual sound of men's voices in the large cabin, sometimes
low and at other times loud. It was only when Joan distinctly heard the
name Jim Cleve that she was startled out of her absorption, thrilling
and flushing. In her eagerness she nearly fell as she stepped and
gropped through the darkness to the door, and as she drew aside the
blanket her hand shook.

The large room was lighted by a fire and half a dozen lanterns. Through
a faint tinge of blue smoke Joan saw men standing and sitting and
lounging around Kells, who had a seat where the light fell full upon
him. Evidently a lull had intervened in the talk. The dark faces Joan
could see were all turned toward the door expectantly.

"Bring him in, Bate, and let's look him over," said Kells.

Then Bate Wood appeared, elbowing his way in, and he had his hand on the
arm of a tall, lithe fellow. When they got into the light Joan quivered
as if she had been stabbed. That stranger with Wood was Jim Cleve—Jim
Cleve in frame and feature, yet not the same she knew.

"Cleve, glad to meet you," greeted Kells, extending his hand.

"Thanks. Same to you," replied Cleve, and he met the proffered hand. His
voice was cold and colorless, unfamiliar to Joan. Was this man really
Jim Cleve?

The meeting of Kells and Cleve was significant because of Kells's
interest and the silent attention of the men of his clan. It did not
seem to mean anything to the white-faced, tragic-eyed Cleve. Joan gazed
at him with utter amazement. She remembered a heavily built, florid Jim
Cleve, an overgrown boy with a good-natured, lazy smile on his full
face and sleepy eyes. She all but failed to recognize him in the man who
stood there now, lithe and powerful, with muscles bulging in his coarse,
white shirt. Joan's gaze swept over him, up and down, shivering at the
two heavy guns he packed, till it was transfixed on his face. The old,
or the other, Jim Cleve had been homely, with too much flesh on his face
to show force or fire. This man seemed beautiful. But it was a beauty of
tragedy. He was as white as Kells, but smoothly, purely white,
without shadow or sunburn. His lips seemed to have set with a bitter,
indifferent laugh. His eyes looked straight out, piercing, intent,
haunted, and as dark as night. Great blue circles lay under them,
lending still further depth and mystery. It was a sad, reckless face
that wrung Joan's very heartstrings. She had come too late to save his
happiness, but she prayed that it was not too late to save his honor and
his soul.

While she gazed there had been further exchange of speech between Kells
and Cleve, and she had heard, though not distinguished, what was said.
Kells was unmistakably friendly, as were the other men within range of
Joan's sight. Cleve was surrounded; there were jesting and laughter;
and then he was led to the long table where several men were already
gambling.

Joan dropped the curtain, and in the darkness of her cabin she saw that
white, haunting face, and when she covered her eyes she still saw it.
The pain, the reckless violence, the hopeless indifference, the wreck
and ruin in that face had been her doing. Why? How had Jim Cleve wronged
her? He had loved her at her displeasure and had kissed her against her
will. She had furiously upbraided him, and when he had finally turned
upon her, threatening to prove he was no coward, she had scorned him
with a girl's merciless injustice. All her strength and resolve left
her, momentarily, after seeing Jim there. Like a woman, she weakened.
She lay on the bed and writhed. Doubt, hopelessness, despair, again
seized upon her, and some strange, yearning maddening emotion. What had
she sacrificed? His happiness and her own—and both their lives!

The clamor in the other cabin grew so boisterous that suddenly when it
stilled Joan was brought sharply to the significance of it. Again she
drew aside the curtain and peered out.

Gulden, huge, stolid, gloomy, was entering the cabin. The man fell into
the circle and faced Kell with the fire-light dancing in his cavernous
eyes.

"Hello, Gulden!" said Kells, coolly. "What ails you?"

"Anybody tell you about Bill Bailey?" asked Gulden, heavily.

Kells did not show the least concern. "Tell me what?"

"That he died in a cabin, down in the valley?"

Kells gave a slight start and his eyes narrowed and shot steely glints.
"No. It's news to me."

"Kells, you left Bailey for dead. But he lived. He was shot through,
but he got there somehow—nobody knows. He was far gone when Beady Jones
happened along. Before he died he sent word to me by Beady.... Are you
curious to know what it was?"

"Not the least," replied Kells. "Bailey was—well, offensive to my wife.
I shot him."

"He swore you drew on him in cold blood," thundered Gulden. "He swore it
was for nothing—just so you could be alone with that girl!"

Kells rose in wonderful calmness, with only his pallor and a slight
shaking of his hands to betray excitement. An uneasy stir and murmur ran
through the room. Red Pearce, nearest at hand, stepped to Kells's side.
All in a moment there was a deadly surcharged atmosphere there.

"Well, he swore right!... Now what's it to you?"

Apparently the fact and its confession were nothing particular to
Gulden, or else he was deep where all considered him only dense and
shallow.

"It's done. Bill's dead," continued Gulden. "But why do you double-cross
the gang? What's the game? You never did it before.... That girl isn't
your—"

"Shut up!" hissed Kells. Like a flash his hand flew out with his gun,
and all about him was dark menace.

Gulden made no attempt to draw. He did not show surprise nor fear nor
any emotion. He appeared plodding in mind. Red Pearce stepped between
Kells and Gulden. There was a realization in the crowd, loud breaths,
scraping of feet. Gulden turned away. Then Kells resumed his seat and
his pipe as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

Joan turned away from the door in a cold clamp of relief. The shadow
of death hovered over these men. She must fortify herself to live
under that shadow, to be prepared for any sudden violence, to stand a
succession of shocks that inevitably would come. She listened. The men
were talking and laughing now; there came a click of chips, the spat of
a thrown card, the thump of a little sack of gold. Ahead of her lay the
long hours of night in which these men would hold revel. Only a faint
ray of light penetrated her cabin, but it was sufficient for her
to distinguish objects. She set about putting the poles in place to
barricade the opening. When she had finished she knew she was safe at
least from intrusion. Who had constructed that rude door and for what
purpose? Then she yielded to the temptation to peep once more under the
edge of the curtain.

The room was cloudy and blue with smoke. She saw Jim Cleve at a table
gambling with several ruffians. His back was turned, yet Joan felt the
contrast of his attitude toward the game, compared with that of the
others. They were tense, fierce, and intent upon every throw of a
card. Cleve's very poise of head and movement of arm betrayed his
indifference. One of the gamblers howled his disgust, slammed down his
cards, and got up.

"He's cleaned out," said one, in devilish glee.

"Naw, he ain't," voiced another. "He's got two fruit-cans full of dust.
I saw 'em.... He's just lay down—like a poisoned coyote."

"Shore I'm glad Cleve's got the luck, fer mebbe he'll give my gold
back," spoke up another gamester, with a laugh.

"Wal, he certainlee is the chilvalus card sharp," rejoined the last
player. "Jim, was you allus as lucky in love as in cards?"

"Lucky in love?... Sure!" answered Jim Cleve, with a mocking, reckless
ring in his voice.

"Funny, ain't thet, boys? Now there's the boss. Kells can sure win the
gurls, but he's a pore gambler." Kells heard this speech, and he laughed
with the others. "Hey, you greaser, you never won any of my money," he
said.

"Come an' set in, boss. Come an' see your gold fade away. You can't
stop this Jim Cleve. Luck—bull luck straddles his neck. He'll win your
gold—your hosses an' saddles an' spurs an' guns—an' your shirt, if
you've nerve enough to bet it."

The speaker slapped his cards upon the table while he gazed at Cleve in
grieved admiration. Kells walked over to the group and he put his hand
on Cleve's shoulder.

"Say youngster," he said, genially, "you said you were just as lucky in
love.... Now I had a hunch some BAD luck with a girl drove you out here
to the border."

Kells spoke jestingly, in a way that could give no offense, even to the
wildest of boys, yet there was curiosity, keenness, penetration, in his
speech. It had not the slightest effect upon Jim Cleve.

"Bad luck and a girl?... To hell with both!" he said.

"Shore you're talkin' religion. Thet's where both luck an' gurls come
from," replied the unlucky gamester. "Will one of you hawgs pass the
whiskey?"

The increased interest with which Kells looked down upon Jim Cleve was
not lost upon Joan. But she had seen enough, and, turning away, she
stumbled to the bed and lay there with an ache in her heart.

"Oh," she whispered to herself, "he is ruined—ruined—ruined!... God
forgive me!" She saw bright, cold stars shining between the logs. The
night wind swept in cold and pure, with the dew of the mountain in it.
She heard the mourn of wolves, the hoot of an owl, the distant cry of
a panther, weird and wild. Yet outside there was a thick and lonely
silence. In that other cabin, from which she was mercifully shut out,
there were different sounds, hideous by contrast. By and by she covered
her ears, and at length, weary from thought and sorrow, she drifted into
slumber.

Next morning, long after she had awakened, the cabin remained quiet,
with no one stirring. Morning had half gone before Wood knocked and
gave her a bucket of water, a basin and towels. Later he came with her
breakfast. After that she had nothing to do but pace the floor of her
two rooms. One appeared to be only an empty shed, long in disuse. Her
view from both rooms was restricted to the green slope of the gulch up
to yellow crags and the sky. But she would rather have had this to watch
than an outlook upon the cabins and the doings of these bandits.

About noon she heard the voice of Kells in low and earnest conversation
with someone; she could not, however, understand what was said. That
ceased, and then she heard Kells moving around. There came a clatter
of hoofs as a horse galloped away from the cabin, after which a knock
sounded on the wall.

"Joan," called Kells. Then the curtain was swept aside and Kells,
appearing pale and troubled, stepped into her room.

"What's the matter?" asked Joan, hurriedly.

"Gulden shot two men this morning. One's dead. The other's in bad shape,
so Red tells me. I haven't seen him."

"Who—who are they?" faltered Joan. She could not think of any man
except Jim Cleve.

"Dan Small's the one's dead. The other they call Dick. Never heard his
last name."

"Was it a fight?"

"Of course. And Gulden picked it. He's a quarrelsome man. Nobody can
go against him. He's all the time like some men when they're drunk. I'm
sorry I didn't bore him last night. I would have done it if it hadn't
been for Red Pearce."

Kells seemed gloomy and concentrated on his situation and he talked
naturally to Joan, as if she were one to sympathize. A bandit, then, in
the details of his life, the schemes, troubles, friendships, relations,
was no different from any other kind of a man. He was human, and things
that might constitute black evil for observers were dear to him, a part
of him. Joan feigned the sympathy she could not feel.

"I thought Gulden was your enemy."

Kells sat down on one of the box seats, and his heavy gun-sheath rested
upon the floor. He looked at Joan now, forgetting she was a woman and
his prisoner.

"I never thought of that till now," he said. "We always got along
because I understood him. I managed him. The man hasn't changed in the
least. He's always what he is. But there's a difference. I noticed that
first over in Lost Canon. And Joan, I believe it's because Gulden saw
you."

"Oh, no!" cried Joan, trembling.

"Maybe I'm wrong. Anyway something's wrong. Gulden never had a friend or
a partner. I don't misunderstand his position regarding Bailey. What did
he care for that soak? Gulden's cross-grained. He opposes anything or
anybody. He's got a twist in his mind that makes him dangerous.... I
wanted to get rid of him. I decided to—after last night. But now it
seems that's no easy job."

"Why?" asked Joan, curiously.

"Pearce and Wood and Beard, all men I rely on, said it won't do. They
hint Gulden is strong with my gang here, and all through the border.
I was wild. I don't believe it. But as I'm not sure—what can I do?...
They're all afraid of Gulden. That's it.... And I believe I am, too."

"You!" exclaimed Joan.

Kells actually looked ashamed. "I believe I am, Joan," he replied. "That
Gulden is not a man. I never was afraid of a real man. He's—he's an
animal."

"He made me think of a gorrilla," said Joan.

"There's only one man I know who's not afraid of Gulden. He's a
new-comer here on the border. Jim Cleve he calls himself. A youngster I
can't figure! But he'd slap the devil himself in the face. Cleve won't
last long out here. Yet you can never tell. Men like him, who laugh at
death, sometimes avert it for long. I was that way once.... Cleve heard
me talking to Pearce about Gulden. And he said, 'Kells, I'll pick a
fight with this Gulden and drive him out of the camp or kill him.'"