Zane Grey (2 page)

"Report was that Bradley talked oncomplementary about you."

Joan experienced a sweet, warm rush of blood—another new and strange
emotion. She did not like Bradley. He had been persistent and offensive.

"Why didn't Jim tell me?" she queried, half to herself.

"Reckon he wasn't proud of the shape he left Bradley in," replied
Roberts, with a laugh. "Come on, Joan, an' make back tracks for home."

Joan was silent a moment while she looked over the undulating green
ridges toward the great gray and black walls. Something stirred deep
within her. Her father in his youth had been an adventurer. She felt the
thrill and the call of her blood. And she had been unjust to a man who
loved her.

"I'm going after him," she said.

Roberts did not show any surprise. He looked at the position of the sun.
"Reckon we might overtake him an' get home before sundown," he said,
laconically, as he turned his horse. "We'll make a short cut across here
a few miles, an' strike his trail. Can't miss it."

Then he set off at a brisk trot and Joan fell in behind. She had a busy
mind, and it was a sign of her preoccupation that she forgot to thank
Roberts. Presently they struck into a valley, a narrow depression
between the foothills and the ridges, and here they made faster time.
The valley appeared miles long. Toward the middle of it Roberts called
out to Joan, and, looking down, she saw they had come up with Jim's
trail. Here Roberts put his mount to a canter, and at that gait they
trailed Jim out of the valley and up a slope which appeared to be a
pass into the mountains. Time flew by for Joan, because she was always
peering ahead in the hope and expectation of seeing Jim off in the
distance. But she had no glimpse of him. Now and then Roberts would
glance around at the westering sun. The afternoon had far advanced. Joan
began to worry about home. She had been so sure of coming up with Jim
and returning early in the day that she had left no word as to her
intentions. Probably by this time somebody was out looking for her.

The country grew rougher, rock-strewn, covered with cedars and patches
of pine. Deer crashed out of the thickets and grouse whirred up from
under the horses. The warmth of the summer afternoon chilled.

"Reckon we'd better give it up," called Roberts back to her.

"No—no. Go on," replied Joan.

And they urged their horses faster. Finally they reached the summit of
the slope. From that height they saw down into a round, shallow valley,
which led on, like all the deceptive reaches, to the ranges. There was
water down there. It glinted like red ribbon in the sunlight. Not a
living thing was in sight. Joan grew more discouraged. It seemed there
was scarcely any hope of overtaking Jim that day. His trail led off
round to the left and grew difficult to follow. Finally, to make matters
worse, Roberts's horse slipped in a rocky wash and lamed himself. He did
not want to go on, and, when urged, could hardly walk.

Roberts got off to examine the injury. "Wal, he didn't break his leg,"
he said, which was his manner of telling how bad the injury was. "Joan,
I reckon there'll be some worryin' back home tonight. For your horse
can't carry double an' I can't walk."

Joan dismounted. There was water in the wash, and she helped Roberts
bathe the sprained and swelling joint. In the interest and sympathy of
the moment she forgot her own trouble.

"Reckon we'll have to make camp right here," said Roberts, looking
around. "Lucky I've a pack on that saddle. I can make you comfortable.
But we'd better be careful about a fire an' not have one after dark."

"There's no help for it," replied Joan. "Tomorrow we'll go on after
Jim. He can't be far ahead now." She was glad that it was impossible to
return home until the next day.

Roberts took the pack off his horse, and then the saddle. And he was
bending over in the act of loosening the cinches of Joan's saddle when
suddenly he straightened up with a jerk.

"What's that?"

Joan heard soft, dull thumps on the turf and then the sharp crack of an
unshod hoof upon stone. Wheeling, she saw three horsemen. They were
just across the wash and coming toward her. One rider pointed in her
direction. Silhouetted against the red of the sunset they made dark and
sinister figures. Joan glanced apprehensively at Roberts. He was staring
with a look of recognition in his eyes. Under his breath he muttered a
curse. And although Joan was not certain, she believed that his face had
shaded gray.

The three horsemen halted on the rim of the wash. One of them was
leading a mule that carried a pack and a deer carcass. Joan had seen
many riders apparently just like these, but none had ever so subtly and
powerfully affected her.

"Howdy," greeted one of the men.

And then Joan was positive that the face of Roberts had turned ashen
gray.

"It ain't you—KELLS?"

Roberts's query was a confirmation of his own recognition. And the
other's laugh was an answer, if one were needed.

The three horsemen crossed the wash and again halted, leisurely, as if
time was no object. They were all young, under thirty. The two who had
not spoken were rough-garbed, coarse-featured, and resembled in general
a dozen men Joan saw every day. Kells was of a different stamp. Until he
looked at her he reminded her of someone she had known back in Missouri;
after he looked at her she was aware, in a curious, sickening way, that
no such person as he had ever before seen her. He was pale, gray-eyed,
intelligent, amiable. He appeared to be a man who had been a gentleman.
But there was something strange, intangible, immense about him. Was that
the effect of his presence or of his name? Kells! It was only a word to
Joan. But it carried a nameless and terrible suggestion. During the
last year many dark tales had gone from camp to camp in Idaho—some too
strange, too horrible for credence—and with every rumor the fame of
Kells had grown, and also a fearful certainty of the rapid growth of a
legion of evil men out on the border. But no one in the village or from
any of the camps ever admitted having seen this Kells. Had fear kept
them silent? Joan was amazed that Roberts evidently knew this man.

Kells dismounted and offered his hand. Roberts took it and shook it
constrainedly.

"Where did we meet last?" asked Kells.

"Reckon it was out of Fresno," replied Roberts, and it was evident that
he tried to hide the effect of a memory.

Then Kells touched his hat to Joan, giving her the fleetest kind of a
glance. "Rather off the track aren't you?" he asked Roberts.

"Reckon we are," replied Roberts, and he began to lose some of his
restraint. His voice sounded clearer and did not halt. "Been trailin'
Miss Randle's favorite hoss. He's lost. An' we got farther 'n we had any
idee. Then my hoss went lame. 'Fraid we can't start home to-night."

"Where are you from?"

"Hoadley. Bill Hoadley's town, back thirty miles or so."

"Well, Roberts, if you've no objection we'll camp here with you,"
continued Kells. "We've got some fresh meat."

With that he addressed a word to his comrades, and they repaired to a
cedar-tree near-by, where they began to unsaddle and unpack.

Then Roberts, bending nearer Joan, as if intent on his own pack, began
to whisper, hoarsely: "That's Jack Kells, the California road-agent.
He's a gun fighter—a hell-bent rattlesnake. When I saw him last he
had a rope round his neck an' was bein' led away to be hanged. I heerd
afterward he was rescued by pals. Joan, if the idee comes into his
head he'll kill me. I don't know what to do. For God's sake think of
somethin'!... Use your woman's wits!... We couldn't be in a wuss fix!"

Joan felt rather unsteady on her feet, so that it was a relief to sit
down. She was cold and sick inwardly, almost stunned. Some great peril
menaced her. Men like Roberts did not talk that way without cause. She
was brave; she was not unused to danger. But this must be a different
kind, compared with which all she had experienced was but insignificant.
She could not grasp Roberts's intimation. Why should he be killed? They
had no gold, no valuables. Even their horses were nothing to inspire
robbery. It must be that there was peril to Roberts and to her because
she was a girl, caught out in the wilds, easy prey for beasts of evil
men. She had heard of such things happening. Still, she could not
believe it possible for her. Roberts could protect her. Then this
amiable, well-spoken Kells, he was no Western rough—he spoke like an
educated man; surely he would not harm her. So her mind revolved round
fears, conjectures, possibilities; she could not find her wits. She
could not think how to meet the situation, even had she divined what the
situation was to be.

While she sat there in the shade of a cedar the men busied themselves
with camp duties. None of them appeared to pay any attention to Joan.
They talked while they worked, as any other group of campers might have
talked, and jested and laughed. Kells made a fire, and carried water,
then broke cedar boughs for later camp-fire use; one of the strangers
whom they called Bill hobbled the horses; the other unrolled the pack,
spread a tarpaulin, and emptied the greasy sacks; Roberts made biscuit
dough for the oven.

The sun sank red and a ruddy twilight fell. It soon passed. Darkness had
about set in when Roberts came over to Joan, carrying bread, coffee, and
venison.

"Here's your supper, Joan," he called, quite loud and cheerily, and then
he whispered: "Mebbe it ain't so bad. They-all seem friendly. But I'm
scared, Joan. If you jest wasn't so dam' handsome, or if only he hadn't
seen you!"

"Can't we slip off in the dark?" she whispered in return.

"We might try. But it'd be no use if they mean bad. I can't make up my
mind yet what's comin' off. It's all right for you to pretend you're
bashful. But don't lose your nerve."

Then he returned to the camp-fire. Joan was hungry. She ate and drank
what had been given her, and that helped her to realize reality. And
although dread abided with her, she grew curious. Almost she imagined
she was fascinated by her predicament. She had always been an emotional
girl of strong will and self-restraint. She had always longed for she
knew not what—perhaps freedom. Certain places had haunted her. She had
felt that something should have happened to her there. Yet nothing ever
had happened. Certain books had obsessed her, even when a child, and
often to her mother's dismay; for these books had been of wild places
and life on the sea, adventure, and bloodshed. It had always been said
of her that she should have been a boy.

Night settled down black. A pale, narrow cloud, marked by a train of
stars, extended across the dense blue sky. The wind moaned in the cedars
and roared in the replenished camp-fire. Sparks flew away into the
shadows. And on the puffs of smoke that blew toward her came the sweet,
pungent odor of burning cedar. Coyotes barked off under the brush, and
from away on the ridge drifted the dismal defiance of a wolf.

Camp-life was no new thing to Joan. She had crossed the plains in
a wagon-train, that more than once had known the long-drawn yell of
hostile Indians. She had prospected and hunted in the mountains with her
uncle, weeks at a time. But never before this night had the wildness,
the loneliness, been so vivid to her.

Roberts was on his knees, scouring his oven with wet sand. His big,
shaggy head nodded in the firelight. He seemed pondering and thick and
slow. There was a burden upon him. The man Bill and his companion lay
back against stones and conversed low. Kells stood up in the light of
the blaze. He had a pipe at which he took long pulls and then sent up
clouds of smoke. There was nothing imposing in his build or striking in
his face, at that distance; but it took no second look to see here was
a man remarkably out of the ordinary. Some kind of power and intensity
emanated from him. From time to time he appeared to glance in Joan's
direction; still, she could not be sure, for his eyes were but shadows.
He had cast aside his coat. He wore a vest open all the way, and a
checked soft shirt, with a black tie hanging untidily. A broad belt
swung below his hip and in the holster was a heavy gun. That was a
strange place to carry a gun, Joan thought. It looked awkward to her.
When he walked it might swing round and bump against his leg. And he
certainly would have to put it some other place when he rode.

"Say, have you got a blanket for that girl?" asked Kells, removing his
pipe from his lips to address Roberts.

"I got saddle-blankets," responded Roberts. "You see, we didn't expect
to be caught out."

"I'll let you have one," said Kells, walking away from the fire. "It
will be cold." He returned with a blanket, which he threw to Roberts.

"Much obliged," muttered Roberts.

"I'll bunk by the fire," went on the other, and with that he sat down
and appeared to become absorbed in thought.

Roberts brought the borrowed blanket and several saddle-blankets over to
where Joan was, and laying them down he began to kick and scrape stones
and brush aside.

"Pretty rocky place, this here is," he said. "Reckon you'll sleep some,
though."

Then he began arranging the blankets into a bed. Presently Joan felt a
tug at her riding-skirt. She looked down.

"I'll be right by you," he whispered, with his big hand to his mouth,
"an' I ain't a-goin' to sleep none."

Whereupon he returned to the camp-fire. Presently Joan, not because she
was tired or sleepy, but because she wanted to act naturally, lay down
on the bed and pulled a blanket up over her. There was no more talking
among the men. Once she heard the jingle of spurs and the rustle of
cedar brush. By and by Roberts came back to her, dragging his saddle,
and lay down near her. Joan raised up a little to see Kells motionless
and absorbed by the fire. He had a strained and tense position. She sank
back softly and looked up at the cold bright stars. What was going to
happen to her? Something terrible! The very night shadows, the silence,
the presence of strange men, all told her. And a shudder that was a
thrill ran over and over her.