Zane Grey (19 page)

Then Cleve's gaze in unmistakable meaning swept over Joan's person. How
could her appearance and her appeal be reconciled? One was a lie! And
his burning eyes robbed Joan of spirit.

"He forced me to—to wear these," she faltered. "I'm his prisoner. I'm
helpless."

With catlike agility Cleve leaped backward, so that he faced all the
men, and when his hands swept to a level they held gleaming guns. His
utter abandon of daring transfixed these bandits in surprise as much as
fear. Kells appeared to take most to himself the menace.

"
I
CRAWL!" he said, huskily. "She speaks the God's truth.... But you
can't help matters by killing me. Maybe she'd be worse off!"

He expected this wild boy to break loose, yet his wit directed him to
speak the one thing calculated to check Cleve.

"Oh, don't shoot!" moaned Joan.

"You go outside," ordered Cleve. "Get on a horse and lead another near
the door.... Go! I'll take you away from this."

Both temptation and terror assailed Joan. Surely that venture would mean
only death to Jim and worse for her. She thrilled at the thought—at the
possibility of escape—at the strange front of this erstwhile nerveless
boy. But she had not the courage for what seemed only desperate folly.

"I'll stay," she whispered. "You go!"

"Hurry, woman!"

"No! No!"

"Do you want to stay with this bandit?"

"Oh, I must!"

"Then you love him?"

All the fire of Joan's heart flared up to deny the insult and all her
woman's cunning fought to keep back words that inevitably must lead to
revelation. She drooped, unable to hold up under her shame, yet strong
to let him think vilely of her, for his sake. That way she had a barest
chance.

"Get out of my sight!" he ejaculated, thickly. "I'd have fought for
you."

Again that white, weary scorn radiated from him. Joan bit her tongue to
keep from screaming. How could she live under this torment? It was she,
Joan Randle, that had earned that scorn, whether he knew her or not. She
shrank back, step by step, almost dazed, sick with a terrible inward,
coldness, blinded by scalding tears. She found her door and stumbled in.

"Kells, I'm what you called me." She heard Cleve's voice, strangely far
off. "There's no excuse... unless I'm not just right in my head about
women.... Overlook my break or don't—as you like. But if you want me
I'm ready for your Border Legion!"

Those bitter words of Cleve's, as if he mocked himself, were the last
Joan heard, and they rang in her ears and seemed to reverberate through
her dazed mind like a knell of doom. She lay there, all blackness about
her, weighed upon by an insupportable burden; and she prayed that day
might never dawn for her; a nightmare of oblivion ended at last with her
eyes opening to the morning light.

She was cold and stiff. She had lain uncovered all the long hours of
night. She had not moved a finger since she had fallen upon the bed,
crushed by those bitter words with which Cleve had consented to join
Kells's Legion. Since then Joan felt that she had lived years. She could
not remember a single thought she might have had during those black
hours; nevertheless, a decision had been formed in her mind, and it was
that to-day she would reveal herself to Jim Cleve if it cost both their
lives. Death was infinitely better than the suspense and fear and agony
she had endured; and as for Jim, it would at least save him from crime.

Joan got up, a little dizzy and unsteady upon her feet. Her hands
appeared clumsy and shaky. All the blood in her seemed to surge from
heart to brain and it hurt her to breathe. Removing her mask, she bathed
her face and combed her hair. At first she conceived an idea to go out
without her face covered, but she thought better of it. Cleve's reckless
defiance had communicated itself to her. She could not now be stopped.

Kells was gay and excited that morning. He paid her compliments. He said
they would soon be out of this lonely gulch and she would see the sight
of her life—a gold strike. She would see men wager a fortune on the
turn of a card, lose, laugh, and go back to the digging. He said he
would take her to Sacramento and 'Frisco and buy her everything any
girl could desire. He was wild, voluble, unreasoning—obsessed by the
anticipated fulfilment of his dream.

It was rather late in the morning and there were a dozen or more men in
and around the cabin, all as excited as Kells. Preparations were already
under way for the expected journey to the gold-field. Packs were being
laid out, overhauled, and repacked; saddles and bridles and weapons
were being worked over; clothes were being awkwardly mended. Horses
were being shod, and the job was as hard and disagreeable for men as for
horses. Whenever a rider swung up the slope, and one came every now and
then, all the robbers would leave off their tasks and start eagerly for
the newcomer. The name Jesse Smith was on everybody's lips. Any hour he
might be expected to arrive and corroborate Blicky's alluring tale.

Joan saw or imagined she saw that the glances in the eyes of these men
were yellow, like gold fire. She had seen miners and prospectors whose
eyes shone with a strange glory of light that gold inspired, but never
as those of Kells's bandit Legion. Presently Joan discovered that,
despite the excitement, her effect upon them was more marked then ever,
and by a difference that she was quick to feel. But she could not tell
what this difference was—how their attitude had changed. Then she set
herself the task of being useful. First she helped Bate Wood. He was
roughly kind. She had not realized that there was sadness about her
until he whispered: "Don't be downcast, miss. Mebbe it'll come out
right yet!" That amazed Joan. Then his mysterious winks and glances,
the sympathy she felt in him, all attested to some kind of a change. She
grew keen to learn, but she did not know how. She felt the change in
all the men. Then she went to Pearce and with all a woman's craft she
exaggerated the silent sadness that had brought quick response from
Wood. Red Pearce was even quicker. He did not seem to regard her
proximity as that of a feminine thing which roused the devil in him.
Pearce could not be other than coarse and vulgar, but there was pity
in him. Joan sensed pity and some other quality still beyond her. This
lieutenant of the bandit Kells was just as mysterious as Wood. Joan
mended a great jagged rent in his buckskin shirt. Pearce appeared proud
of her work; he tried to joke; he said amiable things. Then as she
finished he glanced furtively round; he pressed her hand: "I had a
sister once!" he whispered. And then with a dark and baleful hate:
"Kells!—he'll get his over in the gold-camp!"

Joan turned away from Pearce still more amazed. Some strange, deep
undercurrent was working here. There had been unmistakable hate for
Kells in his dark look and a fierce implication in his portent of
fatality. What had caused this sudden impersonal interest in her
situation? What was the meaning of the subtle animosity toward the
bandit leader? Was there no honor among evil men banded together for
evil deeds? Were jealousy, ferocity, hate and faithlessness fostered by
this wild and evil border life, ready at an instant's notice to break
out? Joan divined the vain and futile and tragical nature of Kell's
great enterprise. It could not succeed. It might bring a few days or
weeks of fame, of blood-stained gold, of riotous gambling, but by its
very nature it was doomed. It embraced failure and death.

Joan went from man to man, keener now on the track of this inexplicable
change, sweetly and sadly friendly to each; and it was not till she
encountered the little Frenchman that the secret was revealed. Frenchy
was of a different race. Deep in the fiber of his being inculcated a
sentiment, a feeling, long submerged in the darkness of a wicked life,
and now that something came fleeting out of the depths—and it was
respect for a woman. To Joan it was a flash of light. Yesterday these
ruffians despised her; to-day they respected her. So they had believed
what she had so desperately flung at Jim Cleve. They believed her good,
they pitied her, they respected her, they responded to her effort
to turn a boy back from a bad career. They were bandits, desperados,
murderers, lost, but each remembered in her a mother or a sister. What
each might have felt or done had he possessed her, as Kells possessed
her, did not alter the case as it stood. A strange inconsistency of
character made them hate Kells for what they might not have hated in
themselves. Her appeal to Cleve, her outburst of truth, her youth
and misfortune, had discovered to each a human quality. As in Kells
something of nobility still lingered, a ghost among his ruined ideals,
so in the others some goodness remained. Joan sustained an uplifting
divination—no man was utterly bad. Then came the hideous image of the
giant Gulden, the utter absence of soul in him, and she shuddered.
Then came the thought of Jim Cleve, who had not believed her, who had
bitterly made the fatal step, who might in the strange reversion of his
character be beyond influence.

And it was at the precise moment when this thought rose to counteract
the hope revived by the changed attitude of the men that Joan looked out
to see Jim Cleve sauntering up, careless, untidy, a cigarette between
his lips, blue blotches on his white face, upon him the stamp of
abandonment. Joan suffered a contraction of heart that benumbed her
breast. She stood a moment battling with herself. She was brave enough,
desperate enough, to walk straight up to Cleve, remove her mask and say,
"I am Joan!" But that must be a last resource. She had no plan, yet she
might force an opportunity to see Cleve alone.

A shout rose above the hubbub of voices. A tall man was pointing across
the gulch where dust-clouds showed above the willows. Men crowded round
him, all gazing in the direction of his hand, all talking at once.

"Jesse Smith's hoss, I swear!" shouted the tall man. "Kells, come out
here!"

Kells appeared, dark and eager, at the door, and nimbly he leaped to the
excited group. Pearce and Wood and others followed.

"What's up?" called the bandit. "Hello! Who's that riding bareback?"

"He's shore cuttin' the wind," said Wood.

"Blicky!" exclaimed the tall man. "Kells, there's news. I seen Jesse's
hoss."

Kells let out a strange, exultant cry. The excited talk among the men
gave place, to a subdued murmur, then subsided. Blicky was running a
horse up the road, hanging low over him, like an Indian. He clattered to
the bench, scattered the men in all directions. The fiery horse plunged
and pounded. Blicky was gray of face and wild of aspect.

"Jesse's come!" he yelled, hoarsely, at Kells. "He jest fell off his
hoss—all in! He wants you—an' all the gang! He's seen a million
dollars in gold-dust!"

Absolute silence ensued after that last swift and startling speech. It
broke to a commingling of yells and shouts. Blicky wheeled his horse and
Kells started on a run. And there was a stampede and rush after him.

Joan grasped her opportunity. She had seen all this excitement, but she
had not lost sight of Cleve. He got up from a log and started after the
others. Joan flew to him, grasped him, startled him with the suddenness
of her onslaught. But her tongue seemed cloven to the roof of her mouth,
her lips weak and mute. Twice she strove to speak.

"Meet me—there!—among the pines—right away!" she whispered, with
breathless earnestness. "It's life—or death—for me!"

As she released his arm he snatched at her mask. But she eluded him.

"Who ARE you?" he flashed.

Kells and his men were piling into the willows, leaping the brook,
hurrying on. They had no thought but to get to Jesse Smith to hear of
the gold strike. That news to them was as finding gold in the earth was
to honest miners.

"Come!" cried Joan. She hurried away toward the corner of the cabin,
then halted to see if he was following. He was, indeed. She ran round
behind the cabin, out on the slope, halting at the first trees. Cleve
came striding after her. She ran on, beginning to pant and stumble. The
way he strode, the white grimness of him, frightened her. What would he,
do? Again she went on, but not running now. There were straggling pines
and spruces that soon hid the cabins. Beyond, a few rods, was a dense
clump of pines, and she made for that. As she reached it she turned
fearfully. Only Cleve was in sight. She uttered a sob of mingled relief,
joy, and thankfulness. She and Cleve had not been observed. They would
be out of sight in this little pine grove. At last! She could reveal
herself, tell him why she was there, that she loved him, that she was as
good as ever she had been. Why was she shaking like a leaf in the wind?
She saw Cleve through a blur. He was almost running now. Involuntarily
she fled into the grove. It was dark and cool; it smelled sweetly of
pine; there were narrow aisles and little sunlit glades. She hurried
on till a fallen tree blocked her passage. Here she turned—she would
wait—the tree was good to lean against. There came Cleve, a dark,
stalking shadow. She did not remember him like that. He entered the
glade.

"Speak again!" he said, thickly. "Either I'm drunk or crazy!"

But Joan could not speak. She held out hands that shook—swept them to
her face—tore at the mask. Then with a gasp she stood revealed.

If she had stabbed him straight through the heart he could not have been
more ghastly. Joan saw him, in all the terrible transfiguration
that came over him, but she had no conceptions, no thought of what
constituted that change. After that check to her mind came a surge of
joy.

"Jim!... Jim! It's Joan!" she breathed, with lips almost mute.

"JOAN!" he gasped, and the sound of his voice seemed to be the passing
from horrible doubt to certainty.