Zane Grey (14 page)

"Did you—knife me—that it hurts so?" he panted, raising a hand that
shook.

"I had—nothing.... I just—fought," cried Joan, breathlessly.

"You hurt me—again—damn you! I'm never free—from pain. But this's
worse.... And I'm a coward.... And I'm a dog, too! Not half a man!—You
slip of a girl—and I couldn't—hold you!"

His pain and shame were dreadful for Joan to see, because she felt sorry
for him, and divined that behind them would rise the darker, grimmer
force of the man. And she was right, for suddenly he changed. That
which had seemed almost to make him abject gave way to a pale and bitter
dignity. He took up Dandy Dale's belt, which Joan had left on the bed,
and, drawing the gun from its sheath, he opened the cylinder to see if
it was loaded, and then threw the gun at Joan's feet.

"There! Take it—and make a better job this time," he said.

The power in his voice seemed to force Joan to pick up the gun.

"What do—you mean?" she queried, haltingly.

"Shoot me again! Put me out of my pain—my misery.... I'm sick of it
all. I'd be glad to have you kill me!"

"Kells!" exclaimed Joan, weakly.

"Take your chance—now—when I've no strength—to force you.... Throw
the gun on me.... Kill me!"

He spoke with a terrible impelling earnestness, and the strength of his
will almost hypnotized Joan into execution of his demand.

"You are mad," she said. "I don't want to kill you. I couldn't.... I
just want you to—to be—decent to me."

"I have been—for me. I was only in fun this time—when I grabbed you.
But the FEEL of you!... I can't be decent any more. I see things clear
now.... Joan Randle, it's my life or your soul!"

He rose now, dark, shaken, stripped of all save the truth.

Joan dropped the gun from nerveless grasp.

"Is that your choice?" he asked hoarsely.

"I can't murder you!"

"Are you afraid of the other men—of Gulden? Is that why you can't kill
me? You're afraid to be left—to try to get away?"

"I never thought of them."

"Then—my life or your soul!"

He stalked toward her, loomed over her, so that she put out trembling
hands. After the struggle a reaction was coming to her. She was
weakening. She had forgotten her plan.

"If you're merciless—then it must be—my soul," she whispered. "For I
CAN'T murder you.... Could you take that gun now—and press it here—and
murder ME?"

"No. For I love you."

"You don't love me. It's a blacker crime to murder the soul than the
body."

Something in his strange eyes inspired Joan with a flashing, reviving
divination. Back upon her flooded all that tide of woman's subtle
incalculable power to allure, to charge, to hold. Swiftly she went
close to Kells. She stretched out her hands. One was bleeding from rough
contract with the log wall during the struggle. Her wrists were red,
swollen, bruised from his fierce grasp.

"Look! See what you've done. You were a beast. You made me fight like a
beast. My hands were claws—my whole body one hard knot of muscle. You
couldn't hold me—you couldn't kiss me.... Suppose you ARE able to hold
me—later. I'll only be the husk of a woman. I'll just be a cold shell,
doubled-up, unrelaxed, a callous thing never to yield.... All that's
ME, the girl, the woman you say you love—will be inside, shrinking,
loathing, hating, sickened to death. You will only kiss—embrace—a
thing you've degraded. The warmth, the sweetness, the quiver, the
thrill, the response, the life—all that is the soul of a woman and
makes her lovable will be murdered."

Then she drew still closer to Kells, and with all the wondrous subtlety
of a woman in a supreme moment where a life and a soul hang in the
balance, she made of herself an absolute contrast to the fierce, wild,
unyielding creature who had fought him off.

"Let me show—you the difference," she whispered, leaning to him,
glowing, soft, eager, terrible, with her woman's charm. "Something tells
me—gives me strength.... What MIGHT be!... Only barely possible—if
in my awful plight—you turned out to be a man, good instead of bad!...
And—if it were possible—see the differences—in the woman.... I show
you—to save my soul!"

She gave the fascinated Kells her hands, slipped into his arms, to
press against his breast, and leaned against him an instant, all one
quivering, surrendered body; and then lifting a white face, true in
its radiance to her honest and supreme purpose to give him one fleeting
glimpse of the beauty and tenderness and soul of love, she put warm and
tremulous lips to his.

Then she fell away from him, shrinking and terrified. But he stood there
as if something beyond belief had happened to him, and the evil of his
face, the hard lines, the brute softened and vanished in a light of
transformation.

"My God!" he breathed softly. Then he awakened as if from a trance,
and, leaping down the steps, he violently swept aside the curtain and
disappeared.

Joan threw herself upon the bed and spent the last of her strength in
the relief of blinding tears. She had won. She believed she need never
fear Kells again. In that one moment of abandon she had exalted him. But
at what cost!

Next day, when Kells called Joan out into the other cabin, she verified
her hope and belief, not so much in the almost indefinable aging and
sadness of the man, as in the strong intuitive sense that her attraction
had magnified for him and had uplifted him.

"You mustn't stay shut up in there any longer," he said. "You've lost
weight and you're pale. Go out in the air and sun. You might as well get
used to the gang. Bate Wood came to me this morning and said he thought
you were the ghost of Dandy Dale. That name will stick to you. I don't
care how you treat my men. But if you're friendly you'll fare better.
Don't go far from the cabin. And if any man says or does a thing you
don't like—flash your gun. Don't yell for me. You can bluff this gang
to a standstill."

That was a trial for Joan, when she walked out into the light in Dandy
Dale's clothes. She did not step very straight, and she could feel the
cold prick of her face under the mask. It was not shame, but fear that
gripped her. She would rather die than have Jim Cleve recognize her
in that bold disguise. A line of dusty saddled horses stood heads and
bridles down before the cabin, and a number of lounging men ceased
talking when she appeared. It was a crowd that smelled of dust and
horses and leather and whisky and tobacco. Joan did not recognize any
one there, which fact aided her in a quick recovery of her composure.
Then she found amusement in the absolute sensation she made upon these
loungers. They stared, open-mouthed and motionless. One old fellow
dropped his pipe from bearded lips and did not seem to note the loss. A
dark young man, dissipated and wild-looking, with years of lawlessness
stamped upon his face, was the first to move; and he, with awkward
gallantry, but with amiable disposition. Joan wanted to run, yet she
forced herself to stand there, apparently unconcerned before this
battery of bold and curious eyes. That, once done, made the rest
easier. She was grateful for the mask. And with her first low, almost
incoherent, words in reply Joan entered upon the second phase of her
experience with these bandits. Naturalness did not come soon, but it did
come, and with it her wit and courage.

Used as she had become to the villainous countenances of the border
ruffians, she yet upon closer study discovered wilder and more abandoned
ones. Yet despite that, and a brazen, unconcealed admiration, there
was not lacking kindliness and sympathy and good nature. Presently Joan
sauntered away, and she went among the tired, shaggy horses and made
friends with them. An occasional rider swung up the trail to dismount
before Kells's cabin, and once two riders rode in, both staring—all
eyes—at her. The meaning of her intent alertness dawned upon her then.
Always, whatever she was doing or thinking or saying, behind it all hid
the driving watchfulness for Jim Cleve. And the consciousness of this
fixed her mind upon him. Where was he? What was he doing? Was he drunk
or gambling or fighting or sleeping? Was he still honest? When she did
meet him what would happen? How could she make herself and circumstances
known to him before he killed somebody? A new fear had birth and
grew—Cleve would recognize her in that disguise, mask and all.

She walked up and down for a while, absorbed with this new idea. Then
an unusual commotion among the loungers drew her attention to a group of
men on foot surrounding and evidently escorting several horsemen. Joan
recognized Red Pearce and Frenchy, and then, with a start, Jim Cleve.
They were riding up the trail. Joan's heart began to pound. She could
not meet Jim; she dared not trust this disguise; all her plans were as
if they had never been. She forgot Kells. She even forgot her fear of
what Cleve might do. The meeting—the inevitable recognition—the pain
Jim Cleve must suffer when the fact and apparent significance of her
presence there burst upon him, these drove all else from Joan's mind.
Mask or no mask, she could not face his piercing eyes, and like a little
coward she turned to enter the cabin.

Before she got in, however, it was forced upon her that something
unusual had roused the loungers. They had arisen and were interested in
the approaching group. Loud talk dinned in Joan's ears. Then she went
in the door as Kells stalked by, eyes agleam, without even noticing her.
Once inside her cabin, with the curtain drawn, Joan's fear gave place to
anxiety and curiosity.

There was no one in the large cabin. Through the outer door she caught
sight of a part of the crowd, close together, heads up, all noisy. Then
she heard Kells's authoritative voice, but she could understand nothing.
The babel of hoarse voices grew louder. Kells appeared, entering the
door with Pearce. Jim Cleve came next, and, once the three were inside,
the crowd spilled itself after them like angry bees. Kells was talking,
Pearce was talking, but their voices were lost. Suddenly Kells vented
his temper.

"Shut up—the lot of you!" he yelled, and his power and position might
have been measured by the menace he showed.

The gang became suddenly quiet.

"Now—what's up?" demanded Kells.

"Keep your shirt on, boss," replied Pearce, with good humor. "There
ain't much wrong.... Cleve, here, throwed a gun on Gulden, that's all."

Kells gave a slight start, barely perceptible, but the intensity of it,
and a fleeting tigerish gleam across his face, impressed Joan with the
idea that he felt a fiendish joy. Her own heart clamped in a cold amaze.

"Gulden!" Kells's exclamation was likewise a passionate query.

"No, he ain't cashed," replied Pearce. "You can't kill that bull so
easy. But he's shot up some. He's layin' over at Beard's. Reckon you'd
better go over an' dress them shots."

"He can rot before I doctor him," replied Kells. "Where's Bate Wood?...
Bate, you can take my kit and go fix Gulden up. And now, Red, what was
all the roar about?"

"Reckon that was Gulden's particular pards tryin' to mix it with Cleve
an' Cleve tryin' to mix it with them—an' ME in between!... I'm here to
say, boss, that I had a time stavin' off a scrap."

During this rapid exchange between Kells and his lieutenant, Jim Cleve
sat on the edge of the table, one dusty boot swinging so that his spur
jangled, a wisp of a cigarette in his lips. His face was white except
where there seemed to be bruises under his eyes. Joan had never seen him
look like this. She guessed that he had been drunk—perhaps was still
drunk. That utterly abandoned face Joan was so keen to read made her
bite her tongue to keep from crying out. Yes, Jim was lost.

"What'd they fight about?" queried Kells.

"Ask Cleve," replied Pearce. "Reckon I'd just as lief not talk any more
about him."

Then Kells turned to Cleve and stepped before him. Somehow these two men
face to face thrilled Joan to her depths. They presented such contrasts.
Kells was keen, imperious, vital, strong, and complex, with an
unmistakable friendly regard for this young outcast. Cleve seemed aloof,
detached, indifferent to everything, with a white, weary, reckless
scorn. Both men were far above the gaping ruffians around them.

"Cleve, why'd you draw on Gulden?" asked Kells, sharply.

"That's my business," replied Cleve, slowly, and with his piercing eyes
on Kells he blew a long, thin, blue stream of smoke upward.

"Sure.... But I remember what you asked me the other day—about Gulden.
Was that why?"

"Nope," replied Cleve. "This was my affair."

"All right. But I'd like to know. Pearce says you're in bad with
Gulden's friends. If I can't make peace between you I'll have to take
sides."

"Kells, I don't need any one on my side," said Cleve, and he flung the
cigarette away.

"Yes, you do," replied Kells, persuasively. "Every man on this border
needs that. And he's lucky when he gets it."

"Well, I don't ask for it; I don't want it."

"That's your own business, too. I'm not insisting or advising."

Kells's force and ability to control men manifested itself in his
speech and attitude. Nothing could have been easier than to rouse the
antagonism of Jim Cleve, abnormally responding as he was to the wild
conditions of this border environment.

"Then you're not calling my hand?" queried Cleve, with his dark,
piercing glance on Kells.

"I pass, Jim," replied the bandit, easily.

Cleve began to roll another cigarette. Joan saw his strong, brown hands
tremble, and she realized that this came from his nervous condition, not
from agitation. Her heart ached for him. What a white, somber face, so
terribly expressive of the overthrow of his soul! He had fled to the
border in reckless fury at her—at himself. There in its wildness he
had, perhaps, lost thought of himself and memory of her. He had plunged
into the unrestrained border life. Its changing, raw, and fateful
excitement might have made him forget, but behind all was the terrible
seeking to destroy and be destroyed. Joan shuddered when she remembered
how she had mocked this boy's wounded vanity—how scathingly she had
said he did not possess manhood and nerve enough even to be bad.