Zane Grey (33 page)

"Let's walk. If we buy horses or wait for the stage we'll have to see
men here—and I'm afraid—"

"But, Joan, there'll be bandits along the road sure. And the trails,
wherever they are, would be less safe."

"Let's travel by night and rest by day."

"That won't do, with so far to go and no pack."

"Then part of the way."

"No. We'd better take the stage for Bannack. If it starts at all it'll
be under armed guard. The only thing is—will it leave soon?... Come,
Joan, we'll go down into camp."

Dusk had fallen and lights had begun to accentuate the shadows. Joan
kept close beside Jim, down the slope, and into the road. She felt like
a guilty thing and every passing man or low-conversing group frightened
her. Still she could not help but see that no one noticed her or Jim,
and she began to gather courage. Jim also acquired confidence. The
growing darkness seemed a protection. The farther up the street they
passed, the more men they met. Again the saloons were in full blast.
Alder Creek had returned to the free, careless tenor of its way. A
few doors this side of the Last Nugget was the office of the stage and
express company. It was a wide tent with the front canvas cut out and
a shelf-counter across the opening. There was a dim, yellow lamplight.
Half a dozen men lounged in front, and inside were several more, two of
whom appeared to be armed guards. Jim addressed no one in particular.

"When does the next stage leave for Bannack?"

A man looked up sharply from the papers that littered a table before
him. "It leaves when we start it," he replied, curtly.

"Well, when will that be?"

"What's that to you?" he replied, with a question still more curt.

"I want to buy seats for two."

"That's different. Come in and let's look you over.... Hello! it's young
Cleve. I didn't recognize you. Excuse me. We're a little particular
these days."

The man's face lighted. Evidently he knew Jim and thought well of him.
This reassured Joan and stilled the furious beating of her heart. She
saw Jim hand over a sack of gold, from which the agent took the amount
due for the passage. Then he returned the sack and whispered something
in Jim's ear. Jim rejoined her and led her away, pressing her arm close
to his side.

"It's all right," he whispered, excitedly. "Stage leaves just before
daylight. It used to leave in the middle of the fore-noon. But they want
a good start to-morrow."

"They think it might be held up?"

"He didn't say so. But there's every reason to suspect that.... Joan, I
sure hope it won't. Me with all this gold. Why, I feel as if I weighed a
thousand pounds."

"What'll we do now?" she inquired.

Jim halted in the middle of the road. It was quite dark now. The lights
of the camp were flaring; men were passing to and fro; the loose boards
on the walks rattled to their tread; the saloons had begun to hum; and
there was a discordant blast from the Last Nugget.

"That's it—what'll we do?" he asked in perplexity.

Joan had no idea to advance, but with the lessening of her fear and the
gradual clearing of her mind she felt that she would not much longer be
witless.

"We've got to eat and get some rest," said Jim, sensibly.

"I'll try to eat—but I don't think I'll be able to sleep tonight,"
replied Joan.

Jim took her to a place kept by a Mexican. It appeared to consist of
two tents, with opening in front and door between. The table was a plank
resting upon two barrels, and another plank, resting upon kegs, served
as a seat. There was a smoking lamp that flickered. The Mexican's
tableware was of a crudeness befitting his house, but it was clean and
he could cook—two facts that Joan appreciated after her long experience
of Bate Wood. She and Jim were the only customers of the Mexican, who
spoke English rather well and was friendly. Evidently it pleased him to
see the meal enjoyed. Both the food and the friendliness had good effect
upon Jim Cleve. He ceased to listen all the time and to glance furtively
out at every footstep.

"Joan, I guess it'll turn out all right," he said, clasping her hand
as it rested upon the table. Suddenly he looked bright-eyed and shy. He
leaned toward her. "Do you remember—we are married?" he whispered.

Joan was startled. "Of course," she replied hastily. But had she
forgotten?

"You're my wife."

Joan looked at him and felt her nerves begin to tingle. A soft, warm
wave stole over her.

Like a boy he laughed. "This was our first meal together—on our
honeymoon!"

"Jim!" The blood burned in Joan's face.

"There you sit—you beautiful... But you're not a girl now. You're Dandy
Dale."

"Don't call me that!" exclaimed Joan.

"But I shall—always. We'll keep that bandit suit always. You can dress
up sometimes to show off—to make me remember—to scare the—the kids—"

"Jim Cleve!"

"Oh, Joan, I'm afraid to be happy. But I can't help it. We're going to
get away. You belong to me. And I've sacks and sacks of gold-dust. Lord!
I've no idea how much! But you can never spend all the money. Isn't it
just like a dream?"

Joan smiled through tears, and failed trying to look severe.

"Get me and the gold away—safe—before you crow," she said.

That sobered him. He led her out again into the dark street with its
dark forms crossing to and fro before the lights.

"It's a long time before morning. Where can I take you—so you can sleep
a little?" he muttered.

"Find a place where we can sit down and wait," she suggested.

"No." He pondered a moment. "I guess there's no risk."

Then he led her up the street and through that end of camp out upon the
rough, open slope. They began to climb. The stars were bright, but even
so Joan stumbled often over the stones. She wondered how Jim could get
along so well in the dark and she clung to his arm. They did not speak
often, and then only in whispers. Jim halted occasionally to listen or
to look up at the bold, black bluff for his bearings. Presently he led
her among broken fragments of cliff, and half carried her over rougher
ground, into a kind of shadowy pocket or niche.

"Here's where I slept," he whispered.

He wrapped a blanket round her, and then they sat down against the rock,
and she leaned upon his shoulder.

"I have your coat and the blanket, too," she said. "Won't you be cold?"

He laughed. "Now don't talk any more. You're white and fagged-out. You
need to rest—to sleep."

"Sleep? How impossible!" she murmured.

"Why, your eyes are half shut now.... Anyway, I'll not talk to you. I
want to think."

"Jim!... kiss me—good night," she whispered.

He bent over rather violently, she imagined. His head blotted out the
light of the stars. He held her tightly for a moment. She felt him
shake. Then he kissed her on the cheek and abruptly drew away. How
strange he seemed!

For that matter, everything was strange. She had never seen the stars so
bright, so full of power, so close. All about her the shadows gathered
protectingly, to hide her and Jim. The silence spoke. She saw Jim's face
in the starlight and it seemed so keen, so listening, so thoughtful, so
beautiful. He would sit there all night, wide-eyed and alert, guarding
her, waiting for the gray of dawn. How he had changed! And she was his
wife! But that seemed only a dream. It needed daylight and sight of her
ring to make that real.

A warmth and languor stole over her; she relaxed comfortably; after all,
she would sleep. But why did that intangible dread hang on to her soul?
The night was so still and clear and perfect—a radiant white night of
stars—and Jim was there, holding her—and to-morrow they would ride
away. That might be, but dark, dangling shapes haunted her, back in her
mind, and there, too, loomed Kells. Where was he now? Gone—gone on his
bloody trail with his broken fortunes and his desperate bitterness! He
had lost her. The lunge of that wild mob had parted them. A throb
of pain and shame went through her, for she was sorry. She could not
understand why, unless it was because she had possessed some strange
power to instil or bring up good in him. No woman could have been proof
against that. It was monstrous to know that she had power to turn him
from an evil life, yet she could not do it. It was more than monstrous
to realize that he had gone on spilling blood and would continue to go
on when she could have prevented it—could have saved many poor miners
who perhaps had wives or sweethearts somewhere. Yet there was no help
for it. She loved Jim Cleve. She might have sacrificed herself, but she
would not sacrifice him for all the bandits and miners on the border.

Joan felt that she would always be haunted and would always suffer that
pang for Kells. She would never lie down in the peace and quiet of
her home, wherever that might be, without picturing Kells, dark and
forbidding and burdened, pacing some lonely cabin or riding a lonely
trail or lying with his brooding face upturned to the lonely stars.
Sooner or later he would meet his doom. It was inevitable. She pictured
over that sinister scene of the dangling forms; but no—Kells would
never end that way. Terrible as he was, he had not been born to be
hanged. He might be murdered in his sleep, by one of that band of
traitors who were traitors because in the nature of evil they had to be.
But more likely some gambling-hell, with gold and life at stake,
would see his last fight. These bandits stole gold and gambled among
themselves and fought. And that fight which finished Kells must
necessarily be a terrible one. She seemed to see into a lonely cabin
where a log fire burned low and lamps flickered and blue smoke floated
in veils and men lay prone on the floor—Kells, stark and bloody, and
the giant Gulden, dead at last and more terrible in death, and on the
rude table bags of gold and dull, shining heaps of gold, and scattered
on the floor, like streams of sand and useless as sand, dust of
gold—the Destroyer.

All Joan's fancies and dreams faded into obscurity, and when she was
aroused it seemed she had scarcely closed her eyes. But there was the
gray gloom of dawn. Jim was shaking her gently.

"No, you weren't sleepy—it's just a mistake," he said, helping her to
arise. "Now we'll get out of here."

They threaded a careful way out of the rocks, then hurried down the
slope. In the grayness Joan saw the dark shape of a cabin and it
resembled the one Kells had built. It disappeared. Presently when Jim
led her into a road she felt sure that this cabin had been the one where
she had been a prisoner for so long. They hurried down the road and
entered the camp. There were no lights. The tents and cabins looked
strange and gloomy. The road was empty. Not a sound broke the stillness.
At the bend Joan saw a stage-coach and horses looming up in what seemed
gray distance. Jim hurried her on.

They reached the stage. The horses were restive. The driver was on the
seat, whip and reins in hand. Two men sat beside him with rifles across
their knees. The door of the coach hung open. There were men inside, one
of whom had his head out of the window. The barrel of a rifle protruded
near him. He was talking in a low voice to a man apparently busy at the
traces.

"Hello, Cleve! You're late," said another man, evidently the agent.
"Climb aboard. When'll you be back?"

"I hardly know," replied Cleve, with hesitation.

"All right. Good luck to you." He closed the coach door after Joan and
Jim. "Let 'em go, Bill."

The stage started with a jerk. To Joan what an unearthly creak and
rumble it made, disturbing the silent dawn! Jim squeezed her hand with
joy. They were on the way!

Joan and Jim had a seat to themselves. Opposite sat three men—the
guard with his head half out of the window, a bearded miner who appeared
stolid or drowsy, and a young man who did not look rough and robust
enough for a prospector. None of the three paid any particular attention
to Joan and Jim.

The road had a decided slope down-hill, and Bill, the driver, had the
four horses on a trot. The rickety old stage appeared to be rattling
to pieces. It lurched and swayed, and sometimes jolted over rocks and
roots. Joan was hard put to it to keep from being bumped off the seat.
She held to a brace on one side and to Jim on the other. And when the
stage rolled down into the creek and thumped over boulders Joan made
sure that every bone in her body would be broken. This crossing marked
the mouth of the gulch, and on the other side the road was smooth.

"We're going the way we came," whispered Jim in her ear.

This was surprising, for Joan had been sure that Bannack lay in the
opposite direction. Certainly this fact was not reassuring to her.
Perhaps the road turned soon.

Meanwhile the light brightened, the day broke, and the sun reddened the
valley. Then it was as light inside the coach as outside. Joan might
have spared herself concern as to her fellow-passengers. The only
one who noticed her was the young man, and he, after a stare and a
half-smile, lapsed into abstraction. He looked troubled, and there was
about him no evidence of prosperity. Jim held her hand under a fold of
the long coat, and occasionally he spoke of something or other outside
that caught his eye. And the stage rolled on rapidly, seemingly in
pursuit of the steady roar of hoofs.

Joan imagined she recognized the brushy ravine out of which Jesse Smith
had led that day when Kells's party came upon the new road. She believed
Jim thought so, too, for he gripped her hand unusually hard. Beyond that
point Joan began to breathe more easily. There seemed no valid reason
now why every mile should not separate them farther from the bandits,
and she experienced relief.

Then the time did not drag so. She wanted to talk to Jim, yet did not,
because of the other passengers. Jim himself appeared influenced by
their absorption in themselves. Besides, the keen, ceaseless vigilance
of the guard was not without its quieting effect. Danger lurked ahead
in the bends of that road. Joan remembered hearing Kells say that the
Bannack stage had never been properly held up by road-agents, but that
when he got ready for the job it would be done right. Riding grew to be
monotonous and tiresome. With the warmth of the sun came the dust and
flies, and all these bothered Joan. She did not have her usual calmness,
and as the miles steadily passed her nervousness increased.