Zane Grey (25 page)

"Jim!" breathed Joan. "He killed him—just for that?"

"Just for that—the bloody devil!"

"But still—what for? Oh, it was cold-blooded murder."

"No, an even break. Kells made the gambler go for his gun. I'll have to
say that for Kells."

"It doesn't change the thing. I'd forgotten what a monster he is."

"Joan, his motive is plain. This new gold-camp has not reached the
blood-spilling stage yet. It hadn't, I should say. The news of this
killing will fly. It'll focus minds on this claim-buyer, Blight. His
deed rings true—like that of an honest man with a daughter to protect.
He'll win sympathy. Then he talks as if he were prosperous. Soon
he'll be represented in this changing, growing population as a man of
importance. He'll play the card for all he's worth. Meanwhile, secretly
he'll begin to rob the miners. It'll be hard to suspect him. His plot is
just like the man—great!"

"Jim, oughtn't we tell?" whispered Joan, trembling.

"I've thought of that. Somehow I seem to feel guilty. But whom on
earth could we tell? We wouldn't dare speak here.... Remember—you're a
prisoner. I'm supposed to be a bandit—one of the Border Legion. How to
get away from here and save our lives—that's what tortures me."

"Something tells me we'll escape, if only we can plan the right way.
Jim, I'll have to be penned here, with nothing to do but wait. You must
come every night!... Won't you?"

For an answer he kissed her again.

"Jim, what'll you do meanwhile?" she asked, anxiously.

"I'm going to work a claim. Dig for gold. I told Kells so to-day, and he
was delighted. He said he was afraid his men wouldn't like the working
part of his plan. It's hard to dig gold. Easy to steal it. But I'll dig
a hole as big as a hill!... Wouldn't it be funny if I struck it rich?"

"Jim, you're getting the fever."

"Joan, if I did happen to run into a gold-pocket—there're lots of them
found—would—you—marry me?"

The tenderness, the timidity, and the yearning in Cleve's voice told
Joan as never before how he had hoped and feared and despaired. She
patted his cheek with her hand, and in the darkness, with her heart
swelling to make up for what she had done to him, she felt a boldness
and a recklessness, sweet, tumultuous, irresistible.

"Jim, I'll marry you—whether you strike gold or not," she whispered.

And there was another blind, sweet moment. Then Cleve tore himself away,
and Joan leaned at the window, watching the shadow, with tears in her
eyes and an ache in her breast.

From that day Joan lived a life of seclusion in the small room. Kells
wanted it so, and Joan thought best for the time being not to take
advantage of Bate Wood's duplicity. Her meals were brought to her by
Wood, who was supposed to unlock and lock her door. But Wood never
turned the key in that padlock.

Prisoner though Joan was, the days and nights sped swiftly.

Kells was always up till late in the night and slept half of the next
morning. It was his wont to see Joan every day about noon. He had a care
for his appearance. When he came in he was dark, forbidding, weary, and
cold. Manifestly he came to her to get rid of the imponderable burden
of the present. He left it behind him. He never spoke a word of Alder
Creek, of gold, of the Border Legion. Always he began by inquiring for
her welfare, by asking what he could do for her, what he could bring
her. Joan had an abhorrence of Keils in his absence that she never felt
when he was with her; and the reason must have been that she thought of
him, remembered him as the bandit, and saw him as another and growing
character. Always mindful of her influence, she was as companionable,
as sympathetic, as cheerful, and sweet as it was possible for her to be.
Slowly he would warm and change under her charm, and the grim gloom, the
dark strain, would pass from him. When that left he was indeed another
person. Frankly he told Joan that the glimpse of real love she had
simulated back there in Cabin Gulch was seldom out of his mind. No woman
had ever kissed him like she had. That kiss had transfigured him. It
haunted him. If he could not win kisses like that from Joan's lips, of
her own free will, then he wanted none. No other woman's lips would ever
touch his. And he begged Joan in the terrible earnestness of a stern and
hungering outcast for her love. And Joan could only sadly shake her head
and tell him she was sorry for him, that the more she really believed
he loved her the surer she was that he would give her up. Then always
he passionately refused. He must have her to keep, to look at as his
treasure, to dream over, and hope against hope that she would love him
some day. Women sometimes learned to love their captors, he said; and if
she only learned, then he would take her away to Australia, to distant
lands. But most of all he begged her to show him again what it meant to
be loved by a good woman. And Joan, who knew that her power now lay in
her unattainableness, feigned a wavering reluctance, when in truth any
surrender was impossible. He left her with a spirit that her presence
gave him, in a kind of trance, radiant, yet with mocking smile, as if he
foresaw the overthrow of his soul through her, and in the light of that
his waning power over his Legion was as nothing.

In the afternoon he went down into camp to strengthen the associations
he had made, to buy claims, and to gamble. Upon his return Joan, peeping
through a crack between the boards, could always tell whether he had
been gambling, whether he had won or lost.

Most of the evenings he remained in his cabin, which after dark became
a place of mysterious and stealthy action. The members of his Legion
visited him, sometimes alone, never more than two together. Joan could
hear them slipping in at the hidden aperture in the back of the cabin;
she could hear the low voices, but seldom what was said; she could hear
these night prowlers as they departed. Afterward Kells would have the
lights lit, and then Joan could see into the cabin. Was that dark,
haggard man Kells? She saw him take little buckskin sacks full of
gold-dust and hide them under the floor. Then he would pace the room
in his old familiar manner, like a caged tiger. Later his mood usually
changed with the advent of Wood and Pearce and Smith and Cleve, who took
turns at guard and going down into camp. Then Kells would join them in
a friendly game for small stakes. Gambler though he was, he refused to
allow any game there that might lead to heavy wagering. From the talk
sometimes Joan learned that he played for exceedingly large stakes with
gamblers and prosperous miners, usually with the same result—a loss.
Sometimes he won, however, and then he would crow over Pearce and Smith,
and delight in telling them how cunningly he had played.

Jim Cleve had his bed up under the bulge of bluff, in a sheltered nook.
Kells had appeared to like this idea, for some reason relative to his
scout system, which he did not explain. And Cleve was happy about it
because this arrangement left him absolutely free to have his nightly
rendezvous with Joan at her window, sometime between dark and midnight.
Her bed was right under the window: if awake she could rest on her knees
and look out; and if she was asleep he could thrust a slender stick
between the boards to awaken her. But the fact was that Joan lived for
these stolen meetings, and unless he could not come until very late she
waited wide-eyed and listening for him. Then, besides, as long as Kells
was stirring in the cabin she spent her time spying upon him.

Jim Cleve had gone to an unfrequented part of the gulch, for no
particular reason, and here he had located his claim. The very first
day he struck gold. And Kells, more for advertisement than for any
other motive, had his men stake out a number of claims near Cleve's, and
bought them. Then they had a little field of their own. All found the
rich pay-dirt, but it was Cleve to whom the goddess of fortune turned
her bright face. As he had been lucky at cards, so he was lucky at
digging. His claim paid big returns. Kells spread the news, and that
part of the gulch saw a rush of miners.

Every night Joan had her whispered hour with Cleve, and each succeeding
one was the sweeter. Jim had become a victim of the gold fever. But,
having Joan to steady him, he did not lose his head. If he gambled
it was to help out with his part. He was generous to his comrades. He
pretended to drink, but did not drink at all. Jim seemed to regard his
good fortune as Joan's also. He believed if he struck it rich he could
buy his sweetheart's freedom. He claimed that Kells was drunk for gold
to gamble away. Joan let Jim talk, but she coaxed him and persuaded him
to follow a certain line of behavior, she planned for him, she thought
for him, she influenced him to hide the greater part of his gold-dust,
and let it be known that he wore no gold-belt. She had a growing fear
that Jim's success was likely to develop a temper in him inimical to
the cool, waiting, tolerant policy needed to outwit Kells in the end.
It seemed the more gold Jim acquired the more passionate he became, the
more he importuned Joan, the more he hated Kells. Gold had gotten into
his blood, and it was Joan's task to keep him sane. Naturally she gained
more by yielding herself to Jim's caresses than by any direct advice or
admonishment. It was her love that held Jim in check.

One night, the instant their hands met Joan knew that Jim was greatly
excited or perturbed.

"Joan," he whispered, thrillingly, with his lips at her ear, "I've made
myself solid with Kells! Oh, the luck of it!"

"Tell me!" whispered Joan, and she leaned against those lips.

"It was early to-night at the Nugget. I dropped in as usual. Kells was
playing faro again with that gambler they call Flash. He's won a lot of
Kells's gold—a crooked gambler. I looked on. And some of the gang
were there—Pearce, Blicky, Handy Oliver, and of course Gulden, but all
separated. Kells was losing and sore. But he was game. All at once he
caught Flash in a crooked trick, and he yelled in a rage. He sure had
the gang and everybody else looking. I expected—and so did all the
gang—to see Kells pull his gun. But strange how gambling affects him!
He only cursed Flash—called him right. You know that's about as bad as
death to a professional gambler in a place like Alder Creek. Flash threw
a derringer on Kells. He had it up his sleeve. He meant to kill Kells,
and Kells had no chance. But Flash, having the drop, took time to talk,
to make his bluff go strong with the crowd. And that's where he made
a mistake. I jumped and knocked the gun out of his hand. It went
off—burned my wrist. Then I slugged Mr. Flash good—he didn't get
up.... Kells called the crowd around and, showing the cards as they lay,
coolly proved that Flash was what everybody suspected. Then Kells said
to me—I'll never forget how he looked: 'Youngster, he meant to do for
me. I never thought of my gun. You see!... I'll kill him the next time
we meet.... I've owed my life to men more than once. I never forget. You
stood pat with me before. And now you're ace high!'"

"Was it fair of you?" asked Joan.

"Yes. Flash is a crooked gambler. I'd rather be a bandit.... Besides,
all's fair in love! And I was thinking of you when I saved Kells!"

"Flash will be looking for you," said Joan, fearfully.

"Likely. And if he finds me he wants to be quick. But Kells will drive
him out of camp or kill him. I tell you, Kells is the biggest man in
Alder Creek. There's talk of office—a mayor and all that—and if
the miners can forget gold long enough they'll elect Kells. But the
riffraff, these bloodsuckers who live off the miners, they'd rather not
have any office in Alder Creek."

And upon another night Cleve in serious and somber mood talked about
the Border Legion and its mysterious workings. The name had found
prominence, no one knew how, and Alder Creek knew no more peaceful
sleep. This Legion was supposed to consist of a strange, secret band of
unknown bandits and road-agents, drawing its members from all that
wild and trackless region called the border. Rumor gave it a leader of
cunning and ruthless nature. It operated all over the country at the
same time, and must have been composed of numerous smaller bands,
impossible to detect. Because its victims never lived to tell how or by
whom they had been robbed! This Legion worked slowly and in the dark.
It did not bother to rob for little gain. It had strange and unerring
information of large quantities of gold-dust. Two prospectors going out
on the Bannack road, packing fifty pounds of gold, were found shot
to pieces. A miner named Black, who would not trust his gold to the
stage-express, and who left Adler Creek against advice, was never
seen or heard of again. Four other miners of the camp, known to carry
considerable gold, were robbed and killed at night on their way to their
cabins. And another was found dead in his bed. Robbers had crept to his
tent, slashed the canvas, murdered him while he slept, and made off with
his belt of gold.

An evil day of blood had fallen upon Alder Creek. There were terrible
and implacable men in the midst of the miners, by day at honest toil,
learning who had gold, and murdering by night. The camp had never been
united, but this dread fact disrupted any possible unity. Every man, or
every little group of men, distrusted the other, watched and spied and
lay awake at night. But the robberies continued, one every few days, and
each one left no trace. For dead men could not talk.

Thus was ushered in at Alder Creek a regime of wildness that had
no parallel in the earlier days of '49 and '51. Men frenzied by the
possession of gold or greed for it responded to the wildness of that
time and took their cue from this deadly and mysterious Border Legion.
The gold-lust created its own blood-lust. Daily the population of Alder
Creek grew in the new gold-seekers and its dark records kept pace. With
distrust came suspicion and with suspicion came fear, and with fear came
hate—and these, in already distorted minds, inflamed a hell. So that
the most primitive passions of mankind found outlet and held sway. The
operations of the Border Legion were lost in deeds done in the gambling
dens, in the saloons, and on the street, in broad day. Men fought for
no other reason than that the incentive was in the charged air. Men
were shot at gaming-tables—and the game went on. Men were killed in the
dance-halls, dragged out, marking a line of blood on the rude floor—and
the dance went on. Still the pursuit of gold went on, more frenzied than
ever, and still the greater and richer claims were struck. The price of
gold soared and the commodities of life were almost beyond the dreams
of avarice. It was a tune in which the worst of men's natures stalked
forth, hydra-headed and deaf, roaring for gold, spitting fire, and
shedding blood. It was a time when gold and fire and blood were one. It
was a tune when a horde of men from every class and nation, of all ages
and characters, met on a field were motives and ambitions and faiths and
traits merged into one mad instinct of gain. It was worse than the
time of the medieval crimes of religion; it made war seem a brave and
honorable thing; it robbed manhood of that splendid and noble trait,
always seen in shipwrecked men or those hopelessly lost in the barren
north, the divine will not to retrograde to the savage. It was a time,
for all it enriched the world with yellow treasure, when might was
right, when men were hopeless, when death stalked rampant. The sun rose
gold and it set red. It was the hour of Gold!