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BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME
OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT
FUND GIVEN IN 1891 BY

HENRY WILLIAMS SAGE

 

 

 

 

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‘iti
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THE BORDER LEGION

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The Border Legion.

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THE
BORDER LEGION

BY

ZANE GREY

AUTHOR OF

WANDERER OF THE WASTELAND
TO THE LAST MAN
THE MYSTERIOUS RIDER, ETC.

ILLUSTRATED WITH SCENES
FROM THE PHOTOPLAY
A PARAMOUNT PICTURE

NEW YORK

GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS

 

 

Made in the United States of America

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Te Borper LEcIon

Copyright, 1916, by Harper & Brothers
Printed in the United States of America

av

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CHAPTER I

OAN RANDLE reined in her horse on the

crest of the cedar ridge, and with remorse and
dread beginning to knock at her heart she gazed
before her at the wild and looming mountain range.

“Jim wasn’t fooling me,” she said. ‘‘He meant
it. He’s going straight for the border. . . . Oh, why
did I taunt him!”

It was indeed a wild place, that southern border
of Idaho, and that year was to see the ushering in
of the wildest time probably ever known in the
West. The rush for gold had peopled California
with a horde of lawless men of every kind and class.
And the vigilantes and then the rich strikes in
Idaho had caused a reflux of that dark tide of hu-
manity. Strange tales of blood and gold drifted
into the camps, and prospectors and hunters met
with many unknown men.

Joan had quarreled with Jim Cleve, and she was
bitterly regretting it. Joan was twenty years old,
tall, strong, dark. She had been born in Missouri,
where her father had been well-to-do and prominent,

until, like many another man of his day, he had
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Suddenly Joan was blindly furious. She could
have killed him. She had never given him any
right, never made him any promise, never let him
believe she cared. And he had dared—! The hot
blood boiled in her cheeks. She was furious with
him, but intolerably so with herself, because some-
how those kisses she had resented gave her unknown
pain and shame. They had sent a shock through all
her being. She thought she hated him.

““You—you—” she broke out. ‘‘Jim Cleve, that
ends you with me!’

‘“Reckon I never had a beginning with you,’’ he
replied, bitterly. ‘‘It was worth a good deal...
I’m not sorry. ... By Heaven—I’ve—kissed you!’’

He breathed heavily. She could see how pale
he had grown in the shadowy moonlight. She sensed
a difference in him—a cool, reckless defiance.

“You'll be sorry,”’ she said. ‘‘I’ll have nothing to
do with you any more.’

“All right. But I’m not, and I won’t be sorry.”

She wondered whether he had fallen under the
influence of drink. Jim had never cared for liquor,
which virtue was about the only one he possessed.
Remembering his kisses, she knew he had not been
drinking. There was a strangeness about him,
though, that she could not fathom. Had he guessed
his kisses would have that power? If he dared
again—! She trembled, and it was not only rage.
But she would teach him a lesson.

“Joan, I kissed you because I can’t be a hang-
dog any longer,” he said. ‘‘I love you and I’m no
good without you. You must care a little for me.
Let’s marry... . ?U—”

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*‘Never!” she replied, like flint. ‘‘You're no good
at all.”

‘“‘But I am,” he protested, with passion. ‘‘I used
to do things. But since—since I’ve met you I’ve
lost my nerve. I’m crazy for you. You let the
other men run after you. Some of them aren’t fit
to—to— Oh, I’m sick all the time! Now it’s long-
ing and then it’s jealousy. Give me a chance, Joan.”

““Why?” she queried, coldly. ‘‘Why should I?
You're shiftless. You won’t work. When you do
find a little gold you squander it. You have nothing
but a gun. You can’t do anything but shoot.”

‘“Maybe that ’Il come in handy,” he said, lightly.

‘(Jim Cleve, you haven’t it in you even to be bad,”
she went on, stingingly.

At that he made a violent gesture. Then he
loomed over her. ‘‘Joan Randle, do you mean
that?’ he asked.

“‘T surely do,’ she responded. At last she had
struck fire from him. The fact was interesting. It
lessened her anger.

“‘Then I’m so low, so worthless, so spineless that
I can’t even be bad?”

‘*Yes, you are,”

“‘That’s what you think of me—after I’ve ruined
myself for love of you?”’

She laughed tauntingly. How strange and hot a
glee she felt in hurting him!

“By God, I'll show you!” he cried, hoarsely.

‘‘What will you do, Jim?’’ she asked, mockingly.

“T’ll shake this camp. I'll rustle for the border.
I'll get in with Kells and Gulden. . . . You'll hear of
me, Joan Randle!”

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devil. Over on the border! I was mad and told

him to go.... But I’m sorry now—and have been
trying to catch up with him.”
““Ahuh!... So that’s Jim’s trail. I sure was

wonderin’. Joan, it turns off a few miles back an’
takes the trail for the border. I know. I’ve been
in there.”

Joan glanced up sharply at Roberts. His scarred
and grizzled face seemed grave and he avoided her
gaze.

“You don’t believe—Jim ’ll really go?” she asked,
hurriedly.

“‘Reckon I do, Joan,” he replied, after a pause.
‘Jim is just fool enough. He had been gettin’ reck-
lessler lately. An’, Joan, the times ain’t provocatin’
a young feller to be good. Jim had a bad fight the
other night. He about half killed young Bradley.
But I reckon you know.”’

“T’ve heard nothing,’ she replied. ‘‘Tell me.
Why did they fight?”’

“Report was that Bradley talked oncomplemen-
tary 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

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her. Her father in his youth had been an adven-
turer. She felt the thrill and the call of her blood.
And she had been unjust to a man who loved her.

‘“‘T’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, loconically, 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 de-
pression between the foot-hills 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 dis-
tance. But she had no glimpse of him. Now and
then Roberts would glance around at the westering
sun. The afternoon had far advanced. Joan be-
gan 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

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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 man-
ner of telling how bad the injury was. ‘‘Joan, I
teckon there'll be some worryin’ back home to-
night. 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
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we'd better be careful about a fire an’ not have one
after dark.”

““There’s no help for it,” replied Joan. ‘‘To-
morrow 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 sud-
denly 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 althcugh 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 ap-
parently 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.

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CHAPTER II

“TT 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 re-
sembled in general a dozen men Joan saw every day.
Kells was of a different stamp. Until he looked at.
her he reminded her of some one she had known
back in Missouri; after he looked at her she was
aware, in a curious, sickening way, that no such per-
son 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 cre-
dence—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.
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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

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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 in-
wardly, almost stunned. Some great peril menaced
her. Men like Roberts did not talk that way with-
out cause. She was brave; she was not unused to
danger. But this must be a different kind, com-
pared with which all she had experienced was but
insignificant. She could not grasp Roberts’s inti-
mation. Why should he be killed? They had no
gold, no valuables. Even their horses were noth-
ing 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. Rob-
erts could protect her. Then this amiable, well-
spoken ixells, 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

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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 bash-
ful. 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 al-
ways 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. Cer-
tain books had obsessed her, even when a child, and
often to her mother’s dismay; for these books had

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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, pun-
gent 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 In-
dians. She had prospecte* and hunted in the
mountains with her uncle, weeks at a time. But
never before this night had the wildness, the lonel.
ness, been so vivid to her.

Roberts was on his knees, scouring his oven with
wet sand. His big, shaggy head nodded in the fire.
light. He seemed pondering and thick and slow.
There was a burden upon him. The man Bill and
his companion lay back against stones and con-
versed 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 im-
posing 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
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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.”

“Tl 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.

“Tl bunk by the fire,’’ went on the other, and
with that he sat down and appeared to become ab-
sorbed 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.

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

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Whereupon he returned to the camp-fire. Pres-
ently 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, drag-
ging his saddle, and lay down near her. Joan
raised up a little to see Kells motionless and ab-
sorbed 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 shad-
ows, the silence, the presence of strange men, all
told her. Anda shudder that was a thrill ran over
and over her.

She would lie awake. It would be impossible to
sleep. And suddenly into her full mind flashed an
idea to slip away in the darkness, find her horse, and
so escape from any possible menace. This plan oc-
cupied her thoughts for a long while. If she had
not been used to Western ways she would have tried
just that thing. But she rejected it. She was not
sure that she could slip away, or find her horse,
or elude pursuit, and certainly not sure of her way
home. It would be best to stay with Roberts.
| When that was settled her mind ceased to race.
She grew languid and sleepy. The warmth of the
blankets stole over her. She had no idea of sleeping,
yet she found sleep more and more difficult to resist.
Time that must have been hours passed. The fire
died down and then brightened; the shadows dark-

ened and then lightened. Some one now and then
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got up to throw on wood. The thump of hobbled
hoofs sounded out in the darkness. The wind was
still and the coyotes were gone. She could no longer
open her eyes. They seemed glued shut. And then
gradually all sense of the night and the wild, of the
drowsy warmth, faded.

When she awoke the air was nipping cold. Her
eyes snapped open clear and bright. The tips of
the cedars were ruddy in the sunrise. A camp-fire
crackled. Blue smoke curled upward. Joan sat up
with a rush of memory. Roberts and Kells were
bustling round the fire. The man Bill was carrying
water. The other fellow had brought in the horses
and was taking off the hobbles. Noone, apparently,
paid any attention to Joan. She got up and smoothed
out her tangled hair, which she always wore in a
braid down her back when she rode. She had slept,
then, and in her boots! That was the first time she
had ever done that. When she went down to the
brook to bathe her face and wash her hands, the men
still, apparently, took no notice of her. She began
to hope that Roberts had exaggerated their danger.
Her horse was rather skittish and did not care for
strange hands. He broke away from the bunch.
Joan went after him, even lost sight of camp. Pves-
ently, after she caught him, she led him back to
camp and tied him up. And then she was so far
emboldened as to approach the fire and to greet the
men.

“‘Good morning,” she said, brightly.

Kells had his back turned at the moment. He did
not move or speak or give any sign he had heard.
The man Bill stared boldly at her, but without a

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word. Roberts returned her greeting, and as she
glanced quickly at him, drawn by his voice, he turned
away. But she had seen that his face was dark,
haggard, worn.

Joan’s cheer and hope sustained a sudden and vio-
lent check. There was something wrong in this
group, and she could not guess what it was. She
seemed to have a queer, dragging weight at her limbs.
She was glad to move over to a stone and sink down
upon it. Roberts brought her breakfast, but he
did not speak or look at her. His hands shook. And
this frightened Joan. What was going to happen?
Roberts went back to the camp-fire. Joan had to
force herself to eat. ‘There was one thing of which
she was sure—that she would need all the strength
and fortitude she could summon.

Joan became aware, presently, that Kells was con-
versing with Roberts, but too low for her to hear
what was said. She saw Roberts make a gesture
of fierce protest. About the other man there was
an air cool, persuading, dominant. He ceased speak-
ing, as if the incident were closed. Roberts hurried
and blundered through his task with his pack and
went for his horse. The animal limped slightly, but
evidently was not in bad shape. Roberts saddled
him, tied on the pack. Then he saddled Joan’s
horse. That done, he squared around with the front
of a man who had to face something he dreaded.

‘“‘Come on, Joan. We're ready,” he called. His
voice was loud, but not natural.

Joan started to cross to him when Kells strode
between them. She might not have been there, for

all the sign this ominous man gave of her presence.
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He confronted Roberts in the middle of the camp-
circle, and halted, perhaps a rod distant.

‘*Roberts, get on your horse and clear out,” he said.

Roberts dropped his halter and straightened up.
It was a bolder action than any he had heretofore
given. Perhaps the mask was off now; he was
wholly sure of what he had only feared; subterfuge
and blindness were in vain; and now he could be a
man. Some change worked in his face—a blanch-
ing, a setting.

“No, I won’t go without the girl,” he said.

“But you can’t take her!”

Joan vibrated to a sudden start. So this was what
was going to happen. Her heart almost stood still.
Breathless and quivering, she watched these two men,
about whom now all was strangely magnified.

‘‘Reckon I’ll go along with you, then,’ replied
Roberts.

‘Your company’s not wanted.”

“Wal, Dll go anyway.”

This was only play at words, Joan thought. She
divined in Roberts a cold and grim acceptance ol
something he had expected. And the voice of Kells
—what did that convey? Still the man seemed
slow, easy, kind, amiable.

‘‘Haven’t you got any sense, Roberts?” he asked.

Roberts made no reply to that.

“Go on home. Say nothing or anything—what-
ever you like,” continued Kells. ‘You did me a
favor once over in California. I like to remember
favors. Use your head now. Hit the trail.”

“Not without her. I'll fight first,’’ declared Rob-

erts, and his hands began to twitch and jerk.
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Joan did not miss the wonderful intentness oh
the pale-gray eyes that watched Roberts—his face,
his glance, his hands.

“What good will it do to fight?” asked Kells. He
laughed coolly. ‘‘That won’t help her... . You
ought to know what you'll get.”

“‘Kells—I'll die before I leave that girl in your
clutches,” flashed Roberts. ‘‘An’ I ain’t a-goin’ to
stand here an’ argue with you. Let her come —
or-——”

“Vou don’t strike me as a fool,” interrupted Kells.
His voice was suave, smooth, persuasive, cool.
What strength—what certainty appeared behind it!
“Tt’s not my habit to argue with fools. Take the
chance I offer you. Hit the trail. Life is precious,
man!... You’ve no chance here. And what’s one
girl more or less to you?”

‘‘Kells, I may be a fool, but I’m a man,”’ passion-
ately rejoined Roberts. ‘‘Why, you’re somethin’
inhuman! I knew that out in the gold-fields. But
to think you can stand there—an’ talk sweet an’
pleasant—with no idee of manhood! ... Let her
come now—or—or I’m a-goin’ for my gun!’

“Roberts, haven’t you a wife—children?”’

“Yes, I have,’’ shouted Roberts, huskily. ‘‘An’
that wife would disown me if I left Joan Randle to
you. An’ I’ve got a grown girl. Mebbe some day
she might need a man to stand between her an’ such
as you, Jack Kells!’

All Roberts’s pathos and passion had no effect,
unless to bring out by contrast the singular and ruth-
less nature of Jack Kells.

“Will you hit the trail?”

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“No!” thundered Roberts.

Until then Joan Randle had been fascinated, held
by the swift interchange between her friend and
enemy. But now she had a convulsion of fear.
She had seen men fight, but never to the death.
Roberts crouched like a wolf at bay. There was a
madness upon him. He shook like a rippling leaf.
Suddenly his shoulder lurched—his arm swung.

Joan wheeled away in horror, shutting her eyes,
covering her ears, running blindly. Then upon her
muffied hearing burst the boom of a gun.

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CHAPTER III

OAN ran on, stumbling over rocks and brush,

with a darkness before her eyes, and terror in
her soul. She was out in the cedars when some one
grasped her from behind. She felt the hands as the
coils of a snake. Then she was ready to faint, but
she must not faint. She struggled away, stood
free. It was the man Bill who had caught her. He
said something that was unintelligible. She reached
for the snag of a dead cedar and, leaning there,
fought her weakness, that cold black horror which
seemed a physical thing in her mind, her blood, her
muscles.

When she recovered enough for the thickness to
leave her sight she saw Kells coming, leading her
horse and his own. At sight of him a strange, swift
heat shot through her. Then she was confounded
with the thought of Roberts.

‘*Ro—Roberts?”’ she faltered.

Kells gave her a piercing glance. ‘‘Miss Randle,
I had to take the fight out of your friend,’’ he said.

“You—you— Is he—dead?”

“I just crippled his gun-arm. If I hadn’t he
would have hurt somebody. He'll ride back to
Hoadley and tell your folks about it. So they'll
know you're safe.”

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“Safe!” she whispered.

“That’s what I said, Miss Randle. If you’re
going to ride out into the border—if it’s possible
‘o be safe out there you'll be so with me.”

“But I want to go home. Oh, please let me go!”

“T couldn’t think of it.”

““Then—what will you—do with me?”

Again that gray glance pierced her. His eyes
were clear, flawless, like crystal, without coldness,
warmth, expression. ‘“‘I’ll get a barrel of gold out
of you.”

““How?” she asked, wonderingly.

“T'll hold you for ransom. Sooner or later those
prospectors over there are going to strike gold.
Strike it rich! I know that. I’ve got to make a
living some way.”

Kells was tightening the cinch on her saddle
while he spoke. His voice, his manner, the amiable
smile on his intelligent face, they all appeared to
come from sincerity. But for those strange eyes
Joan would have wholly believed him. As it was,
a half doubt troubled her. She remembered the
character Roberts had given this man. Still, she
was recovering her nerve. It had been the certainty
of disaster to Roberts that had made her weaken.
As he was only slightly wounded and free to ride
home safely, she had not the horror of his death upon
her. Indeed, she was now so immensely uplifted
that she faced the situation unflinchingly.

“‘Bill,”’ called Kells to the man standing there
with a grin on his coarse red face, ‘‘you go back and
help Halloway pack. Then take my trail.”

Bill nodded, and was walking away when Kells

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called after him: ‘‘And say, Bill, don’t say anything
to Roberts. He’s easily riled.”

‘““Haw! Haw! Haw!” laughed Bill.

His harsh laughter somehow rang jarringly in
Joan’s ears. But she was used to violent men who
expressed mirth over mirthless jokes.

““Get up, Miss Randle,”’ said Kells as he mounted.
“We've a long ride. You'll need all your strength.
So I advise you to come quietly with me and not
try to get away. It won’t be any use trying.”

Joan climbed into her saddle and rode after him.
Once she looked back in hope of seeing Roberts, of
waving a hand to him. She saw his horse standing
saddled, and she saw Bill struggling under a pack,
but there was no sign of Roberts. Then more cedars
intervened and the camp site was lost to view. When
she glanced ahead her first thought was to take in
the points of Kells’s horse. She had been used to
horses all her life. Kells rode a big rangy bay—a
horse that appeared to snort speed and endurance.
Her pony could never run away from that big brute.
Still Joan had the temper to make an attempt to
escape, if a favorable way presented.

The morning was rosy, clear, cool; there was a
sweet, dry tang in the air; white-tailed deer bounded
out of the open spaces; and the gray-domed, glisten-
ing mountains, with their bold, black- fringed slopes,
overshadowed the close foot-hills.

Joan was a victim to swift vagaries of thought and
conflicting emotions. She was riding away with a
freebooter, a road-agent, to be heldforransom. The
fact was scarcely credible. She could not shake the

dread of nameless peril. She tried not to recali
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Roberts’s words, yet they haunted her. If she had
not been so handsome, he had said! Joan knew
she possessed good looks, but they had never caused
her any particular concern. That Kells had let
that influence him—as Roberts had imagined—was
more than absurd. Kells had scarcely looked at her.
It was gold such men wanted. She wondered what
her ransom would be, where her uncle would get it,
and if there really was a likelihood of that rich
strike. Then she remembered her mother, who had
died when she was a little girl, and a strange, sweet
sadness abided with her. It passed. She saw her
uncle—that great, robust, hearty, splendid old man,
with his laugh and his kindness, and his love for her,
and his everlasting unquenchable belief that soon he
would make a rich gold-strike. What a roar and a
stampede he would raise at her loss! The village
camp might be divided on that score, she thought,
because the few young women in that little settle-
ment hated her, and the young men would have more
peace without her. Suddenly her thought shifted to
Jim Cleve, the cause of her present misfortune. She
had forgotten Jim. In the interval somehow he had
grown. Sweet to remember how he had fought for
her and kept it secret! After all, she had misjudged
him. She had hated him because she liked him.
Maybe she did more! That gave her a shock. She
recalled his kisses and then flamed all over. If she
did not hate him she ought to. He had been so use-
less; he ran after her so; he was the laughing-stock
of the village; his actions made her other admirers
and friends believe she cared for him, was playing
fast-and-loose with him. Still, there was a differ-
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ence now. He had terribly transgressed. He had
frightened her with threats of dire ruin to himself.
Aad because of that she had trailed him, to fall her-
self upon a hazardous experience. Where was Jim
Cleve now? Like a flash then occurred to her the
singular possibility. Jim had ridden for the border
with the avowed and desperate intention of finding
Kells and Gulden and the bad men of that track-
less region. He would do what he had sworn he
would. And here she was, the cause of it all, a
captive of this notorious Kells! She was being led
into that wild border country. Somewhere out
there Kells and Jim Cleve would meet. Jim would
find her in Kells’s hands. Then there would be
hell, Joan thought. The possibility, the certainty,
seemed to strike deep into her, reviving that dread
and terror. Yet she thrilled again; a ripple that was
not all cold coursed through her. Something had a
birth in her then, and the part of it she understood
was that she welcomed the adventure with a throb-
bing heart, yet looked with awe and shame and dis-
trust at this new, strange side of her nature.

And while her mind was thus thronged the morn-
ing hours passed swiftly, the miles of foot-hills were
climbed and descended. A green gap of cafion,
wild and yellow-walled, yawned before her, opening
into the mountain.

Kells halted on the grassy bank of a shallow brook.
“Get down. We'll noon here and rest the horses,”
he said to Joan. ‘‘I can’t say that you’re anything
but game. We’ve done perhaps twenty-five miles
this morning.”

The mouth of this cafion was a wild, green:

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flowered, beautiful place. There were willows and
alders and aspens along the brook. The green bench
was like a grassy meadow. Joan caught a glimpse
of a brown object, a deer or bear, stealing away
through spruce-trees on the slope. She dismounted,
aware now that her legs ached and it was comfort-
able to stretch them. Looking backward across the
valley toward the last foot-hill, she saw the other
men, with horses and packs, coming. She had a habit
of close observation, and she thought that either
the men with the packs had now one more horse
than she remembered, or else she had not seen the
extra one. Her attention shifted then. She watched
Kells unsaddle the horses. He was wiry, muscular,
quick with his hands. The big, blue-cylindered gun
swung in front of him. That gun had a queer kind
of attraction for her. The curved black butt made
her think of a sharp grip of hand upon it. Kells
did not hobble the horses. He slapped his bay on
the haunch and drove him down toward the brook.
Joan’s pony followed. They drank, cracked the

' stones, climbed the other bank, and began to roll

in the grass. Then the other men with the packs
trotted up. Joan was glad. She had not thought
of it before, but now she felt she would rather not
be alone with Kells. She remarked then that there
was no extra horse in the bunch. It seemed strange,
her thinking that, and she imagined she was not
clear-headed.

‘*Throw the packs, Bill,” said Keils.

Another fire was kindled and preparations made
toward a noonday meal. Bill and Halloway appeared
loquacious, and inclined to steal glances at Joan

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when Kells could not notice. Halloway whistled a
Dixie tune. Then Bill took advantage of the ab-
sence of Kells, who went down to the brook, and he
began to leer at Joan and make bold eyes at her.
Joan appeared not to notice him, and thereafter
averted her gaze. The men chuckled.

“‘She’s the proud hussy! But she ain’t foolin’
me. I’ve knowed a heap of wimmen.’”’ Where-
upon Halloway guffawed, and between them, in
lower tones, they exchanged mysterious remarks.
Kells returned with a bucket of water.

‘‘What’s got into you men?’’ he queried.

Both of them looked around, blusteringly innocent.

‘*Reckon it’s the same that’s ailin’ you,” replied
Bill. He showed that among wild, unhampered men
how little could inflame and change.

“Boss, it’s the onaccustomed company,’’ added
Halloway, with a conciliatory smile. ‘‘Bill sort of
warms up. He jest can’t help it. An’ seein’ what
a thunderin’ crab he always is, why I’m glad an’
welcome.”

Kelis vouchsafed no reply to this and, turning
away, continued at his tasks. Joan had a close look
at his eyes and again she was startled. They were
not like eyes, but just gray spaces, opaque openings,
with nothing visible behind, yet with something
terrible there.

The preparations for the meal went on, somewhat
constrainedly on the part of Bill and Halloway, and
presently were ended. Then the men attended to
it with appetites born of the open and of action.
Joan sat apart from them on the bank of the brook,
and after she had appeased her own hunger she

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rested, leaning back in the shade of an alder-bush.
A sailing shadow crossed near her, and, looking up,
she saw an eagle flying above the ramparts of the
cafion. Then she had a drowsy spell, but she suc-
cumbed to it only to the extent of closing her
eyes. Time dragged on. She would rather have
been in the saddle. These men were leisurely, and
Kells was provokingly slow. They had nothing to
do with time but waste it. She tried to combat the
desire for hurry, for action; she could not gain any-
thing by worry. Nevertheless, resignation would
not come to her and her hope began to flag. Some-
thing portended evil—something hung in the bal-
ance.

The snort and tramp of horses roused her, and
upon sitting up she saw the men about to pack and
saddle again. Kells had spoken to her only twice
so far that day. She was grateful for his silence,
but could not understand it. He seemed to have a
preoccupied air that somehow did not fit the amiable-
ness of his face. He looked gentle, good-natured;
ue was soft-spcken; he gave an impression of kind-
ness. But Joan began to realize that he was not
what he seemed. He had something on his mind.
It was not conscience, nor a burden: it might bea
projection, a plan, an absorbing scheme, a something
that gained food with thought. Joan wondered
doubtfully if it were the ransom of gold he expected
to get.

Presently, when all was about in readiness for a
fresh start, she rose to her feet. Kells’s bay was
not tractable at the moment. Bill held out Joan’s
bridle to her and their hands touched. The con-

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tact was an accident, but it resulted in Bill’s grasp-
ing back at her hand. She jerked it away, scarcely
comprehending. Then all under the brown of his
face she saw creep a dark, ruddy tide. He reached
for her then—put his hand on her breast. It was an
instinctive animal action. He meant nothing. She
divined that he could not help it. She had lived with
rough men long enough to know he had no motive—
no thought at all. But at the profanation of such
a touch she shrank back, uttering a cry.

At her elbow she heard a quick step and a sharp-
drawn breath or hiss.

“Aw, Jack!” cried Bill.

Then Kells, in lithe and savage swiftness, came
between them. He swung his gun, hitting Bill full
in the face. The man fell, limp and heavy, and he
lay there, with a bloody gash across his brow.
Kells stood over him a moment, slowly lowering the
gun. Joan feared he meant to shoot.

‘‘Oh, don’t—don’t!’ she cried. ‘‘He—he didnt
hurt me.”

Kells pushed her back. When he touched her she
seemed to feel the shock of an electric current. His
face had not changed, but his eyes were terrible.
On the background of gray were strange, leaping red
flecks.

‘‘Take your horse,” he ordered. ‘‘No. Walk
across the brook. ‘There’sa trail. Go up the cafion.
I'll come presently. Don’t run and don’t hide. It’ll
be the worse for you if you do. Hurry!’

Joan obeyed. She flashed past the open-jawed
Halloway and, running down to the brook, stepped
across from stone to stone. She found the trail and

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hurriedly followed it. She did not look back. It
never occurred to her to hide, to try to get away.
She only obeyed, conscious of seme force that domi-
nated her. Once she heard loud voices, then the
shrill neigh of a horse. The trail swung under the
left wall of the cafion and ran along the noisy
brook. She thought she heard shots and was startled,
but she could not be sure. She stopped to listen.
Only the babble of swift water and the sough of
wind in the spruces greeted her ears. She went on,
beginning to collect her thoughts, to conjecture on
the significance of Kells’s behavior.

But had that been the spring of his motive? She
doubted it—she doubted all about him, save that
subtle essence of violence, of ruthless force and in-
tensity, of terrible capacity, which hung round him.

A halloo caused her to stop and turn. Two pack-
horses were jogging up the trail. Kells was driving
them and leading her pony. Nothing could be seen
of the other men. Kells rapidly overhauled her,
and she had to get out of the trail to let the pack-
animals pass. He threw her bridle to her.

“Get up,” he said.

She complied. And then she bravely faced him.
““Where are—the other men?”

‘‘We parted company,” he replied, curtly.

‘‘Why?” she persisted.

‘*Well, if you’re anxious to know, it was because
you were winning their—regard—too much to suit
me.”

‘‘Winning their regard!” Joan exclaimed, blankly.

Here those gray, piercing eyes went through her,
then swiftly shifted. She was quick to divine from

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that the inference in his words—he suspected her of
flirting with those ruffians, perhaps to escape him
through them. That had only been his suspicion—
groundless after his swift glance at her. Perhaps
unconsciousness of his meaning, a simulated inno-
cence and ignorance might serve her with this strange
man. She resolved to try it, to use all her woman’s
intuition and wit and cunning. Here was an edu-
cated man who was a criminal—an outcast. Deep
within him might be memories of a different life.
They might be stirred. Joan decided in that swift
instant that, if she could understand him, learn his
real intentions toward her, she could cope with
him.

“Bill and his pard were thinking too much of—of
“ne ransom I’m after,’’ went on Kells, with a short
laugh. ‘‘Come on now. Ride close to me.”

Joan turned into the trail with his laugh ringing in
her ears. Did she only imagine a mockery in it?
Was there any reason to believe a word this man
said? She appeared as helpless to see through him
as she was in her predicament.

They had entered a cafion, such as was typical
of that mountain range, and the winding trail which
ran beneath the yellow walls was one unused to
travel. Joan could not make out any old tracks, ex-
cept those of deer and cougar. The crashing of wild
animals into the chaparral, and the scarcely fright-
ened flight of rabbits and grouse attested to the wild-
ness of the place. They passed an old tumble-
down log cabin, once used, no doubt, by prospectors
and hunters. Here the trailended. Yet Kells kept
on up the cafion. And for all Joan could tell the

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walls grew only the higher and the timber heavier
and the space wider.

At a turn, when the second pack-horse, that ap-
peared unused to his task, came fully into Joan’s
sight, she was struck with his resemblance to some
horse with which she was familiar. It was scarcely an
impression which she might have received from seeing
Kells’s horse or Bill’s or any one’s a few times. There-
fore she watched this animal, studying his gait and be-
havior. It did not take long for her to discover that
he was not a pack-horse. He resented that burden.
He did not know how to swing it. This made her
deeply thoughtful and she watched closer than ever.
All at once there dawned on her the fact that the
resemblance here was to Roberts’s horse. She
caught her breath and felt again that cold gnawing
of fear within her. Then she closed her eyes the
better to remember significant points about Roberts’s
sorrel—a white left front foot, an old diamond
brand, a ragged forelock, and an unusual marking,
a light bar across hi: face. When Joan had recalled
these, she felt so certain that she would find them
on this pack-horse that she was afraid to open her
eyes. She forced herself to look, and it seemed that
in one glance she saw three of them. Still she clung
to hope. Then the horse, picking his way, partially
turning toward her, disclosed the bar across his face.

Joan recognized it. Roberts was not on his way
home. Kells had lied. Kells had killed him. How
plain and fearful the proof! It verified Roberts’s
gloomy prophecy. Joan suddenly grew sick and
dizzy. She reeled in her saddle. It was only by
dint of the last effort of strength and self-control

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that she kept her seat. She fought the horror as if
it were a beast. Hanging over the pommel, with
shut eyes, letting her pony find the way, she sus-
tained this shock of discovery and did not let it ut-
terly overwhelm her. And as she conquered the
sickening weakness her mind quickened to the
changed aspect of her situation. She understood
Kells and the appalling nature of her peril. She
did not know how she understood him now, but
doubt had utterly fled. All was clear, real, grim,
present. Like a child she had been deceived, for
no reason she could see. That talk of ransom was
false. Likewise Kells’s assertion that he had parted
company with Halloway and Bill because he would
not share the ransom—that, too, was false. The
idea of a ransom, in this light, was now ridiculous.
From that first moment Kells had wanted her; he
had tried to persuade Roberts to leave her, and, fail-
ing, had killed him; he had rid himself of the other
two men—and now Joan knew she had heard shots
back there. Kells’s intention loomed out of all his
dark brooding, and it stood clear now to her,
dastardly, worse than captivity, or torture, or
death—the worst fate that could befall a woman.
The reality of it now was so astounding. True—
as true as those stories she had deemed impossible!
Because she and her people and friends had ap-
peared secure in their mountain camp and happy in
their work and trustful of good, they had scarcely
. credited the rumors of just such things as had hap-
pened to her. The stage held up by road-agents,
a lonely prospector murdered and robbed, fights in

the saloons and on the trails, and useless pursuit
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of hard-riding men out there on the border, illusive
as Arabs, swift as Apaches—these facts had been ter-
rible enough, without the dread of worse. The truth
of her capture, the meaning of it, were raw, shocking
spurs to Joan Randle’s intelligence and courage.
Since she still lived, which was strange indeed in the
illuminating light of her later insight into Kells
and his kind, she had to meet him with all that was
catlike and subtle and devilish at the command of
awoman. She had to win him, foil him, kill him—
or go to her death. She was no girl to be dragged
into the mountain fastness by a desperado and made
a plaything. Her horror and terror had worked its
way deep into the depths of her and uncovered pow-
ers never suspected, never before required in her
scheme of life. She had no longer any fear. She
matched herself against this man. She anticipated
him. And she felt like a woman who had lately
been a thoughtless girl, who, in turn, had dreamed
of vague old happenings of a past before she was
born, of impossible adventures in her own future.
Hate and wrath and outraged womanhood were not
wholly the secret of Joan Randle’s flaming spirit.

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CHAPTER IV

OAN RANDLE rode on and on, through tha.

cafion, out at its head and over a pass into another
cafion, and never did she let it be possible for Kells
to see her eyes until she knew beyond peradventure
of a doubt that they hid the strength and spirit and
secret of her soul.

The time came when traveling was so steep and
rough that she must think first of her horse and her
own safety. Kells led up over a rock-jumbled spur
of range, where she had sometimes to follow on foot.
It seemed miles across that wilderness of stone.
Foxes and wolves trotted over open places, watching
stealthily. All around dark mountain peaks stood
up. The afternoon was far advanced when Kells
started to descend again, and he rode a zigzag course
on weathered slopes and over brushy benches, down
and down into the cafions again.

A lonely peak was visible, sunset-flushed against
the blue, from the point where Kells finally halted.
That ended the longest ride Joan had ever made in
one day. For miles and miles they had climbed and
descended and wound into the mountains. Joan
had scarcely any idea of direction. , She was com-
pletely turned around and lost. This spot was the

wildest and most beautiful she had ever seen. A
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cafion headed here. It was narrow, low-walled, and
luxuriant with grass and wild roses and willow and
spruce and balsam. ‘There were deer standing with
long ears erect, motionless, curious, tame as cattle.
There were moving streaks through the long grass,
showing the course of smaller animals slipping away.

Then under a giant balsam, that reached aloft to
the rim-wall, Joan saw a little log cabin, open in
front. It had not been built very long; some of
the log ends still showed yellow. It did not resemble
the hunters’ and prospectors’ cabins she had seen
on her trips with her uncle.

In a sweeping glance Joan had taken in these fea-
tures. Kells had dismounted and approached her.
She looked frankly, but not directly, at him.

“I’m tired—almost too tired to get off,’’ she
said.

“Fifty miles of rock and brush, up and down!
Without a kick!’ he exclaimed, admiringly. ‘‘You’ve
got sand, girl!’

““Where are we?”

“This is Lost Cafion. Only a few men know of
it. And they are—attached to me. I intend to
keep you here.” *

‘‘How long?’ She felt the intensity of his gaze.

‘‘Why—as long as—” he replied, slowly, ‘‘till I
get my ransom.”

‘What amount will you ask?”

“YVou’re worth a hundred thousand in gold right
now. ... Maybe later I might let you go for less.”

Joan’s keen-wrought perception registered his co-
vert, scarcely veiled implication. He was studying
her.

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“Oh, poor uncle! He’ll never, never get si
much.”

“Sure he will,” replied Kells, bluntly.

Then he helped her out of the saddle. She was
stiff and awkward, and she let herself slide. Kells
handled her gently and like a gentleman, and for
Joan the first agonizing moment of her ordeal was
past. Her intuition had guided her correctly. Kells
might have been and probably was the most de-
praved of outcast men; but the presence of a girl
like her, however it affected him, must also have
brought up associations of a time when by family
and breeding and habit he had been infinitely dif:
ferent. His action here, just like the ruffian Bill’s,
was instinctive, beyond his control. Just this slight
thing, this frail link that joined Kells to his past
and better life, immeasurably inspirited Joan and
outlined the difficult game she had to play.

““You’re a very gallant robber,” she said.

He appeared not to hear that or to note it; he
was eying her up and down; and he moved closer,
perhaps to estimate her height compared to his own.

“T didn’t know you were so tall. You’re above
my shoulder.’”?

“Yes, I’m very lanky.”

““Lanky! Why you’re not that. You've a splen-
did figure—tall, supple, strong; you’re like a Nez
Percé girl I knew once. .. . You’re a beautiful thing.
Didn’t you know that?”

“Not particularly. My friends don’t dare flatter
me. I suppose I’ll have to stand it from you. But
I didn’t expect compliments from Jack Kells of the
Border Legion.”

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“Border Legion? Where’d you hear that name?”:

“TI didn’t hear it. I made it up—thought of it
myself.”

‘Well, you’ve invented something I’ll use... .
And what’s your name—your first name? I heard
Roberts use it?”

Joan felt a cold contraction of all her internal be-
ing, but outwardly she never so much as flicked an
eyelash. ‘‘My name’s Joan.”

“Joan!” He placed heavy, compelling hands on
her shoulders and turned her squarely toward him.

Again she felt his gaze, strangely, like the reflec-
tion of sunlight from ice. She had to look at him.
This was her supreme test. For hours she had pre-
pared for it, steeled herself, wrought upon all that
was sensitive in her; and now she prayed, and
swiftly looked up into his eyes. They were windows
of a gray hell. And she gazed into that naked
abyss, at that dark, uncovered soul, with only the
timid anxiety and fear and the unconsciousness of
an innocent, ignorant girl.

“Joan! You know why I brought you here?”

“Yes, of course; you told me,” she replied,
steadily. ‘‘You want to ransom me for gold....
And I’m afraid you’ll have to take me home without
getting any.”

“You know what I mean to do to you,” he went

on, thickly.
““Do to me?” she echoed, and she never quivered
a muscle. ‘‘You—you didn’t say. ... I haven’t

thought. . . . But you won’t hurt me, will you?
It’s not my fault if there’s no gold to ransom
me.,”’

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He shook her. His face changed, grew e@arker.
“You know what I mean.”

“7 don’t.”” With some show of spirit she essayed
to slip out of his grasp. He held her the tighter.

““How old are you?”

It was only in her height and development that
Joan looked anywhere near her age. Often she had
been taken for a very young girl.

‘I’m seventeen,” she replied. This was not the
truth. It was a lie that did not falter on lips which
had scorned falsehood.

‘‘Seventeen!”’ he ejaculated in amaze. ‘‘Honest-
ly, now?”

She lifted her chin scornfully and remained silent.

“Well, I thought you were a woman. I took
you to be twenty-five—at least twenty-two. Seven-
teen, with that shape! You’re only a girl—a kid.
You don’t know anything.”

Then he released her, almost with violence, as it
angered at her or himself, and he turned away tc
the horses. Joan walked toward the little cabin.
The strain of that encounter left her weak, but once
from under his eyes, certain that she had carried
her point, she quickly regained her poise. There
might be, probably would be, infinitely more trying
ordeals for her to meet than this one had been: she
realized, however, that never again would she be
so near betrayal of terror and knowledge and self.

The scene of her isolation had a curious fascina-
tion for her. Something—and she shuddered—was
to happen to her here in this lonely, silent gorge.
There were some flat stones made into a rude seat
under the balsam-tree, and a swift, yard-wide

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stream of clear water ran by. Observing something
white against the tree, Joan went closer. A card, the
ace of hearts, had been pinned to the bark by a
small cluster of bullet-holes, every one of which
touched the red heart, and one of them had oblit-
erated it. Below the circle of bullet-holes, scrawled
in rude letters with a lead-pencil, was the name
**Gulden.” How little, a few nights back, when Jim
Cleve had menaced Joan with the names of Kells and
Gulden, had she imagined they were actual men she
was to meet andfear! And here she was the prisoner
of one of them. She would ask Kells who and what
this Gulden was. The log cabin was merely a shed,
without fireplace or window, and the floor was a
covering of balsam boughs, long dried out and with-
ered. A dim trail led away from it down the cafion.
If Joan was any judge of trails, this one had not seen
the imprint of a horse track for many months.
Kells had indeed brought her to a hiding-place, one
of those, perhaps, that camp gossip said was inac-
cessible to any save a border hawk. Joan knew that
only an Indian could follow the tortuous and rocky
trail by which Kells had brought her in. She would
never be tracked there by her own people.

The long ride had left her hot, dusty, scratched,
with tangled hair and torn habit. She went over to
her saddle, which Kells had removed from her pony,
and, opening the saddle-bag, she took inventory of
her possessions. They were few enough, but now,
in vicw of an unexpected and enforced sojourn in the
wilds, beyond all calculation of value. And they in-
cluded towel, soap, tooth-brush, mirror and comb and
brush, a red scarf, and gloves. It occurred to her

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how seldom she carried that bag on her saddle, and,
thinking back, referred the fact to accident, and then
with honest amusement owned that the motive
might have been also a little vanity. Taking the
bag, she went to a flat stone by the brook and, roll-;
ing up her sleeves, proceeded to improve her ap-
pearance. With deft fingers she rebraided her hair
and arranged it as she had worn it when only sixteen.
Then, resolutely, she got up and crossed over to
where Kells was unpacking.

“T’ll help you get supper,”’ she said.

He was on his knees in the midst of a jumble of
camp duffle that had been hastily thrown together.
He looked up at her—from her shapely, strong,
brown arms to the face she had rubbed rosy.

‘“‘Say, but you’re a pretty girl!”

He said it enthusiastically, in unstinted admira-
tion, without the slightest subtlety or suggestion; and
if he had been the devil himself it would have been
no less a compliment, given spontaneously to youth
and beauty.

“T’m glad if it’s so, but please don’t tell me,”’ she
rejoined, simply.

Then with swift and business-like movements she
set to helping him with the mess the inexperienced
pack-horse had made of that particular pack. And
when that was straightened out she began with the
biscuit dough while he lighted a fire. It appeared
to be her skill, rather than her willingness, that he
yielded to. He said very little, but he looked at her
often. And he had little periods of abstraction.
The situation was novel, strange to him. Some-
times Joan read his mind and sometimes he was an

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enigma. But she divined when he was thinking
what a picture she looked there, on her knees before
the bread-pan, with flour on her arms; of the differ-
ence a girl brought into any place; of how strange
it seemed that this girl, instead of lying a limp and
disheveled rag under a tree, weeping and praying
for home, made the best of a bad situation and im-
proved it wonderfully by being a thoroughbred.

Presently they sat down, cross-legged, one on
each side of the tarpaulin, and began the meal.
That was the strangest supper Joan ever sat down
to; it was like a dream where there was danger that
tortured her; but she knew she was dreaming and
would soon wake up. Kells was almost impercepti-
bly changing. The amiability of his face seemed to
have stiffened. The only time he addressed her was
when he offered to help her to more meat or bread
or coffee. After the meal was finished he would not
let her wash the pans and pots, and attended to
that himself.

Joan went to the seat by the tree, near the camp-
fire. A purple twilight was shadowing the cafion.
Far above, on the bold peak the last warmth of the
afterglow was fading. There was no wind, no
sound, no movement. Joan wondered where Jim
Cleve was then. They had often sat in the twilight.
She felt an unreasonable resentment toward him,
knowing she was to blame, but blaming him for her
plight. Then suddenly she thought of her uncle,
of home, of her kindly old aunt who always worried
so about her. Indeed, there was cause to worry.
She felt sorrier for them than for herself. And that
broke her spirit momentarily. Forlorn, and with a

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wave of sudden sorrow and dread and hopelessness,
she dropped her head upon her knees and covered
her face. Tears were a relief. She forgot Kells and
the part she must play. But she remembered swift-
ly—at the rude touch of his hand.

‘Here! Are you crying?” he asked, roughly.

“Do you think I’m laughing?’ Joan retorted.
Her wet eyes, as she raised them, were proof enough.

“Stop it.”

“T can’t help—but cry—a little. I was th—
thinking of home—of those who’ve been father and
mother to me—since I was a baby. I wasn’t crying
—for myself. But they—they’ll be so miserable.
They loved me so.”

“Tt won’t help matters to cry.”

Joan stood up then, no longer sincere and forget-
ful, but the girl with her deep and cunning game.
She leaned close to him in the twilight.

“Did you ever love any one? Did you ever have
a sister—a girl like me?”

Kells stalked away into the gloom.

Joan was left alone. She did not know whether
to interpret his abstraction, his temper, and his action
as favorable or not. Still she hoped and prayed they
meant that he had some good in him. If she could
only hide her terror, her abhorrence, her knowledge
of him and his motive! She built up a bright camp-
fire. There was an abundance of wood. She
dreaded the darkness and the night. Besides, the
air was growing chilly. So, arranging her saddle
and blankets near the fire, she composed herself in
a comfortable seat to await Kells’s return and de-

velopments. J& struck her forcibly that she had
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lost some of her fear of Kells and she did not
know why. She ought to fear him more every
hour—every minute. Presently she heard his
step brushing the grass and then he emerged out
of the gloom. He hada load of fire-wood on his
shoulder.

““Did you get over your grief?’ he asked, glancing
down upon her.

“Yes,” she replied.

Kells stooped for a red ember, with which he
lighted his pipe, and then he seated himself a little
back from the fire. The blaze threw a bright glare
over him, and in it he looked neither formidable
nor vicious nor ruthless. He asked her where she
was born, and upon receiving an answer he followed
that up with another question. And he kept this
up until Joan divined that he was not so much in-
iterested in what he apparently wished to learn as
he was in her presence, her voice, her personality.
She sensed in him loneliness, hunger for the sound
of a voice. She had heard her uncle speak of the
loneliness of lonely camp-fires and how all men
working or hiding or lost in the wilderness would see
sweet faces in the embers and be haunted by soft
voices. After all, Kells was human. And she talked
as never before in her life, brightly, willingly, elo-
quently, telling the facts of her eventful youth and
girlhood—the sorrow and the joy and some of the
dreams—up to the time she had come to Camp
Hoadley.

“Did you leave any sweethearts over *here at
Hoadley?” he asked, after a silence.

6*Ves,””

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**How many?”

‘‘A whole campful,” she replied, with a laugh,
“but admirers is a better name for them.”

‘Then there’s no one fellow?”

“‘Hardly—yet.”’

‘How would you like being kept here in this lone-
some place for—well, say for ever?”

“I wouldn’t like that,” replied Joan. ‘‘I’d like
this—camping out like this now—if my folks only
knew I am alive and well and safe. I love lonely,
dreamy places. I’ve dreamed of being in just such
a one as this. It seems so far away here—so shut
in by the walls and the blackness. So silent and
sweet! I love the stars. They speak to me. And
the wind in the spruces. Hear it. . . . Very low,
mournful! That whispers to me—to-morrow I'd
like it here if I had no worry. I’ve never grown up
yet. I explore and climb trees and hunt for little
birds and rabbits—young things just born, all fuzzy
and sweet, frightened, piping or squealing for their
mothers. But I won’t touch one for worlds. I
simply can’t hurt anything. I can’t spur my horse
or beat him. Oh, I hate pain!”

‘*You’re a strange girl to live out here on this bor-
der,’’ he said.

“T’m no different from other girls. You don’t
know girls.”

“‘T knew one pretty well. She put a rope round
my neck,’’ he replied, grimly.

a ropel’’

“Yes, I mean a halter, a hangman’s noose. But
I balked her!’’

“Oh!...A good girl?”

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““Bad{ Bad to the core of her black heart—
bad as I am!” he exclaimed, with fierce, low pas-
sion.

Joan trembled. The man, in an instant, seemed
transformed, somber as death. She could not look
at him, but she must keep on talking.

‘Bad? You don’t seem bad to me—only violent,
perhaps, or wild... . Tell me about yourself.”

She had stirred him. His neglected pipe fell from
his hand. In the gloom of the camp-fire he must
have seen faces or ghosts of his past.

“Why not?” he queried, strangely. ‘‘Why not
do what’s been impossible for years—open my lips?
It 1 not matter—to a girl who can never tell!... Have
I forgotten? God!—I have not! Listen, so that
you'll know I’m bad. My name’s not Kells. I was
born in the East, and went to school there till I ran
away. I was young, ambitious, wild. Istole. Iran
away—came West in ’fifty-one to the gold-fields
in California. There I became a prospector, miner,
gambler, robber—and road-agent. I had evil in
me, as all men have, and those wild years brought
itout. Ihadnochance. Evil and gold and blood—
they are one and the same thing. I committed
every crime till no place, bad as it might be, was
safe for me. Driven and hunted and shot and
starved—almost hanged!... And row I’m—Kells! of
that outcast crew you named ‘the Border Legion’!
Every black crime but one—the blackest—and that
haunting me, itching my hands to-night!’

‘‘Oh, you speak so—so dreadfully!’ cried Joan.
“What can I say? I’m sorry for you. I don’t be-
lieve it all. What—what black crime haunts you?

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Oh! what could be possible to-night—here in this
lonely cafion—with only me?”

Dark and terrible the man arose.

“Girl,” he said, hoarsely. ‘‘To-night—to-night—

T’ll.... What have you done tome? One more day
—and J’ll be mad to do right by you—instead of
wrong. ... Do you understand that?”

Joan leaned forward in the camp-fire light with |

outstretched hands and quivering lips, as overcome
by his halting confession of one last remnant of
honor as she was by the dark hint of his passion.

‘‘No—no—I don’t understand—nor believe!” she
cried. ‘‘But you frighten me—so! I am all—alt
alone with you here. You said I’d be safe. Don’c
—don’t—”

Her voice broke then and she sank back exhausted
in her seat. Probably Kells had heard only the first
words of her appeal, for he took to striding back and
forth in the circle of the camp-fire light. The scab-
bard with the big gun swung against his leg. It
grew to be a dark and monstrous thing in Joan’s
sight. A marvelous intuition born of that hour
warned her of Kells’s subjection to the beast in him,
even while, with all the manhood left to him, he
still battled against it. Her girlish sweetness and
innocence had availed nothing, except mock him
with the ghost of dead memories. He could not be
won or foiled. She must get her hands on that gun
—kill him—or—! The alternative was death for
herself. And she leaned there, slowly gathering all
the unconquerable and unquenchable forces of a
woman’s nature, waiting, to make one desperate,
supreme, and final effort.

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CHAPTER V

ELLS strode there, a black, silent shadow
plodding with bent head, as if all about and
above him were demons and furies.

Joan’s perceptions of him, of the night, of the in-
animate and impondering black walls, and of her-
self, were exquisitely and abnormally keen. She
saw him there, bowed under his burden, gloomy and
wroth and sick with himself because the man in
him despised the coward. Men of his stamp were
seldom or never cowards. Their life did not breed
cowardice or baseness. Joan knew the burning in
her breast—that thing which inflamed and swept
through her like a wind of fire—was hate. Yet her
heart held a grain of pity for him. She measured
his forbearance, his struggle, against the monstrous
cruelty and passion engendered by a wild life among
wild men at a wild time. And, considering his op-
portunities of the long hours and lonely miles, she
was grateful, and did not in the least underestimate
what it cost him, how different from Bill or Hallo-
way he had been. But all this was nothing, and her
thinking of it useless, unless he conquered himself.
She only waited, holding on to that steel-like con-
trol of her nerves, motionless and silent.

She leaned back against her saddle, a blanket cov-

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ering her, with wide-open eyes, and despite the
presence of that stalking figure and the fact of her
mind being locked round one terrible and inevitable
thought, she saw the changing beautiful glow of the
fire-logs and the cold, pitiless stars and the muster-
ing shadows under the walls. She heard, too, the
low rising sigh of the wind in the balsam and the
silvery tinkle of the brook, and sounds only im-
agined or nameless. Yet a stern and insupportable
silence weighed her down. ‘This dark cafion seemed
at the ends of the earth. She felt encompassed by
illimitable and stupendous upflung mountains, in-
sulated in a vast, dark, silent tomb.

Kells suddenly came to her, treading noiselessly,
and he leaned over her. His visage was a dark
blur, but the posture of him was that of a wolf about
to spring. Lower he leaned—slowly—and yet lower.
Joan saw the heavy gun swing away from his leg:
she saw it black and clear against the blaze; a cold,
blue light glinted from its handle. And then Kells
was near enough for her to see his face and his eyes
that were but shadows of flames. She gazed up at
him steadily, open-eyed, with no fear or shrinking.
His breathing was quick and loud. He looked down
at her for an endless moment, then, straightening his
bent form, he resumed his walk to and fro.

After that for Joan time might have consisted of
moments or hours, each of which was marked by
Kells looming over her. He appeared to approach
her from all sides; he found her wide-eyed, sleepless:
his shadowy glance gloated over her lithe, slender
shape; and then he strode away into the gloom.
Sometimes she could no longer hear his steps and

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then she was quiveringly alert, listening, fearful
that he might creep upon her like a panther. At
times he kept the camp-fire blazing brightly; at
others he let it die down. And these dark intervals
were frightful for her. The night seemed treacher-
ous, in league with her foe. It was endless. She
prayed for dawn—yet with a blank hopelessness for
what the day might bring. Could she hold out
through more interminable hours? "Would she not
break from sheer strain? There were moments
when she wavered and shook like a leaf in the
wind, when the beating of her heart was audible,
when a child could have seen her distress. There
were other moments when all was ugly, unreal, im-
possible like things in a nightmare. But when
Kells was near or approached to look at her, like
a cat returned to watch a captive mouse, she was
again strong, waiting, with ever a strange and cold
sense of the nearness of that swinging gun. Late
in the night she missed him, for how long she had
no idea. She had less trust in his absence than his
presence. The nearer he came to her the stronger
she grew and the clearer of purpose. At last the
black void of cafion lost its blackness and turned
to gray. Dawn was at hand. The horrible end-
less night, in which she had aged from girl to woman,
had passed. Joan had never closed her eyes a single
instant.

When day broke she got up. The long hours in
which she had rested motionlessly had left her
muscles cramped and dead. She began to walk off
the feeling. Kells had just stirred from his blanket
ander the balsam-tree. His face was dark, haggard,

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lined. She saw him go down to the brook and
plunge his hands into the water and bathe his face
with a kind of fury. Then he went up to the
smoldering fire. There was a gloom, a somber:
ness, a hardness about him that had not been
noticeable the day before.

Joan found the water cold as ice, soothing to the
burn beneath her skin. She walked away then,
aware that Kells did not appear to care, and went
up to where the brook brawled from under the cliff.
This was a hundred paces from camp, though in
plain sight. Joan looked round for her horse, but
he was not to be seen. She decided to slip away
the first opportunity that offered, and on foot or
horseback, any way, to get out of Kells’s clutches if
she had to wander, lost in the mountains, till she
starved. Possibly the day might be endurable, but
another night would drive her crazy. She sat ona
ledge, planning and brooding, till she was startled by
a call from Kells. Then slowly she retraced her
steps.

“Don’t you want to eat?” he asked.

“T’m not hungry,” she replied.

“Well, eat anyhow—if it chokes you,”’ he ordered.

Joan seated herself while he placed food and drink
before her. She did not look at him and did not feel
his gaze upon her. Far asunder as they had been
yesterday the distance between them to-day was
incalculably greater. She ate as much as she could
swallow and pushed the rest away. Leaving the
camp-fire, she began walking again, here and there,
aimlessly, scarcely seeing what she looked at. There
was a shadow over her, an impending portent of

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catastrophe, a moment standing dark and sharp out
of the age-long hour. She leaned against the balsam
and then she rested in the stone seat, and then she
had to walk again. It might have been long, that
time; she never knew how long or short. There
came a strange flagging, sinking of her spirit, accom-
(panied by vibrating, restless, uncontrollable muscular
‘activity. Her nerves were on the verge of collapse.

It was then that a call from Kells, clear and ring-
ing, thrilled all the weakness from her in a flash,
and left her strung and cold. She saw him coming.
His face looked amiable again, bright against what
seemed a vague and veiled background. Like a
mountaineer he strode. And she looked into his
strange, gray glance to see unmasked the ruthless
power, the leaping devil, the ungovernable passion
she had sensed in him.

He grasped her arm and with a single pull swung
her to him. ‘‘You’ve got to pay that ransom!”

He handled her as if he thought she resisted, but
she was unresisting. She hung her head to hide her
eyes. Then he placed an arm round her shoulders
and half led, half dragged her toward the cabin.

Joan saw with startling distinctness the bits of bal-
gam and pine at her feet and pale pink daisies in the
grass, and then the dry withered boughs. She was
in the cabin.

“Girl! . . . I’m hungry—for you!’’ he breathed,
hoarsely. And turning her toward him, he embraced
her, as if his nature was savage and he had to use

; & savage force.

, If Joan struggled at all, it was only slightly, when

_ she writhed and slipped, like a snake, to get her arm
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under his as it clasped her neck. Then she let her-
self go. He crushed her tohim. He bent her back-
ward—tilted her face with hard and eager hand.
Like a madman, with hot working lips, he kissed her.
She felt blinded—scorched. But her purpose was
as swift and sure and wonderful as his passion was
wild. The first reach of her groping hand found his
gun-belt. Swift as light her hand slipped down.
Her fingers touched the cold gun—grasped with
thrill on thrill—slipped farther down, strong and
sure to raise the hammer. Then with a leaping,
strung intensity that matched his own she drew the
gun, She raised it while her eyes were shut. She
lay passive under his kisses—the devouring kisses
of one whose manhood had been denied the sweet-
ness, the glory, the fire, the life of woman’s lips,
It was a moment in which she met his primitive fury
of possession with a woman’s primitive fury of pro-
fanation. She pressed the gun against his side and
pulled the trigger.

A thundering, muffled, hollow boom! The odor of
burned powder stung her nostrils. Kells’s hold on
her tightened convulsively, loosened with strange,
lessening power. She swayed back free of him, still
with tight-shut eyes. A horrible cry escaped him—
acry of mortal agony. It wrenched her. And she
looked to see him staggering amazed, stricken, at bay,
like a wolf caught in cruel steel jaws. His hands
came away from both sides, dripping with blood.
They shook till the crimson drops spattered on the
wall, on the boughs. Then he seemed to realize
and he clutched at her with these bloody hands.

“God Almighty!’ he panted. ‘‘You shot me!

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... You—you girl! ... You fooled me!... You
knew—all the time! ... You she-cat!... Give me—
that gun!”

“Kells, get back! I'll kill you!” she cried. The
big gun, outstretched between them, began to waver.

Kells did not see the gun. In his madness he tried
to move, to reach her, but he could not; he was sink-
ing. His legs sagged under him, let him down to
his knees, and but for the wall he would have fallen.
Then a change transformed him. The black, turgid,
convulsed face grew white and ghastly, with beads
of clammy sweat and lines of torture. His strange
eyes showed swiftly passing thought—wonder, fear,
scorn—even admiration.

‘Joan, you’ve done—for me!’ he gasped. ‘‘ You’ve
broken my back!...It’ll kill me! Oh! the pain—
the pain! And I can’t stand pain! You—you girl!
You innocent seventeen-year-old girl! You that
couldn’t hurt any creature! You so tender—so gen-

tle!... Bah! youfooledme. The cunning of a wom-
an! I ought—to know. A good woman’s—more
terrible than a—bad woman... . But I deserved this.

Once I used—to be. ... Only, the torture! ... Why
didn’t you—kill me outright? . . . Joan—Randle—
watch me—die! Since I had—to die—by rope or
bullet—I’m glad you—you—did for me. ... Man or
beast—I believe—I loved you!”

Joan dropped the gun and sank beside him, help-
less, horror-stricken, wringing her hands. She want-
ed to tell him she was sorry, that he drove her to it,
that he must let her pray for him. But she could
not speak. Her tongue clove to the roof of her
mouth and she seemed strangling.

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Another change, slower and more subtle, passed
ever Kells. He did not see Joan. He forgot her.
The white shaded out of his face, leaving a gray like
that of his somber eyes. Spirit, sense, life, were
fading from him. The quivering of a racked body
ceased. And all that seemed left was a lonely soul
groping on the verge of the dim borderland between
life and death. Presently his shoulders slipped along
the wall and he fell, to lie limp and motionless before
Joan. Then she fainted.

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CHAPTER VI

V HEN Joan returned to consciousness she was

lying half outside the opening of the cabin and
above her was a drift of blue gun-smoke, slowly
floating upward. Almost as swiftly as perception of
that smoke came a shuddering memory. She lay
still, listening. She did not hear a sound except the
tinkle and babble and gentle rush of the brook.
Kells was dead, then. And overmastering the hor-
ror of her act was a relief, a freedom, a lifting of her
soul out of dark dread, a something that whispered
justification of the fatal deed.

She got up and, avoiding to look within the cabin,
walked away. The sun was almost at the zenith.
Where had the morning hours gone?

“‘T must get away,’ she said, suddenly. The
thought quickened her. Down the cafion the horses
were grazing. She hurried along the trail, trying
to decide whether to follow this dim old trail or
endeavor to get out the way she had been brought
in. She decided upon the latter. If she traveled
slowly, and watched for familiar landmarks, things
she had seen once, and hunted carefully for the
tracks, she believed she might be successful. She
had the courage to try. Then she caught her pony
and led him back to camp.

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‘‘What shall I take?” she pondered. She decided
upon very little—a blanket, a sack of bread and meat,
and a canteen of water. She might need a weapon,
also. There was only one, the gun with which she
had killed Kells. It seemed utterly impossible to
touch that hateful thing. But now that she had
liberated herself, and at such cost, she must not
yield to sentiment. Resolutely she started for the
cabin, but when she reached it her steps were drag-
ging. The long, dull-blue gun lay where she had
dropped it. And out of the tail of averted eyes she
saw a huddled shape along the wall. It was a sick-
ening moment when she reached a shaking hand for
the gun. And at that instant a low moan trans-
fixed her.

She seemed frozen rigid. Was the place already
haunted? Her heart swelled in her throat and a
dimness came before her eyes. But another moan
brought swift realization—Kells was alive. And the
cold clamping sickness, the strangle in her throat,
all the feelings of terror, changed and were lost in
a flood of instinctive joy. He was not dead. She
had not killed him. She did not have blood on her
hands. She was not a murderer.

She whirled to look at him. There he lay, ghastly
as a corpse. And all her woman’s gladness fled.
But there was compassion left to her, and, forgetting
all else, she knelt beside him. He was as cold as
stone. She felt no stir, no beat of pulse in temple
or wrist. Then she placed her ear against his breast.
His heart beat weakly.

“‘He’s alive,’’ she whispered. ‘‘But—he’s dying.
... What shall I do?”

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Many thoughts flashed across her mind. She
could not help him now; he would be dead soon;
she did not need to wait there beside him; there
was a risk of some of his comrades riding into that
rendezvous. Suppose his back was not broken, after
all! Suppose she stopped the flow of blood, tended
him, nursed him, saved his life? For if there were
one chance of his living, which she doubted, it must
be through her. Would he not be the same savage
the hour he was well and strong again? What dif-
ference could she make in such a nature? The man
was evil. He could not conquer evil. She had
been witness to that. He had driven Roberts to
draw and had killed him. No doubt he had delib-
erately and coldly murdered the two ruffians, Bill
and Halloway, just so he could be free of their
glances at her and be alone with her. He deserved
to die there like a dog.

What Joan Randle did was surely a woman’s
choice. Carefully she rolled Kells over. The back
of his vest and shirt was wet with blood. She got
up to find a knife, towel, and water. As she returned
to the cabin he moaned again.

Joan had dressed many a wound. She was not
afraid of blood. The difference here was that she
had shed it. She felt sick, but her hands were
firm as she cut open the vest and shirt, rolled them
aside, and bathed his back. The big bullet had
made a gaping wound, having apparently gone
through the small of the back. The blood still
flowed. She could not tell whether or not Kells’s
spine was broken, but she believed that the bullet

had gone between bone and muscle, or had glanced.
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There was a blue welt just over his spine, in line
with the course of the wound. She tore her scarf
into strips and used it for compresses and bandages.
Then she laid him back upon a saddle-blanket. She
had done all that was possible for the present, and
it gave her a strange sense of comfort. She even
prayed for his life and, if that must go, for his soul.
Then she got up. He was unconscious, white, death-
like. It seemed that his torture, his near approach
to death, had robbed his face of ferocity, of ruth-
lessness, and of that strange amiable expression.
But then, his eyes, those furnace-windows, were
closed.

Joan waited for the end to come. The afternoon
passed and she did not leave the cabin. It was pos-
sible that he might come to and want water. She
had once ministered to a miner who had been fatally
crushed in an avalanche; and never could she for-
get his husky call for water and the gratitude in his
eyes.

Sunset, twilight, and night fell upon the cafion.
And she began to feel solitude as something tangible.
Bringing saddle and blankets into the cabin, she
made a bed just inside, and, facing the opening and
the stars, she lay down to rest, if not to sleep. The
darkness did not keep her from seeing the prostrate
figure of Kells. He lay there as silent as if he were
‘already dead. She was exhausted, weary for sleep,
and unstrung. In the night her courage fled and
she was frightened at shadows. The murmuring of
insects seemed augmented into aroar; the mourn of
wolf and scream of cougar made her start; the rising

wind moaned like a lost spirit. Dark fancies beset
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her. Troop on troop of specters moved out of the
black night, assembling there, waiting for Kells to
join them. She thought she was riding homeward
over the back trail, sure of her way, remembering
every rod of that rough travel, until she got out of
the mountains, only to be turned back by dead men.
Then fancy and dream, and all the haunted gloom
of cafion and cabin, seemed slowly to merge into one
immense blackness.

The sun, rimming the east wall, shining into Joan's
face, awakened her. She had slept hours. She felt
rested, stronger. Like the night, something dark
had passed away from her. It did not seem strange
to her that she should feel that Kells still lived. She
knew it. And examination proved her right. In
him there had been no change except that he had
ceased to bleed. There was just a flickering of life
in him, manifest only in his slow, faint heart-beats.

Joan spent most of that day in sitting beside Kells.
The whole day seemed only an hour. Sometimes
she would lock down the cafion trail, half expecting
to see horsemen riding up. If any of Kells’s com-
rades happened to come, what could she tell them?
They would be as bad as he, without that one trait
which had kept him human for a day. Joan pon-
dered upon this. It would never do to let them
suspect she had shot Kells. So, carefully cleaning
the gun, she reloaded it. If any men came, she
would tell them that Bill had done the shooting.

Kells lingered. Joan began to feel that he would
live, though everything indicated the contrary.

Her intelligence told her he would die, and her
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feeling said he would not. At times she lifted his
head and got water into his mouth with a spoon.
When she did this he would moan. That night,
during the hours she lay awake, she gathered cour-
age out of the very solitude and loneliness. She
had nothing to fear, unless some one came to the
cafion. The next day in no wise differed from the
preceding. And then there came the third day,
with no change in Kells till near evening, when she
thought he was returning to consciousness. But she
must have been mistaken. For hours she watched
patiently. He might return to consciousness just
before the end, and want to speak, to send a mes-
sage, to ask a prayer, to feel a human hand at the
last.

That night the crescent moon hung over the cafion.
In the faint light Joan could see the blanched face
of Kells, strange and sad, no longer seeming evil
The time came when his lips stirred. He tried to
talk. She moistened his lips and gave him tv drink.
He murmured incoherently, sank again into a stupor,
to rouse once more and babble like a madman.
Then he lay quietly for long—so long that sleep
was claiming Joan. Suddenly he startled her by
calling very faintly but distinctly: ‘‘Water! Water!”

Joan bent over him, lifting his head, helping him
to drink. She could see his eyes, like dark holes in
something white.

““Is—that—you—mother?”’ he whispered.

“Yes,” replied Joan.

He sank immediately into another stupor or sleep,
from which he did not rouse. That whisper of his

—mother—touched Joan. Bad men had mothers
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just the same as any other kind of men. Even this
Kells had a mother. He was still a young man.
He had been youth, boy, child, baby. Some mother
had loved him, cradled him, kissed his rosy baby
hands, watched him grow with pride and glory, built
castles in her dreams of his manhood, and perhaps
prayed for him still, trusting he was strong and
honored among men. And here he lay, a shattered
wreck, dying for a wicked act, the last of many
crimes. It was a tragedy. It made Joan think of
the hard lot of mothers, and then of this unsettled
Western wild, where men flocked in packs like wolves,
and spilled blood like water, and held life nothing.

Joan sought her rest and soon slept. In the morn-
~ ing she did not at once go to Kells. Somehow she
dreaded finding him conscious, almost as much as
she dreaded the thought of finding him dead. When
she did bend over him he was awake, and at sight
of her he showed a faint amaze.

‘‘Joan!’’ he whispered.

“‘Yes,”’ she replied.

‘‘Are you—with me still?”

“Of course. I couldn’t leave you.”

The pale eyes shadowed strangely, darkly. ‘“‘I’m
alive yet. And you stayed! ... Was it yesterday—
you threw my gun—on me?”

“No. Four days ago.”

“Four! Is my back broken?”

“T don’t know. I don’t think so. It’s a terrible
wound. J—TI did all I could.”

“You tried to kill me—then tried to save me?”

She was silent to that.

“You’re good—and you’ve been noble,” he said.
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‘“‘But I wish—you’d been only bad. Then I’d curse
you—and strangle you—presently.”’

‘“‘Perhaps you had best be quiet,” replied Joan.

‘‘No. I’ve been shot before. I'll get over this—
if my back’s not broken. How can we tell?”

“T’ve no idea.”

“Lift me up.”

“But you might open your wound,” protested
Joan.

‘‘Lift me up!’ The force of the man spoke even
in his low whisper.

“But why—why?”’ asked Joan.

“‘T want to see—if I can sit up. If I can’t—give
me my gun.”

“‘T won’t let you have it,”’ replied Joan. Then she
slipped her arms under his and, carefully raising him
to a sitting posture, released her hold.

“T’m—a—rank coward—about pain,” he gasped,
with thick drops standing out on his white face.
““I—can’t—stand it.”

But tortured or not, he sat up alone, and even had
the will to bend his back. Then with a groan he
fainted and fell into Joan’s arms. She laid him
down and worked over him for some time before
she could bring him to. Then he was wan, suffering,
speechless. But she believed he would live and told
him so. He received that with a strange smile.
Later, when she came to him with a broth, he drank
it gratefully.

“Tl beat this out,” he said, weakly. ‘‘I’ll re-
cover. My back’s not broken. I’ll get well. Now
you bring water and food in here—then you go.”

““Go?” she echoed.

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“Yes. Don’t go down the cafion. You’d be
worse off... . Take the back trail. You’ve a chance
to get out... . Go!”

“Leave you here? So weak you can’t lift a cup!
I won't.”

“Vd rather you did.”

“Why?”

‘‘Because in a few days I’ll begin to mend. Then
Tl grow like—myself. . . . I think—I’m afraid I
loved you. . . . It could only be hell for you. Go
now, before it’s too late! . . . If you stay—till I’m
well—I’ll never let you go!”

“Kells, I believe it would be cowardly for me to
leave you here alone,” she replied, earnestly. ‘‘You
can’t help yourself. You’d die.”

“All the better. But I won’t die. I’m hard to
kill. Go, I tell you.”

She shook her head. ‘‘This is bad for you—
arguing. You're excited. Please be quiet.’

‘Joan Randle, if you stay—I’ll halter you—keep
you naked in a cave—curse you—beat you—murder
you! Oh, it’sin me!... Go, I tell you!”

“You’re out of your head. Once for all—no!”
she replied, firmly.

‘““You— you—”
whisper.

His voice failed in a terrible

In the succeeding days Kells did not often speak.
His recovery was slow—a matter of doubt. Noth-
ing was any plainer than the fact that if Joan had
left him he would. not have lived long. She knew
it. And he knew it. When he was awake, and she

came to him, a mournful and beautiful smile lit his
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eyes. The sight of her apparently hurt him anda
uplifted him. But he slept twenty hours out of
every day, and while he slept he did not need Joan.

She came to know the meaning of solitude. There
were days when she did not hear the sound of her
own voice. A habit of silence, one of the significant
forces of solitude, had grown upon her. Daily she
thought less and felt more. For hours she did
nothing. When she roused herself, compelled her-
self to think of these encompassing peaks of the lone-
ly cafion walls, the stately trees, all those eternally
silent and changeless features of her solitude, she
hated them with a blind and unreasoning passion.
She hated them because she was losing her love for
them, because they were becoming a part of her,
because they were fixed and content and passionless.
She liked to sit in the sun, feel its warmth, see its
brightness; and sometimes she almost forgot to go
back to her patient. She fought at times against an
insidious change—a growing older—a going back-
ward; at other times she drifted through hours that
seemed quiet and golden, in which nothing hap-
pened. And by and by when she realized that
the drifting hours were gradually swallowing up the
restless and active hours, then, strangely, she remem-
bered Jim Cleve. Memory of him came to save her.
She dreamed of him during the long, lonely, solemn
days, and in the dark, silent climax of unbearable
solitude—the night. She remembered his kisses, for-
got her anger and shame, accepted the sweetness of
their meaning, and so in the interminable hours of
her solitude she dreamed herself into love for
him.

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Joan kept some record of days, until three weeks
or thereabout passed, and then she lost track of
time. It dragged along, yet, looked at as the past,
it seemed to have sped swiftly. The change in her,
the growing old, the revelation and responsibility of
self, as a woman, made this experience appear to
have extended over months.

Kells slowly became convalescent and then he had
arelapse. Something happened, the nature of which
Joan could not tell, and he almost died. There were
days when his life hung in the balance, when he
could not talk; and then came a perceptible turn for
the better.

The store of provisions grew low, and Joan began
to face another serious situation. Deer and rabbit
were plentiful in the cafion, but she could not kill
one with a revolver. She thought she would be
forced to sacrifice one of the horses. The fact that
Kells suddenly showed a craving for meat brought
this aspect of the situation to a climax. And that
very morning while Joan was pondering the matter
she saw a number of horsemen riding up the cafion
toward the cabin. At the moment she was relieved,
and experienced nothing of the dread she had for-
merly felt while anticipating this very event.

‘‘Kells,” she said, quickly, ‘‘there are men riding
up the trail.”

“‘Good!”’ he exclaimed, weakly, with a light on his
drawn face. ‘‘They’ve been long in—getting here.
How many?”

Joan counted them—five riders, and several pack-
animals.

“Yes. It’s Gulden.”

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“‘Gulden!”’ cried Joan, with a start.
Her exclamation and tone made Kells regard her

attentively.

“You've heard of him? He’s the toughest nut—
on this border. ... I never saw his like. You won’t
be safe. I’m so helpless. ... What to say—to tell

him!... Joan, if I should happen to croak—you want
to get away quick—or shoot yourself.”

How strange to hear this bandit warn her of peril
the like of which she had encountered through him!
Joan secured the gun and hid it in a niche between
the logs. Then she looked out again.

The riders were close at hand now. The fore-
most one, a man of Herculean build, jumped his
mount across the brook, and leaped off while he
hauled the horse to a stop. The second rider came
close behind him; the others approached leisurely,
with the gait of the pack-animals.

“Ho, Kells!” called the big man. His voice had
a loud, bold, sonorous kind of ring.

““Reckon he’s here somewheres,”’ said the other
man, presently.

“Sure. I seen his hoss. Jack ain’t goin’ to be
far from thet hoss.”’

Then both of them approached the cabin. Joan
had never before seen two such striking, vicious-
looking, awesome men. The one was huge—so wide
and heavy and deep-set that he looked short—and
he resembled a gorilla. The other was tall, slim,
with a face as red as flame, and an expression of
fierce keenness. He was stoop-shouldered, yet he
held his head erect in a manner that suggested a
wolf scenting blood.

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““Some one here, Pearce,”” boomed the big man.

“Why, Gul, if it ain’t a girl!”

Joan moved out of the shadow of the wall of the
cabin, and she pointed to the prostrate figure on the
blankets.

‘‘Howdy boys!” said Kells, wanly.

Gulden cursed in amaze while Pearce dropped to
his knee with an exclamation of concern. Then both
began to talk at once. Kells interrupted them by
lifting a weak hand.

“No, I’m not going—to cash,” he said. ‘I’m
only starved—and in need of stimulants. Had my
back half shot off.”

‘Who plugged you, Jack?”

“Gulden, it was your side-pardner, Bill.”

“Bill?” Gulden’s voice held a queer, coarse con-
straint. Then he added, gruffly, ‘‘Thought you and
him pulled together.”

“Well, we didn’t.”

“‘And—where’s—Bill now?” This time Joan heard
a slow, curious, cold: note in the heavy voice, and she
interpreted it as either doubt or deceit.

‘‘Bill’s dead and Halloway, too,” replied Kells.

Gulden turned his massive, shaggy head in the
‘direction of Joan. She had not the courage to meet
the gaze upon her. The other man spoke:

“Split over the girl, Jack?”

‘“‘No,” replied Kells, sharply. ‘‘They tried to get
familiar with—my wife—and I shot them both.”

Joan felt a swift leap of hot blood all over her and
then a coldness, a sickening, a hateful weakness.

“Wife!” ejaculated Gulden.

“Your real wife, Jack?’ queried Pearce.

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‘Well, I guess. I'll introduce you. ... Joan, here
are two of my friends—Sam Gulden and Red
Pearce.”

Gulden grunted something.

‘“‘Mrs. Kells, I’m glad to meet you,” said Pearce.

Just then the other three men entered the cabin
and Joan took advantage of the commotion they
made to get out into the air. She felt sick, fright-
ened, and yet terribly enraged. She staggered a lit-
tle as she went out, and she knew she was as pale
as death. These visitors thrust reality upon her
with a cruel suddenness. There was something ter-
rible in the mere presence of this Gulden. She had
not yet dared to take a good look at him. But what
she felt was overwhelming. She wanted to run.
Yet escape now was infinitely more of a menace than
before. If she slipped away it would be these new
enemies who would pursue her, track her like hounds.
She understood why Kells had introduced her as
his wife. She hated the idea with a shameful and
burning hate, but a moment’s reflection taught her
that Kells had answered once more to a good in-
stinct. At the moment he had meant that to pro-
tect her. And further reflection persuaded Joan
that she would be wise to act naturally and to carry
out the deception as far as it was possible for her.
It was her only hope. Her position had again grown
perilous. She thought of the gun she had secreted,
and it gave her strength to control her agitation and
to return to the cabin outwardly calm.

The men had Kells half turned over with the flesh
of his back exposed.

“Aw, Gul, it’s whisky he needs,’’ said one.

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“If you let out any more blood he’ll croak sure,”
protested another.

**Look how weak he is,”’ said Red Pearce.

‘It’s a hell of a lot you know,” roared Gulden.
“T served my time—but that’s none of your busi-
ness.... Lookhere! See that blue spot!’ Gulden
pressed a huge finger down upon the blue welt on
Kells’s back. The bandit moaned. ‘‘That’s lead—
that’s the bullet,” declared Gulden.

“Wal, if you ain’t correct!’ exclaimed Pearce.

Kells turned his head. ‘‘When you punched that
place—it made me numb all over. Gul, if you’ve
located the bullet, cut it out.”

Joan did not watch the operation. As she went
away to the seat under the balsam she heard a sharp
cry and then cheers. Evidently the grim Gulden
had been both swift and successful.

Presently the men came out of the cabin and be-
gan to attend to their horses and the pack-train.

Pearce looked for Joan, and upon seeing her called
out, ‘‘Kells wants you.”

Joan found the bandit half propped up against a
saddle with a damp and pallid face, but an altogether
different look.

‘Joan, that bullet was pressing on my spine,”’ he
said. ‘‘Now it’s out, all that deadness is gone. I
feel alive. I’ll get well, soon. . . . Gulden was curi-
ous over the bullet. It’s a forty-four caliber, and
neither Bill Bailey nor Halloway used that caliber
of gun. Gulden remembered. He’s cunning. Bill
was as near being a friend to this Gulden as any
man I know of. I can’t trust any of these men,
particularly Gulden. You stay pretty close by me.”

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**Kells, you'll let me go soon—help me to get
home?” implored Joan in a low voice.

‘Girl, it’d never be safe now,” he replied.

“‘Then later—soon—when it is safe?”’

“We'll see... . But you’re—my wife now!”

With the latter words the man subtly changed.
Something of the power she had felt in him before
his illness began again to be manifested. Joan di-
vined that these comrades had caused the difference
in him.

“You won’t dare—!”” Joan was unable to con-
clude her meaning. A tight band compressed her
breast and throat, and she trembled.

“Will you dare go out there and tell them you’re not
my wife?” he queried. His voice had grown stronger
and his eyes were blending shadows of thought.

Joan knew that she dared not. She must choose
the lesser of two evils. ‘‘No man—could be such
a beast to 4 woman—after she’d saved his life,”
she whispered.

“I could be anything. You had your chance. I
told you to go. I said if I ever got well I’d be as
I was—before.”’

“But you'd have died.”

“That would have been better for you. . . . Joan,
I'll do this. Marry you honestly and leave the
country. I’ve gold. I’m young. I love you. I
intend to have you. And I'll begin life over again.
What do you say?”

“Say? I'd die before—I'd marry you!” she panted.

“All right, Joan Randle,” he replied, bitterly.
*‘For a moment I saw a ghost. My old dead better
self! ... It’s gone. ... And you stay with me.”

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CHAPTER VII

FTER dark Kells had his men build a fire before

‘the open side of the cabin. He lay propped up

on blankets and his saddle, while the others lounged
or sat in a half-circle in the light, facing him.

Joan drew her blankets into a corner where the
shadows were thick and she could see without being
seen. She wondered how she would ever sleep near
all these wild men—if she could ever sleep again.
Yet she seemed more curious and wakeful than fright-
ened. She had no way to explain it, but she felt the
fact that her presence in camp had a subtle influence,
at once restraining and exciting. So she looked out
upon the scene with wide-open eyes.

And she received more strongly than ever an im-
pression of wildness. Even the camp-fire seemed
to burn wildly; it did not glow and sputter and pale
and brighten and sing like an honest camp-fire. It
blazed in red, fierce, hurried flames, wild to consume
the logs. It cast a baleful and sinister color upon the
hard faces there. Then the blackness of the en-
veloping night was pitchy, without any bold outline
of cafion wall or companionship of stars.” The
coyotes were out in force and from all around came
their wild, sharp barks. The wind rosa and mourned
weirdly through the balsams.

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But it was in the men that Joan felt mostly that
element of wildness. Kells lay with his ghastly face
clear in the play of the moving flares of light. It
was an intelligent, keen, strong face, but evil. Evil
power stood out in the lines, in the strange eyes,
stranger than ever, now in shadow; and it seemed
once more the face of an alert, listening, implacable
man, with wild projects in mind, driving him to the
doom he meant for others. Pearce’s red face shone
redder in that ruddy light. It was hard, lean, al-
most fleshless, a red mask stretched over a grinning
skull. The one they called Frenchy was little, dark,
small-featured, with piercing gimlet-like eyes, and a
mouth ready to gush forth hate and violence. The
next two were not particularly individualized by
any striking aspect, merely looking border ruffians
after the type of Bill and Halloway. But Gul-
den, who sat at the end of the half-circle, was an ob-
ject that Joan could scarcely bring her gaze to study.
Somehow her first glance at him put into her mind a
strange idea—that she was a woman and therefore
of all creatures or things in the world the farthest
removed from him. She looked away, and found
her gaze returning, fascinated, as if she were a bird
and heasnake. The man was of huge frame, a giant
whose every move suggested the acme of physical
power. He was an animal—a gorilla with a shock
of light instead of black hair, of pale instead of black
skin. His features might have been hewn and ham-
mered out with coarse, dull, broken chisels. And
upon his face, in the lines and cords, in the huge
caverns where his eyes hid, and in the huge gash

that held strong, white fangs, had been stamped by
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nature and by life a terrible ferocity. Here was a
man or a monster in whose presence Joan felt that
she would rather be dead. He did not smoke; he did
not indulge in the coarse, good-natured raillery; he sat
there like a huge engine of destruction that needed
no rest, but was forced to rest because of weaker
attachments. On the other hand, he was not sullen
or brooding. It was that he did not seem to think.

Kells had been rapidly gaining strength since the
extraction of the bullet, and it was evident that his
interest was growing proportionately. He asked
questions and received most of his replies from Red
Pearce. Joan did not listen attentively at first,
but presently she regretted that she had not. She
gathered that Kells’s fame as the master bandit of
the whole gold region of Idaho, Nevada, and north-
eastern California was a fame that he loved as much
as the gold he stole. Joan sensed, through the re-
plies of these men and their attitude toward Kells,
that his power was supreme. He ruled the robbers
and ruffians in his bands, and evidently they were
scattered from Bannack to Lewiston and all along
the border. He had power, likewise, over the bor-
der hawks not directly under his leadership. During
the weeks of his enforced stay in the cafion there had
been a cessation of operations—the nature of which
Joan merely guessed—and a gradual accumulation of
idle waiting men in the main camp. Also she gath-
ered, but vaguely, that though Kells had supreme
power, the organization he desired was yet far from
being consummated. He showed thoughtfulness and
irritation by turns, and it was the subject of gold
that drew his intensest interest.

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‘Reckon you figgered right, Jack,” said Red
Pearce, and paused as if before a long talk, while
he refilled his pipe. ‘‘Sooner or later there’ll be
the biggest gold strike ever made in the West.
Wagon-trains are met every day comin’ across from
Salt Lake. Prospectors are workin’ in hordes down
from Bannack. All the gulches an’ valleys in the
Bear Mountains have their camps. Surface gold
everywhere an’ easy to get where there’s water.
But there’s diggin’s all over. No big strike yet.
It’s bound to come sooner or later. An’ then when
the news hits the main-traveled roads an’ reaches back
into the mountains there’s goin’ to be a rush that ’Il
make ’49 an’ 51 look sick. What do you say, Bate?”

‘Shore will,” replied a grizzled individual whom
Kells had called Bate Wood. He was not so young
as his companions, more sober, less wild, and slower
of speech. ‘‘I saw both ’49 an’ ’51. Them was
days! But I’m agreein’ with Red. There shore will
be hell on this Idaho border sooner or later. I’ve
been a prospector, though I never hankered after
the hard work of diggin’ gold. Gold is hard to dig,
easy to lose, an’ easy to get from some other feller.
I see the signs of a comin’ strike somewhere in this
region. Mebbe it’s on now. There’s thousands of
prospectors in twos an’ threes an’ groups, out in the
hills all over. They ain’t a-goin’ to tell when they
do make a strike. But the gold must be brought
out. An’ gold is heavy. It ain’t easy hid. Thet’s
how strikes are discovered. I shore reckon thet this
year will beat ’49 an’ ’51. An’ fer two reasons.
There’s a steady stream of broken an’ disappointed
gold-seekers back-trailin’ from California. There’s

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a bigger stream of hopeful an’ crazy fortune-hunters
travelin’ in from the East. Then there’s the wim-
men an’ gamblers an’ such thet hang on. An’ last
the men thet the war is drivin’ out here. Whenever
an’ wherever these streams meet, if there’s a big gold
strike, there’ll be the hellishest time the world ever
saw!”’

“Boys,” said Kells, with a ring in his weak voice,
“it'll be a harvest for my Border Legion.”’

‘Fer what?” queried Bate Wood, curiously.

All the others except Gulden turned inquiring and
interested faces toward the bandit.

“The Border Legion,” replied Kells.

“‘An’ what’s that?”’ asked Red Pearce, bluntly.

“Well, if the time’s ripe for the great gold fever
you say is coming, then it’s ripe for the greatest
band ever organized. I'll organize. I’ll call it the
Border Legion.”

“Count me in as right-hand pard,”’ replied Red,
with enthusiasm.

‘‘An’ shore me, boss,’”’ added Bate Wood.

The idea was received vociferously, at which
demonstration the giant Gulden raised his massive
head and asked, or rather growled, in a heavy voice
what the fuss was about. His query, his roused
presence, seemed to act upon the others, even Kells,
with a strange, disquieting or halting force, as if
here was a character or an obstacle to be con-
sidered. After a moment of silence Red Pearce
explained the project.

“Huh! Nothing new in that,” replied Gulden.
“T belonged to one once. It was in Algiers. They
called it the Royal Legion.”

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“Algiers. What’s thet?’ asked Bate Wood.

“Africa,” replied Gulden.

“Say Gul, you’ve been round some,” said Red
Pearce, admiringly. ‘‘What was the Royal Legion?”

“Nothing but a lot of devils from all over. The
border there was the last place. Every criminal
was safe from pursuit.”’

“What'd you do?”

“Fought among ourselves. Wasn’t many in the
Legion when I left.”

‘Shore thet ain’t strange!’’ exclaimed Wood, sig-
nificantly. But his inference was lost upon Gulden.
“‘T won't allow fighting in my Legion,” said Kells,
coolly. ‘‘T’ll pick this band myself.”’ 3

‘‘Thet’s the secret,’’ rejoined Wood. ‘‘The right
fellers. I’ve been in all kinds of bands. Why, I
even was a vigilante in ’5r.”

This elicted a laugh from his fellows, except the
wooden-faced Gulden.

“How many do we want?’’ asked Red Pearce.

“‘The number doesn’t matter. But they must be
men I can trust and control. Then as lieutenants
I'll need a few young fellows, like you, Red. Nervy,
daring, cool, quick of wits.”

Red Pearce enjoyed the praise bestowed upon him
and gave his shoulders a swagger. ‘‘Speakin’ of
that, boss,’”’ he said, ‘‘reminds me of a chap who
rode into Cabin Gulch a few weeks ago. Braced
right into Beard’s place, where we was all playin’
faro, an’ he asks for Jack Kells. Right off we all
thought he was a guy who had a grievance, an’ some
of us was for pluggin’ him. But I kinda liked him

an’ I cooled the gang down. Glad I did that. He
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wasn’t wantin’ to throw a gun. His intentions were
friendly. Of course I didn’t show curious about
who or what he was. Reckoned he was a young
feller who’d gone bad sudden-like an’ was huntin’
friends. An’ I’m here to say, boss, that he was
wild.”

““What’s his name?” asked Kells.

‘‘Jim Cleve, he said,’’ replied Pearce.

Joan Randle, hidden back in the shadows, for-
gotten or ignored by this bandit group, heard the
name Jim Cleve with pain and fear, but not amaze.
From the moment Pearce began his speech she had
been prepared for the revelation of her runaway
lover’s name. She trembled, and grew a little sick;
Jim had made no idle threat. What would she have
given to live over again the moment that had
alienated him?

‘‘Jim Cleve,’’ mused Kells. ‘‘Never heard of him.
And I never forget a name or a face. What’s he
like?”

“Clean, rangy chap, big, but not too big,’’ replied
Pearce. ‘‘All muscle. Not more ’n twenty-three.
Hard rider, hard fighter, hard gambler an’ drinker
—reckless as hell. If only you can steady him,
boss! Ask Bate what he thinks.”

‘Well!’ exclaimed Kells in surprise. ‘‘Strangers
are every-day occurrences on this border. But I
never knew one to impress you fellows as this Cleve.
... Bate, what do you say? What’s this Cleve done?
You’re an old head. Talk sense, now.”

‘Done?’ echoed Wood, scratching his grizzled
head. ‘‘Whatin the hell ’ain’t he done’... He rode

in brazener than any feiler thet ever stacked up
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against this outfit. An’ straight-off he wins the outfit,
I don’t know how he done it. Mebbe it was because
you seen he didn’t care fer anythin’ or anybody on
earth. He stirred us up. He won all the money
we had in camp—broke most of us—an’ give it all
back. He drank more’n the whole oufit, yet didn’t
get drunk. He threw his gun on Beady Jones fer
cheatin’ an’ then on Beady’s pard, Chick Williams.
Didn’t shoot to kill—jest winged ’em. But say, he’s
the quickest an’ smoothest hand to throw a gun thet
ever hit this border. Don’t overlook thet. ...
Kells, this Jim Cleve’s a great youngster goin’ bad
quick. An’ I’m here to add thet he’ll take some
company along.”

“Bate, you forgot to tell how he handled Luce,”
said Red Pearce. ‘‘You wasthere. I wasn’t. Tell
Kells that.”’

“Luce. I know the man. Go ahead, Bate,’ re-
sponded Kells.

“‘Mebbe it ain’t any recommendation fer said
Jim Cleve,” replied Wood. ‘‘Though it did sorta
warm me to him... . Boss, of course, you recollect
thet little Brander girl over at Bear Lake village.
She’s old Brander’s girl—worked in his store there.
I’ve seen you talk sweet to her myself. Wal, it
seems the ole man an’ some of his boys took to
prospectin’ an’ fetched the girl along. Thet’s how
I understood it. Luce came bracin’ in over at
Cabin Gulch one day. As usual, we was drinkin’ an’
playin’. But young Cleve wasn’t doin’ neither. He
had a strange, moody spell thet day, as I recollect.
Luce sprung a job on us. We never worked with
him or his outfit, but mebbe—you can’t tell what’d

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come off if it hadn’t been fer Cleve. Luce had a job
put up to ride down where ole Brander was washin’
fer gold, take what he had—an’ the girl. Fact was
the gold was only incidental. When somebody cor-
nered Luce he couldn’t swear there was gold worth
goin’ after. An’ about then Jim Cleve woke up.
He cussed Luce somethin’ fearful. An’ when Luce
went fer his gun, natural-like, why this Jim Cleve
took it away from him. An’ then he jumped Luce.
He knocked an’ threw him around an’ he near beat
him to death before we could interfere. Luce was
shore near dead. All battered up—broken bones—
an’ what-all I can’t say. We put him to bed an’
he’s there yet, an’ he’ll never be the man he was.”

A significant silence fell upon the group at the
conclusion of Wood’s narrative. Wood had liked the
telling, and it had made his listeners thoughtful. All
at once the pale face of Kells turned slightly toward
Gulden.

“Gulden, did you hear that?’ asked Kells.

“Yes,” replied the man.

‘‘What do you think about this Jim Cleve—and
the job he prevented?”

“Never saw Cleve. I'll look him up when we
get back to camp. Then I'll go after the Brander
girl.”

How strangely his brutal assurance marked a line
between him and his companions! There was some-
thing wrong, something perverse in this Gulden.
Had Kells meant to bring that point out or to get
an impression of Cleve?

Joan could not decide. She divined that there was

antagonism between Gulden and all the others.
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And there was something else, vague and intangible,
that might have been fear. Apparently Gulden was
a criminal for the sake of crime. Joan regarded him
with a growing terror—augmented the more because
he alone kept eyes upon the corner where she was
hidden—and she felt that compared with him the
others, even Kells, of whose cold villainy she was
assured, were but insignificant men of evil. She
covered her head with a blanket to shut out sight
of that shaggy, massive head and the great, dark
caves of eyes.

‘Thereupon Joan did not see or hear any more of
the bandits. Evidently the conversation died down,
or she, in the absorption of new thoughts, no longer
heard. She relaxed, and suddenly seemed to quiver
all over with the name she whispered to herself.
“Jim! Jim! Jim! Oh, Jim!”’ And the last whisper
was an inward sob. What he had done was terrible.
{t tortured her. She, had not believed it in him.
Yet, now she thought, how like him! All for her—
in despair and spite—he had ruined himself. He
would be killed out there in some drunken brawl,
or, still worse, he would become a member of this
bandit crew and drift into crime. That was the
great blow to Joan—that the curse she had put
upon him. How silly, false, and vain had been her
coquetry, her indifference! She loved Jim Cleve.
She had not known that when she started out to
trail him, to fetch him back, but she knew it now.
She ought to have known before.

The situation she had foreseen loomed dark and
monstrous and terrible in prospect. Just to think
of it made her body creep and shudder with cold

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terror. Yet there was that strange, inward, thrill-
ing burn round her heart. Somewhere and soon she
was coming face to face with this changed Jim Cleve
—this boy who had become a reckless devil. What
would he do? What could she do? Might he not
despise her, scorn her, curse her, taking her at Kells’s
word, the wife of a bandit? But no! he would divine
the truth in the flash of an eye. And then! She
could not think what might happen, but it must
mean blood—death. If he escaped Kells, how could
he ever escape this Gulden—this huge vulture of
prey?

Still, with the horror thick upon her, Joan could
not wholly give up. The moment Jim Cleve’s name
and his ruin burst upon her ears, in the gossip of
these bandits, she had become another girl—a girl
wholly become a woman, and one with a driving
passion to save if it cost her life. She lost her fear
of Kells, of the others, of all except Gulden. He
was not human, and instinctively she knew she
could do nothing with him. She might influence
the others, but never Gulden.

The torment in her brain eased then, and gradually
she quieted down, with only a pang and a weight
in her breast. The past seemed far away. The
present was nothing. Only the future, that con-
tained Jim Cleve, mattered to her. She would not
have left the clutches of Kells, if at that moment
she could have walked forth free and safe. She was
going on to Cabin Gulch. And that thought was
the last one in her weary mind as she dropped te
Sleep.

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CHAPTER VIII

es! three days—during which time Joan attended
Kells as faithfully as if she were indeed his wife—
he thought that he had gained sufficiently to under-
take the journey to the main camp, Cabin Gulch.
He was eager to get back there and imperious in his
overruling of any opposition. The men could take
turns at propping him in a saddle. So on the morn-
ing of the fourth day they packed for the ride.

During these few days Joan had verified her sus-
picion that Kells had two sides to his character;
or it seemed, rather, that her presence developed a
latent or a long-dead side. When she was with him,
thereby distracting his attention, he was entirely
different from what he was when his men surrounded
him. Apparently he had no knowledge of this. He
showed surprise and gratitude at Joan’s kindness,
though never pity or compassion for her. That he
had become infatuated with her Joan could no
longer doubt. His strange eyes followed her; there
was a dreamy light in them; he was mostly silent
with her.

Before those few days had come to an end he had
developed two things—a reluctance to let Joan leave
his sight and an intolerance of the presence of the

other men, particularly Gulden. Always Joan felt
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the eyes of these men upon her, mostly in unob-
trusive glances, except Gulden’s. The giant studied
her with slow, cavernous stare, without curiosity or
speculation or admiration. Evidently a woman was
a new and strange creature to him and he was ex-
periencing unfamiliar sensations. Whenever Joan
accidentally met his gaze—for she avoided it as much
as possible—she shuddered with a sick memory of
a story she had heard—how a huge and ferocious
gorilla had stolen into an African village and run off
with a white woman. She could not shake the
memory. And it was this that made her kinder
to Kells than otherwise would have been possible.

All Joan’s faculties sharpened in this period. She
felt her own development—the beginning of a bitter
and hard education—an instinctive assimilation of
all that nature taught its wild people and creatures,
the first thing in elemental life—self-preservation.
Parallel in her heart and mind ran a hopeless despair
and a driving, unquenchable spirit. The former was
fear, the latter love. She believed beyond a doubt
that she had doomed herself along with Jim Cleve;
she felt that she had the courage, the power, the love
to save him, if not herself. And the reason that she
did not falter and fail in this terrible situation was
because her despair, great as it was, did not equal
her love.

That morning, before being lifted upon his horse,
Kells buckled on his gun-belt. The sheath and full
round of shells and the gun made this belt a burden
fora weak man. And so Red Pearce insisted. But

Kells laughed in his face. The men, always excep
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ing Gulden, were unfailing in kindness and care,
Apparently they would have fought for Kells to the
death. They were simple and direct in their rough
feelings. But in Kells, Joan thought, was a char-
acter who was a product of this border wildness, yet
one who could stand aloof from himself and see the
possibilities, the unexpected, the meaning of that
life. Kells knew that a man and yet another might
show kindness and faithfulness one moment, but the
very next, out of a manhood retrograded to the sav-
age, out of the circumstance or chance, might re-
spond to a primitive force far sundered from thought
or reason, and rise to unbridled action. Joan di-
vined that Kells buckled on his gun to be ready to
protect her. But his men never dreamed his mo-
tive. Kells was a strong, bad man set among men
like him, yet he was infinitely different because he
had brains.

On the start of the journey Joan was instructed
to ride before Kells and Pearce, who supported the
leader in his saddle. The pack-drivers and Bate
Wood and Frenchy rode ahead; Gulden held to the
rear. And this order was preserved till noon, when
the cavalcade halted for a rest in a shady, grassy,
and well-watered nook. Kells was haggard, and his
brow wet with clammy dew, and lined with pain.
Yet he was cheerful and patient. Still he hurried
the men through their tasks.

In an hour the afternoon travel was begun. The
cafion and its surroundings grew more rugged and of
larger dimensions. Yet the trail appeared to get
broader and better all the time. Joan noticed ins
Sersecting trails, running down from side cafions

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and gulches. The descent was gradual, and scarcely
evident in any way except in the running water and
warmer air.

Kells tired before the middle of the afternoon,
and he would have fallen from his saddle but for the
support of his fellows. One by one they held him
up. And it was not easy work to ride alongside, hold-
inghimup. Joan observed that Gulden did not offer
his services. He seemed a part of this gang, yet not
of it. Joan never lost a feeling of his presence be-
hind her, and from time to time, when he rode closer,
the feeling grew stronger. Toward the close of that
afternoon she became aware of Gulden’s strange at-
tention. And when a halt was made tor camp she
dreaded something nameless.

This halt occurred early, before sunset, and had
been necessitated by the fact that Kells was fainting.
They laid him out on blankets, with his head in his
saddle. Joan tended him, and he recovered some-
what, though he lacked the usual keenness.

It was a busy hour with saddles, packs, horses,
with wood to cut and fire to build and meal to
cook. Kells drank thirstily, but refused food.

‘*Joan,”’ he whispered, at an opportune moment,
“I’m only tired—dead for sleep. You stay beside
me. Wake me quick—if you want to!”

He closed his eyes wearily, without explaining, and
soon slumbered. Joan did not choose to allow these
men to see that she feared them or distrusted them
or disliked them. She ate with them beside the fire.
And this was their first opportunity to be close to
her. The fact had an iminediate and singular in-
fluence. Joan had no vanity, though she knew she

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was handsome. She forced herself to be pleasant,
agreeable, even sweet. Their response was instant
and growing. At first they were bold, then familiar
and coarse. For years she had been used to rough
men of the camps. These, however, were different,
and their jokes and suggestions had no effect be-
cause they were beyond her. And when this be-
came manifest to them that aspect of their relation
to her changed. She grasped the fact intuitively,
and then she verified it by proof. Her heart beat
strong and high. If she could hide her hate, her
fear, her abhorrence, she could influence these wild
men. But it all depended upon her charm, her
strangeness, her femininity. Insensibly they had been
influenced, and it proved that in the worst of men
there yet survived some good. Gulden alone pre-
sented a contrast and a problem. He appeared
aware of her presence while he sat there eating like
a wolf, but it was as if she were only an object.
The man watched as might have an animal.

Her experience at the camp-fire meal inclined her
to the belief that, if there were such a possibility as
her being safe at all, it would be owing to an uncon-
scious and friendly attitude toward the companions
she had been forced to accept. Those men were
pleased, stirred at being in her vicinity. Joan came
to a melancholy and fearful cognizance of her at-
traction. While at home she seldom had borne upon
her a reality—that she wasa woman. Her place, her
person were merely natural. Here it was all dif-
ferent. To these wild men, developed by loneliness,
fierce-blooded, with pulses like whips, a woman was
something that thrilled, charmed, soothed, that in-

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cited a strange, insatiable, inexplicable hunger for very
sight of her. They did not realize it, but Joan did.

Presently Joan finished her supper and said: “‘I’ll
go hobble my horse. He strays, sometimes.”

“Shore I’ll go, miss,’’ said Bate Wood. He had
never called her Mrs. Kells, but Joan believed he
had not thought of the significance. Hardened old
ruffian that he was, Joan regarded him as the best
of a bad lot. He had lived long, and some of his
life had not been bad.

“*Let me go,” added Pearce.

“No, thanks. Tl go myself,” she replied.

She took the rope hobble off her saddle and boldly
swung down the trail. Suddenly she heard two or
more of the men speak at once, and then, low and
clear: ‘‘Gulden, where’n hell are you goin’?”’ This
was Red Pearce’s voice.

Joan glanced back. Gulden had started down the
trail after her. Her heart quaked, her knees shook,
and she was ready to run back. Gulden halted,
then turned away, growling. He acted as if caught
in something surprising to himself.

““We’re on to you, Gulden,” continued Pearce,
deliberately. ‘‘Be careful or we'll put Kells on.”

A booming, angry curse. was the response. The
men grouped closer and a loud altercation followed.
Joan almost ran down the trail and heard no more.
If any one of them had started her way now she
would have plunged into the thickets like a frightened
deer. Evidently, however, they meant to let her
alone. Joan found her horse, and before hobbling
him she was assailed by a temptation to mount him
and ride away. This she did not want to do and

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would not do under any circumstances; still, she
could not prevent the natural instinctive impulses
of a woman.

She crossed to the other side of the brook and re-
turned toward camp under the spruce and balsam
trees. She did not hurry. It was good to be alone,
‘out of sight of those violent men, away from that
constant wearing physical proof of catastrophe.
Nevertheless, she did not feel free or safe for a mo-
ment; she peered fearfully into the shadows of the
rocks and trees; and presently it was a reliet to get
back to the side of the sleeping Kells. He lay ina
deep slumber of exhaustion. She arranged her owa
saddle and blankets near him, and prepared to meet
the night as best she could. Instinctively she took
a position where in one swift snatch she could get
possession of Kells’s gun.

It was about time of sunset, warm and still in the
cafion, with rosy lights fading upon the peaks. The
men were all busy with one thing and another.
Strange it was to see that Gulden, who Joan thought
might be a shirker, did twice the work of any man,
especially the heavy work. He seemed to enjoy
carrying a log that would have overweighted two
ordinary men. He was so huge, so active, so power-
ful that it was fascinating to watch him. They built
the camp-fire for the night uncomfortably near
Joan’s position; however, remembering how cold the
air would become later, she made no objection. Twi-
light set in and the men, through for the day, gath-
ered near the fire.

Then Joan was not long in discovering that the
situation had begun to impinge upon the feelings of

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each of these men. They looked at her differently.
Some of them invented pretexts to approach her, to
ask something, to offer service—anything to get near
her. A personal and individual note had been in-
jected into the attitude of each. Intuitively Joan
guessed that Gulden’s arising to follow her had
turned their eyes inward. Gulden remained silent
and inactive at the edge of the camp-fire circle of
light, which flickered fitfully around him, making
him seem a huge, gloomy ape of a man. So far as
Joan could tell, Gulden never cast his eyes in her
direction. That was a difference which left cause
for reflection. Had that hulk of brawn and bone
begun to think? Bate Wood’s overtures to Joan
were rough, but inexplicable to her because she
dared not wholly trust him.

‘An’ shore, miss,’ he had concluded, in a hoarse
whisper, ‘‘we-all know you ain’t Kells’s wife. Thet
bandit wouldn’t marry no woman. He’s a woman-
hater. He was famous fer thet over in California.
He’s run off with you—kidnapped you, thet’s shore.
...An’ Gulden swears he shot his own men an’ was
in turn shot by you. Thet bullet-hole in his back
was full of powder. There’s liable to be a muss-up
any time. . . . Shore, miss, you’d better sneak off
with me to-night when they’re all asleep. I'll git
grub an’ hosses, an’ take you off to some prospector’s
camp. Then you can git home.”

Joan only shook her head. Even if she could have
felt trust in Wood—and she was of half a mind to
believe him—it was too late. Whatever befell her
mattered little if in suffering it she could save Jim
Cleve from the ruin she had wrought.

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Since this wild experience of Joan’s had begun
she had been sick so many times with raw and naked
emotions hitherto unknown to her, that she believed
she could not feel another new fear or torture. But
these strange sensations grew by what they had been
fed upon.

The man called Frenchy was audacious, persist-
ent, smiling, amorous-eyed, and rudely gallant. He
cared no more for his companions than if they had
not been there. He vied with Pearce in his atten-
tion, and the two of them discomfited the others.
The situation might have been amusing had it not
been so terrible. Always the portent was a shadow
behind their interest and amiability and jealousy.
Except for that one abrupt and sinister move of
Gulden’s—that of a natural man beyond deceit—
there was no word, no look, no act at which Joan
could have been offended. They were joking, sar-
castic, ironical, and sullen in their relation to each
other; but to Joan each one presented what was
naturally or what he considered his kindest and
most friendly front. A young and attractive woman
had dropped into the camp of lonely wild men; and
in their wild hearts was a rebirth of egotism, vanity,
hunger for notice. They seemed as foolish as a lot
of cock grouse preening themselves and parading be-
fore a single female. Surely in some heart was born
real brotherhood for a helpless girl in peril. In-
evitably in some of them would burst a flame of
passion as it had in Kells.

Between this amiable contest for Joan’s glances
and replies, with its possibility of latent good to her,
and the dark, lurking, unspoken meaning, such as

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lay in Gulden’s brooding, Joan found another new
and sickening torture.

“Say, Frenchy, you’re no lady’s man,” declared
Red Pearce, ‘‘an’ you, Bate, you’re too old. Move
—pass by—sashay!’’ Pearce, good-naturedly, but
deliberately, pushed the two men back.

“Shore she’s Kells’s lady, ain’t she?’ drawled
Wood. ‘‘Ain’t you-all forgettin’ thet?”

“Kells is asleep or dead,’’ replied Pearce, and he
succeeded in getting the field to himself.

‘“Where’d you meet Kells, anyway?” he asked
Joan, with his red face bending near hers,

Joan had her part to play. It was difficult, be-
cause she divined Pearce’s curiosity held a trap to
catch her in a falsehood. He knew—they all knew
she was not Kells’s wife. But if she were a prisoner
she seemed a willing and contented one. The query
that breathed in Pearce’s presence was how was he
to reconcile the fact of her submission with what
he and his comrades had potently felt as her good-
ness?

“That doesn’t concern anybody,” replied Joan.

‘*Reckon not,’’ said Pearce. Then he leaned
nearer with intense face. ‘‘What I want to know—
is Gulden right? Did you shoot Kells?”

In the dusk Joan reached back and clasped Kells’s
hand.

For a man as weak and weary as he had been, it
was remarkable how quickly a touch awakened him.
He lifted his head.

‘Hello! Who’s that?” he called out, sharply.

Pearce rose guardedly, startled, but not confused.
**It’s only me, boss,” he replied. ‘‘I was about to

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turn in, an’ wanted to know how you are—if I could
do anythin’.”’

‘I’m all right, Red,” replied Kells, coolly. ‘‘Clear
out and let me alone. All of you.”

Pearce moved away with an amiable good-night
and joined the others at the camp-fire. Presently
they sought their blankets, leaving Gulden hunching
there silent in the gloom.

‘Joan, why did you wake me?” whispered Kells.

“Pearce asked me if I shot you,’”’ replied Joan.
“‘T woke you instead of answering him.”

“He did!’ exclaimed Kells under his breath.
Then he laughed. ‘‘Can’t fool that gang. I guess
it doesn’t matter. Maybe it’d be well if they knew
you shot me.”

He appeared thoughtful, and lay there with the
fading flare of the fire on his pale face. But he did
not speak again. Presently he fell asleep.

Joan leaned back, within reach of him, with her
head in her saddle, and pulling a blanket up over her,
relaxed her limbs to rest. Sleep seemed the farthest
thing from her. She wondered that she dared to
think of it. The night had grown chilly; the wind
was sweeping with low roar through the balsams;
the fire burned dull and red. Joan watched the
black, shapeless hulk that she knew to be Gulden.
For a long time he remained motionless. By and
by he moved, approached the fire, stood one moment
in the dying ruddy glow, his great breadth and bulk
magnified, with all about him vague and shadowy,
but the more sinister for that. The cavernous eyes
were only black spaces in that vast face, yet Joan

saw them upon her. He lay down then among the
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other men and soon his deep and heavy breathing
denoted the tranquil slumber of an ox.

For hours through changing shadows and starlight
Joan lay awake, while a thousand thoughts besieged
her, all centering round that vital and compelling
one of Jim Cleve.

Only upon awakening, with the sun in her face, did
Joan realize that she had actually slept.

The camp was bustling with activity. The horses
were in, fresh and quarrelsome, with ears laid back.
Kells was sitting upon a rock near the fire with a cup
of coffee in his hand. He was looking better. When
he greeted Joan his voice sounded stronger. She
walked by Pearce and Frenchy and Gulden on her
way to the brook, but they took no notice of her.
Bate Wood, however, touched his sombrero and
said: ‘‘Mornin’, miss.’?’ Joan wondered if her
memory of the preceding night were only a bad
dream. There was a different atmosphere by day-
light, and it was dominated by Kells. Presently
she returned to camp refreshed and hungry. Gulden
was throwing a pack, which action he performed with
ease and dexterity. Pearce was cinching her saddle.
Kells was talking, more like his old self than at any
time since his injury.

Soon they were on the trail. For Joan time always
passed swiftly on horseback. Movement and chang-
ing scene were pleasurable to her. The passing of
time now held a strange expectancy, a mingled fear
and hope and pain, for at the end of this trail was
Jim Cleve. In other days she had flouted him,
made fun of him, dominated him, everything except

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loved and feared him. And now she was assured
of her love and almost convinced of her fear. The
reputation these wild bandits gave Jim was astound-
ing and inexplicable to Joan. She rode the miles
thinking of Jim, dreading to meet him, longing to
see him, praying and planning for him.

About noon the cavalcade rode out of the mouth
of a cafion into a wide valley, surrounded by high,
rounded foot-hills. Horses and cattle were grazing
on the green levels. A wide, shallow, noisy stream
split the valley. Joan could tell from the tracks at
the crossing that this place, whatever and wherever
it was, saw considerable travel; and she concluded
the main rendezvous of the bandits was close at
hand.

The pack-drivers led across the stream and the
valley to enter an intersecting ravine. It was nar-
row, rough-sided, and floored, but the trail was good.
Presently it opened out into a beautiful V-shaped
gulch, very different from the high-walled, shut-in
cafions. It had a level floor, through which a brook
flowed, and clumps of spruce and pine, with here and
there a giant balsam. Huge patches of wild flowers
gave rosy color to the grassy slopes. At the upper
end of this gulch Joan saw a number of widely
separated cabins. This place, then, was Cabin
Gulch.

Upon reaching the first cabin the cavalcade split
up. There were men here who hallooed a welcome.
Gulden halted with his pack-horse. Some of the
others rode on. Wood drove other pack-animals
off to the right, up the gentle slope. And Red
Pearce, who was beside Kells, instructed Joan to

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follow them. They rode up to a bench of strag-
gling spruce-trees, in the midst of which stood a
large log cabin. It was new, as in fact all the
structures in the Guich appeared to be, and none of
them had seen a winter. The chinks between the
logs were yet open. This cabin was of the rudest
make of notched logs one upon another, and roof of
brush and earth. It was low and flat, but very long,
and extending before the whole of it was a porch
roof supported by posts. At one end was a corral.
There were doors and windows with nothing in them.
Upon the front wall, outside, hung saddles and
bridles.

Joan had a swift, sharp gaze for the men who rose
from their lounging to greet the travelers. Jim
Cleve was not among them. Her heart left her
throat then, and she breathed easier. How could
she meet him?

Kells was in better shape than at noon of the pre-
ceding day. Still, he had to be lifted off his horse.
Joan heard all the men talking at once. They
crowded round Pearce, each lending a hand. How-
ever, Kells appeared able to walk into the cabin.
It was Bate Wood who led Joan inside.

There was a long room, with stone fireplace, rude
benches and a table, skins and blankets on the floor,
and lanterns and weapons on the wall. At one end
Joan saw a litter of cooking utensils and shelves of
supplies.

Suddenly Kells’s impatient voice silenced the
clamor of questions. ‘‘I’m not hurt,” he said.
“T’m all right—only weak and tired. Fellows, this
girl is my wife. ... Joan, you'll find a room there—

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at the back of the cabin. Make yourself comfort-
able.”

Joan was only too glad to act upon his suggestion.
A door had been cut through the back wall. It was
covered with a blanket. When she swept this aside
she came upon several steep steps that led up toa
smaller, lighter cabin of two rooms, separated by a
partition of boughs. She dropped the blanket be-
hind her and went up the steps. Then she saw that
the new cabin had been built against an old one.
It had no door or opening except the one by which
she had entered. It was light because the chinks
between the logs were open. The furnishings were
a wide bench of boughs covered with blankets, a
shelf with a blurred and cracked mirror hanging
above it, a table made of boxes, andalantern. This
room was four feet higher than the floor of the other
cabin. And at the bottom of the steps leaned a
half-dozen slender trimmed poles. She gathered
presently that these poles were intended to be slipped
under cross-pieces above and fastened by a bar
below, which means effectually barricaded the open-
ing. Joan could stand at the head of the steps and
peep under an edge of the swinging blanket into the
large room, but that was the only place she could
see through, for the openings between the logs of
each wall were not level. These quarters were com-
fortable, private, and could be shut off from in-
truders. Joan had not expected so much considera:
tion from Kells and she was grateful.

She lay down to rest and think. ™. was really
very pleasant here. There were birds nesting in the

chinks; a ground-squirrel ran along one of the logs
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and chirped at her; through an opening near her
face she saw a wild rose-bush and the green slope
of the gulch; a soft, warm, fragrant breeze blew
in, stirring her hair. How strange that there could
be beautiful and pleasant things here in this robber
den; that time was the same here as elsewhere;
that the sun shone and the sky gleamed blue. Pres-
ently she discovered that a lassitude weighed upon
her and she could not keep her eyes open. She
ceased trying, but intended to remain awake—to
think, to listen, to wait. Nevertheless, she did fall
asleep and did not awaken till disturbed by some
noise. The color of the western sky told her that
the afternoon was far spent. She had slept hours.
Some one was knocking. She got up and drew aside
the blanket. Bate Wood was standing near the
door.

‘‘Now, miss, I’ve supper ready,” he said, ‘‘an’ I
was reckonin’ you'd like me to fetch yours.”

“Yes, thank you; I would,” replied Joan.

In a few moments Wood returned carrying the
top of a box upon which were steaming pans and
cups. He handed this rude tray up to Joan.

“Shore I’m a first-rate cook, miss, when I’ve
somethin’ to cook,’’ he said, with a smile that
changed his hard face.

She returned the smile with her thanks. Evi-
dently Kells had a well-filled larder, and as Joan
had fared on coarse and hard food for long, this
supper was a luxury and exceedingly appetizing.
While she was eating, the blanket curtain moved
aside and Kells appeared. He dropped it behind

him, but did not step up into the room. Ha was
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in his shirt-sleeves, had been clean shaven, and
looked a different man.

“How do you like your—home?” he inquired,
with a hint of his former mockery.

“I’m grateful for the privacy,” she replied.

“You think you could be worse off, then?”

“T know it.”

“Suppose Gulden kills me—and rules the gang—
and takes you? ... There’s a story about him, the
worst I’ve heard on this border. I'll tell you
some day when I want to scare you bad.”

‘‘Gulden!”? Joan shivered as she pronounced the
name. ‘‘Are you and he enemies?’

“‘No man can have a friend on this border. We
flock together like buzzards. There’s safety in
numbers, but we fight together. like buzzards over
carrion.”

“Kells, you hate this life?’’

“T’ve always hated my life, everywhere. The
only life I ever loved was adventure. .. . I’m willing
to try a new one, if you'll go with me.”

Joan shook her head.

“Why not? I'll marry you,” he went on, speak
ing lower. ‘I’ve got gold; I’ll get more.”

““Where did you get the gold?” she asked.

“I’ve relieved a good many overburdened trav-
ejers and prospectors,’’ he replied.

“Kells, you’re a—a villain!’ exclaimed Joan,
unable to contain her sudden heat. ‘‘You must be
utterly mad—to ask me to marry you.”

““No, I’m not mad,” he rejoined, with a laugh.
“‘Gulden’s the mad one. He’s crazy. He’s got a

twist in his brain. I’m no fool... . I’ve only lost
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my head over you. But compare marrying me, liv-
ing and traveling among decent people and comfort,
to camps like this. If I don’t get drunk I’ll be half
decent to you. But I'll get shot sooner or later.
Then you'll be left to Gulden.”

“Why do you say him?” she queried, in a shudder
of curiosity.

‘Well, Gulden haunts me.”’

““He does me, too. He makes me lose my sense
of proportion. Beside him you and the others seem
good. But you are wicked.”

“Then you won’t marry me and go away some-
where? ... Your choice is strange. Because I tell
you the truth.”

“Kells! I’m a woman. Something deep in me
says you won’t keep me here—you can’t be so base.
Not now, after I saved your life! It would be
horrible—inhuman. I can’t believe any man born
of a woman could do it.”

“But I want you—I love you!” he said, low and
hard.

‘‘Love! That’s not love,” she replied in scorn.
*‘God only knows what it is.”

“Call it what you like,” he went on, bitterly.
“You're a young, beautiful, sweet woman. It’s
wonderful to be near you. My life has been hell.
I’ve had nothing. There’s only hell to look for-
ward to—and hell at the end. Why shouldn’t I
keep you here?”

“But, Kells, listen,” she whispered, earnestly,
“suppose I am young and beautiful and sweet—as
you said. I’m utterly in your power. I’m com-

pelied to seek your protection from even worse
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men. You're different from these others. You're
educated. You must have had—a—a good mother.
Now you're bitter, desperate, terrible. You hate
life. You seem to think this charm you see in me
will bring you something. Maybe a glimpse of joy!
But how can it? You know better. Howcanit...
unless I—I love you?”

Kells stared at her, the evil and hardness of his
passion corded in his face. And the shadows of
comprehending thought in his strange eyes showed
the other side of the man. He was still staring at
her while he reached to put aside the curtains; then
he dropped his head and went out.

Joan sat motionless, watching the door where he
had disappeared, listening to the mounting beats
of her heart. She had been only frank and earnest
with Kells. But he had taken a meaning from her
last few words that she had not intended to convey.
All that was woman in her—mounting, fighting,
hating, leaped to the power she sensed in herself.
If she could be deceitful, cunning, shameless in hold-
ing out to Kells a possible return of his love, she
could do anything with him. She knew it. She
did not need to marry him or sacrifice herself. Joan
was amazed that the idea remained an instant before
her consciousness. But something told her this was
another kind of life than she had known, and all
that was precious to her hung in the balance. Any
falsity was justifiable, even righteous, under the cir-
cumstances. Could she formulate a plan that this
keen bandit would not see through? The remotest
possibility of her ever caring for Kells—that was as

much as she dared hint. But that, together vith all
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the charm and seductiveness she could summon,
might be enough. Dared she try it? If she tried
and failed Kells would despise her, and then she was
utterly lost. She was caught between doubt and
hope. All that was natural and true in her shrank
from such unwomanly deception; all that had been
born of her wild experience inflamed her to play
the game, to match Kells’s villainy with a woman’s
unfathomable duplicity.

And while Joan was absorbed in thought the sun
set, the light failed, twilight stole into the cabin,
and then darkness. All this hour there had been a
continual sound of men’s deep voices in the large
cabin, sometimes low and at other times loud. It
was only when Joan distinctly heard the name Jim
Cleve that she was startled out of her absorption,
thrilling and flushing. In her eagerness she nearly
fell as she stepped and groped through the dark-
ness to the door, and as she drew aside the blanket
her hand shook.

The large room was lighted by a fire and
half a dozen lanterns. Through a faint tinge of
blue smoke Joan saw men standing and sitting
and lounging around Kells, who had a seat
where the light fell full upon him. Evidently a
lull had intervened in the talk. The dark faces
Joan could see were all turned toward the door
expectantly.

‘‘Bring him in, Bate, and let’s look him over,”
said Kells.

Then Bate Wood appeared, elbowing his way in,
and he had his hand on the arm of a tall, lithe fellow.

When they got into the light Joan quivered as if
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she had been stabbed. That stranger with Wood
was Jim Cleve—Jim Cleve in frame and feature,
yet not the same she knew.

“Cleve, glad to meet you,” greeted Kells, extend-
ing his hand.

“Thanks. Same to you,” replied Cleve, and he
met the proffered hand. His voice was cold and
colorless, unfamiliar to Joan. Was this man really
Jim Cleve?

The meeting of Kells and Cleve was significant
because of Kells’s interest and the silent attention
of the men of his clan. It did not seem to mean
anything to the white-faced, tragic-eyed Cleve.
Joan gazed at him with utter amazement. She re-
membered a heavily built, florid Jim Cleve, an over-
grown boy with good-natured, lazy smile on his full
face and sleepy eyes. She all but failed to recog-
nize him in the man who stood there now, lithe and
powerful, with muscles bulging in his coarse, white
shirt. Joan’s gaze swept over him, up and down,
shivering at the two heavy guns he packed, till it
was transfixed on his face. The old, or the other,
Jim Cleve had been homely, with too much
flesh on his face to show force or fire. This man
seemed beautiful. But it was a beauty of tragedy.
He was as white as Kells, but smoothly, purely
white, without shadow or sunburn. His lips seemed
to have set with a bitter, indifferent laugh. His
eyes looked straight out, piercing, intent, haunted,
and as dark as night. Great blue circles lay under
them, lending still further depth and mystery. It
was a sad, reckless face that wrung Joan’s very

heartstrings. She had come too late to save his
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happiness, but she prayed that it was not too late
to save his honor and his soul.

While she gazed there had been further exchange
of speech between Kells and Cleve, and she had
heard, though not distinguished, what was said.
Kells was unmistakably friendly, as were the other
men within range of Joan’s sight. Cleve was sur-
rounded; there were jesting and laughter; and then
he was led to the long table where several men
were already gambling.

Joan dropped the curtain, and in the darkness of
her cabin she saw that white, haunting face, and
when she covered her eyes she still saw it. The
pain, the reckless violence, the hopeless indifference,
the wreck and ruin in that face had been her doing.
Why? How had Jim Cleve wronged her? He had
loved her at her displeasure and had kissed her
against her will. She had furiously upbraided Aim,
and when he had finally turned upon her, threatening
to prove he was no coward, she had scorned him
with a girl’s merciless injustice. All her strength
and resolve left her, momentarily, after seeing Jim
there. Like a woman, she weakened. She lay on
the bed and writhed. Doubt, hopelessness, de-
spair, again seized upon her, and some strange,
yearning maddening emotion. What had she sacri-
ficed? His happiness and her own—and both their
lives!

The clamor in the other cabin grew so boisterous
that suddenly when it stilled Joan was brought
sharply to the significance of it. Again she drew
aside the curtain and peered out.

Gulden, huge, stolid, gloomy, was entering the

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cabin. The man fell into the circle and faced Kells
with the firelight dancing in his cavernous eyes.

‘Hello, Gulden!” said Kells, coolly. ‘‘What ails
you?”

‘“‘Anybody tell you about Bill Bailey?’ asked
Gulden, heavily.

Kells did not show the least concern. ‘‘Tell me
what?”

“That he died in a cabin, down in the valley?”

Kells gave a slight start and his eyes narrowed
and shot steely glints. ‘‘No. It’s news to me.”

“‘Kells, you left Bailey for dead. But he lived.
He was shot through, but he got there somehow—
nobody knows. He was far gone when Beady Jones
happened along. Before he died he sent word to
me by Beady. ... Are you curious to know what it
was?”

“‘Not the least,’ replied Kells. ‘‘Bailey was—
well, offensive to my wife. I shot him.”

“He swore you drew on him in cold blood,”’ thun-
dered Gulden. ‘‘He swore it was for nothing—just
so you could be alone with that girl!”

Kells rose in wonderful calmness, with only his
pallor and a slight shaking of his hands to betray
excitement. An uneasy stir and murmur ran
through the room. Red Pearce, nearest at hand,
stepped to Kells’s side. All in a moment there was
a deadly surcharged atmosphere there.

“‘Well, he swore right! .. . Now what’s it to you?”

Apparently the fact and its confession were noth-
ing particular to Gulden, or else he was deep where
all considered him only dense and shallow.

“Tt’sdone. Bill’s dead,”’ continued Gulden. ‘‘But
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why do you double-cross the gang? What’s the
game? You never did it before. ... That girl isn’t
your—”

“Shut up!” hissed Kells. Like a flash his hand
flew out with his gun, and all about him was dark
menace.

Gulden made no attempt to draw. He did not
show surprise nor fear nor any emotion. He ap-
peared plodding in mind.

Red Pearce stepped between Kells and Gulden.
There was a relaxation in the crowd, loud breaths,
scraping of feet. Gulden turned away. Then
Kells resumed his seat and his pipe as if nothing
out of the ordinary had occurred.

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CHAPTER IX

OAN turned away from the door in a cold clamp

of relief. The shadow of death hovered over
these men. She must fortify herself to live under
that shadow, to be prepared for any sudden violence,
to stand a succession of shocks that inevitably would
come. She listened. The men were talking and
laughing now; there came a click of chips, the spat
of a thrown card, the thump of a little sack of gold.
Ahead of her lay the long hours of night in which
these men would hold revel. Only a faint ray of
light penetrated her cabin, but it was sufficient for
her to distinguish objects. She set about putting
the poles in place to barricade the opening. When
she had finished she knew she was safe at least from
intrusion. Who had constructed that rude door
and for what purpose? Then she yielded to the
temptation to peep once more under the edge of the
curtain.

The room was cloudy and blue with smoke. She
saw Jim Cleve at a table gambling with several
ruffans. His back was turned, yet Joan felt the
contrast of his attitude toward the game, compared
with that of the others. They were tense, fierce, and
intent upon every throw of a card. Cleve’s very

poise of head and movement of arm betrayed his
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indifference. One of the gamblers howled his dis-
gust, slammed down his cards, and got up.

“‘He’s cleaned out,” said one, in devilish glee.

“Naw, he ain’t,’’ vouched another. ‘‘He’s got
two fruit-cans full of dust. I saw ’em....He’s just
lay down—like a poisoned coyote.”

“Shore I’m glad Cleve’s got the luck, fer mebbe
he’ll give my gold back,” spoke up another gamester,
with a laugh.

““Wal, he certainlee is the chilvalus card sharp,”
rejoined the last player. ‘‘Jim, was you allus as
lucky in love as in cards?”

“Lucky in love? ... Sure!’ answered Jim Cleve,
with a mocking, reckless ring in his voice.

“Funny, ain’t thet, boys? Now there’s the boss.
Kells can sure win the gurls, but he’s a pore gambler.”
Kells heard this speech, and he laughed with the
others. ‘‘Hey, you greaser, you never won any of
my money,’’ he said.

““Come an’ set in, boss. Come an’ see your gold
fade away. You can’t stop this Jim Cleve. Luck
—bull luck straddles his neck. He’ll win your gold
—your hosses an’ saddles an’ spurs an’ guns—an’
your shirt, if you’ve nerve enough to bet it.’

The speaker slapped his cards upon the table while
he gazed at Cleve in grieved admiration. Kells
walked over to the group and he put his hand on
Cleve’s shoulder.

‘‘Say youngster,” he said, genially, ‘‘you said you
were just as lucky in love... . Now I had a hunch
some bad luck with a girl drove you out here to the
border.”

Kells spoke jestingly, in a way that could give no

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offense, even to the wildest of boys, yet there was
curiosity, keenness, penetration, in his speech. It
had not the slightest effect upon Jim Cleve.

“Bad luck and a girl? ... To hell with both!” he
said.

‘Shore you’re talkin’ religion. Thet’s where both
luck an’ gurls come from,” replied the unlucky
gamester. ‘‘Will one of you hawgs pass the
whisky?”

The increased interest with which Kells looked
down upon Jim Cleve was not lost upon Joan. But
she had seen enough, and, turning away, she stumbled
to the bed and lay there with an ache in her heart.

“‘Oh,” she whispered to herself, ‘‘he is ruined—
ruined—ruined! . . . God forgive me!’ She saw
bright, cold stars shining between the logs. The
night wind swept in cold and pure, with the dew of
the mountain init. She heard the mourn of wolves,
the hoot of an owl, the distant cry of a panther,
weird and wild. Yet outside there was a thick and
lonely silence. In that other cabin, from which she
was mercifully shut out, there were different sounds,
hideous by contrast. By and by she covered her
ears, and at length, weary from thought and sorrow,
she drifted into slumber.

Next morning, long after she had awakened, the
cabin remained quiet, with no one stirring. Morn-
ing had half gone before Wood knocked and gave
her a bucket of water, a basin, and towels. Later
he came with her breakfast. After that she had
nothing to do but pace the floor of her two rooms.
One appeared to be only an empty shed, long in dis-

use. Her view from both rooms was restricted to
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the green slope of the gulch up to yellow crags and
the sky. But she would rather have had this to
watch than an outlook upon the cabins and the
doings of these bandits.

About noon she heard the voice of Kells in low
and earnest conversation with some one; she could
not, however, understand what was said. That
ceased, and then she heard Kells moving around.
There came a clatter of hoofs as a horse galloped
away from the cabin, after which a knock sounded
on the wall.

‘‘Joan,” called Kells. Then the curtain was swept
aside and Kells, appearing pale and troubled,
stepped into her room.

‘‘What’s the matter?” asked Joan, hurriedly.

‘Gulden shot two men this morning. One’s
dead. The other’s in bad shape, so Red tells me.
I haven’t seen him.”

‘‘Who—who are they?” faltered Joan. She could
not think of any man except Jim Cleve.

‘Dan Small’s the one’s dead. The other they call
Dick. Never heard his last name.”

‘Was it a fight?”

“Of course. And Gulden picked it. He’s a
quarrelsome man. Nobody can go against him.
He’s all the time like some men when they’re drunk.
I’m sorry I didn’t bore him last night. I would
have done it if it hadn’t been for Red Pearce.”

Kells seemed gloomy and concentrated on his
situation and he talked naturally to Joan, as if she
were one to sympathize. A bandit, then, in the
details of his life, the schemes, troubles, friendships,
relations, was no different from any other kind of a

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man. He was human, and things that might con-
stitute black evil for observers were dear to him, a
part of him. Joan feigned the sympathy she could
not feel.

“T thought Gulden was your enemy.”

Kells sat down on one of the box seats, and his
heavy gun-sheath rested upon the floor. He looked
at Joan now, forgetting she was a woman and his
prisoner.

“T never thought of that till now,” he said. ‘“‘We
always got along because I understood him. I man-
aged him. The man hasn’t changed in the least.
He’s always what he is. But there’s a difference.
I noticed that first over in Lost Cafion. And, Joan,
I believe it’s because Gulden saw you.”

“Oh no!” cried Joan, trembling.

‘“Maybe I’m wrong. Anyway something’s wrong.
Gulden never had a friend or a partner. I don’t
misunderstand his position regarding Bailey. What
did he care for that soak? Gulden’s cross-grainec.
He opposes anything or anybody. He’s got a twist
in his mind that makes him dangerous. ... I wanted
to get rid of him. I decided to—after last night.
But now it seems that’s no easy job.”

“Why?” asked Joan, curiously.

**Pearce and Wood and Beard, all men I rely on,
said it won’t do. They hint Gulden is strong with
my gang here, and all through the border. I was
wild. I don’t believe it. But as I’m not sure—
what can I do?... They’re all afraid of Gulden.
That’s it... . And I believe I am, too.”

“You!’’ exclaimed Joan.

Kells actually looked ashamed. ‘‘I believe I am,

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Joan,” he replied. ‘‘That Gulden is not aman. I
never was afraid of a real man. He’s—he’s an
animal.”

“‘He made me think of a gorilla,”’ said Joan.

“‘There’s only one man I know who’s not afraid
of Gulden. He’s a new-comer here on the border.
Jim Cleve he calls himself. A youngster I can’t
figure! But he’d slap the devil himself in the face.
Cleve won’t last long out here. Yet you can never
tell. Men like him, who laugh at death, sometimes
avert it for long. I was that way once... . Cleve
heard me talking to Pearce about Gulden. And he
said, ‘Kells, I'll pick a fight with this Gulden and
drive him out of the camp or kill him.’”’

“What did you say?” queried Joan, trying to
steady her voice as she averted her eyes.

“T said: ‘Jim, that wins me. But I don’t want
you killed.’...It certainly was nervy of the youngster.
Said it just the same as—as he’d offer to cinch my
saddle. Gulden can whip a roomful of men. He’s
done it. And as for a killer—I’ve heard of no man
with his record.”

‘And that’s why you fear him?”

“It’s not,’’ replied Kells, passionately, as if his
manhood had been affronted. ‘‘It’s because he’s
Gulden. There’s something uncanny about him.
... Gulden’s a cannibal!’

Joan looked as if she had not heard aright.

“It’s a cold fact. Known all over the border.
Gulden’s no braggart. But he’s been known to talk.
He was a sailor—a pirate. Once he was ship-
wrecked. Starvation forced him to be a cannibal.

He told this in California, and in Nevada camps,
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But no one believed him. A few years ago he got
snowed-up in the mountains back of Lewiston. He
had two companions with him. ‘They all began to
starve. It was absolutely necessary to try to get
out. They started out in the snow. Travel was
desperately hard. Gulden told that his companions
dropped. But he murdered them—and again saved
his life by being a cannibal. After this became
known his sailor yarns were no longer doubted. ...
There’s another story about him. Once he got hold
of a girl and took her into the mountains. After a
winter he returned alone. He told that he’d kept
her tied in a cave, without any clothes, and she froze
to death.”’

“Oh, horrible!” moaned Joan.

“‘T don’t know how true it is. But I believe it.
Gulden is not aman. The worst of us have a con-
science. We can tell right from wrong. But Gul-
den can’t. He’s beneath morals. He has no con-
ception of manhood, such as I’ve seen in the lowest
of outcasts. That cave story with the girl—that
betrays him. He belongs back in the Stone Age.
He’s a thing... . And here on the border, if he wants,
he can have all the more power because of what
he is.”’

*‘Kells, don’t let him see me!” entreated Joan.

The bandit appeared not to catch the fear in
Joan’s tone and look. She had been only a listener.
Presently, with preoccupied and gloomy mien, he
left her alone.

Joan did not see him again, except for glimpses

under the curtain, for three days. She kept the door
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barred and saw no one except Bate Wood, who
brought her meals. She paced her cabin like a caged
creature. During this period few men visited
Kells’s cabin, and these few did not remain long.
Joan was aware that Kells was not always at home.
Evidently he was able to go out. Upon the fourth
day he called to her and knocked for admittance.
Joan let him in, and saw that he was now almost
well again, once more cool, easy, cheerful, with his
strange, forceful air.

“Good day, Joan. You don’t seem to be pining
for your—negligent husband.”

He laughed as if he mocked himself, but there
was gladness in the very sight of her, and some in-
definable tone in his voice that suggested respect.

“‘T didn’t miss you,” replied Joan. Yet it wasa
relief to see him.

‘“‘No, I imagine not,”’ he said, dryly. ‘‘Well, I’ve
been busy with men—with plans. Things are work-
ing out to my satisfaction. Red Pearce got around
Gulden. There’s been no split. Besides, Gulden
rode off. Some one said he went after a little girl
named Brander. I hope he gets shot... . Joan, we'll
be leaving Cabin Gulch soon. I’m expecting news
that “ll change things. I won’t leave you here.
You'll have to ride the roughest trails. And your
clothes are in tatters now. You’ve got to have
something to wear.”’

“T should think so,” replied Joan, fingering the
thin, worn, ragged habit that had gone to pieces.
“The first brush I ride through will tear this off.”

‘‘That’s annoying,’’ said Kells, with exasperation

at himself. ‘‘Where on earth can I get you a dress?
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We’re two hundred miles from everywhere. The
wildest kind of country. ... Say, did you ever wear
a man’s outfit?’

““Ye-es, when I went prospecting and hunting with
my uncle,’’ she replied, reluctantly.

Suddenly he had a daring and brilliant smile that
changed his face completely. He rubbed his palms
together. He laughed as if at a huge joke. He
cast a measuring glance up and down her slender
form.

“«Just wait till I come back,” he said.

He left her and she heard him rummaging around
in the pile of trappings she had noted in a corner
of the other cabin. Presently he returned carrying
a bundle. This he unrolled on the bed and spread
out the articles.

“Dandy Dale’s outfit,” he said, with animation.
“‘Dandy was a would-be knight of the road. He
dressed the part. But he tried to hold up a stage
over here and an unappreciative passenger shot him.
He wasn’t killed outright. He crawled away and
died. Some of my men found him and they fetched
his clothes. That outfit cost a fortune. But nota
man among us could get into it.”

There was a black sombrero with heavy silver
band; a dark-blue blouse and an embroidered buck-
skin vest; a belt full of cartridges and a pearl-
handled gun; trousers of corduroy; high-top leather
boots and gold-mounted spurs, all of the finest ma-
terial and workmanship.

“Joan, I’ll make you a black mask out of the rim
of a felt hat, and then you’ll be grand.’’ He spoke

with the impulse and enthusiasm of a boy.
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“‘Kells, you don’t mean me to wear these?’’ asked
Joan, incredulously.

“Certainly. Why not? Just the thing. A little
fancy, but then you’re a girl. We can’t hide that.
I don’t want to hide it.”

“‘T won’t wear them,” declared Joan.

“Excuse me—but you will,” he replied, coolly and
pleasantly.

“T won’t!’ cried Joan. She could not keep cool.

*‘Joan, you’ve got to take long rides with me. At
night sometimes. Wild rides to elude pursuers
sometimes. You'll go into camps with me. You'll
have to wear strong, easy, free clothes. You'll
have to be masked. Here the outfit is—as if made
for you. Why, you’re dead lucky. For this stuff
is good and strong. It ’ll stand the wear, yet it’s
fit for a girl... You put the outfit on, right
now.”

“‘T said I wouldn’t!’ Joan snapped.

“But what do you care if it belonged to a fellow
who’s dead? ... There! See that hole in the shirt.
That’s a bullet-hole. Don’t be squeamish. It ‘ll
only make your part harder.”

“Mr. Kells, you seem to have forgotten entirely
that I’m a—a girl.”

He looked blank astonishment. ‘‘Maybe I have.
... [ll remember. But you said you’d worn a
man’s things.”

‘I wore my brother’s coat and overalls, and was
lost in them,”’ replied Joan.

His face began to work. Then he laughed up-
roariously. ‘‘I—under—stand. This ’Il fit—you—
like a glove.... Fine! I’m dying to see you.”

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“You never will.”

At that he grew sober and his eyes glinted. ‘You
can’t take a little fun. I'll leave you now for a
while. When I come back you'll have that suit
on!”

There was that in his voice then which she had
heard when he ordered men.

Joan looked her defiance.

“If you don’t have it on when I come [’Il—T’ll
tear your rags off!...I can do that. You're a
strong little devil, and maybe I’m not well enough
yet to pull this outfit on you. ButIcangethelp....
If you anger me I might wait for—Gulden!”

Joan’s legs grew weak under her, so that she had
to sink on the bed. Kells would do absolutely and
literally what he threatened. She understood now
the changing secret in his eyes. One moment he
was a certain kind of a man and the very next he
was incalculably different. She instinctively recog-
nized this latter personality as her enemy. She
must use all the strength and wit and cunning and
charm to keep his other personality in the ascendancy,
else all was futile.

‘“‘Since you force me so—then I must,’’ she said.

Kells left her without another word.

Joan removed her stained and torn dress and her
worn-out boots; then hurriedly, for fear Kells
might return, she put on the dead boy-bandit’s out-
fit. Dandy Dale assuredly must have been her
counterpart, for his things fit her perfectly. Joan
felt so strange that she scarcely had courage enough
to look into the mirror. When she did look she gave

a start that was of both amaze and shame. But for
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her face she never could have recognized herself.
What had become of her height, her slenderness?
She looked like an audacious girl in a dashing boy
masquerade. Her shame was singular, inasmuch as
it consisted of a burning hateful consciousness that
she had not been able to repress a thrill of delight
at her appearance, and that this costume strangely
magnified every curve and swell of her body, be-
traying her femininity as nothing had ever done.

And just at that moment Kells knocked on the
door and called, ‘‘Joan, are you dressed?”

“Yes,” she replied. But the word seemed in-
voluntary.

Then Kells came in.

It was an instinctive and frantic impulse that
made Joan snatch up a blanket and half envelop
herself in it. She stood with scarlet face and dilat-
ing eyes, trembling in every limb. Kells had en-
tered with an expectant smile and that mocking
light in his gaze. Both faded. He stared at the
blanket—then at her face. Then he seemed to com-
prehend this ordeal. And he looked sorry for her.

“Why you—you little—fool!” he exclaimed, with
emotion. And that emotion seemed to exasperate
him. Turning away from her, he gazed out between
the logs. Again, as so many times before, he ap-
peared to be remembering something that was hard
to recall, and vague.

Joan, agitated as she was, could not help but see
the effect of her unexpected and unconscious girl-
ishness. She comprehended that with the mind of
the woman which had matured in her. Like Kells,

she, too, had different personalities.
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‘I’m trying to be decent to you,”’ went on Kells,
without turning. ‘‘I want to give you a chance
to make the best of a bad situation. But you’re a
kid—a girl! ... And I’m a bandit. A man lost to
all good, who means to have you!’

“But you’re not lost to all good,” replied Joan,
earnestly. ‘‘I can’t understand what I do feel.
But I know—if it had been Gulden instead of you—
that I wouldn’t have tried to hide my—myself be-
hind this blanket. I’m no longer—afraid of you.
That’s why I acted—so—just like a girl caught. ...
Oh! can’t you see?”

“No, I can’t see,’’ he replied. ‘‘I wish I hadn’t
fetched you here. I wish the thing hadn’t hap-
pened. Now it’s too late.”

“Tt’s never too late. . . . You—you haven’t—
harmed me yet.”

“But I love you,” he burst out. ‘Not like I have.
Oh! I see this—that I never really loved any woman
before. Something’s gripped me. It feels like that
rope at my throat—when they were going to hang
me.”

Then Joan trembled in the realization that a tre-
mendous passion had seized upon this strange, strong
man. In the face of it she did not know how to
answer him. Yet somehow she gathered courage in
the knowledge.

Kells stood silent a long moment, looking out at
the green slope. And then, as if speaking to him-
self, he said: ‘‘I stacked the deck and dealt myself a
hand—a losing hand—and now I’ve got to play it!”

With that he turned to face Joan. It was the

piercing gaze he bent upon her that hastened her
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decision to resume the part she had to play. And
she dropped the blanket. Kells’s gloom and that
iron hardness vanished. He smiled as she had never
seen him smile. In that and his speechless delight
she read his estimate of her appearance; and, not-
withstanding the unwomanliness of her costume, and
the fact of his notorious character, she knew she had
never received so great a compliment. Finally he
found his voice.

*‘Joan, if you’re not the prettiest thing I ever saw
in my life!’

“T can’t get used to this outfit,” said Joan. ‘‘I
can’t—I won’t go away from this room in it.”

“Sure you will. See here, this ’ll make a differ-
ence, maybe. You’re so shy.”

He held out a wide piece of black felt that evident-
ly he had cut from a sombrero. This he measured
over her forehead and eyes, and then taking his knife
he cut it to a desired shape. Next he cut eyeholes
in it and fastened to it a loop made of a short strip
of buckskin.

“Try that. . .. Pull it down—even with your
eyes. There!—take a look at yourself.”

Joan faced the mirror and saw merely a masked
stranger. She was no longer Joan Randle. Her
identity had been absolutely lost.

‘‘No one—who ever knew me—could recognize
me now,” she murmured, and the relieving thought
centered round Jim Cleve.

“‘T hadn’t figured on that,” replied Kells. ‘‘But
you're right... . Joan, if I don’t miss my guess, it
won’t be long till you'll be the talk of mining-towns
and camp-fires.”

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This remark of Kells’s brought to Joan proof of his
singular pride in the name he bore, and proof of
many strange stories about bandits and wild women
of the border. She had never believed any of these
stories. They had seemed merely a part of the life
of this unsettled wild country. A prospector would
spend a night at a camp-fire and tell a weird story
and pass on, never to be seen there again. Could
there have been a stranger story than her life seemed
destined to be? Her mind whirled with vague, cir-
cling thought—Kells and his gang, the wild trails,
the camps and towns, gold and stage-coaches, rob-
bery, fights, murder, mad rides in the dark, and
back to Jim Cleve and his ruin.

Suddenly Kells stepped to her from behind and
put his arms around her. Joan grew stiff. She
had been taken off her guard. She was in his arms
and could not face him.

“Joan, kiss me,” he whispered, with a softness,
a richer, deeper note in his voice.

*“No!” cried Joan, violently.

There was a moment of silence in which she felt
his grasp slowly tighten—the heave of his breast.

“Then I’ll make you,” he said. So different was
the voice now that another man might have spoken.
Then he bent her backward, and, loosing one
hand, caught it under her chin and tried to lift
her face.

But Joan broke into fierce, violent resistance. She
believed she was doomed, but that only made her
the fiercer, the stronger. And with her head down,
her arms straining, her body hard and rigidly un-
yielding she fought him all over the room, knocking

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over the table and seats, wrestling from wall to wall,
till at last they fell across the bed and she broke his
hold. Then she sprang up, panting, disheveled,
and backed away from him. It had been a sharp,
desperate struggle on her part and she was stronger
than he. He was not a well man. He raised him-
self and put one hand to his breast. His face was
haggard, wet, working with passion, gray with pain.
In the struggle she had hurt him, perhaps reopened
his wound.

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

““T 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’ma

coward.... And I’ma dog, too! Not half aman!—
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 be-
hind 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.

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“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....I1 just want you to—to be—
decent to me.”’

“‘T have been—for me. I was only in fun this
time—when I grabbed you. But the feel of you!
...I1 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.

“T 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?”

“T 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.

“Tf you’re merciless—then it must be—my soul,”

she whispered. ‘‘For I can’t murder you. ... Could
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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 mur-
der 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 change, tohold. Swiftly she went
close to Kells. She stretched out her hands. One
was bleeding from rough contact 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 awoman. 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—em-
brace 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 ail
the wondrous subtlety of a woman in a supreme mo-
ment 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 whis-
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pered, 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 difference—in the woman.
... IT 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 radi-
ance 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 ter-
rified. 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 awak-
ened as if from a trance, and, leaping down the
steps, he violently swept aside the curtain and dis-
appeared.

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!

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CHAPTER X

EXT 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
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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 vears of
lawlessness stamped upon his face, was the first to
move; and he, with awkward gallantry, doffed his
sombrero. Then others greeted her, gruffly, but
with amiable disposition. Joan wanted to run, yet
she forced herself to stand there, apparently uncon-
cerned before this battery of bold and curious eyes.
That, once done, made the rest easier. She was grate-
ful for the mask. And with her first low, almost in-
coherent words, in reply Joan entered upon the sec-
ond 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 counte-
nances 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
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her then. Always, whatever she was doing or think-
ing or saying, behind it all hid the driving watch-
fulness 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 fight-
ing or sleeping? Was he still honest? When she
did meet him what would happen? How could she
make herself and circumstances known to him be-
fore 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 approach-
ing group. Loud talk dinned in Joan’s ears. Then

she went in the door as Kells stalked by, eyes agleam,
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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 tem-
per.

“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 ina
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.”’

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“‘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 try-
in’ 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 leutenant, 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—per-
haps 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 com-
plex, with an unmistakable friendly regard for this
young outcast. Cleve seemed aloof, detached, in-
different to everything, with a white, weary, reck-
less scorn. Both men were far above the gaping
ruffans around them.

“Cleve, why’d you draw on Gulden?” asked Kells,
sharply.

‘‘That’s my business,”’ replied Cleve, slowly, and

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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,
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 insist-
ing or advising.”

Kells’s force and ability to control men mani-
fested 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. Whata
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 un-

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restrained border life. Its changing, raw, and fate-
ful excitement might have made him forget, but
behind all was the terrible seeking to destroy and
be destroyed. Joan shuddered when she remem-
bered 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.

“See here, Red,” said Kells to Pearce, ‘‘tell me
what happened—what you saw. Jim can’t object
to that.”

“Sure,” replied Pearce, thus admonished. ‘‘We
was all over at Beard’s an’ several games was on.
Gulden rode into camp last night. He’s always
sore, but last night it seemed more ’n usual. But
he didn’t say much an’ nothin’ happened. We all
reckoned his trip fell through. To-day he was rest-
less. He walked an’ walked just like a cougar in a
pen. You know how Gulden has to be on the move.
Well, we let him alone, you can bet. But sudden-
like he comes up to our table—me an’ Cleve an’
Beard an’ Texas was playin’ cards—an’ he nearly
kicks the table over. I grabbed the gold an’ Cleve
he saved the whisky. We'd been drinkin’ an’
Cleve most of all. Beard was white at the gills
with rage an’ Texas was soffocatin’. But we all
was afraid of Gulden, except Cleve, as it turned out.
But he didn’t move or look mean. An’ Gulden
pounded on the table an’ addressed himself to
Cleve.

‘“T’ve a job you'll like. Come on.’

‘Job? Say, man, you couldn’t have a job I’d
like,’ replied Cleve, slow an’ cool.

“You know how Gulden gets when them spells

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come over him. It’s just plain cussedness. I’ve
seen gun-fighters lockin’ for trouble—for some
one to kill) But Gulden was worse than that.
You all take my hunch—he’s got a screw loose in
his nut!

‘“*Cleve,’ he said, ‘I located the Brander gold-
diggin’s—an’ the girl was there.’

‘Some kind of a white flash went over Cleve.
An’ we all, rememberin’ Luce, began to bend low,
ready to duck. Gulden didn’t look no different
from usual. You can’t see any change in him.
But I for one felt all hell burnin’ in him.

‘“*Oho! You have,’ said Cleve, quick, like he was
pleased. ‘An’ did you get her?’

“Not yet. Just looked over the ground. I’m
pickin’ you to go with me. We'll split on the gold,
an’ I'll take the girl.’

“Cleve swung the whisky-bottle an’ it smashed
on Gulden’s mug, knockin’ him flat. Cleve was up,
like a cat, gun burnin’ red. The other fellers were
dodgin’ low. An’ as I ducked I seen Gulden, flat
on his back, draggin’ at his gun. He stopped short
an’ his hand flopped. The side of his face went all
bloody. I made sure he’d cashed, so I leaped up an’
grabbed Cleve.

“It ’d been all right if Gulden had only cashed.
But he hadn’t. He came to an’ bellered fer his gun
an’ fer his pards. Why, you could have heard him
for a mile... . Then, as I told you, I had trouble in
holdin’ back a general mix-up. An’ while ke was
hollerin’ about it I led them all over to you. Gul-
den is layin’ back there with his ear shot off. An°
that’s all.”

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Kells, with thoughtful mien, turned from Pearce to
the group of dark-faced men. ‘‘This fight settles
one thing,’ he said to them. ‘‘We’ve got to have
organization. If you’re not all a lot of fools you'll
see that. You need a head. Most of you swear
by me, but some of you are for Gulden. Just be-
cause he’s a bloody devil. These times are the wild-
est the West ever knew, and they’re growing wilder.
Gulden is a great machine for execution. He has
no sense of fear. He’s a giant. He loves to fight—
to kill. But Gulden’s all but crazy. This last deal
proves that. I leave it to your common sense.
He rides around hunting for some lone camp to rob.
Or some girl to make off with. He does not plan
with me or the men whose judgment I have con-
fidence in. He’s always without gold. And so are
most of his followers. I don’t know who they are.
And I don’t care. But here we split—unless they
and Gulden take advice and orders from me. I’m
not so much siding with Cleve. Any of you ought
to admit that Gulden’s kind of work will disorganize
a gang. He’s been with us for long. And he ap-
proaches Cleve with a job. Cleve is a stranger.
He may belong here, but he’s not yet one of us.
Gulden oughtn’t have approached him. It was no
straight deal. We can’t figure what Gulden meant
exactly, but it isn’t likely he wanted Cleve to go.
It was a bluff. He got called. ... You men think
this over—whether you'll stick to Gulden or to me.
Clear out now.”

His strong, direct talk evidently impressed them,
and in silence they crowded out of the cabin, leaving
Pearce and Cleve behind.

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‘Jim, are you just hell-bent on fighting or do you
mean to make yourself the champion of every poor
girl in these wilds?”

Cleve puffed a cloud of smoke that enveloped his
head. ‘‘I don’t pick quarrels,” he replied.

“Then you get red-headed at the very mention
of a girl.”

A savage gesture of Cleve’s suggested that Kells
was right.

‘“‘Here, don’t get red-headed at me,” called Kells,
with piercing sharpness. ‘‘I’ll be your friend if you
let me. ... But declare yourself like a man—if you
want me for a friend!”

‘‘Kells, I’m much obliged,” replied Cleve, with a
semblance of earnestness. ‘“‘I’m no good or I
wouldn’t be out here... . But I can’t stand for these
—these deals with girls.”

“You'll change,” rejoined Kells, bitterly. ‘‘ Wait
till you live a few lonely years out here! You don’t
understand the border. You’re young. I’veseen the
gold-fields of California and Nevada. Men go crazy
with the gold fever. It’s gold that makes men wild.
If you don’t get killed you'll change. If you live
you'll see life on this border. War debases the
moral force of a man, but nothing like what ycu’ll
experience here the next few years. Men with their
wives and daughters are pouring into this range.
They’re all over. They’re finding gold. They’ve
tasted blood. Wait till the great gold strike comes!
Then you'll see men and women go back ten thou-
sand years. . . . And then what ’ll one girl more or
less matter?’

“Well, you see, Kells, I was loved so devotedly
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by one and made such a hero of—that I just can’t
bear to see any girl mistreated.”

He almost drawled the words, and he was suave
and cool, and his face was inscrutable, but a bitter-
ness in his tone gave the lie to all he said and looked.

Pearce caught the broader inference and laughed
as if at a great joke. Kells shook his head doubt-
fully, as if Cleve’s transparent speech only added
to the complexity. And Cleve turned away, as if
in an instant he had forgotten his comrades.

Afterward, in the silence and darkness of night,
Joan Randle lay upon her bed sleepless, haunted by
Jim’s white face, amazed at the magnificent madness
of him, thrilled to her soul by the meaning of his
attack on Gulden, and tortured by a love that had
grown immeasurably full of the strength of these
hours of suspense and the passion of this wild
border.

Even in her dreams Joan seemed to be bending
all her will toward that inevitable and fateful mo-
ment when she must stand before Jim Cleve. It
had to be. Therefore she would absolutely compel
herself to meet it, regardless of the tumult that
must rise within her. When all had been said, her
experience so far among the bandits, in spite of the
shocks and suspense that had made her a different
girl, had been infinitely more fortunate than might
have been expected. She prayed for this luck to
continue and forced herself into a belief that it
would.

That night she had slept in Dandy Dale’s clothes,

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except for the boots; and sometimes while turning
in restless slumber she had been awakened by rolling
on the heavy gun, which she had not removed from
the belt. And at such moments she had to ponder
in the darkness, to realize that she, Joan Randle,
lay a captive in a bandit’s camp, dressed in a dead
bandit’s garb, and packing his gun—even while she
slept. It was such an improbable, impossible thing.
Yet the cold feel of the polished gun sent a thrill
of certainty through her.

In the morning she at least did not have to suffer
the shame of getting into Dandy Dale’s clothes, for
she was already in them. She found a grain of com-
fort evenin that. When she had put on the mask and
sombrero she studied the effect in her little mirror.
And she again decided that no one, not even Jim
Cleve, could recognize her in that disguise. Like-
wise she gathered courage from the fact that even
her best girl friend would have found her figure un-
familiar and striking where once it had been merely
tall and slender and strong, ordinarily dressed.
Then how would Jim Cleve ever recognize her?
She remembered her voice that had been called a
contralto, low and deep; and how she used to sing
the simple songs she knew. She could not disguise
that voice. But she need not let Jim hearit. Then
there was a return of the idea that he would in-
stinctively recognize her—that no disguise could be
proof to a lover who had ruined himself for her.
Suddenly she realized how futile all her worry and
shame. Sooner or later she must reveal her identity
to Jim Cleve. Out of all this complexity of emotion

Joan divined that what she yearned most for was to
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spare Cleve the shame consequent upon recognition
of her and then the agony he must suffer at a false
conception of her presence there. It was a weakness
inher. When death menaced her lover and the most
inconceivably horrible situation yawned for her, still
she could only think of her passionate yearning to
have him know, all in a flash, that she loved him,
that she had followed him in remorse, that she was
true to him and would die before being anything else.

And when she left her cabin she was in a mood
to force an issue.

Kells was sitting at table and being served by
Bate Wood.

‘Hello, Dandy!’ he greeted her, in surprise and
pleasure. ‘‘This 's early for you.”

Joan returned his greeting and said that she could
not sleep all the time.

“You're coming round. Tl bet you hold up a
stage before a month is out.”

“Hold up a stage?” echoed Joan.

“Sure. It’ll be great fun,” replied Kells, with a
laugh. ‘‘Here—sit down and eat with me... . Bate,
come along lively with breakfast. .. . It’s fine to see
you there. That mask changes you, though. No
one can see how pretty you are. ... Joan, your ad-
mirer, Gulden, has been incapacitated for the
present.”

Then in evident satisfaction Kells repeated the
story that Joan had heard Red Pearce tell the night
before; and in the telling Kells enlarged somewhat
upon Jim Cleve.

“I’ve taken a liking to Cleve,” said Kells. ‘‘He’s
a strange youngster. But he’s more man than boy.

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I think he’s broken-hearted over some rotten girl
who’s been faithless or something. Most women
are no good, Joan. A while ago I’d have said all
women were that, but since I’ve known you I think
—I know different. Still, one girl out of a million
doesn’t change a world.”

“What will this J-jim C-cleve do—when he sees
—me?” asked Joan, and she choked over the name.

‘‘Don’t eat so fast, girl,” said Kells. ‘‘You’re
only seventeen years old and you’ve plenty of
time. . . . Well, I’ve thought some about Cleve.
He’s not crazy like Gulden, but he’s just as danger-
ous. He’s dangerous because he doesn’t know what
he’s doing—has absolutely no fear of death—and
then he’s swift with a gun. That’s a bad combina-
tion. Cleve will kill a man presently. He’s shot
three already, and in Gulden’s case he meant to
kail. If once he kills a man—that ’ll make him a
gun-fighter. I’ve worried a little about his seeing
you. But I can manage him, I guess. He can’t
be scared or driven. But he may be led. I’ve had
Red Pearce tell him you are my wife. I hope he
believes it, for none of the other fellows believe it.
Anyway, you'll meet this Cleve soon, maybe to-day,
and I want you to be friendly. If I can steady him
—stop his drinking—he’ll be the best man for me on
this border.”’

“T’m to help persuade him to join your band?”
asked Joan, and she could not yet control her voice.

“Ts that so black a thing?’ queried Kells, evi-
dently nettled, and he glared at her.

‘“‘I—I don’t know,” faltered Joan. ‘‘Is this—this
hoy a criminal yet?”

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“No. He’s only a fine, decent young chap gone
wild—gone bad for some girl. I told you that.
You don’t seem to grasp the point. If I can control
him he’ll be of value to me—he’ll be a bold and
clever and dangerous man—he’ll last out here. If
I can’t win him, why, he won’t last a week longer.
He'll be shot or knifed in a brawl. Without my
control Cleve ’Il go straight to the hell he’s headed
for.”

Joan pushed back her plate and, looking up,
steadily eyed the bandit.

*‘Kells, I'd rather he ended his—his career quick
—and went to—to—than live to be a bandit and
murderer at your command.”

Kells laughed mockingly, yet the savage action
with which he threw his cup against the wall attested
to the fact that Joan had strange power to hurt him.

“That’s your sympathy, because [ told you some
girl drove him out here,” said the bandit. ‘‘He’s
done for. You'll know that the moment you see
him. I really think he or any man out here would
be the better for my interest. Now, I want to know
if you’il stand by me—put in a word to help influence
this wild boy.”

“T’ll—T’ll have to see him first,’’ replied Joan.

‘Well, you take it sort of hard,’ growled Kells.
Then presently he brightened. ‘‘I seem always to
forget that you’re only a kid. Listen! Now you
do as you like. But I want to warn you that you’ve
got to get back the same kind of nerve’”—here he
lowered his voice and glanced at Bate Wood—‘‘that
you showed when you shot me. You’re going to
see some sights. ... A great gold strike! Men

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grown gold-mad! Women of no more account than
a puff of cottonseed! .. . Hunger, toil, pain, disease,
starvation, robbery, blood, murder, hanging, death—
all nothing, nothing! There will be only gold.
Sleepless nights—days of hell—rush and rush—all
strangers with greedy eyes! The things that made
life will be forgotten and life itself will be cheap.
There will be only that yellow stuff—gold—over
which men go mad and women sell their souls!”

After breakfast Kells had Joan’s horse brought
out of the corral and saddled.

“You must ride some every day. You must
keep in condition,” he said. ‘‘Pretty soon we may
have a chase, and I don’t want it to tear you to
pieces.”

“Where shall I ride?” asked Joan.

“Anywhere you like up and down the gulch.”

“Are you going to have me watched?”

“Not if you say you won’t run off.”

“You trust me?”

“Ves.’’

“Allright. I promise. And if I change my mind
I'll tell you.”

“‘Lord! don’t do it, Joan. I—I— Well, you’ve
come to mean a good deal tome. I don’t know what
I’d do if I lost you.” As she mounted the horse
Kells added, ‘‘Don’t stand any raw talk from any
of the gang.”

Joan rode away, pondering in mind the strange
fact that though she hated this bandit, yet she had
softened toward him. His eyes lit when he saw her:
his voice mellowed; his manner changed. He had

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meant to tell her again that he loved her, yet he con-
trolled it. Was he ashamed? Had he seen into the
depths of himself and despised what he had im-
agined love? There were antagonistic forces at war
within him.

It was early morning and a rosy light tinged the
fresh green. She let the eager horse break into a
canter and then a gallop; and she rode up the gulch
till the trail started into rough ground. Then turn-
ing, she went back, down under the pines and by the
cabins, to where the gulch narrowed its outlet into
the wide valley. Here she met several dusty horse-
men driving a pack-train. One, a jovial ruffian,
threw up his hands in mock surrender.

“Hands up, pards!” he exclaimed. ‘‘Reckon
we've run agin’ Dandy Dale come to life.”

His companions made haste to comply and then
the three regarded her with bold and roguish eyes.
Joan had run square into them round a corner of
slope and, as there was no room to pass, she had
halted.

“‘Shore it’s the Dandy Dale we heerd of,’’ vouch-
safed another.

““Thet’s Dandy’s outfit with a girl inside,’’ added
the third.

Joan wheeled her horse and rode back up the
trail. The glances of these ruffians seemed to scorch
her with the reality of her appearance. She wore
a disguise, but her womanhood was more manifest
in it than in her feminine garb. It attracted the
bold glances of these men. If there were any pas-
sible decency among them, this outrageous bandit
costume rendered it null. How could she ever can-

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tinue to wear it? Would not something good and
sacred within her be sullied by a constant exposure
to the effect she had upon these vile border men?
She did not think it could while she loved Jim Cleve;
and with thought of him came a mighty throb of
her heart to assure her that nothing mattered if
only she could save him.

Upon the return trip up the gulch Joan found men
in sight leading horses, chopping wood, stretching
arms in cabin doors. Joan avoided riding near
them, yet even at a distance she was aware of their
gaze. One rowdy, half hidden by a window, curved
hands round his mouth and called, softly, ‘‘Hullo,
sweetheart!”

Joan was ashamed that she could feel insulted.
She was amazed at the temper which seemed roused
in her. This border had caused her feelings she
had never dreamed possible to her. Avoiding the
trail, she headed for the other side of the gulch.
There were clumps of willows along the brook
through which she threaded a way, looking for a good
place to cross. The horse snorted for water. Ap-
parently she was not going to find any better cross-
ing, so she turned the horse into a narrow lane
through the willows and, dismounting on a mossy
bank, she slipped the bridle so the horse could
drink

Suddenly she became aware that she was not
alone. But she saw no one in front of her or on the
other side of her horse. Then she turned. Jim
‘Cleve was in the act of rising from his knees. He had
a towel in his hand. His face was wet. He stood
no more than ten steps from her.

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Joan could not have repressed a little cry to save
her life. The surprise was tremendous. She could
not move a finger. She expected to hear him call
her name.

Cleve stared at her. His face, in the morning
light, was as drawn and white as that of a corpse.
Only his eyes seemed alive and they were flames.
A lightning flash of scorn leaped to them. He only
recognized in her a woman, and his scorn was for
the creature that bandit garb proclaimed her to be.
A sad and bitter smile crossed his face; and then it
was followed by an expression that was a lash upon
Joan’s bleeding spirit. He looked at her shapely
person with something of the brazen and evil glance
that had been so revolting to her in the eyes of those
ruffans. ‘That was the unexpected—the impossible
—in connection with Jim Cleve. How could she
stand there under it—and live?

She jerked at the bridle, and, wading blindly across
the brook, she mounted somehow, and rode with
blurred sight back to the cabin. Kells appeared
busy with men outside and did not accost her. She
fled to her cabin and barricaded the door.

Then she hid her face on her bed, covered herself
to shut out the light, and lay there, broken-hearted.
What had been that other thing she had imagined
was shame—that shrinking and burning she had suf-
fered through Kells and his men? What was that
compared to this awful thing? A brand of red-hot
pitch, blacker and bitterer than death, had been
struck brutally across her soul. By the man she
loved—whom she would have died to save! Jim
Cleve had seen in her only an abandoned creature of

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the camps. His sad and bitter smile had been for
the thought that he could have loved anything of her
sex. His scorn had been for the betrayed youth
and womanhood suggested by her appearance.
And then the thing that struck into Joan’s heart
was the fact that her grace and charm of person,
revealed by this costume forced upon her, had
roused Jim Cleve’s first response to the evil surround-
ing him, the first call to that baseness he must be
assimilating from these border ruffians. That he
could look at her so! The girl he had loved! Joan’s
agony lay not in the circumstance of his being as
mistaken in her character as he had been in her
identity, but that she, of all women, had to be the
one who made him answer, like Kells and Gulden
and all those ruffians, to the instincts of a beast.

“‘Oh, he’d been drunk—he was drunk!” whispered
Joan. ‘‘He isn’t to be blamed. He’s not my old
Jim. He’s suffering—he’s changed—he doesn’t care.
What could I expect—standing there like a hussy
before him—-in this—this indecent rig? ... I must
see him. I must tell him. If he recognized me
now—and I had no chance to tell him why I’m here
—why I look like this—that I love him—am still
good—and true to him—if I ccutdn’t tell him I’d—
I’d shoot myself!”

Joan sobbed out the final words and then broke
down. And when the spell had exercised its sway,
leaving her limp and shaken and weak, she was the
better for it. Slowly calmness returned so that she
could look at her wild and furious rush from the spot
where she had faced Jim Cleve, at the storm of

shame ending in her collapse. She realized that if
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she had met Jim Cleve here in the dress in which she
had left home there would have been the same shock
of surprise and fear and love. She owed part of that
breakdown to the suspense she had been under and
then the suddenness of the meeting. Looking back
at her agitation, she felt that it had been natural—
that if she could only tell the truth to Jim Cleve the
situation was not impossible. But the meeting, and
all following it, bore tremendous revelation of how
through all this wild experience she had learned to
love Jim Cleve. But for his reckless flight and her
blind pursuit, and then the anxiety, fear, pain, toil,
and despair, she would never have known her
woman’s heart and its capacity for love.

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CHAPTER XI

OLLOWING that meeting, with all its power to
change and strengthen Joan, there were un-
eventful days in which she rode the gulch trails
and grew able to stand the jests and glances of the
bandit’s gang. She thought she saw and heard
everything, yet insulated her true self in a callous
and unreceptive aloofness from all that affronted her.
The days were uneventful because, while always
looking for Jim Cleve, she never once saw him.
Several times she heard his name mentioned. He
was here and there—at Beard’s, off in the mountains.
But he did not come to Kells’s cabin, which fact,
Joan gathered, had made Kells anxious. He did not
want to lose Cleve. Joan peered from her covert
in the evenings, and watched for Jim, and grew
weary of the loud talk and laughter, the gambling
and smoking and drinking. When there seemed no
more chance of Cleve’s coming, then Joan went to
bed.

On these occasions Joan learned that Kells was
passionately keen to gamble, that he was a weak
hand at cards, an honest gambler, and, strangely
enough, a poor loser. Moreover, when he lost he
drank heavily, and under the influence of drink hs
was dangerous. There were quarrels when curses

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rang throughout the cabin, when guns were drawn,
but whatever Kells’s weaknesses might be, he was
strong and implacable in the governing of these
men.

That night when Gulden strode into the cabin was
certainly not uneventful for Joan. Sight of him
sent a chill to her marrow while a strange thrill of
fire inflamed her. Was that great hulk of a gorilla
prowling about to meet Jim Cleve? Joan thought
that it might be the worse for him if he were. Then
she shuddered a little to think that she had already
been influenced by the wildness around her.

Gulden appeared well and strong, and but for the
bandage on his head would have been as she re-
membered him. He manifested interest in the
gambling, but he returned the friendly greetings of
the players by surly grunts. Presently he said some-
thing to Kells.

‘“‘What?’’ queried the bandit, sharply, wheeling,
the better to see Gulden.

The noise subsided. One gamester laughed know-
ingly.

‘‘Lend me a sack of dust?’ asked Gulden.

Kells’s face showed amaze and then a sudden
brightness.

“What! You want gold from me?”

“Yes. I'll pay it back.”

‘“‘Gulden, I wasn’t doubting that. But does your
asking mean you've taken kindly to my proposi-
tion?”

“You can take it that way,” growled Gulden.
“T want gold.”

“I’m mighty glad, Gulden,” replied Kells, and he

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looked as if he meant it. ‘‘I need you. We ought
to get along. ... Here.”

He handed a small buckskin sack to Gulden.
Some one made room for him on the other side of the
table, and the game was resumed. It was interesting
to watch them gamble. Red Pearce had a scale at
his end of the table, and he was always measuring
and weighing out gold-dust. The value of the gold
appeared to be fifteen dollars to the ounce, but the
real value of money did not actuate the gamblers.
They spilled the dust on the table and ground as if it
were as common as sand. Still there did not seem
to be any great quantity of gold in sight. Evidently
these were not profitable times for the bandits.
More than once Joan heard them speak of a gold
strike as honest people spoke of good fortune. And
these robbers could only have meant that in case of a
rich strike there would be gold to steal. Gulden
gambled as he did everything else. At first he won
and then he lost, and then he borrowed more from
Kells, to win again. He paid back as he had bor-
rowed and lost and won—without feeling. He had
no excitement. Joan’s intuition convinced her that
if Gulden had any motive at all in gambling it was
only an antagonism to men of his breed. Gambling
was a contest, a kind of fight.

Most of the men except Gulden drank heavily
that night. There had been fresh liquor come with
the last pack-train. Many of them were drunk
when the game broke up. Red Pearce and Wood
remained behind with Kells after the others had
gone, and Pearce was clever enough to cheat Kells

before he left.
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“‘Boss—thet there Red double-crossed you,” said
Bate Wood.

Kells had lost heavily, and he was under the in-
fluence of drink. He drove Wood out of the cabin,
cursing him sullenly. Then he put in place the
several bars that served as a door of his cabin. After
that he walked unsteadily around, and all about his
action and manner that was not aimless seemed
to be dark and intermittent staring toward Joan’s
cabin. She felt sickened again with this new aspect
of her situation, but she was not in the least afraid
of Kells. She watched him till he approached her
door and then she drew back a little. He paused
before the blanket as if he had been impelled to halt
from fear. He seemed to be groping in thought.
Then he cautiously and gradually, by degrees, drew
aside the blanket. He could not see Joan in the
darkness, but she saw him plainly. He fumbled at
the poles, and, finding that he could not budge them,
he ceased trying. There was nothing forceful or
strong about him, such as was manifest when he was
sober. He stood there a moment, breathing heavily,
in a kind of forlorn, undecided way, and then he
turned back. Joan heard him snap the lanterns.
The lights went out and all grew dark and silent.

Next morning at breakfast he was himself again,
and if he had any knowledge whatever of his actions
while he was drunk, he effectually concealed it from
Joan.

Later, when Joan went outside to take her usual
morning exercise, she was interested to see a rider
tearing up the slope on a foam-flecked horse. Men

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shouted at him from the cabins and then followed
without hats or coats. Bate Wood dropped Joan’s
saddle and called to Kells. The bandit came hur-
riedly out.

“Blicky!” he exclaimed, and then he swore under
his breath in elation.

‘Shore is Blicky!” said Wood, and his unusually
mild eyes snapped with a glint unpleasant for Joan
to see.

The arrival of this Blicky appeared to be occasion
for excitement and Joan recalled the name as be-
longing to one of Kells’s trusted men. He swung his
leg and leaped from his saddle as the horse plunged
to a halt. Blicky was a lean, bronzed young man,
scarcely out of his teens, but there were years of
hard life in his face. He slapped the dust in little
puffs from his gloves. At sight of Kells he threw the
gloves aloft and took no note of them when they fell.
“Strike!” he called, piercingly.

“No!” ejaculated Kells, intensely.

Bate Wood let out a whoop which was answered
by the men hurrying up the slope.

‘‘Been on—for weeks!’’ panted Blicky. ‘‘It’s big.
Can’t tell how big. Me an’ Jesse Smith an’ Handy
Oliver hit a new road—over here fifty miles as a
crow flies—a hundred by trail. We was plumb sur-
prised. An’ when we met pack-trains an’ riders an’
prairie-schooners an’ a stage-coach we knew there
was doin’s over in the Bear Mountain range. When
we came to the edge of the diggin’s an’ seen a whalin’
big camp—like a beehive—Jesse an’ Handy went
on to get the lay of the land an’ I hit the trail back
to you. I’ve been a-comin’ on an’ off since before

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sundown yesterday. ... Jesse gave one look an’ then
hollered. He said, ‘Tell Jack it’s big an’ he wants to
plan big. We'll be back there in a day or so with
all details.’”

Joan watched Kells intently while he listened to
this breathless narrative of a gold strike, and she
was repelled by the singular flash of brightness—a
radiance—that seemed to be in his eyes and on his
face. He did not say a word, but his men shouted
hoarsely around Blicky. He walked a few paces to
and fro with hands strongly clenched, his lips
slightly parted, showing teeth close-shut like those
of a mastiff. He looked eager, passionate, cun-
ning, hard as steel, and that strange brightness
of elation slowly shaded to a dark, brooding men-
ace. Suddenly he wheeled to silence the noisy
men.

‘‘Where ’re Pearce and Gulden? Do they know?”
he demanded.

“‘Reckon no one knows but who’s right here,”
replied Blicky.

“Red an’ Gul are sleepin’ off last night’s luck,”
said Bate Wood.

‘‘Have any of you seen young Cleve?” Kells went
on. His voice rang quick and sharp.

No one spoke, and presently Kells cracked his fist
into his open hand.

“Come on. Get the gang together at Beard’s...
Boys, the time we’ve been gambling on has come.
Jesse Smith saw ’49 and ’51. He wouldn’t send
me word like this—unless there was hell to pay....
Come on!”

He strode off down the slope with the men close

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around him, and they met other men on the way,
all of whom crowded into the group, jostling, eager,
gesticulating.

Joan was left alone. She felt considerably per-
turbed, especially at Kells’s sharp inquiry for Jim
Cleve. Kells might persuade him to join that bandit
legion. These men made Joan think of wolves, with
Kells the keen and savage leader. No one had
given a thought to Blicky’s horse and that neglect
in border men was a sign of unusual preoccupation.
The horse was in bad shape. Joan took off his
saddle and bridle, and rubbed the dust-caked lather
from his flanks, and led him into the corral. Then
she fetched a bucket of water and let him drink
sparingly, a little at a time.

Joan did not take her ride that morning. Anxious
and curious, she waited for the return of Kells.
But he did not come. All afternoon Joan waited
and watched, and saw no sign of him or any of the
other men. She knew Kells was forging with red-
hot iron and blood that organization which she un-
designedly had given a name—the Border Legion.
It would be a terrible legion, of that she was assured.
Kells was the evil genius to create an unparalleled
scheme of crime; this wild and remote border, with
its inaccessible fastness for hiding-places, was the
place; all that was wanting was the time, which
evidently had arrived. She remembered how her
uncle had always claimed that the Bear Mountain
range would see a gold strike which would disrupt
the whole West and amaze the world. And Blicky
had said a big strike had been on for weeks. Kells’s
prophecy of the wild life Joan would see had not

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been without warrant. She had already seen enough
to whiten her hair, she thought, yet she divined her
experience would shrink in comparison with what
was to come. Always she lived in the future. She
spent sleeping and waking hours in dreams, thoughts,
actions, broodings, over all of which hung an ever-
present shadow of suspense. When would she meet
Jim Cleve again? When would he recognize her?
What would he do? What could she do? Would
Kells be a devil or a man at the end? Was there
any justification of her haunting fear of Gulden—
of her suspicion that she alone was the cause of his
attitude toward Kells—of her horror at the un-
shakable presentiment and fancy that he was a
gorilla and meant to make off with her? These, and
a thousand other fears, some groundless, but many
real and present, besieged Joan and left her little
peace. What would happen next?

Toward sunset she grew tired of waiting, and
hungry, besides, so she went into the cabin and
prepared her own meal. About dark Kells strode in,
and it took but a glance for Joan to see that matters
had not gone to his liking. The man seemed to be
burning inwardly. Sight of Joan absolutely sur-
prised him. Evidently in the fever of this mo-
mentous hour he had forgotten his prisoner. Then,
whatever his obsession, he looked like a man whose
eyes were gladdened at sight of her and who was
sorry to behold her there. He apologized that her
supper had not been provided for her and explained
that he had forgotten. The men had been crazy—
hard to manage—the issue was not yet settled. He
spoke gently. Suddenly he had that thoughtful

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mien which Joan had become used to associating
with weakness in him.

“TI wish I hadn’t dragged you here,” he said,
taking her hands. ‘‘It’s too late. I can’t lose you.
... But the—other way—isn’t too late!”

‘‘What way? What do you mean?” asked Joan.

“Girl, will you ride off with me to-night?” he
whispered, hoarsely. ‘‘I swear I'll marry you—and
become an honest man. To-morrow will be too late!
... Will you?”

Joan shook her head. She was sorry for him.
When he talked like this he was not Kells, the bandit.
She could not resist a strange agitation at the in-
tensity of his emotion. One moment he had en-
tered—a bandit leader, planning blood, murder;
the next, as his gaze found her, he seemed weakened,
broken, in the shaking grip of a hopeless love for her.

“Speak, Joan!’ he said, with his hands tightening
and his brow clouding.

““No, Kells,” she replied.

“Why? Because I’m a red-handed bandit?”

““No. Because I—I don’t love you.”

“But wouldn’t you rather be my wife—and have
me honest—than become a slave here, eventually
abandoned to—to Gulden and his cave and his rope?”
Kells’s voice rose as that other side of him gained
dominance.

“Yes, I would. ... But I know you’ll never harm
me—or abandon me to—to that Gulden.”

““How do you know?” he cried, with the blood
thick at his temples.

‘“Because you’re no beast any more... . And you
—you do love me.”

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Kells thrust her from him so fiercely that she
nearly fell.

“Tl get over it... . Then look out!” he said, with
dark bitterness.

With that he waved her back, apparently ordering
her to her cabin, and turned to the door, through
which the deep voices of men sounded nearer and
nearer.

Joan stumbled in the darkness up the rude steps
to her room, and, softly placing the poles in readiness
to close her door, she composed herself to watch
and wait. The keen edge of her nerves, almost
amounting to pain, told her that this night of such
moment for Kells would be one of singular strain
and significance for her. But why she could not
fathom. She felt herself caught by the changing
tide of events—a tide that must sweep her on to
flood. Kells had gone outside. The strong, deep
voices grew less distinct. Evidently the men were
walking away. In her suspense Joan was disap-
pointed. Presently, however, they returned; they
had been walking to and fro. After a few moments
Kells entered alone. The cabin was now so dark
that Joan could barely distinguish the bandit.
Then he lighted the lanterns. He hung up several
on the wall and placed two upon the table. From
somewhere among his effects he produced a small
book and a pencil; these, with a heavy, gold-
mounted gun, he laid on the table before the seat
he manifestly meant to occupy. That done, he
began a slow pacing up and down the room, his
hands behind his back, his head bent in deep and
absorbing thought. What a dark, sinister, plotting

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figure! Joan had seen many men in different atti-
tudes of thought, but here was a man whose mind
seemed to give forth intangible yet terrible mani-
festations of evil. The inside of that gloomy cabin
took on another aspect; there was a meaning in the
saddles and bridles and weapons on the wall; that
book and pencil and gun seemed to contain the dark
deeds of wild men; and all about the bandit hovered
a power sinister in its menace to the unknown and
distant toilers for gold.

Kells lifted his head, as if listening, and then the
whole manner of the man changed. The burden
that weighed upon him was thrown aside. Like a
general about to inspect a line of soldiers Kells
faced the door, keen, stern, commanding. The
heavy tread of booted men, the clink of spurs, the
low, muffled sound of voices, warned Joan that the
gang had arrived. Would Jim Cleve be among
them?

Joan wanted a better position in which to watch
and listen. She thought a moment, and then care-
fully felt her way around to the other side of the
steps, and here, sitting down with her feet hanging
over the drop, she leaned against the wall and through
a chink between the logs had a perfect view of the
large cabin. The men were filing in silent and in-
tense. Joan counted twenty-seven in all. They
appeared to fall into two groups, and it was significant
that the larger group lined up on the side nearest
Kells, and the smaller back of Gulden. He had re-
moved the bandage, and with a raw, red blotch
where his right ear had been shot away, he was

faideous. There was some kind of power emanating
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from him, but it was not that which was so keenly
vital and impelling in Kells. It was brute ferocity,
dominating by sheer physical force. In any but a
muscular clash between Kells and Gulden the latter
must lose. The men back of Gulden were a bearded,
check-shirted, heavily armed group, the worst of
that bad lot. All the younger, cleaner-cut men
like Red Pearce and Frenchy and Beady Jones and
Williams and the scout Blicky, were on the other
side. There were two factions here, yet scarcely
an antagonism, except possibly in the case of Kells.
Joan felt that the atmosphere was supercharged with
suspense and fatality and possibility—and anything
might happen. To her great joy, Jim Cleve was not
present.

‘“Where ’re Beard and Wood?” queried Kells.

“Workin’ over Beard’s sick hoss,”’ replied Pearce.
“They'll show up by an’ by. Anythin’ you say
goes with them, you know.”

‘Did you find young Cleve?”

‘‘No. He camps up in the timber somewheres.
Reckon he’ll be along, too.”

Kells sat down at the head of the table, and,
taking up the little book, he began to finger it while
his pale eyes studied the men before him.

‘We shuffled the deck pretty well over at Beard’s,”’
he said. ‘‘Now for the deal... . Who wants cards?
. .. I’ve organized my Border Legion. I'll have
absolute control, whether there ’re ten men or a
hundred. Now, whose names go down in my book?”’

Red Pearce stepped up and labored over the
writing of his name. Blicky, Jones, Williams, and
others followed suit. They did not speak, but each

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shook hands with the leader. Evidently Kells
exacted no oath, but accepted each man’s free action
and his word of honcr. There was that about the
bandit which made such action as binding as ties
of blood. He did not want men in his Legion who
had not loyalty to him. He seemed the kind of
leader to whom men would be true.

“Kells, say them conditions over again,” re-
quested one of the men, less eager to hurry with the
matter.

At this juncture Joan was at once thrilled and
frightened to see Jim Cleve enter the cabin. He
appeared whiter of face, almost ghastly, and his
piercing eyes swept the room, from Kells to Gulden,
from men to men. ‘Then he leaned against the wall,
indistinct in the shadow. Kells gave no sign that
he had noted the advent of Cleve.

‘I’m the leader,’ replied Kells, deliberately.
“Tl make the plans. Ili issue orders. No jobs
without my knowledge. Equal shares in gold—
man to man.... Your word to stand by me!”

A muttering of approval ran through the listening
group.

“Reckon I'll join,”’ said the man who had wished
the conditions repeated. With that he advanced
to the table and, apparently not being able to write,
he made his mark in the book. Kells wrote the
name below. The other men of this contingent
one by one complied with Kells’s requirements.
This action left Gulden and his group to be dealt
with.

‘Gulden, are you still on the fence?’ demanded

Kells, coolly.
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The giant strode stolidly forward to the table.
As always before to Joan, he seemed to be a pon-
derous hulk, slow, heavy, plodding, with a mind to
match.

“Kells, if we can agree I’ll join,” he said in his
sonorous voice.

“You can bet you won’t join unless we do agree,”
snapped Kells. ‘‘But—see here, Gulden. Let’s be
friendly. The border is big enough for both of us.
I want you. I need you. Still, if we can’t agree,.
let’s not split and be enemies. How about it?”

Another muttering among the men attested to the
good sense and good will of Kells’s suggestion.

“Tell me what you’re going to do—how you’ll
operate,” replied Gulden.

Kells had difficulty in restraining his impatience
and annoyance.

*“What’s that to you or any of you?” he queried.
“You all know I’m the man to think of things.
That’s been proved. First it takes brains. I’li
furnish them. Then it takes execution. You and
Pearce and the gang will furnish that. What more
do you need to know?”

“How ’re you going to operate?” persisted Gulden.

Kells threw up both hands as if it was useless to
argue or reason with this desperado.

“All right, I'll tell you,” he replied. ‘‘Listen....
I can’t say what definite plans I’ll make till Jesse
Smith reports, and then when I get on the diggings.
But here’s a working basis. Now don’t miss a word
of this, Gulden—nor any of you men. We'll pack
our outfits down to this gold strike. We'll build

cabins on the outskirts of the town, and we won't
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hang together. The gang will be spread out. Most
of you must make a bluff at digging gold. Be like
other miners. Get in with cliques and clans. Dig,
drink, gamble like the rest of them. Beard will
start a gambling-place. Red Pearce will find some
other kind of work. I’ll buy up claims—employ
miners to work them. I'll disguise myself and get
in with the influential men and have a voice in
matters. You'll all be scouts. You’ll come to my
cabin at night to report. We'll not tackle any little
jobs. Miners going out with fifty or a hundred
pounds of gold—the wagons—the stage-coach—
these we'll have timed to rights, and whoever I de-
tail on the job will hold them up. You must all
keep sober, if that’s possible. You must all ab-
solutely trust to my judgment. You must all go
masked while on a job. You must never speak a
word that might direct suspicion to you. In this
way we may work all summer without detection.
The Border Legion will become mysterious and
famous. It will appear to be a large number of men,
operating all over. The more secretive we are the
more powerful the effect on the diggings. In gold-
camps, when there’s a strike, all men are mad.
They suspect each other. They can’t organize.
We shall have them helpless. . . . And in short, if it’s
as rich a strike as looks due here in these hills, before
winter we can pack out all the gold our horses can
carry.”

Kells had begun under restraint, but the sound of
his voice, the liberation of his great idea, roused him
to a passion. The man radiated with passion.
This, then, was his dream—the empire he aspired to.

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He had a powerful effect upon his listeners, except
Gulden; and it was evident to Joan that the keen
bandit was conscious of his influence. Gulden, how-
ever, showed nothing that he had not already showed.
He was always a strange, dominating figure. He
contested the relations of things. Kells watched
him—the men watched him—and Jim Cleve’s pierc-
ing eyes glittered in the shadow, fixed upon that mas-
sive face. Manifestly Gulden meant to speak, but
in his slowness there was no laboring, no pause from
emotion. He had an idea and it moved like he
moved.

“‘Dead men tell no tales!’” The words boomed deep
from his cavernous chest, a mutter that was a rumble,
with something almost solemn in its note and cer-
tainly menacing, breathing murder. As Kells had
propounded his ideas, revealing his power to devise a
remarkable scheme and his passion for gold, so
Gulden struck out with the driving inhuman blood-
lust that must have been the twist, the knot, the
clot in his brain. Kells craved notoriety and gold;
Gulden craved to kill. In the silence that followed
his speech these wild border ruffians judged him,
measured him, understood him, and though some of
them grew farther aloof from him, more of them
sensed the safety that hid in his terrible implication.

But Kells rose against him.

“‘Gulden, you mean when we steal gold—to leave
only dead men behind?” he queried, with a hiss in
his voice.

The giant nodded grimly.

*“But only fools kill—unless in self-defense,” de-

clared Kells, passionately.
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**We’d last longer,” replied Gulden, imperturb-
ably.

‘“‘No—no. We'd never Jast so long. Killings
rouse a mining-camp after a while—gold fever or no.
That means a vigilante band.”

“We can belong to the vigilantes, just as well
as to your Legion,’’ said Gulden.

The effect of this was to make Gulden appear less
of a fool than Kells supposed him. ‘The ruffians
nodded to one another. They stirred restlessly.
They were animated by a strange and provocative
influence. Even Red Pearce and the others caught
its subtlety. It was evil predominating in evil
hearts. Blood and death locmed like a shadow here.
The keen Kells saw the change working toward a
transformation and he seemed craftily fighting some-
thing within him that opposed this cold ruthlessness
of his men.

““Gulden, suppose I don’t see it your way?’’ he
asked.

*“Then I won’t join your Legion.”

“What will you do?”

“T’ll take the men who stand by me and go clean
up that gold-camp.”

From the fleeting expression on Kells’s face Joan
read that he knew Gulden’s project would defeat
his own and render both enterprises fatal.

“Gulden, I don’t want to lose you,” he said.

““You won’t lose me if you see this thing right,”
replied Gulden. ‘‘You’ve got the brains to direct
us. But, Kells, you’re losing your nerve. .. . It’s
this girl you’ve got here!”

Gulden spoke without rancor or fear or feeling

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of any kind. He merely spoke the truth. And it
shook Kells with an almost ungovernable fury.

Joan saw the green glare of his eyes—his gray
working face—the flutter of his hand. She had an
almost superhuman insight into the workings of his
mind. She knew that then he was fighting whether
or not to kill Gulden on the spot. And she recog-
nized that this was the time when Kells must kill
Gulden or from that moment see a gradual diminish-
ing of his power on the border. But Kells did not
recognize that crucial height of his career. His
struggle with his fury and hate showed that the
thing uppermost in his mind was the need of con-
ciliating Gulden and thus regaining a hold over the
men.

“Gulden, suppose we waive the question till
we’re on the grounds?” he suggested.

“Waive nothing. It’s one or the other with me,”
declared Gulden.

“Do you want to be leader of this Border Legion?”
went on Kells, deliberately.

**No.”’

““Then what do you want?”

Gulden appeared at a loss for an instant reply.
“TIT want plenty to do,’ he replied, presently.
“T want to be in on everything. I want to be free
to Ill a man when I like.”

“When you like!” retorted Kells, and added a
curse. Then as if by magic his dark face cleared
and there was infinite depth and craftiness in him.
His opposition, and that hint of hate and loathing
which detached him from Gulden, faded from his

bearing. ‘‘Guiden, I'll split the difference between
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us. I'll leave you free to do as you like. But ail
the others— every man—must take orders from
me.”’

Gulden reached out a huge hand. His instant
acceptance evidently amazed Kells and the others.

“Let her rip!” Gulden exclaimed. He shook
Kells’s hand and then laboriously wrote his name
in the little book.

In that moment Gulden stood out alone in the
midst of wild abandoned men. What were Kells
and this Legion to him? What was the stealing of
more or less gold?

“Free to do as you like except fight my men,”
said Kells. ‘‘That’s understood.”

“Tf they don’t pick a fight with me,” added the
giant, and he grinned.

One by one his followers went through with the
simple observances that Kells’s personality made a
serious and binding compact.

““Anybody else?’ called Kells, glancing round.
The somberness was leaving his face.

“‘Here’s Jim Cleve,” said Pearce, pointing toward
the wall.

“Hello, youngster! Come here. I’m wanting
you bad,”’ said Kells.

Cleve sauntered out of the shadow, and his
glittering eyes were fixed on Gulden. There was an
instant of waiting. Gulden looked at Cleve. Then
Kells quickly strode between them.

“Say, I forgot you fellows had trouble,’’ he said.
He attended solely to Gulden. ‘‘You can’t renew
your quarrel now. Gulden, we've all fought to-

gether more or less, and then been good friends.
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I want Cleve to join us, but not against your ill
will. How about it?”

“T’ve no ill will,” replied the giant, and the
strangeness of his remark lay in its evident truth.
**But I won’t stand to lose my other ear!”

Then the ruffians guffawed in hoarse mirth.
Gulden, however, did not seem to see any humor in
his remark. Kells laughed with the rest. Even
Cleve’s white face relaxed into a semblance of a
smile.

““That’s good. We're getting together,” declared
Kells. Then he faced Cleve, all about him expres-
sive of elation, of assurance, of power. ‘‘Jim, will
you draw cards in this deal?”

‘“What’s the deal?’ asked Cleve.

Then in swift, eloquent speech Kells launched the
idea of his Border Legion, its advantages to any
loose-footed, young outcast, and he ended his brief
talk with much the same argument he had given
Joan. Back there in her covert Joan listened and
watched, mindful of the great need of controlling her
emotions. The instant Jim Cleve had stalked into
the light she had been seized by a spasm of trembling.

‘Kells, I don’t care two straws one way or an-
other,” replied Cleve.

The bandit appeared nonplussed. ‘‘You don’t
eare whether you join my Legion or whether you
don’t?’

“Not a damn,”’ was the indifferent answer.

“Then do me a favor,”’ went on Kells. ‘‘Join to
please me. We'll be good friends. You’re in bad
out here on the border. You might as well fall in

with us.”
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“‘I’d rather go alone.”

“But you won’t last.”

“It’s a lot I care.”

The bandit studied the reckless, white face.
‘See here, Cleve—haven’t you got the nerve to be
bad—thoroughly bad?”

Cleve gave a start as if he had been stung. Joan
shut her eyes to blot out what she saw in his face.
Kells had used part of the very speech with which
she had driven Jim Cleve to his ruin. And those
words galvanized him. The fatality of all this!
Joan hated herself. Those very words of hers
would drive this maddened and heartbroken boy
to join Kells’s band. She knew what to expect
from Jim even before she opened her eyes; yet when
she did open them it was to see him transformed
and blazing.

Then Kells either gave way to leaping passion or
simulated it in the interest of his cunning.

“Cleve, you’re going down for a woman?” he
queried, with that sharp, mocking ring in his voice.

“Tf you don’t shut up you’ll get there first,” re-
plied Cleve, menacingly.

“Bah! ... Why do you want to throw a gun on
me? I’m your friend. You’re sick. You’re like a
poisoned pup. I say if you’ve got nerve you won't
quit. You'll take a run for your money. You'll
see life. You'll fight. You'll win some gold.
There are other women. Once I thought I would
quit fora woman. ButIdidn’t. I never found the
right one till I had gone to hell—out here on this

border. ... If you’ve got nerve, show me. Beaman
instead of a crazy youngster. Spit out the poison?
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*uO1SIT 4ap40g ay f "O4NJI1 [ JUNOUTAD.T] 4°

 
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... Tell it before us all! . . . Some girl drove you to
us?”

“Yes—a girl!’ replied Cleve, hoarsely, as if
goaded.

“It’s too late to go back?”

‘Too late!’

“‘There’s nothing left but wild life that makes you
forget?”

‘Nothing. . . . Only I—can’t forget!” he panted.

Cleve was in a torture of memory, of despair, of
weakness. Joan saw how Kells worked upon Jim’s
feelings. He was only a hopeless, passionate boy
in the hands of a strong, implacable man. He would
be like wax to a sculptor’s touch. Jim would bend
to this bandit’s will, and through his very tenacity
of love and memory be driven farther on the road
to drink, to gaming, and to crime.

Joan got to her feet, and with all her woman’s
soul uplifting and inflaming her she stood ready to
meet the moment that portended.

Kells made a gesture of savage violence. ‘‘Show
your nerve! ... Join with me!... You'll make a
name on this border that the West will never forget!’

That last hint of desperate fame was the crafty
bandit’s best trump. And it won. Cleve swept
up a weak and nervous hand to brush the hair from
his damp brow. ‘The keenness, the fire, the aloofness
had departed from him. He looked shaken as if by

mething that had been pointed out as his own

wardice.

‘Sure, Kells,” he said, recklessly. ‘‘Let me in the
game. .. And—by God—I’ll—play—the hand out!”
He reached for the pencil and bent over the book.

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“Wait! ... Oh, wait!’ cried Joan. The passion of
that moment, the consciousness of its fateful portent
and her situation, as desperate as Cleve’s, gave her
voice a singularly high and piercingly sweet intensity.
She glided from behind the blanket—out of the shad-
ow—into the glare of the lanterns—to face Kells and
Cleve.

Kells gave one astounded glance at her, and then,
divining her purpose, he laughed thrillingly and
mockingly, as if the sight of her was a spur, as if her
courage was a thing to admire, to permit, and to
regret.

‘“Cleve, my wife, Dandy Dale,”’ he said, suave and
cool. ‘‘Let her persuade you—one way or another!”

The presence of a woman, however disguised, fol-
lowing her singular appeal, transformed Cleve. He
stiifened erect and the flush died out of his face,
leaving it whiter than ever, and the eyes that had
grown dull quickened and began to burn. Joan
felt her cheeks blanch. She all but fainted under
that gaze. But he did not recognize her, though he
was strangely affected.

“Wait!” she cried again, and she held to that high
voice, so different from her naturaltone. ‘‘I’ve been
listening. I’ve heard all that’s been said. Don’t
join this Border Legion. .. . You’re young—and still
honest. For God’s sake—don’t go the way of these
men! Kells will make you a bandit. ... Go home—
boy—go home!’

““Who are you—to speak to me of honesty—oi
home?’ Cleve demanded.

“I’m only a—a woman. ... But I can feel how
wrong you are... . Go back to that girl—who—-whs
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drove you to the border. ... She must repent. Ina
day you'll be too late... . Oh, boy, go home! Girls
never know their minds—their hearts. Maybe your
girl—loved you! .. . . Oh, maybe her heart is breaking
now!’

A strong, muscular ripple went over Cleve, ending
in a gesture of fierce protest. Was it pain her words
caused, or disgust that such as she dared mention
the girl he had loved? Joan could not tell. She
only knew that Cleve was drawn by her presence,
fascinated and repelled, subtly responding to the
spirit of her, doubting what he heard and believing
with his eyes.

‘“You beg me not to become a bandit?’ he asked,

slowly, as if revolving a strange idea.
“Oh, I implore you!”

“Why?”
“T told you. Because you’re still good at heart.
You’ve only been wild... . Because—’’

‘Are you the wife of Kells?” he flashed at her.

A reply seemed slowly wrenched from Joan’s re-
luctant lips. ‘‘No!”

The denial left a silence behind it. The truth that
all knew, when spoken by her was a kind of shock.
The ruffians gaped in breathless attention. Kells
looked on with a sardonic grin, but he had grown pale.
And upon the face of Cleve shone an immeasurable
scorn.

“Not his wife!’ exclaimed Cleve, softly.

His tone was unendurable to Joan. She began
to shrink. A flame curled within her. How he
must hate any creature of her sex!

‘‘And you appeal to me!” he went on. Suddenly

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a@ weariness came over him. The complexity of
women was beyond him. Almost he turned his back
upon her. “‘I reckon such as you can’t keep me
from Kells—or blood—or hell!”

“Then you're a narrow-souled weakling—born to
crime!’ she burst out in magnificent wrath. ‘‘For
however appearances are against me—I am a good
woman!’

That stunned him, just as it drew Kells upright,
white and watchful. Cleve seemed long in grasping
its significance. His face was half averted. Then
he turned slowly, all strung, and his hands clutched
quiveringly at the air. No man of coolness and
judgment would have addressed him or moved a
step in that strained moment. All expected some
such action as had marked his encounter with Luce
and Gulden.

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.
‘*T’m his prisoner. I’m heipless.”’

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.

“T 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

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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.

“Tl stay,”’ she whispered. ‘‘You go!”

“Hurry, woman!”

“No! No!’

““Do you want to stay with this bandit?”

“Oh, I must!”

““Then you love him?”

Ail 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.
“T’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.

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“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!”

Digitized by Microsoft®
CHAPTER XII

HOSE 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 in-
supportable 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

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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 de-
fiance 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, unreason-
ing—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 new-comer. 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.
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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. Pres-
ently Joan discovered that, despite the excitement,
her effect upon them was more marked than 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 mysteri-
ous 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!”’
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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 subile 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 Kells’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 had been 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 fora woman. To Joan it was a
flash of light. Yesterday these ruffians had de-
spised 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
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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 them-
selves. 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 sus-
tained 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 louked 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
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round him, all gazing in the direction of his har\d,
all talking at once.

‘‘Jesse Smith’s hoss, I swear!’ shouted the tall
man. ‘‘Kelis, 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 tallman. ‘‘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 mur-
mur, 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—ali 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
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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 ke 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 ob-
served. 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.
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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.

Like a panther he leaped at her, fastened a power-
ful hand at the neck of her blouse, jerked her to her
knees, and began to drag her. Joan fought his iron
grasp. The twisting and tightening of her blouse
choked her utterance. He did not look down upon
her, but she could see him, the rigidity of his body
set in violence, the awful shade upon his face, the
upstanding hair on his head. He dragged her as if
she had been an empty sack. Like a beast he was

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seeking a dark place—a hole to hide her. She was
strangling; a distorted sight made objects dim; and
now she struggled instinctively. Suddenly the
clutch at her neck loosened; gaspingly came the in-
take of air to her lungs; the dark-red veil left her
eyes. She was still upon her knees. Cleve stood
before her, like a gray-faced demon, holding his gun
level, ready to fire.

“Pray for your soul—and mine!”

“Jim! Oh, Jim!... Will you kill yourself, too?”

“Yes! But pray, girl—quick!”’

“Then I pray to God—not for my soul—but
just for one more moment of life... to tell you, Jim!”

Cleve’s face worked and the gun began to waver.
Her reply had been a stroke of lightning into the
dark abyss of his jealous agony.

Joan saw it, and she raised her quivering face,
and she held up her arms to him. ‘To tell—you—
Jim!” she entreated.

‘“What?”’ he rasped out.

“That I’m innocent—that I’m as good—a girl—
as ever.... Let me tell you.... Oh, you’re mistaken
—terribly mistaken.”

“Now I know I’m drunk. ... You, Joan Randle!
You in that rig! You the companion of Jack Kells!
Not even his wife! The jest of these foul-mouthed
bandits! And you say you’re innocent—good?...
When you refused to leave him!”

“T was afraid to go—afraid you’d be killed,”’ she
moaned, beating her breast.

It must have seemed madness to him, a mon-
strous nightmare, a delirium of drink, that Joan
Randle was there on her knees in a brazen male

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attire, lifting her arms to him, beseeching him, not
to spare her life, but to believe in her innocence.

Joan burst into swift, broken utterance: ‘‘Only
listen! I trailed you out—twenty miles from
Hoadley. I met Roberts. He came with me. He
lamed his horse—we had to camp. Kells rode down
on us. He had two men. They camped there.
Next morning he—killed Roberts—made off with
me... . Then he killed his men—just to have me—
alone to himself... . We crossed a range—camped in
a cafion. There he attacked me—and I—I shot
him! ... But I couldn’t leave him—to die!’ Joan
hurried on with her narrative, gaining strength and
eloquence as she saw the weakening of Cleve.
“First he said I was his wife to fool that Gulden—
and the others,’ she went on. ‘‘He meant it to
save me from them. But they guessed or found
out... . Kells forced me into these bandit clothes.
He’s depraved, somehow. And I had to wear some-
thing. Kells hasn’t harmed me—no one has. I’ve
influence over him. He can’t resist it. He’s tried
to force me to marry him. And he’s tried to give
up to his evil intentions. But he can’t. There’s
good in him. I can make him feel it... . Oh, he
loves me, and I’m not afraid of him any more... . It
has been a terrible time for me, Jim, but I’m still—
the same girl you knew—you used to—”

Cleve dropped the gun and he waved his hand
before his eyes as if to dispel a blindness.

“But why—why?”’ he asked, incredulously. ‘‘Why
did you leave Hoadley? That’s forbidden. You
knew the risk.”

Joan gazed steadily up at him, to see the white-
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ness slowly fade out of his face. She had imagined
it would be an overcoming of pride to betray her
love, but she had been wrong. The moment was so
full, so overpowering that she seemed dumb. He had
ruined himself for her, and out of that ruin had come
the glory of her love. Perhaps it was all too late,
but at least he would know that for love of him she
had in turn sacrificed herself.

‘‘Jim,”’ she whispered, and with the first word of
that betrayal a thrill, a tremble, a rush went over
her, and all her blood seemed hot at her neck and
face, ‘‘that night when you kissed me I was furious.
But the moment you had gone I repented. I must
have—cared for you then, but I didn’t know. ...
Remorse seized me. And I set out on your trail to
save you from yourself. And with the pain and
fear and terror there was sometimes—the—the sweet-
ness of your kisses. Then I knew I cared.... And
with the added days of suspense and agony—all that
told me of your throwing your life away—there
came love. . . . Such love as otherwise I’d never
have been big enough for! I meant to find you—to
save you—to send you home!... I have found you,
maybe too late to save your life, but not your soul,
thank God! ... That’s why I’ve been strong enough
to hold back Kells. I love you, Jim!...I love you!
I couldn’t tell you enough. My heart is bursting.
... Say you believe me!... Say you know I’m good—
true to you—your Joan!... And kiss me—like you
did that night—when we were such blind fools. A
boy and a girl who didn’t know—and couldn’t tell!

—Oh, the sadness of it!... Kiss me, Jim, before I—
drop—at your feet!... If only you—believe—”
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Joan was blinded by tears and whispering she
knew not what when Cleve broke from his trance
and caught her to his breast. She was fainting—
hovering at the border of unconsciousness when his
violence held her back from oblivion. She seemed
wrapped to him and held so tightly there was no
breath in her body, no motion, no stir of pulse.
That vague, dreamy moment passed. She heard his
husky, broken accents—she felt the pound of his
heart against her breast. And he began to kiss her
as she had begged him to. She quickened to thrill-
ing, revivifying life. And she lifted her face, and
clung round his neck, and kissed him, blindly,
sweetly, passionately, with all her heart and soul in
her lips, wanting only one thing in the world—to
give that which she had denied him.

“Joan! ... Joan! ... Joan!’ he murmured when
their lips parted. ‘‘Am I dreaming—drunk—or
crazy?”

“Oh, Jim, I’m real—you have me in your arms,”
she whispered. ‘‘Dear Jim—kiss me again—and say
you believe me.”

‘Believe you? ... I’m out of my mind with joy.
... You loved me! You followed me! ... And—
that idea of mine—only an absurd, vile suspicion!
I might have known—had I been sane!”

“There. ... Oh, Jim! . . . Enough of madness!
We've got to plan. Remember where we are.
There’s Kells, and this terrible situation to meet!”

He stared at her, slowly realizing, and then it was
his turn to shake. ‘‘My God! I’d forgotten. I'll
have to kill you now!”

A reaction set in. If he had any self-control left
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he lost it, and like a boy whose fling at manhood had
exhausted his courage he sank beside her and buried
his face against her. And he cried in a low, tense,
heartbroken way. For Joan it was terrible to hear
him. She held his hand to her breast and implored
him not to weaken now. But he was stricken with
remorse—he had run off like a coward, he had
brought her to this calamity—and he could not rise
under it. Joan realized that he had long labored
under stress of morbid emotion. Only a supreme
effort could lift him out of it to strong and reasoning
equilibrium, and that must come from her.

She pushed him away from her, and held him back
where he must see her, and, white-hot with passionate
purpose, she kissed him. ‘‘Jim Cleve, if you’ve
nerve enough to be bad you’ve nerve enough to save
the girl who loves you—who belongs to you!”

He raised his face and it flashed from red to white.
He caught the subtlety of her antithesis. With the
very two words which had driven him away under the
sting of cowardice she uplifted him; and with all that
was tender and faithful and passionate in her mean-
ing of surrender she settled at once and forever the
doubt of his manhood. He arose trembling in every
limb. Like a dog he shook himself. His breast
heaved. The shades of scorn and bitterness and
abandon might never have haunted his face. In that
moment he had passed from the reckless and wild,
sick rage of a weakling to the stern, realizing courage
ofaman. His suffering on this wild border had de-
veloped a different fiber of character; and at the
great moment, the climax, when his moral force

hung balanced between elevation and destruction,
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the woman had called to him, and her unquenchable
spirit passed into him.

‘‘There’s only one thing—to get away,”’ he said.

“Yes, but that’s a terrible risk,’’ she replied.

‘We've a good chance now. I’ll get horses. We
can slip away while they’re all excited.”

“‘No—no. I daren’t risk so much. Kells would
find out at once. He'd be like a hound on our trail.
But that’s not all. I’ve a horror of Gulden. I
can’t explain. I feel it. He would know—he
would take the trail. I’d never try to escape with
Gulden in camp. ... Jim, do you know what he’s
done?”

‘‘He’s a cannibal. I hate the sight of him. I
tried to killhim. I wish I had killed him.”

“‘T’m never safe while he’s near.”

“Then I will kill him.”

“Hush! you’ll not be desperate unless you have to
be.... Listen. I’m safe with Kells for the present.
And he’s friendly to you. Let us wait. I'll keep
trying to influence him. I have won the friendship
of some of his men. We'll stay with him—travel
with him. Surely we’d have a better chance to es-
cape after we reach that gold-camp. You must
play your part. But do it without drinking and
fighting. Icouldn’t bear that. We'll see each other
somehow. We'll plan. Then we'll take the first
sure chance to get away.”’

“We might never have a better chance than we’ve
got right now,” he remonstrated.

“It may seem so to you. But I know. I haven’t
watched these ruffians for nothing. I tell you Gul-

den has split with Kells because of me. I don’t
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know howI know. And I think I’d die of terror out
on the trail, with two hundred miles to go—and that
gorilla after me.”’

“But, Joan, if we once got away Gulden woula
never take you alive,” said Jim, earnestly. ‘‘So
you needn’t fear that.”

*‘T’ve uncanny horror of him. It’s as if he werea
gorilla—and would take me off even if I were dead!
... No, Jim, let us wait. Let me select the time.
I can do it. Trust me. Oh, Jim, now that I’ve
saved you from being a bandit, Ican do anything. I
can fool Kells or Pearce or Wood—any of them,
except Gulden.”

“If Kells had.to choose now between trailing
you and rushing for the gold-camp, which would
he do?”

“‘He’d trail me,’’ she said.

‘‘But Kells is crazy over gold. He has two pas-
sions. To steal gold, and to gamble with it.”

“That may be. But he’d go after me first. So
would Gulden. We can’t ride these hills as they do.
We don’t know the trails—the water. We'd get
lost. We'd be caught. And somehow I know that
Gulden and his gang would find us first.”

“‘You’re probably right, Joan,’’ replied Cleve.
“‘But you condemn me to a living death... . To
let you out of my sight with Kells or any of
them! It ‘ll be worse almost than my life was
before.”

“But, Jim, I’ll be safe,”’ she entreated. ‘‘It’s the
better choice of two evils. Our lives depend on
reason, waiting, planning. And, Jim, I want to live
for you.”

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‘‘My brave darling, to hear you say that!’’ he
exclaimed, with deep emotion. ‘‘When I never ex-
pected to see you again! ... But the past is past.
I begin over from this hour. I'll be what you want—
do what you want.”

Joan seemed irresistibly drawn to him again, and
the supplication, as she lifted her blushing face, and
the yielding, were perilously sweet.

“‘Jim, kiss me and hold me—the way—you did
that night!’’

And it was not Joan who first broke that embrace.

“Find my mask,”’ she said.

Cleve picked up his gun and presently the piece
of black felt. He held it as if it were a deadly thing.

“Put it on me.”

He slipped the cord over her head and adjusted
the mask so the holes came right for her eyes.

“Joan, it hides the—the goodness of you,” he cried.
““No one can see your eyes now. No one will look
at your face. That rig shows your—shows you off
so! It’snot decent....But,O Lord! I’m bound to
confess how pretty, how devilish, how seductive you
are! And I hate it.””

“Jim, I hate it, too. But we must stand it.
Try not to shame me any more... . And now good-
by. Keep watch for me—as I will for you—all the
\time.”

Joan broke from him and glided out of the grove,
away under the straggling pines, along the slope.
She came upon her horse and she led him back to the
corral. Many of the horses had strayed. There
was no one at the cabin, but she saw men striding up
the slope, Kells in the lead. She had been fortunate.

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Her absence could hardly have been noted. She
had just strength left to get to her room, where she
fell upon the bed, weak and trembling and dizzy
and unutterably grateful at her deliverance from the
hateful, unbearable falsity of her situation.

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CHAPTER XIII

lies was afternoon before Joan could trust herself
sufficiently to go out again, and when she did go
she saw that she attracted very little attention from
the bandits.

Kells had a springy step, a bright eye, a lifted
head, and he seemed to be listening. Perhaps he
was—to the music of his sordid dreams. Joan
watched him sometimes with wonder. Even a
bandit—plotting gold robberies, with violence and
blood merely means to an end—built castles in the
air and lived with joy!

All that afternoon the bandits left camp in twos
and threes, each party with pack burros and horses,
packed as Joan had not seen them before on the
border. Shovels and picks and old sieves and pans,
these swinging or tied in prominent places, were
evidence that the bandits meant to assume the
characters of miners and prospectors. They whis-
tled and sang. It wasa lark. The excitement had
subsided and the action begun. Only in Kells,
under his radiance, could be felt the dark and
sinister plot. He was the heart of the machine.

By sundown Kells, Pearce, Wood, Jim Cleve, and
a robust, grizzled bandit, Jesse Smith, were left in
camp. Smith was lame from his ride, and Joan

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gathered that Kells would have left camp but for the
fact that Smith needed rest. He and Kells were to-
gether all the time, talking endlessly. Joan heard
them argue a disputed point—would the men abide
by Kells’s plan and go by twos and threes into the
gold-camp, and hide their relations as a larger band?
Kells contended they would and Smith had his
doubts.

‘Jack, wait till you see Alder Creek!” ejaculated
Smith, wagging his grizzled head. ‘‘Three thousand
men, old an’ young, of all kinds—gone gold-crazy!
Alder Creek has got California’s ’49 an’ ’51 cinched
to the last hole!’’ And the bandit leader rubbed his
palms in great glee.

That evening they all had supper together in
Kells’s cabin. Bate Wood grumbled because he had
packed most of his outfit. It so chanced that Joan
sat directly opposite Jim Cleve, and while he ate he
pressed her foot with his under the table. The
touch thrilled Joan. Jim did not glance at her,
but there was such a change in him that she feared
it might rouse Kells’s curiosity. This night, how-
ever, the bandit could not have seen anything
except a gleam of yellow. He talked, he sat at table,
but he did not eat. After supper he sent Joan to her
cabin, saying they would be on the trail at daylight.
Joan watched them awhile from her covert. They
had evidently talked themselves out, and Kells
grew thoughtful. Smith and Pearce went outside,
apparently to roll their beds on the ground under the
porch roof. Wood, who said he was never a good
sleeper, smoked his pipe. And Jim Cleve spread
blankets along the wall in the shadow and lay down.

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Joan could see his eyes shining toward her door.
Of course he was thinking of her. But could he see
her eyes? Watching her chance, she slipped a hand
from behind the curtain, and she knew Cleve saw it.
What a comfort that was! Joan’s heart swelled.
All might yet be well. Jim Cleve would be near her
while she slept. She could sleep now without those
dark dreams—without dreading to awaken to the
light. Again she saw Kells pacing the room, silent,
bent, absorbed, hands behind his back, weighted
with his burden. It was impossible not to feel sorry
for him. With all his intelligence and cunning and
power, his cause was hopeless. Joan knew that as
she knew so many other things without understand-
ing why. She had not yet sounded Jesse Smith,
but not a man of all the others was true to Kells.
They would be of his Border Legion, do his bidding,
revel in their ill-gotten gains, and then, when he
needed them most, be false to him.

When Joan was awakened her room was shrouded
in gray gloom. A bustle sounded from the big
cabin, and outside horses stamped and men talked.

She sat alone at breakfast and ate by lantern-
light. It was necessary to take a lantern back to her
cabin, and she was so long in her preparations there
that Kells called again. Somehow she did not want
to leave this cabin. It seemed protective and
private, and she feared she might not find such
quarters again. Besides, upon the moment of leav-
ing she discovered that she had grown attached to
the place where she had suffered and thought and
grown so much.

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Kells had put out the lights. Joan hurried
through the cabin and outside. The gray obscurity
had given way to dawn. The air was cold, sweet,
bracing with the touch of mountain purity in it.
The men, except Kells, were all mounted, and the
pack-train was in motion. Kells dragged the rude
door into position, and then, mounting, he called to
Joan to follow. She trotted her horse after him,
down the slope, across the brook and through the wet
willows, and out upon the wide trail. She glanced
ahead, discerning that the third man from her was
Jim Cleve; and that fact, in the start for Alder
Creek, made all the difference in the world.

When they rode out of the narrow defile into the
valley the sun was rising red and bright in a notch
of the mountains. Clouds hung over distant peaks,
and the patches of snow in the high cafions shone
blue and pink. Smith in the lead turned westward
up the valley. Horses trooped after the cavalcade
and had to be driven back. ‘There were also cattle
in the valley, and all these Kells left behind like an
honest rancher who had no fear for his stock. Deer
stood off with long ears pointed forward, watching
the horses go by. There were flocks of quail, and
whirring grouse, and bounding jack-rabbits, and
occasionally a brace of sneaking coyotes. These
and the wild flowers, and the waving meadow-
grass, the yellow-stemmed willows, and the patches
of alder, all were pleasurable to Joan’s eyes and rest-
ful to her mind.

Smith soon led away from this valley up out of
the head of a ravine, across a rough rock-strewn
ridge, down again into a hollow that grew to be a

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cafion. The trail was bad. Part of the time it was
the bottom of a boulder-strewn brook where the
horses slipped on the wet, round stones. Progress
was slow and time passed. For Joan, however, it
was a relief; and the slower they might travel the
better she would like it. At the end of that journey
there were Gulden and the others, and the gold-camp
with its illimitable possibilities for such men.

At noon the party halted for a rest. The camp
site was pleasant and the men all agreeable. During
the meal Kells found occasion to remark to Cleve:

‘Say, youngster, you’ve brightened up. Must be
because of our prospects over here?”

“Not that so much,’ replied Cleve. ‘‘I quit the
whisky. To be honest, Kells, I was almost seeing
snakes.”

“‘T’m glad you quit. When you’re drinking you’re
wild. Inever yet saw the man who could drink hard
and keep his head. I can’t. But I don’t drink
much.”

His last remark brought a response in laughter.
Evidently his companions thought he was joking.
He laughed himself and actually winked at Joan.

It happened to be Cleve whom Kells told to sad-
dle Joan’s horse, and as Joan tried the cinches, to see
if they were too tight to suit her, Jim’s hand came
in contact with hers. That touch was like a mes-
sage. Joan was thrilling all over as she looked at
Jim, but he kept his face averted. Perhaps he did
not trust his eyes.

Travel was resumed up the cafion and continued
steadily, though leisurely. But the trail was so

rough, and so winding, that Joan believed the
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progress did not exceed three miles an hour. It was
the kind of travel in which a horse could be helped
and that entailed attention to the lay of the ground.
Before Joan realized the hours were flying, the after-
noon had waned. Smith kept on, however, until
nearly dark before halting for camp.

The evening camp was a scene of activity, and all
except Joan had work to do. She tried to lend a
hand, but Wood told her to rest. This she was glad
todo. When called to supper she had almost fallen
asleep. After a long day’s ride the business of eat-
ing precluded conversation. Later, however, the
+ men began to talk between puffs on their pipes, and

from the talk no one could have guessed that here
was a band of robbers on their way to a gold-camp.
Jesse Smith had a sore foot and he was compared to
a tenderfoot on his first ride. Smith retaliated in
,kind. Every consideration was shown Joan, and
Wood particularly appeared assiduous in his desire
for her comfort. All the men except Cleve paid
her some kind attention; and he, of course, neglected
her because he was afraid to go near her. Again she
felt in Red Pearce a condemnation of the bandit
leader who was dragging a girl over hard trails,
making her sleep in the open, exposing her to danger
and to men like himself and Gulden. In his own
estimate Pearce, like every one of his kind, was not’
so low as the others.
Joan watched and listened from her blankets,
under a leafy tree, some few yards from the camp-
fire. Once Kells turned to see how far distant she
was, and then, lowering his voice, he told a story.
‘The others laughed. Pearce followed with another,
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and he, too, took care that Joan could not hear.
They grew closer for the mirth, and Smith, who
evidently was a jolly fellow, set them to roaring.
Jim Cleve laughed with them.

“Say, Jim, you’re getting over it,” remarked .
Kells.

“Over what?”

Kells paused, rather embarrassed for a reply, as
evidently in the humor of the hour he had spoken a
thought better left unsaid. But there was no more
forbidding atmosphere about Cleve. He appeared
to have rounded to good-fellowship after a moody
and quarrelsome drinking spell.

‘‘Why, over what drove you out here—and gave
me a lucky chance at you,” replied Kells, with a
constrained laugh.

‘Oh, you mean the girl? ... Sure, I’m getting over
that, except when I drink.”

“Tell us, Jim,” said Kells, curiously.

“Aw, you'll give me the laugh!”’ retorted Cleve.

‘‘No, we won’t unless your story’s funny.”

“You can gamble it wasn’t funny,” put in Red
Pearce.

They all coaxed him, yet none of them, except
Kells, was particularly curious; it was just that hour
when men of their ilk were lazy and comfortable and
full fed and good-humored round the warm, blazing
camp-fire.

“All right,’”’ replied Cleve, and apparently, for all
his complaisance, a call upon memory had its pain.
“I’m from Montana. Range-rider in winter and in
summer I prospected. Saved quite a little money,
in spite of a fling now and then at faro and whisky.

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... Yes, there was a girl, I guess yes. She was
pretty. I had a bad case over her. Not long ago
T left all I had—money and gold and things—in her
keeping, and I went prospecting again. We were to
get married on my return. I stayed out six months,
did well, and got robbed of all my dust.”

Cleve was telling this fabrication in a matter-of-
fact way, growing a little less frank as he proceeded,
and he paused while he lifted sand and let it drift
through his fingers, watching it curiously. All the
men were interested and Kells hung on every word.

‘‘When I got back,” went on Cleve, ‘‘my girl had
married another fellow. She’d given him all I left
with her. Then I got drunk. While I was drunk
they put up a jobon me. It was her word that dis-
graced me and run me out of town... . So I struck
west and drifted to the border.”

“That’s not all,’’ said Kells, bluntly.

‘Jim, I reckon you ain’t tellin’ what you did to
thet lyin’ girl an’ the feller. How’d you leave
them?” added Pearce.

But Cleve appeared to become gloomy and
reticent.

““‘Wimmen can hand the double-cross to a man,
hey, Kells?’ queried Smith, with a broad grin.

“By gosh! I thought you’d been treated power-
ful mean!’”’ exclaimed Bate Wood, and he was full of
wrath.

‘‘A treacherous woman!”’ exclaimed Kells, passion-
ately. He had taken Cleve’s story hard. The man
must have been betrayed by women, and Cleve’s
story had irritated old wounds.

Directly Kells left the fire and repaired to his

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blankets, near where Joan lay. Probably he be-
lieved her asleep, for he neither looked nor spoke.
Cleve sought his bed, and likewise Wood and Smith.
Pearce was the last to leave, and as he stood up the
light fell upon his red face, lean and bold like an
Indian’s. Then he passed Joan, looking down upon
her and then upon the recumbent figure of Kells;
and if his glance was not baleful and malignant, as
it swept over the bandit, Joan believed her imagina-
tion must be vividly weird, and running away with
her judgment.

The next morning began a day of toil. They had
to climb over the mountain divide, a long, flat-
topped range of broken rocks. Joan spared her
horse to the limit of her own endurance. If there
were a trail Smith alone knew it, for none was in
evidence to the others. They climbed out of the
notched head of the cafion, and up a long slope of
weathered shale that let the horses slide back a foot
for every yard gained, and through a labyrinth of
broken cliffs, and over bench and ridge to the
height of the divide. From there Joan had a
magnificent view. Foot-hills rolled round heads
below, and miles away, in a curve of the range,
glistened Bear Lake. The rest here at this height
was counteracted by the fact that the altitude af-
fected Joan. She was glad to be on the move again,
and now the travel was down-hill, so that she could
ride. Still it was difficult, for horses were more
easily lamed in a descent. It took two hours to
descend the distance that had consumed all the

morning to ascend. Smith led through valley after
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valley between foot-hills, and late in the afternoon
halted by a spring in a timbered spot.

Joan ached in every muscle and she was too tired
to care what happened round the camp-fire. Jim
had been close to her all day and that had kept up
her spirit. It was not yet dark when she lay down
for the night.

“‘Sleep well, Dandy Dale,’’ said Kells, cheerfully,
yet not without pathos. ‘‘Alder Creek to-morrow!
... Then you'll never sleep again!”

At times she seemed to feel that he regretted her
presence, and always this fancy came to her with
mocking or bantering suggestion that the costume
and mask she wore made her a bandit’s consort, and
she could not escape the wildness of this gold-
seeking life. The truth was that Kells saw the

-insuperable barrier between them, and in the bitter-
ness of his love he lied to himself, and hated himself
for the lie.

About the middle of the afternoon of the next
day the tired cavalcade rode down out of the brush
and rock into a new, broad, dusty road. It was so
new that the stems of the cut brush along the borders
were still white. But that road had been traveled
by a multitude.

Out across the valley in the rear Joan saw a
canvas-topped wagon, and she had not ridden far
on the road when she saw bobbing pack-burros
to the fore. Kells had called Wood and Smith
and Pearce and Cleve together, and now they
went on in a bunch, all driving the pack-train.
Excitement again claimed Kells; Pearce was alert

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and hawk-eyed; Smith looked like a hound on a
scent;; Cleve showed genuine feeling. Only Bate
Wood ‘remained proof to the meaning of that broad
road.

All along, on either side, Joan saw wrecks of
wagons, wheels, harness, boxes, old rags of tents
blown into the brush, dead mules and burros. It
seemed almost as if an army had passed that way.
Presently the road crossed a wide, shallow brook of
water, half clear and half muddy; and on the other
side the road followed the course of the brook.
Joan heard Smith call the stream Alder Creek, and
he asked Kells if he knew what muddied water
meant. The bandit’s eyes flashed fire. Joan thrilled,
for she, too, knew that up-stream there were miners
washing earth for gold.

A couple of miles farther on creek and road en-
tered the mouth of a wide spruce-timbered gulch.
These trees hid any view of the slopes or floor of the
gulch, and it was not till several more miles had
been passed that the bandit rode out into what Joan
first thought was a hideous slash in the forest
made by fire. But it was only the devastation
wrought by men. As far as she could see the timber
was down, and everywhere began to be manifested
signs that led her to expect habitations. No cabins
showed, however, in the next mile. They passed
out of the timbered part of the gulch into one of
rugged, bare, and stony slopes, with bunches of
sparse alder here and there. The gulch turned at
right angles and a great gray slope shut out sight of
what lay beyond. But, once round that obstruction,
Kells halted his men with short, tense exclamation.

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Joan saw that she stood high up on the slope,
looking down upon the gold-camp. It was an in-
teresting scene, but not beautiful. To Kells it must
have been so, but to Joan it was even more hideous
than the slash in the forest. Here and there, every-
where, were rude dugouts, little huts of brush, an
occasional tent, and an occasional log cabin; and as
she looked farther and farther these crude habita-
tions of miners magnified in number and in dimen-
sions till the white and black, broken mass of the
town choked the narrow gulch.

“Wal, boss, what do you say to thet diggin’s?”
demanded Jesse Smith.

Kells drew a deep breath. ‘‘Old forty-niner, this
beats all I ever saw!”

“Shore I’ve seen Sacramento look like thet!’
added Bate Wood.

Pearce and Cleve gazed with fixed eyes, and,
however different their emotions, they rivaled each
other in attention.

‘‘Jesse, what’s the word?” queried Kells, with a
sharp return to the business of the matter.

“I’ve picked a site on the other side of camp.
Best fer us,’’ he replied.

“Shall we keep to the road?”

“*Certain-lee,”’ he returned, with his grin.

Kells hesitated, and felt of his beard, probably
conjecturing the possibilities of recognition.

‘‘Whiskers make another man of you. Reckon
you needn’t expect to be known over here.”’

That decided Kells. He pulled his sombrero well
down, shadowing his face. Then he remembered Joan,

and made a slight significant gesture at her mask.
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‘‘Kells, the people in this here camp wouldn’t
look at an army ridin’ through,’’ responded Smith.
“It’s every man fer hisself. An’ wimmen, say!
there’s all kinds. I seen a dozen with veils, an’
them’s the same as masks.”’

Nevertheless, Kells had Joan remove the mask
and pull her sombrero down, and instructed her to
ride in the midst of the group. Then they trotted
on, soon catching up with the jogging pack-train.

What a strange ride that was for Joan! The
slope resembled a magnified ant-hill with a horde of
frantic ants in action. As she drew closer she saw
these ants were men, digging for gold. Those near
at hand could be plainly seen—rough, ragged,
bearded men and smooth-faced boys. Farther on
and up the slope, along the waterways and ravines,
were miners so close they seemed almost to inter-
fere with one another. The creek bottom was alive
with busy, silent, violent men, bending over the
water, washing and shaking and paddling, all
desperately intent upon something. They had no
time to look up. They were ragged, unkempt, bare-
armed and bare-legged, every last one of them with
back bent. Fora mile or more Kells’s party trotted
through this part of the diggings, and everywhere,
on rocky bench and gravel bar and gray slope, were
holes with men picking and shoveling in them.
Some were deep and some were shallow; some long
trenches and others mere pits. If all of these
prospectors were finding gold, then gold was every-
where. And presently Joan did not need to have
Kells tell her that all of these diggers were finding

dust. How silent they were—how tense! They
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were not mechanical. It was a soul that drove them.
Joan had seen many men dig for gold, and find a
little now and then, but she had never seen men
dig when they knew they were going to strike gold.
That made the strange difference.

Joan calculated she must have seen a thousand
miners in less than two miles of the gulch, and then
she could not see up the draws and washes that
intersected the slope, and she could not see beyond
the camp.

But it was not a camp which she was entering;
it was a tent-walled town, a city of squat log
cabins, a long, motley, checkered jumble of struc-
tures thrown up and together in mad haste. The
wide road split it in the middle and seemed a stream
of color and life. Joan rode between two lines of
horses, burros, oxen, mules, packs and loads and
canvas-domed wagons and gaudy vehicles resembling
gipsy caravans. The street was as busy as a bee-
hive and as noisy as a bedlam. The sidewalks were
rough-hewn planks and they rattled under the tread
of booted men. There were tents on the ground and
tents on floors and tents on log walls. And farther
on began the lines of cabins—stores and shops and
saloons—and then a great, square, flat structure with
a flaring sign in crude gold letters, “‘Last Nugget,”’
from which came the creak of fiddles and scrape of
boots, and hoarse mirth. Joan saw strange, wild-
looking creatures—women that made her shrink;
and several others of her sex, hurrying along, carry-
ing sacks or buckets, worn and bewildered-looking
women, the sight of whom gave her a pang. She

saw lounging Indians and groups of lazy, bearded
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men, just like Kells’s band, and gamblers in long,
black coats, and frontiersmen in fringed buckskin,
and Mexicans with swarthy faces under wide, peaked
sombreros; and then in great majority, dominating
that stream of life, the lean and stalwart miners, of
all ages, in their check shirts and high boots, all
packing guns, jostling along, dark-browed, somber,
and intent. These last were the workers of this
vast beehive; the others were the drones, the
parasites.

Kells’s party rode on through the town, and
Smith halted them beyond the outskirts, near a
grove of spruce-trees, where camp was to be made.

Joan pondered over her impression of Alder Creek.
It was confused; she had seen too much. But out
of what she had seen and heard loomed two contrast-
ing features: a throng of toiling miners, slaves to
their lust for gold and actuated by ambitions, hopes,
and aims, honest, rugged, tireless workers, but
frenzied in that strange pursuit; and a lesser crowd,
like leeches, living for and off the gold they did not
dig with blood of hand and sweat of brow.

Manifestly Jesse Smith had selected the spot for
Kells’s permanent location at Alder Creek with an
eye for the bandit’s peculiar needs. It was out of
sight of town, yet within a hundred rods of the near-
est huts, and closer than that to a sawmill. It
could be approached by a shallow ravine that
wound away toward the creek. It was backed up
against a rugged bluff in which there was a narrow
gorge, choked with pieces of weathered cliff; and no
doubt the bandits could go and come in that

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direction. There was a spring near at hand and a
grove of spruce-trees. The ground was rocky, and
apparently unfit for the digging of gold.

While Bate Wood began preparations for supper,
and Cleve built the fire, and Smith looked after the
horses, Kells and Pearce stepped off the ground
where the cabin was to be erected. They selected a
level bench down upon which a huge cracked rock,
as large as a house, had rolled. The cabin was to be
backed up against this stone, and in the rear, under
cover of it, a secret exit could be made and hidden.
The bandit wanted two holes to his burrow.

When the group sat down to the meal the gulch
was full of sunset colors. And, strangely, they were
allsome shade of gold. Beautiful golden veils, misty.
ethereal, shone in rays across the gulch from the
broken ramparts; and they seemed so brilliant, so
rich, prophetic of the treasures of the hills. But
that golden sunset changed. The sun went down
red, leaving a sinister shadow over the gulch, grow-
ing darker and darker. Joan saw Cleve thought-
fully watching this transformation, and she won-
dered if he had caught the subtle mood of nature.
For whatever had been the hope and brightness, the
golden glory of this new Eldorado, this sudden up-
rising Alder Creek with its horde of brave and toil-
ing miners, the truth was that Jack Kells and Gulden
had ridden into the camp and the sun had gone down
red. Joan knew that great mining-camps were
always happy, rich, free, lucky, honest places till
the fame of gold brought evil men. And she had
not the slightest doubt that the sun of Alder Creek’s
brief and glad day had set forever.

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Twilight was stealing down from the hills when
Kells announced to his party: ‘‘Bate, you and
Jesse keep camp. Pearce, you look out for any of
the gang. But meet in the dark! ... Cleve, you
can go with me.’ Then he turned to Joan. ‘Do
you want to go with us to see the sights or would
you rather stay here?”’

“T’d like to go, if only I didn’t look so—so dread-
ful in this suit,’’ she replied.

Kells laughed, and the camp-fire glare lighted the
smiling faces of Pearce and Smith. .

“Why, you'll not be seen. And you look far from
dreadful.”’

“Can’t you give me a—a longer coat?” faltered

Joan.
_ Cleve heard, and without speaking he went to his
saddle and unrolled his pack. Inside a slicker he
had a gray coat. Joan had seen it many a time,
and it brought a pang with memories of Hoadley.
Had that been years ago? Cleve handed this coat
to Joan.

““Thank you,’’ she said.

Kells held the coat for her and she slipped into it.
She seemed lost. It was long, coming way below
her hips, and for the first time in days she felt she
was Joan Randle again.

“Modesty is all very well in a woman, but it’s not
always becoming,” remarked Kells. ‘‘Turn up your
collar... . Pull down your hat—farther— There!
If you won’t go as a youngster now I’ll eat Dandy
Dale’s outfit and get you silk dresses. Ha-ha!’’

Joan was not deceived by his humor. He might

like to look at her in that outrageous bandit costume;
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it might have pleased certain vain and notoriety-
seeking proclivities of his, habits of his California
road-agent days; but she felt that notwithstanding
this, once she had donned the long coat he was re-
lieved and glad in spite of himself. Joan had a
little rush of feeling. Sometimes she almost likéd
this bandit. Once he must have been something
very different.

They set out, Joan between Kells and Cleve.
How strange for her! She had daring enough to
feel for Jim’s hand in the dark and to give it a
squeeze. Then he nearly broke her fingers. She felt
the fire in him. It was indeed a hard situation for
him. The walking was rough, owing to the uneven
road and the stones. Several times Joan stumbled
and her spurs jangled. They passed ruddy camp-
fires, where steam and smoke arose with savory
odors, where red-faced men were eating; and they
passed other camp-fires, burned out and smoldering.
Some tents had dim lights, throwing shadows on the
canvas, and others were dark. ‘There were men on
the road, all headed for town, gay, noisy, and
profane.

Then Joan saw uneven rows of lights, some dim
and some bright, and crossing before them were
moving dark figures. Again Kells bethought him-
self of his own disguise, and buried his chin in his
scarf and pulled his wide-brimmed hat down so that
hardly a glimpse of his face could be seen. Joan
could not have recognized him at the distance of a
yard.

They walked down the middle of the road, past

the noisy saloons, past the big, flat structure with its
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sign ‘‘Last Nugget” and its open windows, where
shafts of light shone forth, and all the way down to
the end of town. Then Kells turned back. He
scrutinized each group of men he met. He was
looking for members of his Border Legion. Several
times he left Cleve and Joan standing in the road
while he peered into saloons. At these brief inter-
vals Joan looked at Cleve with all her heart in her
eyes. He never spoke. He seemed under a strain.
Upon the return, when they reached the Last
Nugget, Kells said:

‘“‘Jim, hang on to her like grim death! She’s
worth more than all the gold in Alder Creek!”

Then they started for the door.

Joan clung to Cleve on one side, and on the other,
instinctively with a frightened girl’s action, she let go
Kells’s arm and slipped her hand in his. He seemed
startled. He bent to her ear, for the din made
ordinary talk indistinguishable. That involuntary
hand in his evidently had pleased and touched him,
even hurt him, for his whisper was husky.

“*Tt’s all right—you’re perfectly safe.”

First Joan made out a glare of smoky lamps, a
huge place full of smoke and men and sounds.
Kells led the way slowly. He had his own reason for
observance. ‘There was a stench that sickened Joan
—a blended odor of tobacco and rum and wet saw-
dust and smoking oil. There was a noise that ap-
peared almost deafening—the loud talk and vacant
laughter of drinking men, and a din of creaky
fiddles and scraping boots and boisterous mirth.
This last and dominating sound came from an ad-

joining room, which Joan could see through a wide
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opening. There was dancing, but Joan could not
see the dancers because of the intervening crowd.
Then her gaze came back to the features nearer at
hand. Men and youths were lined up to a long bar
nearly as high as her head. Then there were excited
shouting groups round gambling games. There were
men in clusters, sitting on upturned kegs, round a
box for a table, and dirty bags of gold-dust were
in evidence. The gamblers at the cards were silent,
in strange contrast with the others; and in each
group was at least one dark-garbed, hard-eyed
gambler who was not a miner. Joan saw boys not
yet of age, flushed and haggard, wild with the frenzy
of winning and cast down in defeat. There were
jovial, grizzled, old prospectors to whom this scene
and company were pleasant reminder of bygone
days. There were desperados whose glittering eyes
showed they had no gold with which to gamble.
Joan suddenly felt Kells start and she believed
she heard a low, hissing exclamation. And she
looked for the cause. Then she saw familiar dark
faces; they belonged to men of Kelis’s Legion.
And with his broad back to her there sat the giant
Gulden. Already he and his allies had gotten to-
gether in defiance of or indifference to Kells’s orders.
‘Some of them were already under the influence of
drink, but, though they saw Kells, they gave no sign
of recognition. Gulden did not see Joan, and for
that she was thankful. And whether or not his
presence caused it, the fact was that she suddenly felt
as much of a captive as she had in Cabin Gulch, and
feared that here escape would be harder because in a
community like this Kells would watch her closely.
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Kells led Joan and Cleve from one part of the
smoky hall to another, and they looked on at the
games and the strange raw life manifested there.
The place was getting packed with men. Kells’s
party encountered Blicky and Beady Jones together.
They passed by as strangers. Then Joan saw Beard
and Chick Williams arm in arm, strolling about, like
roystering miners. Williams telegraphed a keen,
fleeting glance at Kells, then went on, to be lost in the
crowd. Handy Oliver brushed by Kells, jostled
him, apparently by accident, and he said, ‘‘Excuse
me, mister!’ There were other familiar faces.
Kells’s gang were all in Alder Creek and the dark
machinations of the bandit leader had been put into
operation. What struck Joan forcibly was that,
though there were hilarity and comradeship, they
were not manifested in any general way. These
miners were strangers to one another; the groups were
strangers; the gamblers were strangers; the new-
comers were strangers; and over all hung an at-
mosphere of distrust. Good-fellowship abided only
in the many small companies of men who stuck
together. The mining-camps that Joan had visited
had been composed of an assortment of prospectors
and hunters who made one big, jolly family. This
was a gold strike, and the difference was obvious.
The hunting for gold was one thing, in its relation
to the searchers; after it had been found, in a rich
field, the conditions of life and character changed.
Gold had always seemed wonderful and beautiful to
Joan; she absorbed here something that was the
nucleus of hate. Why could not these miners, young

and old, stay in their camps and keep their gold?
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That was the fatality. The pursuit was a dream—
a glittering allurement; the possession incited a lust
for more, and that was madness. Joan felt that in
these reckless, honest miners there was a liberation
of the same wild element which was the driving
passion of Kells’s Border Legion. Gold, then, wasa
terrible thing.

““Take me in there,”’ said Joan, conscious of her
own excitement, and she indicated the dance-hall.

Kells laughed as if at her audacity. But he ap-
peared reluctant. ee

“Please take me—unless—” Joan did not know
what to add, but she meant unless it was not right
for her to see any more. A strange curiosity had
stirred in her. After all, this place where she now
stood was not greatly different from the picture
imagination had conjured up. That dance-hall,
however, was beyond any creation of Joan’s mind.

“Let me have a look first,”’ said Kells, and he left
Joan with Cleve.

When he had gone Joan spoke without looking at
Cleve, though she held fast to his arm.

“Jim, it could be dreadful here—all in a minute!’’
she whispered.

“You've struck it exactly,’ he replied. ‘‘All
Alder Creek needed to make it hell was Kells and his
gang.”

“Thank Heaven I turned you back in time!...
Jim, you’d have—have gone the pace here.”

He nodded grimly. Then Kells returned and led
them back through the room to another door where
spectators were fewer. Joan saw perhaps a dozen
couples of rough, whirling, jigging dancers in a half-

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circle of watching men. The hall was a wide platform
of boards with posts holding a canvas roof. The
sides were open; the lights were situated at each end
—huge, round, circus-tent lamps. There were rude
benches and tables where reeling men surrounded a
woman. Joan saw a young miner in dusty boots and
corduroys lying drunk or dead in the sawdust.
Her eyes were drawn back to the dancers, and to the
dance that bore some semblance to a waltz. In
the din the music could scarcely be heard. As far
as the men were concerned this dance was a bold and
violent expression of excitement on the part of some,
and for the rest a drunken, mad fling. Sight of the
women gave Joan’s curiosity a blunt check. She
felt queer. She had not seen women like these, and
their dancing, their actions, their looks, were beyond
her understanding. Nevertheless, they shocked her,
disgusted her, sickened her. And suddenly when
it dawned upon her in unbelievable vivid suggestion
that they were the wildest and most terrible element
of this dark stream of humanity lured by gold, then
she was appalled.

“Take me out of here!’’ she besought Kells, and he
led her out instantly. They went through the
gambling-hall and into the crowded street, back
toward camp.

“You saw enough,” said Kells, ‘‘but nothing to
what will break out by and by. This camp is new.
It’s rich. Gold is the cheapest thing. It passes
from hand to hand. Ten dollars an ounce. Buyers
don’t look at the scales. Only the gamblers are
crooked. But all this will change.”

Kells did not say what that change might be,
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but the click of his teeth was expressive. Joan did
not, however, gather from it, and the dark meaning
of his tone, that the Border Legion would cause this
change. That was in the nature of events. A great
strike of gold might enrich the world, but it was a
catastrophe.

Long into the night Joan lay awake, and at times,
stirring the silence, there was wafted to her on a
breeze the low, strange murmur of the gold-camp’s
strife.

Joan slept late next morning, and was awakened
by the unloading of lumber. Teams were drawing
planks from the sawmill. Already a skeleton frame-
work for Kells’s cabin had been erected. Jim Cleve
was working with the others, and they were sacri-
ficing thoroughness to haste. Joan had to cook her
own breakfast, which task was welcome, and after
it had been finished she wished for something more
to occupy her mind. But nothing offered. Finding
a comfortable seat among some rocks where she
would be inconspicuous, she looked on at the building
of Kells’s cabin. It seemed strange, and somehow
comforting, to watch Jim Cleve work. He had
never been a great worker. Would this experience
on the border make a man of him? She felt assured
of that.

If ever a cabin sprang up like a mushroom, that
bandit rendezvous was the one. Kells worked him-
self, and appeared no mean hand. By noon the roof
of clapboards was on, and the siding of the same
material had been started. Evidently there was not

to be a fireplace inside.
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Then a teamster drove up with a wagon-load of
purchases Kells had ordered. Kells helped unload
this and evidently was in search of articles. Pres-
ently he found them, and then approached Joan, to
deposit before her an assortment of bundles little
and big.

‘“There, Miss Modesty,” hesaid. ‘‘Make yourself
some clothes. You can shake Dandy Dale’s out-
fit, except when we're on the trail... . And, say, if
you knew what I had to pay for this stuff you’d
think there was a bigger robber in Alder Creek than
Jack Kells. ... And, come to think of it, my name’s
now Blight. You’re my daughter, if any one
asks.”’

Joan was so grateful to him for the goods and the
permission to get out of Dandy Dale’s suit as soon
as possible, that she could only smile her thanks.
Kells stared at her, then turned abruptly away.
Those little unconscious acts of hers seemed to
affect him strangely. Joan remembered that he had
intended to parade her in Dandy Dale’s costume
to gratify some vain abnormal side of his bandit’s
proclivities, He had weakened. Here was another
subtle indication of the deterioration of the evil of
him. How far wouldit go? Joan thought dreamily,
and with a swelling heart, of her influence upon this
hardened bandit, upon that wild boy, Jim Cleve.

All that afternoon, and part of the evening in the
camp-fire light, and all of the next day Joan sewed,
so busy that she scarcely lifted her eyes from her
work. The following day she finished her dress,
and with no little pride, for she had both taste and

skill. Of the men, Bate Wood had been most in-
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tefested in her task; and he would let things burn
on the fire to watch her.

That day the rude cabin was completed. It
contained one long room; and at the back a small
compartment partitioned off from the. rest, and
built against and around a shallow cavern in the huge
rock. This compartment was for Joan. There
were a rude board door with padlock and key, a
bench upon which blankets had been flung, a small
square hole cut in the wall to serve as a window.
What with her own few belongings and the articles
of furniture that Kells bought for her, Joan soon had
a comfortable room, even a luxury compared to what
she had been used to for weeks. Certain it was that
Kells meant to keep her a prisoner, or virtually so.
Joan had no sooner spied the little window than she
thought that it would be possible for Jim Cleve to
talk to her there from the outside.

Kells verified Joan’s suspicion by telling her that
she was not to leave the cabin of her own accord, as
she had been permitted to do back in Cabin Gulch;
and Joan retorted that there she had made him a
promise not to run away, which promise she now
took back. That promise had worried her. She
was glad to be honest with Kells. He gazed at her
somberly.

‘You'll be worse off if you do—and ll be better
off,’ he said. And then as an afterthought he
added: ‘‘Gulden might not think you—a white
elephant on his hands! .. . Remember his way, the
cave and the rope!”

So, instinctively or cruelly he chose the right name
to bring shuddering terror into Joan’s soul.

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CHAPTER XIV

A ane ’S opportunity for watching Kells and his
men and overhearing their colloquies was as
good as it had been back in Cabin Gulch. But it
developea that where Kells had been open and frank
he now became secret and cautious. She was aware
that men, singly and in couples, visited him during
the early hours of the night, and they had confer-
ences in low, earnest tones. She could peer out of
her little window and see dark, silent forms come
up from the ravine at the back of the cabin, and
leave the same way. None of them went round to
the front door, where Bate Wood smoked and kept
guard. Joan was able to hear only scraps of these
earnest talks; and from part of one she gathered
that for some reason or other Kells desired to bring
himself into notice. Alder Creek must be made to
know that a man of importance had arrived. It
seemed to Joan that this was the very last thing
'which Kells ought to do. What magnificent daring
the bandit had! Famous years before in California
—with a price set upon his life in Nevada—and now
the noted, if unknown, leader of border robbers in
Idaho, he sought to make himself prominent, re-
spected, and powerful. Joan found that in spite of

her horror at the sinister and deadly nature of the
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bandit’s enterprise she could not avoid an absorbing
interest in his fortunes.

Next day Joan watched for an opportunity to tell
Jim Cleve that he might come to her little window
any time after dark to talk and plan with her.
No chance presented itself. Joan wore the dress she
had made, to the evident pleasure of Bate Wood and
Pearce. They had conceived as strong an interest
in her fortunes as she had in Kells’s. Wood nodded
his approval and Pearce said she was a lady once
more. Strange it was to Joan that this villain
Pearce, whom she could not have dared trust, grew
open in his insinuating hints of Kells’s blackguardism.
Strange because Pearce was absolutely sincere!

When Jim Cleve did see Joan in her dress the first
time he appeared so glad and relieved and grateful
that she feared he might betray himself, so she got
out of his sight.

Not long after that Kells called her from her room.
He wore his somber and thoughtful cast of coun-
tenance. Red Pearce and Jesse Smith were standing
at attention. Cleve was sitting on the threshold of
the door and Wood leaned against the wall.

‘Is there anything in the pack of stuff I bought
you that you could use for a veil?’ asked Kells of
Joan.

“Yes,” she replied.

‘Get it,’ he ordered. ‘‘And your hat, too.”

Joan went to her room and returned with the
designated articles, the hat being that which she
had worn when she left Hoadley.

“That ‘Il do. Put it on—over your face—and

let’s see how you look.”’
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Joan complied with this request, all the time
wondering what Kells meant.

““T want it to disguise you, but not to hide your
youth—your good looks,” he said, and he arranged

it differently about her face. ‘‘There!... You’d
sure make any man curious to see you now... . Put
on the hat.”

Joan didso. Then Kells appeared to become more
forcible.

“You’re to go down into the town. Walk slow as
far as the Last Nugget. Cross the road and come
back. Look at every man you meet or see standing
by. Don’t be in the least frightened. Pearce and
Smith will be right behind you. They’d get to you
before anything could happen. . . . Do you under-
stand?”

““Yes,”’ replied Joan.

Red Pearce stirred uneasily. ‘‘Jack, I’m thinkin’
some rough talk “Il come her way,” he said,
darkly.

“Willi you shut up!” replied Kells in quick pas-
sion. He resented some implication. ‘‘I’ve thought
of that. She won’t hear what’s said to her....
Here,” and he turned again to Joan, ‘‘take some
cotton—or anything—and stuff up your ears. Make
a good job of it.”

Joan went back to her room and, looking about
for something with which to execute Kells’s last
order, she stripped some soft, woolly bits from a
fleece-lined piece of cloth. With these she essayed
to deaden her hearing. Then she returned. Kells
spoke to her, but, though she seemed dully to hear

his voice, she could not distinguish what he said.
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She shook her head. With that Kells waved her
out upon her strange errand.

Joan brushed against Cleve as she crossed the
threshold. What would he think of this? She could
not see his face. When she reached the first tents
she could not resist the desire to look back. Pearce
was within twenty yards of her and Smith about the
same distance farther back. Joan was more curious
than anything else. She divined that Kells wanted
her to attract attention, but for what reason she was
at a loss to say. It was significant that he did not
- intend to let her suffer any indignity while fulfilling
this mysterious mission.

Not until Joan got well down the road toward
the Last Nugget did any one pay any attention to
her. A Mexican jabbered at her, showing his white
teeth, flashing his sloe-black eyes. Young miners
eyed her curiously, and some of them spoke. She
met all kinds of men along the plank walk, most of
whom passed by, apparently unobserving. She
obeyed Kells to the letter. But for some reason she
was unable to explain, when she got to the row of
saloons, where lounging, evil-eyed rowdies accosted
her, she found she had to disobey him, at least in
one particular. She walked faster. Still that did
not make her task much easier. It began to be an
ordeal. The farther she got the bolder men grew.
Could it have been that Kells wanted this sort of
thing to happen to her? Joan had no idea what
these men meant, but she believed that was because
for the time being she was deaf. Assuredly their
looks were not a compliment to any girl. Joan

wanted to hurry now, and she had to force herself
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to walk at a reasonable gait. One persistent fellow
walked beside her for several steps. Joan was not
fool enough not to realize now that these wayfarers
wanted to make her acquaintance. And she decided
she would have something to say to Kells when she
got back.

Below the Last Nugget she crossed the road and
started ‘upon the return trip. In front of this
gambling-hell there were scattered groups of men,
standing, and going in. A tall man in black de-
tached himself and started out, as if to intercept
her. He wore a long black coat, a black bow tie, and
a black sombrero. He had little, hard, piercing
eyes, as black as his dress. He wore gloves and
looked immaculate, compared with the other men.
He, too, spoke to Joan, turned to walk with her.
She looked straight ahead now, frightened, and she
wanted torun. He kept beside her, apparently talk-
ing. Joan heard only the low sound of his voice.
Then he took her arm, gently, but with familiarity.
Joan broke from him and quickened her pace.

“Say, there! Leave thet girl alone!”

This must have been yelled, for Joan certainly
heard it. She recognized Red Pearce’s voice.
And she wheeled to look. Pearce had overhauled
the gambler, and already men were approaching.
Involuntarily Joan halted. What would happen?
The gambler spoke to Pearce, made what appeared
deprecating gestures, as if to explain. But Pearce
looked angry.

“Tl tell her daddy!” he shouted.

Joan waited for no more. She almost ran.
-There would surely be a fight. Could that have

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been Kells’s intention? Whatever it was, she had
been subjected to a mortifying and embarrassing
affront. She was angry, and she thought it might
be just as well to pretend to be furious. Kells must
not use her for his nefarious schemes. She hurried
on, and, to her surprise, when she got within sight of
the cabin both Pearce and Smith had almost caught
up with her. Jim Cleve sat where she had last
seen him. Also Kells was outside. The way he
strode to and fro showed Joan his anxiety. There
was more to this incident than she could fathom.
She took the padding from her ears, to her intense
relief, and, soon reaching the cabin, she tore off the
veil and confronted Kells.

“‘Wasn’t that a—a fine thing for you to do?” she
demanded, furiously. And with the outburst she
felt her face blazing. ‘‘If I’d any idea what you
meant—you couldn’t—have driven me!... I trusted
you. And you sent me down there on some—shame-
ful errand of yours. You’re no gentleman!”

Joan realized that her speech, especially the latter
part, was absurd. But it had a remarkable effect
upon Kells. His face actually turned" red. He
stammered something and halted, seemingly at a
loss for words. How singularly the slightest hint
of any act or word of hers that approached a possi-
ble respect or tolerance worked upon this bandit!
He started toward Joan appealingly, but she passed
him in contempt and went to her room. She heard
him cursing Pearce in a rage, evidently blaming his
lieutenant for whatever had angered her.

‘‘But you wanted her insulted!’ protested Pearce,
hotly.

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“You mullet-head!”’ roared Kells. ‘‘I wanted
some man—any man—to get just near enough to
her so I could swear she’d been insulted. You let
her go through that camp to meet real insult! ...
Why—! Pearce, I’ve a mind to shoot you!”

‘‘Shoot!’’ retorted Pearce. ‘‘I obeyed orders as I
saw them. ... An’ I want to say right here thet
when it comes to anythin’ concernin’ this girl
you’re plumb off your nut. That’s what. An’ you
can like it or lump it! I said before you’d split over
this girl. An’ I say it now!”

Through the door Joan had a glimpse of Cleve
stepping between the angry men. This seemed un-
necessary, however, for Pearce’s stinging assertion
had brought Kells to himself. There were a few
more words, too low for Joan’s ears, and then, accom-
panied by Smith, the three started off, evidently for
the camp. Joan left her room and watched them
from the cabin door. Bate Wood sat outside;
smoking.

“I’m declarin’ my hand,” he said to Joan, feel-
ingly. ‘‘I’d never hev stood for thet scurvy trick.
Now, miss, this’s the toughest camp I ever s2en.
I mean tough as to wimmen! For it ’ain’t begun to
fan guns an’ steal gold yet.”

“Why did Kells want me insulted?’ asked Joan.

““Wal, he’s got to hev a reason for raisin’ an orful
fuss,”’ replied Wood.

“Fuss?”
“‘Shore,” replied Wood, dryly.
““What for?”’

“‘Jest so he can walk out on the stage,” rejoined
Wood, evasively.
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“It’s mighty strange,” said Joan.

“T reckon all about Mr. Kells is some strange
these days. Red Pearce had it correct. Kells is
a-goin’ to split on you!’

‘‘What do you mean by that?”

‘Wal, he’ll go one way an’ the gang another.”

““Why?”’ asked Joan, earnestly.

‘‘Miss, there’s some lot of reasons,” said Wood,
deliberately. ‘‘Fust, he did for Halloway an’ Bailey,
not because they wanted to treat you as he meant to,
but jest because he wanted to be alone. We're all
wise thet you shot him—an’ thet you wasn’t his
wife. An’ since then we’ve seen him gradually lose
his nerve. He organizes his Legion an’ makes his
plan to run this Alder Creek red. He still hangs on
to you. He’d kill any man thet batted an eye at
you....An’ through all this, because he’s not Jack
Kells of old, he’s lost his pull with the gang. Sooner
or later he’ll split.’”’

“Have I any real friends among you?” asked
Joan.

“Wal, I reckon.”

“Are you my friend, Bate Wood?” she went on
in sweet wistfulness.

The grizzled old bandit removed his pipe and
looked at her with a glint in his bloodshot eyes.

“T shore am. I’ll sneak you off now if you'll go.
I'll stick a knife in Kells if you say so.”

“Oh no, I’m afraid to run off—and you needn’t
harm Kelis. After all, he’s good to me.”

‘‘Good to you! . . . When he keeps you captive
like an Indian would? When he’s given me orders

to watch you—keep you locked up?”
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Wood’s snort of disgust and wrath was thoroughly
genuine. Still Joan knew that she dared not trust
him, any more than Pearce or the others. Their
raw emotions would undergo a change if Kells’s
possession of her were transferred to them. It oc-
curred to Joan, however, that she might use Wood’s
friendliness to some advantage.

“‘So I’m to be locked up?”’ she asked.

““You’re supposed to be.”

‘*Without any one to talk to?’’

‘Wal, you’ll hev me, when you want. I reckon
thet ain’t much to look forward to. But I can tell
you a heap of stories. An’ when Kells ain’t around,
if you’re careful not to get me ketched, you can do
as you want.”

“Thank you, Bate. I’m going to like you,” re-
plied Joan, sincerely, and then she went back to her
room. There was sewing to do, and while she
worked she thought, so that the hours sped. When
the light got so poor that she could sew no longer
she put the work aside and stood at her little
window, watching the sunset. From the front of
the cabin came the sound of subdued voices. Prob-
ably Kells and his men had returned, and she was
sure of this when she heard the ring of Bate Wood’s
ax.
All at once an object darker than the stones
arrested Joan’s gaze. There was a man sitting on
the far side of the little ravine. Instantly she
recognized Jim Cleve. He was looking at the little
window—at her. Joan believed he was there tor
just that purpose. Making sure that no one else

was near to see. she put out her hand and waved it.
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Jim gave a guarded perceptible sign that he had ob-
served her action, and almost directly got up and
left. Joan needed no more than that to tell her
how Jim’s idea of communicating with her corre-
sponded with her own. That night she would talk
with him and she was thrilled through. The
secrecy, the peril, somehow lent this prospect a sweet-
‘ness, a zest, a delicious fear. Indeed, she was not
only responding to love, but to daring, to defiance,
to a wilder nameless element born of her environ-
ment and the needs of the hour.

Presently Bate Wood called her in to supper.
Pearce, Smith, and Cleve were finding seats at the
table, but Kells looked rather sick. Joan ob-
served him then more closely. His face was pale and
damp, strangely shaded as if there were something
dark under the pale skin. Joan had never seen him
appear like this, and she shrank as from another and
forbidding side of the man. Pearce and Smith acted
naturally, ate with relish, and talked about the gold-
diggings. Cleve, however, was not as usual; and
Joan could not quite make out what constituted the
dissimilarity. She hurried through her own supper
and back to her room.

Already it was dark outside. Joan lay down to
listen and wait. It seemed long, but probably was
not long before she heard the men go outside, and
the low thump of their footsteps as they went away.
Then came the rattle and bang of Bate Wood’s
attack on the pans and pots. Bate liked to cook,
but he hated to clean up afterward. By and by he
settled down outside for his evening smoke and

there was absolute quiet. Then Joan rose to stand
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at the window. She could see the dark mass of rock
overhanging the cabin, the bluff beyond, and the
stars. For the rest all was gloom.

She did not have to wait long. A soft step, almost
indistinguishable, made her pulse beat quicker.
She put her face out of the window, and on the instant
a dark form seemed to loom up to meet her out of the
shadow. She could not recognize that shape, yet
she knew it belonged to Cleve.

‘*Joan,”’ he whispered.

‘‘Jim,” she replied, just as low and gladly.

He moved closer, so that the hand she had grop-
ingly put out touched him, then seemed naturally
to slip along his shoulder, round his neck. And his
face grew clearer in the shadow. His lips met hers,
and Joan closed her eyes to that kiss. What hope,
what strength for him and for her now in that meet-
ing of lips!

“Oh, Jim! I’m so glad—to have you near—to
touch you,”’ she whispered.

“Do you love me still?’ he whispered back,

tensely.
“Still? More—more!”
“Say it, then.”

“Jim, I love you!”

And their lips met again and clung, and it was he
who drew back first.

““Dearest, why didn’t you let me make a break to
get away with you—before we came to this camp?”

“Oh, Jim, I told you. I was afraid. We'd been
caught. And Gulden—”

‘We'll never have half the chance here. Kells

means to keep you closely guarded. I heard the
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order. He’s different now. He’s grown crafty and
hard. And the miners of this Alder Creek! Why,
I’m more afraid to trust them than men like Wood
or Pearce. They’ve gone clean crazy. Gold-mad!
If you shouted for your life they wouldn’t hear you.
And if you could make them hear they wouldn’t
believe. This camp has sprung up in a night. It’s
not like any place I ever heard of. It’s not human.
It’s so strange—so— Oh, I don’t know what to say.
I think I mean that men in a great gold strike become
like coyotes at a carcass. You've seen that. No
relation at all!’

“I’m frightened, too, Jim. I wish I’d had the
courage to run when we were back in Cabin Gulch.
But don’t ever give up, not for a second! We can
get away. We must plan and wait. Find out
where we are—how far from Hoadley—what we
miust expect—whether it’s safe to approach any one
in this camp.”

“Safe! I guess not, after to-day,” he whispered,
grimly. ;

‘“Why? What’s happened?” she asked, quickly.

‘Joan, have you guessed yet why Kells sert you
<lown into camp alone?”

“No.”

“Listen. . . . I went with Kells and Smith and
Pearce. They hurried straight to the Last Nugget.
There was a crowd of men in front of the place.
Pearce walked straight up to one—a gambler by his
clothes. And he said in a loud voice, ‘Here’s the
man! ... The gambler looked startled, turned pale,
and went for his gun. But Kells shot him!...He

fell dead, wittiout a word. There was a big shout,
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then silence. Kells stood there with his smoking
gun. I never saw the man so cool—so masterful.
Then he addressed the crowd: ‘This gambler in-
sulted my daughter! My men here saw him. My
name’s Blight. I came here to buy up gold claims,
And I want to say this: Your Alder Creek has got
‘the gold. But it needs some of your best citizens
to run it right, so a girl can be safe on the street.’

‘‘Joan, I tell you it was a magnificent bluff,” went
on Jim, excitedly. ‘‘And it worked. Kells walked
away amid cheers. He meant to give an impression
of character andimportance. Hesucceeded. So far
as I could tell, there wasn’t a man present who did
not show admiration for him. I saw that dead
gambler kicked.”

‘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 gc
for his gun. I'll have to say that for Kells.”

“Tt 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 ’Il 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

aman ofimportance. He'll play the card for all he’s
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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, trem-

ling.

“T’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 ’Il you do meanwhile?’ she asked,
anxiously.

“Tm 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

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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, for-
bidding, weary, and cold. Manifestly he came to
her to get rid of the impondering 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 Kells 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

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sympathetic, as cheerful, and sweet as it was pos:
sible 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 un-
attainableness, 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 fore-
saw the overthrow of his soul through her, and in the
light of that his waning power over his Legion was
as nothing.
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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, peep-
ing 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. After-
ward 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,

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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 listen-
ing for him. Then, besides, as long as Kells was stir-
ring 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 re-

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gard his good fortune as Joan’s also. He believed if
he struck it rich he could buy his sweetheart’s free-
dom. 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 admonish-
ment. 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

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yelled in a rage. He sure had the gang and every-
body 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 mis-
take. 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 every-
body 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!...
T’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 isa 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, fear-
fully.
‘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

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the miners can forget gold long enough they’ll elect
Kells. But the riffraff, these blood-suckers who
live off the miners, they’d rather not have any office
in Alder Creek.”

And upon ancther night Cleve in serious and som-
ber mood talked about the Border Legion and its
mysterious workings. The name had found prom-
inence, 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 quan-
tities 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 Alder 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.

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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 pos-
sible 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 régime of
wildness chat had no parallel in the earlier days of
*ag 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 commod-
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ities of life were almost beyond the dreams of avarice.
It was a time 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 time when a horde of men from every class and
nation, of all ages and characters, met on a field
where 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 hope-
lessly 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!

One afternoon late, while Joan was half dreaming,
half dozing the hours away, she was thoroughly
aroused by the tramp of boots and loud voices of ex-
citedmen. Joan slipped to the peephole in the parti-
tion. Bate Wood had raised a warning hand to Kells,
who stood up, facing the door. Red Pearce came
bursting in, wild-eyed and violent. Joan imagined
he was about to cry out that Kells had been betrayed.

“Kells, have you—heard?”’ he panted.

“Not so loud, you—!” replied Kells, coolly.
‘“My name’s Blight... . Who’s with you?”

“Only Jesse an’ some of the gang. I couldn’t

steer them away. But there’s nothin’ to fear.”
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‘‘What’s happened? What haven’t I heard?”

“The camp’s gone plumb ravin’ crazy. ... Jim
Cleve found the biggest nugget ever dug in Idaho!
... DThirty pounds!”

Kells seemed suddenly to inflame, to blaze with
white passion. ‘‘Good for Jim!’ he yelled, ringingly.
He could scarcely have been more elated if he had
made the strike himself.

Jesse Smith came stamping in, with a crowd elbow-
ing their way behind him. Joan had a start of the
old panic at sight of Gulden. For once the giant
was not slow nor indifferent. His big eyes glared.
He brought back to Joan the sickening sense of the
brute strength of his massive presence. Some of his
cronies were with him. For the rest, there were
Blicky and Handy Oliver and Chick Williams.
The whole group bore resemblance to a pack of
wolves about to leap upon its prey. Yet, in each
man, excepting Gulden, there was that striking as-
pect of exultation.

‘“Where’s Jim?’ demanded Kells.

‘“He’s comin’ along,” replied Pearce. ‘‘He’s sure
been runnin’ a gantlet. His strike stopped work in
the diggin’s. What do you think of thet, Kells?
The news spread like smoke before wind. Every last
miner in camp has jest got to see thet lump of gold.”

‘“Maybe I don’t want to see it!” exclaimed Kells.
“A thirty-pounder! I heard of one once, sixty
pounds, but I never saw it. You can’t believe till
you see.”

‘‘Jim’s comin’ up the road now,’’ said one of the
men near the door. ‘‘Thet crowd hangs on....
But I reckon he’s shakin’ them.”

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“What ’ll Cleve do with this nugget?”’

Gulden’s big voice, so powerful, yet feelingless,
caused a momentary silence. The expression of
many faces changed. Kells looked startled, then
annoyed.

“‘Why, Gulden, that’s not my affair—nor yours,”
replied Kells. ‘‘Cleve dug it and it belongs to him.”

“Dug or stole—it’s all the same,’’ responded
Gulden.

Kells threw up his hands as if it were useless and
impossible to reason with this man.

Then the crowd surged round the door with
shuffling boots and hoarse, mingled greetings to
Cleve, who presently came plunging in out of the
mélée.

His face wore a flush of raaiance; his eyes were
like diamonds. Joan thrilled and thrilled at sight
of him. He was beautiful. Yet there was about
him a more striking wildness. He carried a gun in
one hand and in the other an object wrapped in his
scarf. He flung this upon the table in front of
Kells. It made a heavy, solid thump. The ends
of the scarf flew aside, and there lay a magnificent
nugget of gold, black and rusty in parts, but with a
dull, yellow glitter in others.

“Boss, what ’ll you bet against that?’ cried Cleve,
with exulting laugh. He was like a boy.

Kells reached for the nugget as if it were not an
actual object, and when his hands closed on it he
fondled it and weighed it and dug his nails into it
and tasted it.

““My God!"’ he ejaculated, in wondering ecstasy.
Then this, and the excitement, and the obsession all

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changed into sincere gladness. ‘‘Jim, you’re born
lucky. You, the youngster born unlucky in love!
Why, you could buy any woman with this!”

“Could I? Find me one,” responded Cleve, with
swift boldness.

Kells laughed. ‘‘I don’t know any worth so
much.”

“What ’11 I do with it?’’ queried Cleve.

“Why, you fuol youngster! Has it turned your
head, too? What ’d you do with the rest of your
dust? You’ve certainly been striking it rich.”

“‘T spent it—lost it—lent it—gave some away and
—saved a little.”

“Probably you'll do the same with this. You’re
a good fellow, Jim.”

“But this nugget means a lot of money. Between
six and seven thousand dollars.”

“You won’t need advice how to spend it, even if it
was a million. ... Tell me, Jim, how’d you strike
ite

*“‘Funny about that,” replied Cleve. ‘Things were
poor for several days. Dug off branches into my
claim. One grew to be a deep hole in gravel, hard
to dig. My claim was once the bed of a stream,
full of rocks that the water had rolled down once.
This hole sort of haunted me. I’d leave it when
my back got so sore I couldn’t bend, but always
I'd return. I’d say there wasn’t a darned grain of
gold in that gravel; then like a fool I’d go back and
dig for all I was worth. No chance of finding blue
dirt down there! ButI kept on. And to-day when
my pick hit what felt like a soft rock—I looked and
saw the gleam of gold! ... You ought to have seen

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me claw out that nugget! I whooped and brought
everybody around. The rest was a parade...
Now I’m embarrassed by riches. What to do with
ibe

“Wal, go back to Montana an’ make thet fool girl
sick,’ suggested one of the men who had heard
Jim’s fictitious story of himself.

‘Dug or stole is all the same!’’ boomed the im-
perturbable Gulden.

Kells turned white with rage, and Cleve swept
a swift and shrewd glance at the giant.

“Sure, that’s my idea,” declared Cleve. ‘I'll
divide as—as we planned.”

“You'll do nothing of the kind,’ retorted Kells.
“You dug for that gold and it’s yours.”

‘Well, boss, then say a quarter share to you and
the same to me—and divide the rest among the
gang.”

“‘No!” exclaimed Kells, violently.

Joan imagined he was actuated as much by justice
to Cleve as opposition to Gulden.

‘‘Jim, Cleve, you’re a square pard if I ever seen
one,’”’ declared Pearce, admiringly. ‘‘An’ I’m here
to say thet I wouldn’t hev a share of your nugget.”

“Nor me,’’ spoke up Jesse Smith.

“T pass, too,”’ said Chick Williams.

“Jim, if I was dyin’ fer a drink I wouldn’t stand
fer thet deal,” added Blicky, with a fine scorn.

These men, and others who spoke or signified their
refusal, attested to the living truth that there was
honor even among robbers. But there was not the
slightest suggestion of change in Gulden’s attitude or
of those back of him.

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“Share and share alike for me!” he muttered,
grimly, with those great eyes upon the nugget.

Kells, with an agile bound, reached the table and
pounded it with his fist, confronting the giant.

“‘So you say!”’ he hissed in dark passion. ‘‘You’ve
gone too far, Gulden. Here’s where I call you!...
You don’t get a grain of that gold nugget. Jim’s
worked like a dog. If he digs up a million I’ll see
he gets it all. Maybe you loafers haven’t a hunch
what Jim’s done for you. He’s helped our big deal
more than you or I. His honest work has made it
easy for me to look honest. He’s supposed to be
engaged to marry my daughter. That more than
anything was a blind. It made my stand, and I
tell you that stand is high in this camp. Go down
there and swear Blight is Jack Kells! See what you
get!... That’s all.... I’m dealing the cards in this
game!”

Kells did not cow Gulden—for it was likely the
giant lacked the feeling of fear—but he overruled
him by sheer strength of spirit.

Gulden backed away stolidly, apparently dazed
by his own movements; then he plunged out the
door, and the ruffians who had given silent but sure
expression of their loyalty tramped after him.

‘‘Reckon thet starts the split!’’ declared Red
Pearce.

“‘Suppose you’d been in Jim’s place!” flashed
Kells.

‘Jack, I ain’t sayin’ a word. You was square.
I'd want you to do the same by me. ... But fetchin
the girl into the deal—”

Kells passionate and menacing gesture shut

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Pearce’s lips. He lifted a hand, resignedly, and went
out.

‘‘Jim,”’ said Kells, earnestly, ‘‘take my hunch.
Hide your nugget. Don’t send it out with the stage
to Bannack. It’d never get there... . And change
the place where you sleep!”

‘‘Thanks,” replied Cleve, brightly. ‘‘I’ll hide my
nugget allright. And I’ll take care of myself.”

Later that night Joan waited at her window for
Jim. It was so quiet that she could hear the faint
murmur of the shallow creek. The sky was dusky
blue; the stars were white, the night breeze sweet
and cool. Her first flush of elation for Jim having
passed, she experienced a sinking of courage. Were
they not in peril enough without Jim finding a
fortune? How dark and significant had been Kells’s
hint! There was something splendid in this bandit.
Never had Joan felt so grateful to him. He was a
villain, yet he was a man. What hatred he showed
for Gulden! These rivals would surely meet in a
terrible conflict—for power—for gold. And for her!
—she added, involuntarily, with deep, inward shud-
der. Once the thought had flashed through her
mind, it seemed like a word of revelation.

Then she started as a dark form rose out of the
shadow under her and a hand clasped hers. Jim!
and she lifted her face.

“Joan! Joan! I’mrich! rich!” he babbled, wildly.

‘’Ssssh!’’ whispered Joan, softly, in hisear. ‘‘Be
careful. You're wild to-night... . I saw you come
in with the nugget. I heard you. ... Oh, you lucky
Jim! I’H tell you what to do with it!”

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“Darling! It’s all yours. You'll marry me
now?”

‘Sir! Do you take me for a fortune-hunter? I
marry you for your gold? Never!’’

“Joan 1?

‘I’ve promised,” she said.

“T won’t go away now. I'll work my claim,” he
began, excitedly. And he went on so rapidly that
Joan could not keep track of his words. He was not
so cautious as formerly. She remonstrated with
him, all to no purpose. Not only was he carried
away by possession of gold and assurance of more,
but he had become masterful, obstinate, and illog-
ical. He was indeed hopeless to-night—the gold
had gotten into his blood. Joan grew afraid he
would betray their secret and realized there had
come still greater need for a woman’s wit. So she
resorted to a never-failing means of silencing him, of
controlling him—her lips on his.

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CHAPTER XV

OR several nights these stolen interviews were
apparently the safer because of Joan’s tender
blinding of her lover. But it seemed that in Jim’s
condition of mind this yielding of her lips and her
whispers of love had really been a mistake. Not
only had she made the situation perilously sweet
for herself, but in Jim’s case she had added the spark
to the powder. She realized her blunder when it
was too late. And the fact that she did not regret
it very much, and seemed to have lost herself in a
defiant, reckless spell, warned her again that she,
too, was answering to the wildness of the time and
place. Joan’s intelligence had broadened wonder-
fully in this period of her life, just as all her feelings
had quickened. If gold had developed and inten-
sified and liberated the worst passions of men, so the.
spirit of that atmosphere had its baneful effect upon’
her. Joan deplored this, yet she had the keenness to
understand that it was nature fitting her to survive.
Back upon her fell that weight of suspense—what
would happen next? Here in Alder Creek there did
not at present appear to be the same peril which had
menaced her before, but she would suffer through
fatality to Cleve or Kells. And these two slept at
night under a shadow that held death, and by day

they walked on a thin crust over a volcano. Joan
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grew more and more fearful of the disclosures made
when Kells met his men nightly in the cabin. She
feared to hear, but she must hear, and even if she
had not felt it necessary to keep informed of events,
the fascination of the game would have impelled
-her to listen. And gradually the suspense she suf-
tered augmented into a magnified, though vague,
assurance of catastrophe, of impending doom. She
could not shake off the gloomy presentiment. Some-
thing terrible was going to happen. An experience
begun as tragically as hers could only end in a final
and annihilating stroke. Yet hope was unquench-
able, and with her fear kept pace a driving and re-
lentless spirit.

One night at the end of a week of these interviews,
when Joan attempted to resist Jim, to plead with
him, lest in his growing boldness he betray them, she
found him a madman.

“Tl pull you right out of this window,”’ he said,
roughly, and then with his hot face pressed against
hers tried to accomplish the thing he threatened.

“Go on—pull me to pieces!’ replied Joan, in
despair and pain. ‘‘I’d be better off dead! And—
you—hurt me—so!”’

‘Hurt you!” he whispered, hoarsely, as if he had
never dreamed of such possibility. And then sud-
denly he was remorseful. He begged her to forgive
him. His voice was broken, husky, pleading. His
remorse, like every feeling of his these days, was
exaggerated, wild, with that raw tinge of gold-blood
in it. He made so much noise that Joan, more
fearful than ever of discovery, quieted him with
difficulty.

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“Does Kells see you often—these days?” asked
Jim, suddenly.

Joan had dreaded this question, which she had
known would inevitably come. She wanted to lie;
she knew she ought to lie; but it was impossible.

“Every day,” she whispered. ‘‘Please—Jim—
never mind that. Kells is good—he’s all right to
me. . . . And you and I have so little time to-
gether.”

“‘Good!”” exclaimed Cleve. Joan felt the leap of
his body under her touch. ‘‘Why, if I’d tell you
what he sends that gang to do—you’d—you'd kill
him in his sleep.”’

“Tell me,” replied Joan. She had a morbid,
irresistible desire to learn.

“No. . . . And what does Kells do—when he
sees you every day?”
“He talks.”

‘“What about?”

“Oh, everything except about what holds him
here. He talks to me to forget himself.”

“Does he make love to you?”

Joan maintained silence. What could she do
with this changed and hupeless Jim Cleve?

“Tell me!’ Jim’s hands gripped her with a force
that made her wince. And now she grew as afraid
of him as she had been for him. But she had
spirit enough to grow angry, also.

““Certainly he does.”

Jim Cleve echoed her first word, and then through
grinding teeth he cursed. ‘‘I’m going to—stop it!”
he panted, and his eyes looked big and dark and wild
in the starlight.

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“You can’t. I belong to Kells. You at least
ought to have sense enough to see that.”

“Belong to him!... For God’s sake! By what
right?”

“By the right of possession. Might is right here
on the border. Haven’t you told me that a hundred
times? Don’t you hold your claim—your gold—by
the right of your strength? It’s the law of this bor-
der. To be sure Kells stole me. But just now I
belong to him. And lately I see his consideration—
his kindness in the light of what he could do if he
held to that border law. ... And of all the men I’ve
met out here Kells is the least wild with this gold
fever. He sends his men out to do murder for gold;
he’d sell his soul to gamble for gold; but just the
same, he’s more of a man than—”’

‘Joan!’ he interrupted, piercingly. ‘‘You love
this bandit!”

““You’re a fool!” burst out Joan.

“I. guess—I—am,”’ he replied in terrible, slow
earnestness. He raised himself and appeared to
loom over her and released his hold.

But Joan fearfully retained her clasp on his arm,
and when he surged to get away she was hard put
to it to hold him.

“Jim! Where are you going?”

He stood there a moment, a dark form against’
the night shadow, like an Gutliiee of a man cut from
black stone.

“T’ll just step around—there.”’

“‘Oh, what for?’ whispered Joan.

“T’m going to kill Kells.”

Jaan got both arms round his neck and with her

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head against him she held him tightly, trying,
praying to think how to meet this long-dreaded
moment. After all, what was the use to try? This
was the hour of Gold! Sacrifice, hope, courage,
nobility, fidelity—these had no place here now.
Men were the embodiment of passion—ferocity.
They breathed only possession, and the thing in the
balance was death. Women were creatures to hun-
ger and fight for, but womanhood was nothing.
Joan knew all this with a desperate hardening cer-
tainty, and almost she gave in. Strangely, thought
of Gulden flashed up to make her again strong!
Then she raised her face and began the old pleading
with Jim, but different this time, when it seemed that
absolutely all was at stake. She begged him, she
importuned him, to listen to reason, to be guided by
her, to fight the wildness that had obsessed him, to
make sure that she would not be left alone. All in
vain! He swore he would kill Kells and any other
bandit who stood in the way of his leading her free
out of that cabin. He was wild to fight. He
might never have felt fear of these robbers. He
would not listen to any possibility of defeat for him-
self, of the possibility that in the event of Kells’s
death she would be worse off. He laughed at her
strange, morbid fears of Gulden. He was im-
movable.

“Jim! ... Jim! You'll break my heart!’ she
whispered, wailingly. ‘‘Oh! what can I do?”

Then Joan released her clasp and gave up to utter
defeat. Cleve was silent. He did not seem to hear
the shuddering little sobs that shook her. Suddenly
he bent close to her.

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“‘There’s one thing you can do. If you'll do it I
won't kill Kells. Ill obey your every word.”

“What is it? Tell me!’

‘“Marry me!’ he whispered, and his voice trembled.

“Marry you!” exclaimed Joan. She was con-
founded. She began to fear Jim was out of his head.

“T mean it. Marry me. Oh, Joan, will you—
willyou? It ’Ilmake the difference. That Il steady
me. Don’t you want to?’

“Jim, I'd be the happiest girl in the world if—if
I only could marry you!” she breathed, passionately.

“But will you—will you? Say yes! Say yes!’

“Yes!” replied Joan in her desperation. ‘‘I hope
that pleases you. But what on earth is the use to
talk about it now?”

Cleve seemed to expand, to grow taller, to thrill
under her nervous hands. And then he kissed her
differently. She sensed a shyness, a happiness, a
something hitherto foreign to his attitude. It was
spiritual, and somehow she received an uplift of hope.

“Listen,” he whispered. ‘‘There’s a preacher
down in camp. I’ve seen him—talked with him.
He’s trying to do good in that hell down there. I
know I can trust him. I'll confide in him—enough.
I’ll fetch him up here to-morrow night—about this
time. Oh, I’ll be careful—very careful. And he can
marry us right here by the window. Joan, will you
doit? ... Somehow, whatever threatens you or me—
that ll be my salvation! ... I’ve suffered so. It’s
been burned in my heart that you would never marry
me. Yet you say you love me!...Proveit!... My
wife! ... Now, girl, a word will make a man of me!”

“Yes!” And with the word she put her lips to

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his with all her heart in them. She felt him tremble.
Yet almost instantly he put her from him.

‘‘Look for me to-morrow about this time,’ he
whispered. ‘‘Keep your nerve. ... Good night.”

That night Joan dreamed strange, weird, unre-
membered dreams. The next day passed like a slow,
unreal age. She ate little of what was brought to
her. For the first time she denied Kells admittance
and she only vaguely sensed his solicitations. She
had no ear for the murmur of voices in Kelis’s room.
Even the loud and angry notes of a quarrel between
Kells and his men did not distract her.

At sunset she leaned out of the little window, and
only then, with the gold fading on the peaks and the
shadow gathering under the bluff, did she awaken
to reality. A broken mass of white cloud caught
the glory of the sinking sun. She had never seen a
golden radiance like that. It faded and dulled.
But a warm glow remained. At twilight and then at
dusk this glow lingered.

Then night fell. Joan was exceedingly sensitive
to the sensations of light and shadow, of sound and
silence, of dread and hope, of sadness and joy.

That pale, ruddy glow lingered over the bold
heave of the range in the west. It was like a fire
that would not go out, that would live to-morrow, and
burn golden. The sky shone with deep, rich blue
color fired with a thousand stars, radiant, speaking,
hopeful. And there was a white track across the
heavens. ‘The mountains flung down their shadows,
impenetrable, like the gloomy minds of men; and
everywhere under the bluffs and slopes, in the hol-

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lows and ravines, lay an enveloping blackness, hiding
its depth and secret and mystery.

Joan listened. Was there sound or silence? A
faint and indescribably low roar, so low that it
might have been real or false, came on the soft night
breeze. It was the roar of the camp down there—
the strife, the agony, the wild life in ceaseless action—
the strange voice of gold, roaring greed and battle
and death over the souls of men. But above that,
presently, rose the murmur of the creek, a hushed
and dreamy flow of water over stones. It was
hurrying to get by this horde of wild men, for it
must bear the taint of gold and blood. Would it
purge itself and clarify in the valleys below, on its
way to the sea? There was in its murmur an im-
perishable and deathless note of nature, of time;
and this was only a fleeting day of men and gold.

Only by straining her ears could Joan hear these
sounds, and when she ceased that, then she seemed
to be weighed upon and claimed by silence. It was
not a silence like that of Lost Cafion, but a silence
of solitude where her soul stood alone. She was
there on earth, yet no one could hear her mortal
cry. The thunder of avalanches or the boom of the
sea might have lessened her sense of utter loneliness.

And that silence fitted the darkness, and both were
apostles of dread. They spoke toher. She breathed
dread on that silent air and it filled her breast.
There was nothing stable in the night shadows.
The ravine seemed to send forth stealthy, noiseless
shapes, specter and human, man and phantom, each
on the other’s trail.

It Jim would only come and let her see that he was

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safe for the hour! A hundred times she imagined
she saw him looming darker than the shadows. She
had only to see him now, to feel his hand, and dread
might be lost. Love was something beyond the
grasp of mind. Love had confounded Jim Cleve:
it had brought up kindness and honor from the
dlack depths of a bandit’s heart; it had transformed
her from a girl into a woman. Surely with all its
greatness it could not be lost; surely in the end it
must triumph over evil.

Joan found that hope was fluctuating, but eternal.
It took no stock of intelligence. It was a matter of
feeling. And when she gave rein to it for a moment,
suddenly it plunged her into sadness. To hope was
to think! Poor Jim! It was his fool’s paradise.
Just to let her be his wife! That was the shibboleth
of his dream. Joan divined that he might yield to
her wisdom, he might become a man, but his agony
would be greater. Still, he had been so intense, so
strange, so different that she could not but feel joy
in his joy.

Then at a soft footfall, a rustle, and a moving
shadow Joan’s mingled emotions merged into a
poignant sense of the pain and suspense and tender-
ness of the actual moment.

“‘Joan—Joan,”’ came the soft whisper.

She answered, and there was a catch in her breath.

The moving shadow split into two shadows that
stole closer, loomed before her. She could not tell
which belonged to Jim till he touched her. His
touch was potent. It seemed to electrify her.

“‘Dearest, we’re here—this is the parson,’’ said
Jim, like a happy boy. ‘‘I—”

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‘Ssssh!”? whispered Joan. ‘‘Not so loud... .
Listen!”

Kells was holding a rendezvous with members of
his Legion. Joan even recognized his hard and som-
ber tone, and the sharp voice of Red Pearce, and the
drawl of Handy Oliver.

“All right. Tl be quiet,’”’ responded Cleve, cau-
tiously. ‘‘Joan, you’re to answer a few questions.”

Then a soft hand touched Joan, and a voice dif-
ferently keyed from any she had heard on the border
addressed her.

‘‘What is your name?” asked the preacher.
Joan told him.
~ “Can you tell anything about yourself? This
young man is—is almost violent. I’m not sure.
Still I want to—”

“TI can’t tell much,” replied Joan, hurriedly.
“I’m an honest girl. I’m free to—to marry him.
I—I love him!...Oh, I want to help him. We—we
are in trouble here. I daren’t say how.”

‘‘Are you over eighteen ?”’

“Yes, sir.”

“Do your parents object to this young man?”

“‘T have no parents. And my uncle, with whom
I lived before I was brought to this awful place,
‘he loves Jim. He always wanted me to marry
him.”

“Take his hand, then.”’

Joan felt the strong clasp of Jim’s fingers, and
that was all which seemed real at the moment. It
seemed so dark and shadowy round these two black
forms in front of her window. She heard a mournful
wail of a lone wolf and it intensified the weird dream

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that bound her. She heard her shaking, whispered
voice repeating the preacher’s words. She caught a
phrase of a low-murmured prayer. Then one dark
form moved silently away. She was alone with Jim.

“Dearest Joan!’ he whispered. ‘‘It’s over! It’s
done! ... Kiss me!”

She lifted her lips and Jim seemed to kiss her
more sweetly, with less violence.

“‘Oh, Joan, that you’d really have me! I can’t
believe it... . Your husband.”

That word dispelled the dream and the pain
which had held Joan, leaving only the tenderness,
magnified now a hundredfold.

And that instant when she was locked in Cleve’s
arms, when the silence was so beautiful and full, she
heard the heavy pound of a gun-butt upon the table
in Kells’s room.

‘‘Where is Cleve?’”” That was the voice of Kells, - - -

stern, demanding.

Joan felt a start, a tremor run over Jim. Then he
stiffened.

“TI can’t locate him,”’ replied Red Pearce. “It
was the same last night an’ the one before. Cleve
jest disappears these nights—about this time... .
Some woman’s got him!’

““He goes to bed. Can't you find where he sleeps?”

“No.”

“This job’s got to go through and he’s got to da
at.”

“Bah!” taunted Pearce. ‘‘Gulden swears you
can’t make Cleve do a job. And so do I!”

““Go out and yell for Cleve! . . .Damn you ail!
I'll show you!”

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Then Joan heard the tramp of heavy boots, then
a softer tramp on the ground outside the cabin.
Joan waited, holding her breath. She felt Jim’s
heart beating. He stood likea post. He, like Joan,
was listening, as if for a trumpet of doom.

‘“HALLo, Jim!” rang out Pearce’s stentorian call.
Tt murdered the silence. It boomed under the bluff, '
and clapped:in echo, and wound away, mockingly.
It seemed to have shrieked to the whole wild border-
land the breaking-point of the bandit’s power.

So momentous was the call that Jim Cleve seemed
to forget Joan, and she let him go without a word.
Indeed, he was gone before she realized it, and his
dark form dissolved in the shadows. Joan waited,
listening with abated breathing. On this side of
the cabin there was absolute silence. She believed
that Jim would slip around under cover of night and
return by the road from camp. Then what would
he do? The question seemed to stultify her.

Joan leaned there at her window for moments
greatly differing from those vaguely happy ones just
passed. She had sustained a shock that had left
her benumbed with a dull pain. What a rude, raw
break the voice of Kells had made in her brief for-
getfulness! She was returning now to reality.
Presently she would peer through the crevice be-
tween the boards into the other room, and she
shrank from the ordeal. Kells, and whoever was
with him, maintained silence. Occasionally she
heard the-shuffle of a boot and a creak of the loose
floor boards. She waited till anxiety and fear com-
pelled her to look.

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The lamps were burning; the door was wide open.
Apparently Kells’s rule of secrecy had been aban-
doned. One glance at Kells was enough to show
Joan that he was sick and desperate. Handy Oliver
did not wear his usual lazy good humor. Red
Pearce sat silent and sullen, a smoking, unheeded
pipe in his hand. Jesse Smith was gloomy. The
only other present was Bate Wood, and whatever
had happened had in no wise affected him. These
bandits were all waiting.

Presently quick footsteps on the path outside
caused them all to look toward the door. That
tread was familiar to Joan, and suddenly her
mouth was dry, her tongue stiff. What was Jim
Cleve coming to meet? How sharp and decided
his walk! Then his dark form crossed the bar of
light outside the door, and he entered, bold and cool,
and with a weariness that must have been simulated.

“Howdy, boys!’’ he said.

Only Kells greeted him in response. The bandit
eyed him curiously. The others added suspicion to
their glances.

“Did you hear Red’s yell?” queried Kells, pres-

ently.
“T’d have heard that roar if I’d been dead,” re-
plied Cleve, bluntly. ‘‘And I didn’t like it: ...I

was coming up the road and I heard Pearce yell.
Til bet every man in camp heard it.”

““How’d you know Pearce yelled for you?”

“‘T recognized his voice.”

Cleve’s manner recalled to Joan her first sight of
him over in Cabin Gulch. He was not so white or

haggard, but his eyes were piercing, and what had
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once been recklessness now seemed to be boldness.
He deliberately studied Pearce. Joan trembled, for
she divined what none of these robbers knew, and it
was that Pearce was perilously near death. It was
there for Joan to read in Jim’s dark glance.

““Where’ve you been all these nights?’ queried the
bandit leader.

“Is that any of your business—when you haven’t
had need of me?” returned Cleve.

‘Yes, it’s my business. And I’ve sent for you.
You couldn’t be found.”’

‘‘T’ve been here for supper every night.”

“‘T don’t talk to my men in daylight. You know
my hours for meeting. And you’ve not come.”

“You should have told me. How was I to
know?”

“T guess you’re right. But where’ve you been?”

‘‘Down in camp. Faro, most of the time. Bad
luck, too.”

Red Pearce’s coarse face twisted into a scornful
sneer. It must have been a lash to Kells.

‘‘Pearce says you’re chasing a woman,’’ retorted
the bandit leader.

‘Pearce lies!’ flashed Cleve. His action was as
swift. And there he stood with a gun thrust hard
against Pearce’s side.

‘Jim! Don’t kill him!” yelled Kells, rising.

Pearce’s red face turned white. He stood still asa
stone, with his gaze fixed in fascinated fear upon
Cleve’s gun.

A paralyzing surprise appeared to hold the group.

“Can you prove what you said?” asked Cleve,

low and hard.
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Joan knew that if Pearce did have the proof
which would implicate her he would never live to
tell it.

“Cleve—I don’t—know nothin’,’”’ choked out
Pearce. ‘‘I jest figgered—it was a woman!”

Cleve slowly lowered the gun and stepped back.
Evidently that satisfied him. But Joan had an in-
tuitive feeling that Pearce lied.

““You want to be careful how you talk about me,”
said Cleve.

Kells puffed out a suspended breath and he flung
the sweat from his brow. There was about him,
perhaps more than the others, a dark realization of
now close the call had been for Pearce.

“Jim, you're not drunk?”

“No.”’

“But you’re sore?”’

“Sure [’m sore. Pearce put me in bad with you,
didn’t he?”

“‘No. You misunderstood me. Red hasn’t a
thing against you. And neither he nor anybody else
could put you in bad with me.”

“All right. Maybe I was hasty. But I’m not
wasting time these days,” replied Cleve. ‘‘I’ve no
hard feelings. ... Pearce, do you want to shake hands
—or hold that against me?”

“He'll shake, of course,” said Kells.

Pearce extended his hand, but with a bad grace.
He was dominated. This affront of Cleve’s would
rankle in him.

‘Kells, what do you want with me?” demanded
Cleve.

A change passed over Kells, and Joan could not

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tell just what it was, but somehow it seemed to sug-
gest a weaker man.

‘*Jim, you’ve been a great card for me,” began
Kells, impressively. ‘‘You’ve helped my game—
and twice you saved my life. I think a lot of you.
... If you stand by me now I swear I'll return the
trick some day. ... Will you stand by me?”

““Yes,”’ replied Cleve, steadily, but he grew pale.
““What’s the trouble?”

“By , it’s bad enough!” exclaimed Kells, and
as he spoke the shade deepened in his haggard face.
“Gulden has split my Legion. He has drawn away
more than half my men. They have been drunk
and crazy ever since. They’ve taken things into
their own hands. You see the result as well as I.
That camp down there is fire and brimstone. Some
one of that drunken gang has talked. We're none
of us safe any more. I see suspicion everywhere.
I’ve urged getting a big stake and then hitting the
trail for the border. But not a man sticks to me in
that. They all want the free, easy, wild life of this
gold-camp. So we’re anchored till—till . . . But
maybe it’s not too late. Pearce, Oliver, Smith—all
the best of my Legion—profess loyalty tome. Ifwe
all pull together maybe we can win yet. But they’ve
threatened to split, too. And it’s all on your
account!”

“Mine?” ejaculated Cleve.

“Yes. Now it’s nothing to make you flash your
gun. Remember you said you’d stand by me....
Jim, the fact 1s—all the gang to a man believe you’re
double-crossing me!”

“In what way?” queried Cleve, blanching.

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“They think you’re the one who has talked.
They blame you for the suspicion that’s growing.’

‘‘Well, they’re absolutely wrong,” declared Cleve,
in a ringing voice.

‘I know they are. Mind you I’m not hinting I
distrust you. I don’t. I swear by you. But
Pearce—”’

‘‘So it’s Pearce,’’ interrupted Cleve, darkly. ‘“‘I
thought you said he hadn’t tried to put me in bad
with you.”

‘“‘He hasn’t. He simply spoke his convictions.
He has a right to them. So have all the men.
And, to come to the point, they all think you’re
crooked because you're honest!’

‘“‘T don’t understand,” replied Cleve, slowly.

‘‘Jim, you rode into Cabin Gulch, and you raised
some trouble. But you were no bandit. You
joined my Legion, but you’ve never become a bandit.
Here you’ve been an honest miner. That suited my
plan and it helped. But it’s got so it doesn’t suit
my men. You work every day hard. You've
struck it rich. You’re well thought of in Alder
Creek. You’ve never done a dishonest thing. Why,
you wouldn’t turn a crooked trick in a card game for
a sack full of gold. This has hurt you with my
men. They can’t see as I see, that you’re as square
as you are game. They see you’re an honest miner.
They believe you’ve got into a clique—that you’ve
given us away. I don’t blame Pearce or any of my
men. This is a time when men’s intelligence, if they
have any, doesn’t operate. Their brains are on fire.
They see gold and whisky and blood, and they feel

gold and whisky and blood. That’s all. I’m glad
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“MOGNIM NOSIYd YUTH HONOUHL UAH SATAUVW Wilf ‘NvOof anOSay OL ATIAVNOA

‘uo1saT 4apsog ay f, ‘IAn4qI1 junoumviwgd

 
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that the gang gives you the benefit of a doubt and a
chance to stand by me.”

““A chance!”

‘Yes. They’ve worked out a job for you alone.
Will you undertake it?”

“‘T'll have to,” replied Cleve.

“You certainly will if you want the gang to justify
my faith in you. Once you pull off a crooked deal,
they'll switch and swear by you. Then we'll get
together, all of us, and plan what to do about Gulden
and his outfit. They'll run our heads, along with
their own, right into the noose.”

“What is this—this job?” labored Cleve. He was
sweating now and his hair hung damp cver his brow.
He lost that look which had made him a bold man
and seemed a boy again, weak, driven, bewildered.

Kells averted his gaze before speaking again.
He hated to force this task upon Cleve. Joan felt,
in the throbbing pain of the moment, that if she
never had another reason to like this bandit, she
would like him for the pity he showed.

“Do you know a miner named Creede?’ asked
Kells, rapidly.

‘‘A husky chap, short, broad, something like
Gulden for shape, only not so big—fellow with a
fierce red beard?” asked Cleve.

‘“‘T never saw him,” replied Kells. ‘‘But Pearce
has. How does Cleve’s description fit Creede?”

‘“‘He’s got his man spotted,’’ answered Pearce.

‘All right, that’s settled,’’ went on Kells, warming
to his subject. ‘‘This fellow Creede wears a heavy
belt of gold. Blicky never makes a mistake.

‘Creede’s partner left on yesterday’s stage for
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Bannack. He’il be gone a few days. Creede is a
hard worker—one of the hardest. Sometimnes he
goes to sleep at his supper. He’s not the drinking
kind. He’s slow, thick-headed. The best time for
this job will be early in the evening—just as soon as
his lights are out. Locate the tent. It stands at the
head of a little wash and there’s a bleached pine-tree
right by the tent. To-morrow night as soon as it
gets dark crawl up this wash—be carerul—wait till
the right time—then finish the job quick!’

‘‘How—finish—it?”’ asked Cleve, hoarsely.

Kells was scintillating now, steely, cold, radiant.
He had forgotten the man before him in the prospect.
of the gold.

“‘Creede’s cot is on the side of the tent opposite
the tree. You won’t have to go inside. Slit the
canvas. It’s a rotten old tent. Kill Creede with
your knife. ... Get his belt. ... Be bold, cautious,
swift! That’s your job. Now what do you say?”

“‘All right,”’ responded Cleve, somberly, and with
a heavy tread he left the room.

After Jim had gone Joan still watched and listened.
She was in distress over his unfortunate situation,
but she had no fear that he meant to carry out Kells’s
plan. This was a critical time for Jim, and there-
fore for her. She had no idea what Jim could do;
all she thought of was what he would not do.

Kells gazed triumphantly at Pearce. ‘‘I told you
the youngster would stand by me. I never put him
on a job before.”’

““Reckon I figgered wrong, boss,’’ replied Pearce.

“He looked sick to me, but game,” said Handy
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Oliver. ‘‘Kells is right, Red, an’ you've been sore-
headed over nothin’!”’

_“‘Mebbe. But ain’t it good figgerin’ to make
Cleve do some kind of a job, even if he is on the
square?”

They all acquiesced to this, even Kells slowly nod-
ding his head.

“Jack, I’ve thought of another an’ better job for
young Cleve,” spoke up Jesse Smith, with his charac-
teristic grin.

“You'll all be setting him jobs now,” replied
Kells. ‘‘What’s yours?”

“You spoke of plannin’ to get together once more
—what’s left of us. An’ there’s thet bull-head
Gulden.”’

“You're sure right,” returned the leader, grimly,
and he looked at Smith as if he would welcome any
suggestion.

““T never was afraid to speak my mind,’’ went on
Smith. Here he lost his grin and his coarse mouth
grew hard. ‘‘Gulden will have to be killed if we’re
goin’ to last!’

“Wood, what do you say?” queried Kells, with
narrowing eyes.

Bate Wood nodded as approvingly as if he had
been asked about his bread.

“Oliver, what do you say?”

“Wal, I’d love to wait an’ see Gul hang, but if you
press me, I’ll agree to stand pat with the cards
Jesse’s dealt,’”’ replied Handy Oliver.

Then Kells turned with a bright gleam upon his
face. ‘‘And you—Pearce?”’

“T’d say yes in a minute if I’d not have to take

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a hand in thet job,” replied Pearce, with a hard
laugh. ‘‘Gulden won’t be so easy to kill. He'll
pack a gunful of lead. I’ll gamble if the gang of us
cornered him in this cabin he’d do for most of us
before we killed him.”’

*‘Gul sleeps alone, no one knows where,” said
Handy Oliver. ‘‘An’ he can’t be surprised. Red’s
correct. How ’re we goin’ to kill him?”

“Tf you gents will listen you'll find out,” rejoined
Jesse Smith. ‘‘Thet’s the job for young Cleve. He
can do it. Sure Gulden never was afraid of any
man. But somethin’ about Cleve bluffed him. |
don’t know what. Send Cleve out after Gulden.
He'll call him face to face, anywhere, an’ beat him
toa gun!... Take my word for it.”

“*Jesse, that’s the grandest idea you ever had,”
said Kells, softly. His eyes shone. The old power
came back to his face. ‘‘I split on Gulden. With
him once out of the way—!”

“Boss, are you goin’ to make thet Jim Cleve’s
second job?” inquired Pearce, curiously.

“TI am,” replied Kells, with his jaw corded and
stiff.

“Tf he pulls thet off you’ll never hear a yap from
me so long as I live. An’ I'll eat out of Cleve’s
hand.”

Joan could bear to hear no more. She staggered
to her bed and fell there, all cramped as if in a cold
vise. However Jim might meet the situation
planned for murdering Creede, she knew he would
not shirk facing Gulden with deadly intent. He
hated Gulden because she had a horror of him,

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Would these hours of suspense never end? Must
she pass from one torture to another until—?

Sleep did not come for a long time. And when it
did she suffered with nightmares from which it
seemed she could never awaken.

The day, when at last it arrived, was no better
than the night. It wore on endlessly, and she who
listened so intently found it one of the silent days.
Only Bate Wood remained at the cabin. He ap-
peared kinder than usual, but Joan did not want to
talk. She ate her meals, and passed the hours
watching from the window and lying on the bed.
Dusk brought Kells and Pearce and Smith, but not
Jim Cleve. Handy Oliver and Blicky arrived at
supper-time.

“‘Reckon Jim’s appetite is pore,” remarked Bate
Wood, reflectively. ‘‘He ’ain’t been in to-day.”

Some of the bandits laughed, but Kells had a
twinge, if Joan ever saw aman have one. The dark,
formidable, stern look was on his face. He alone of
the men ate sparingly, and after the meal he took to
his bent posture and thoughtful pacing. Joan saw
the added burden of another crime upon his shoul-
ders. Conversation, which had been desultory, and
such as any miners or campers might have indulged
in, gradually diminished to a word here and there,
and finally ceased. Kells always at this hour had a
dampening effect upon his followers. More and
more he drew aloof from them, yet he never realized
that. He might have been alone. But often he
glanced out of the door, and appeared to listen.
Of course he expected Jim Cleve to return, but what
did he expect of him? Joan had a blind faith thet

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Jim would be cunning enough to fool Kells and
Pearce. So much depended upon it!

Some of the bandits uttered an exclamation.
Then silently, like a shadow, Jim Cleve entered.

Joan’s heart leaped and seemed to stand still.
Jim could not have looked more terrible if he were
really a murderer. He opened his coat. Then he
flung a black object upon the table and it fell with a
soft, heavy, sodden thud. It was a leather beit
packed with gold.

When Kells saw that he looked no more at the pale
Cleve. His clawlike hand swept out for the belt,
lifted and weighed it. Likewise the other bandits,
with gold in sight, surged round Kells, forgetting
Cleve.

“Twenty pounds!’ exclaimed Kells, with a
strange rapture in his voice.

‘‘Let me heft it?’ asked Pearce, thrillingly.

Joan saw and heard so much, then through a kind
of dimness, that she could not wipe away, her eyes
beheld Jim. What was the awful thing that she
interpreted from his face, his mien? Was this a part
he was playing to deceive Kells? The slow-gathering
might of her horror came with the meaning of that
gold-belt. Jim had brought back the gold-belt of
the miner Creede. He had, in his passion to remain
near her, to save her in the end, kept his word to Kells
and done the ghastly deed.

Joan reeled and sank back upon the bed, blindly,,
with darkening sight and mind.

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CHAPTER XVI

'OAN returned to consciousness with a sense of
J vague and unlocalized pain which she thought
was that old, familiar pang of grief. But once fully
awakened, as if by a sharp twinge, she became aware
that the pain was some kind of muscular throb in
her shoulder. The instant she was fully sure of this
the strange feeling ceased. Then she lay wide-eyed
in the darkness, waiting and wondering.

vaddenly the slight sharp twinge was repeated.
It seemed to come from outside her flesh. She
shivered a little, thinking it might be a centipede.
When she reached for her shoulder her hand came
in contact with a slender stick that had been thrust
through a crack between the boards. Jim was
trying to rouse her. This had been his method on
several occasions when she had fallen asleep after
waiting long for him.

Joan got up to the window, dizzy and sick with
the resurging memory of Jim’s return to Kells with
that gold-belt.

Jim rose out of the shadow and felt for her,
clasped her close. Joan had none of the old thrill;
her hands slid loosely round his; and every second
the weight inwardly grew heavier.

‘Joan! Thad atime waking you,” whispered Jim,
and then he kissed her. ‘‘Why, you’re as cold as ice.”

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‘‘Jim—I—I must have fainted,” she replied.

“What for?”

“I was peeping into Kells’s cabin, when you—
you—”

‘Poor kid!’ he interrupted, tenderly. ‘‘You'’ve
had so much to bear!... Joan, I fooled Kells. Oh,
I was slick! ... He ordered me out on a job—to kill
a miner! Fancy that! And what do you think?
I know Creede well. He’s a good fellow. I traded
my big nugget for his gold-belt!”’

“You traded—you—didn’t—kill him!” faltered
Joan.

“Hear the child talk!” exclaimed Cleve, with a
low laugh.

Joan suddenly clung to him with all her might,
quivering in a silent joy. It had not occurred to
Jim what she might have thought.

‘‘Listen,” he went on. ‘‘I traded my nugget. It
was worth a great deal more than Creede’s gold-belt.
He knew this. He didn’t want to trade. But I
. coaxed him. I persuaded him to leave camp—to
walk out on the road to Bannack. To meet the
stage somewhere and go on to Bannack, and stay
afew days. He sure was curious. But I kept my
secret. ... Then I came back here, gave the belt to
Kells, told him I had followed Creede in the dark,
had killed him and slid him into a deep hole in the
creek. ... Kells and Pearce—none of them paid any
attention to my story. I had the gold-belt. That
was enough. Gold talks—fills the ears of these
bandits. ... I have my share of Creede’s gold-dust
in my pocket. Isn’t that funny? Alas for my—
your big nugget! But we’ve got to play the game.

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Besides, I’ve sacks and cans of gold hidden away.
Joan, what ‘ll we do with it all? You’re my wife
now. And, oh! if we can only get away with it
you'll be rich!”

Joan could not share his happiness any more than
she could understand his spirit. She remembered.

‘‘Jim—-dear—did Kells tell you what your—next
job was to be?” she whispered, haltingly.

Cleve swore under his breath, but loud enough to
make Joan swiftly put her hand over his lips and
caution him.

*‘Joan, did you hear that about Gulden?’ he asked.

“‘Oh yes.”

“T’m sorry. I didn’t mean to tell you. Yes,
I’ve got my second job. And this one I can’t shirk
or twist around.”

Joan held to him convulsively. She could scarcely
speak.

*‘Girl, don’t you lose your nerve!” he said, sternly.
‘‘When you married me you made me a man. I'll
play my end of the game. Don’t fear for me.
You plan when we can risk escape. I’ll obey you
to the word.”

“But Jim—oh, Jim!” she moaned. ‘‘You’re as
wild as these bandits. You can’t see your danger.
... That terrible Gulden! . . . You don’t mean to
meet him—fight him? ... Say you won’t!”

‘Joan, I’ll meet him—and I’ll kill him,” whispered
Jim, with a piercing intensity. ‘‘You never knew I
was swift with a gun. Well, I didn’t, either, till I
struck the border. I know now. Kells is the only
man I’ve seen who can throw a gun quicker than I.
Gulden is a big bull. He’s slow. I'll get into a

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card-game with him—1I’ll quarrel over gold—I’ll
smash him as I did once before—and this time I
won't shoot off his ear. I’ve my nerve now. Kells
swore he’d do anything for me if I stand by him
now. I will. You never can tell. Kelis is losing
his grip. And my standing by him may save
you.”

Joan drew a deep breath. Jim Cleve had indeed
come into manhood. She crushed down her woman-
ish fears and rose dauntless to the occasion. She
would never weaken him by a lack of confidence.

*‘Jim, Kells’s plot draws on to a fatal close,’’ she
said, earnestly. ‘‘I feel it. He’s doomed. He
doesn’t realize that yet. He hopes and plots on.
When he falls, then he’ll be great—terrible. We
must get away before that comes. What you said
about Creede has given me an idea. Suppose we
plan to slip out some night soon, and stop the
stage next day on its way to Bannack?”

“T’ve thought of that. But we must have
horses.”

“‘Let’s go afoot. We'd be safer. There’d not be
so much to plan.”

“But if we go on foot we must pack guns and
grub—and there’s my gold-dust. Fifty pounds or
more! It’s yours, Joan. . . . You'll need it all.
You love pretty clothes and things. And now I'll
get them for you or—or die.”

“Hush! That’s foolish talk, with our very lives
at stake. Let me plan some more. Oh, I think so
hard! . . . And, Jim, there’s another thing. Red
Pearce was more than suspicious about your absence
from the cabin at certain hours. What he hinted to

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Kells about a woman in the case! I’m afraid he
suspects or knows.”

““He had me cold, too,” replied Cleve, thought-
fully. ‘“‘But he swore he knew nothing.”

“Jim, trust a woman’s instinct. Pearce lied.
That gun at his side made him a liar. He knew
you’d kill him if he betrayed himself by a word.
Qh, look out for him!”

Cleve did not reply. It struck Joan tint he was
not listening, at least to her. His head was turned,
rigid and alert. He had his ear to the soft wind.
Suddenly Joan heard a faint rustle—then another.
They appeared to come from the corner of the cabin.
Silently Cleve sank down into the shadow and
vanished. Low, stealthy footsteps followed, but
Joan was not sure whether or not Cleve made them.
They did not seem to come from the direction he
usually took. Besides, when he was careful he never
made the slightest noise. Joan strained her ears,
only to catch the faint sounds of the night. She
lay back upon her bed, worried and anxious again,
and soon the dread returned. ‘There were to be ne
waking or sleeping hours free from this portent of
calamity.

Next morning Joan awaited Kelis, as was her
custom, but he did not appear. This was the third
time in a week that he had forgotten or avoided her
or had been prevented from seeing her. Joan was
glad, yet the fact was not reassuring. ‘The issue foi
Kells was growing from trouble to disaster.

Early in the afternoon she hear Kells returning

from camp. He had men with him. They corm
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versed in low, earnest tones. Joan was about to
spy tpon them when Kells’s step approached her
door, He rapped and spoke:

‘‘Put on Dandy Dale’s suit and mask, and come
out hers,’ he said.

The tone of his voice as much as the content of his
words startled Joan so that she did not at once reply.

*‘Do you hear?”’ he called, sharply.

“Yes,” replied Joan.

‘Then he went back to the men, and the low, earnest
conversation was renewed.

Reluctantly Joan took down Dandy Dale’s things
from the pegs, and with a recurring shame she
divested herself of part of her clothes and donned the
suit and boots and mask and gun. Her spirit rose,
however, at the thought that this would be a disguise
calculated to aid her in the escape with Cleve. But
why had Kells ordered the change? Was he in
danger and did he mean to flee from Alder Creek?
Joan found the speculation a relief from that haunt-
ing, persistent thought of Jim Cleve and Gulden.
She was eager to learn, still she hesitated at the door.
It was just as hard as ever to face those men.

But it must be, so with a wrench she stepped out
boldly.

Kells looked worn and gray. He had not slept.
But his face did not wear the shade she had come to
associate with his gambling and drinking. Six
other men were present, and Joan noted coats and
gloves and weapons and spurs. Kells turned to
address her. His face lighted fleetingly.

“I want you to be ready to ride any minute,” he
said.

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“Why?” asked Joan.

““We may have to, that’s all,” he replied.

His men, usually so keen when they had a chance
to ogle Joan, now scarcely gave her a glance. They
were a dark, grim group, with hard eyes and tight
lips. Handy Oliver was speaking.

“T tell you, Gulden swore he seen Creede—on the
road—in the lamplight—last night after Jim Cleve
got here.”

‘‘Gulden must have been mistaken,” declared
Kells, impatiently.

“He ain’t the kind to make mistakes,’ replied
Oliver.

““Gul’s seen Creede’s ghost, thet’s what,’’ sug-
gested Blicky, uneasily. ‘‘I’ve seen a few in my
time.”

Some of the bandits nodded gloomily.

“Aw!” burst out Red Pearce. ‘‘Gulden never
seen a ghost in his life. If he seen Creede he’s seen
him alive!”

“Shore you're right, Red,” agreed Jesse Smith.

“But, men—Cleve brought in Creede’s belt—and
we've divided the gold,” said Kells. ‘‘You all know
Creede would have to be dead before that belt could
be unbuckled from him. There’s a mistake.”

‘‘Boss, it’s my idee thet Gul is only makin’ more
trouble,’ put in Bate Wood. ‘‘I seen him less than
an hour ago. I was the first one Gul talked to.
An’ he knew Jim Cleve did for Creede. How’d
he know? Thet was supposed to be a secret.
What’s more, Gul told me Cleve was on the job to
kill him. How’d he ever find thet out? ... Sure as
God made little apples Cleve never told him!”

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Kells’s face grew livid and his whole body vibrated
“Maybe one of Gulden’s gang was outside, listening
when we planned Cieve’s job,” he suggested. But
his look belied his hope.

“Naw! ‘There’s a nigger in the wood-pile, you.
can gamble on thet,” blurted out the sixth bandit,
a lean-faced, bold-eyed, blond-mustached fellow
whose name Joan had never heard.

“T won’t believe it,’ replied Kells, doggedly.
“‘And you, Budd, you’re accusing somebody presen’
of treachery—or else Cleve. He’s the only one no.
here who knew.”

‘Wal, I always said thet youngster was slick,’
replied Budd.

‘Will you accuse him to his face?”

“T shore will. Gilad of the chance.”

**Then you’re drunk or just a fool.”

“Thet so?”

‘*Yes, that’s so,”’ flashed Kells. ‘‘You don’t know
Cleve. He'll kill you. He’s lightning with a gun.
Do you suppose I’d set him on Gulden’s trail if I
wasn’t sure? Why, I wouldn’t care to—”

‘‘Here comes Cleve,” interrupted Pearce, sharply.

Rapid footsteps sounded without. Then Joan
saw Jim Cleve darken the doorway. He looked keen
and bold. Upon sight of Joan in her changed attire
he gave a slight start.

“Budd, here’s Cleve,’’ called out Red Pearce,
mockingly. ‘‘Now say it to his face!”

In the silence that ensued Pearce’s spirit dominated
the moment with its cunning, hate, and violence.
But Kells savagely leaped in front of the men, still

master of the situation.
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“Red, what’s got into you?” he hissed. ‘‘You’re
eross-grained lately. You're sore. Any more of this
and I'll swear you're a disorganizer. ... Now, Budd,
you keep your mouth shut. And you, Cleve, you
pay no heed to Budd if he does gab... . We're in bad
and ail the men have chips on their shoulders.
We've got to stop fighting among ourselves.”

“Wal, boss, there’s a power of sense in a good
example,” dryly remarked Bate Wood. His remark
calmed Kells and eased the situation.

“Jim, did you meet Guldenf’’ queried Kells,
eagerly.

*‘Can’t find him anywhere,” replied Cleve. ‘‘I’ve
loafed in the saloons and gambling-hells where he
hangs out. But he didn’t show up. He’s in camp.
I know that for a fact. He’s laying low for some
reason.”

‘‘Gulden’s been tipped off, Jim,” said Kells, ear-
nestly. ‘‘He told Bate Wood you were out to kill
him.”

“I’m glad. It wasn’t a fair hand you were going
to deal him,’’ responded Cleve. ‘‘But who gave my
job away? Some one in this gang wants me done
for—more than Gulden.”

Cleve’s flashing gaze swept over the motionless
men and fixed hardest upon Red Pearce. Pearce
gave back hard look for hard look.

“‘Gulden told Oliver more,” continued Kells, and
he pulled Cleve around to face him. ‘‘Gulden swore
he saw Creede alive last night. . . . Late last
nighi!”

‘“‘That’s funny,” replied Cleve, without the flicker

of an eyelash,
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‘It’s not funny. But it’s queer. Gulden hasn’t
the moral sense to lie. Bate says he wants to make
trouble between you and me. I doubt that. I
don’t believe Gulden could see a ghost, either. He’s
simply mistaken some miner for Creede.”

“He sure has, unless Creede came back to life.
I’m not sitting on his chest now, holding him down.”

Kells drew back, manifestly convinced and relieved.
This action seemed to be a magnet for Pearce. He
detached himself from the group, and, approaching
Kells, tapped him significantly on the shoulder; and
whether by design or accident the fact was that he
took a position where Kells was between him and
Cleve.

‘‘Jack, you’re being double-crossed here—an’ by
more ’n one,’’ he said, deliberately. ‘‘But if you
want me to talk you’ve got to guarantee no gun-
play.”

“Speak up, Red,” replied Kells, with a glinting
eye. ‘‘I swear there won’t be a gun pulled.”’

The other men shifted from one foot to another
and there were deep-drawn breaths. Jim Cleve
alone seemed quiet and cool. But his eyes were
ablaze.

“‘Fust off an’ for instance here’s one who’s double-
crossin’ you,”’ said Pearce, in slow, tantalizing speech,
as if he wore out this suspense to torture Kells.
And without ever glancing at Joan he jerked a
thumb, in significant gesture, at her.

Joan leaned back against the wall, trembling and
cold all over. She read Pearce’s mind. He knew
her secret and meant to betray her and Jim. He

hated Kells and wanted to torture him. If only she
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could think quickly and speak! But she seemed
dumb and powerless.

“Pearce, what do you mean?’? demanded Kells.

“The girl’s double-crossin’ you,’’ replied Pearce.
With the uttered words he grew pale and agitated.

Suddenly Kells appeared to become aware of
Joan’s presence and that the implication was
directed toward her. Then, many and remarkable
as had been the changes Joan had seen come over
him, now occurred one wholly greater. It had all
his old amiability, his cool, easy manner, veiling a
deep and hidden ruthlessness, terrible in contrast.

“Red, I thought our talk concerned men and gold
and—things,”’ he said, with a cool, slow softness that
had a sting, ‘‘but since you’ve nerve enough or are
crazy enough to speak of—her—why, explain your
meaning.”

Pearce’s jaw worked so that he could scarcely talk.
He had gone too far—realized it too late.

‘‘She meets a man—back there—at her window,”
he panted. ‘‘They whisper in the dark for hours.
I’ve watched an’ heard them. An’ I’d told you
before, but I wanted te make sure who he was... .
I know him now! ... An’ remember I seen him
climb in an’ out—”

Kells’s whole frame leaped. His gun was a
flash of blue and red and white ali together. Pearce
swayed upright, like a tree chopped at the roots,
and then fell, face up, eyes set—dead. The bandit
leader stood over him with the smoking gun.

‘““My Gawd, Jack!” gasped Handy Oliver. ‘You
swore no one would pull a gun—an’ here you’ve
killed him yourself! ... You've double-crossed your-

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self! An’ if I die for it I’ve got to tell you Red
wasn’t lyin’ then!’’

Kells’s radiance fled, leaving him ghastly. He
stared at Oliver.

‘You've double-crossed yourself an’ your pards,”
went on Oliver, pathetically. ‘‘“What’s your word
amount to? Do you expect the gang to stand for
this?... There lays Red Pearce dead. An’ for what?
Jest once—relyin’ on your oath—he speaks out what
might have showed you. An’ you kill him!...IfI
knowed what he knowed I'd tell you now with thet
gunin your hand! ButIdon’t know. Only I know
he wasn’t lyin’... . Ask the girl! ... An’ as for me,
I reckon I’m through with you an’ your Legion.
You’re done, Kells—your head’s gone—you’ve broke
over thet slip of a woman!”

Oliver spoke with a rude and impressive dignity.
When he ended he strode out into the sunlight.

Kells was shaken by this forceful speech, yet he
was not in any sense a broken man. ‘‘Joan—you
heard Pearce,’ said he, passionately. ‘‘He lied
about you. I had to kill him. He hinted— Oh,
the low-lived dog! He could not know a good
woman. He lied—and there he is—dead! I wouldn’t
fetch him back for a hundred Legions!”

“But it—it wasn’t—all—a lie,” said Joan, and her
words came haltingly because a force stronger than
her cunning made her speak. She had reached a
point where she could not deceive Kells to save her
life.

““Wuat!"" he thundered.

‘‘Pearce told the truth—except that no one ever

climbed in my window. That’s false. No one
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could climb in. It’s too small... But I did whisper
—to some one.”

Kells had to moisten his lips to speak. ‘‘Who?”

“Tl never tell you.”

“Who?... TU kill him!”

“No—no. I won’t tell. I won’t let you kill
another man on my account.”

“Tl choke it out of you.”

“You can’t. There’s no use to threaten me, or
hurt me, either.”

Kells seemed dazed. ‘‘Whisper! For hours! In
the dark! . . . But, Joan, what for? Why such a
risk?”

Joan shook her head.

‘““Were you just unhappy—lonesome? Did some
young miner happen to see you there in daylight—
then come at night? Wasn’t it only accident?
Tell me.”

“T won’t—and I won’t because I don’t want you
to spill more blood.”

“For my sake” he queried, with the old, mocking
tone. Then he grew dark with the blood in his face,
fierce with action of hands and body as he bent nearer
her. ‘‘Maybe you like him too well to see him
shot? ... Did you—whisper often to this stranger?’

Joan felt herself weakening. Kells was so power-
ful in spirit and passion that she seemed unable to
fight him. She strove to withhold her reply, but it
burst forth, involuntarily.

““Yes—often.”

That roused more than anger and passion. Jeal-
ousy flamed from him and it transformed him into a
devil.

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“You held hands out of that window—-and
kissed—in the dark?’’ he cried, with working lips.

Joan had thought of this so fearfully and in-
tensely—she had battled so to fortify herself to
keep it secret—that he had divined it, had read her
mind. She could not control herself. The murder
of Pearce had almost overwhelmed her. She had
not the strength to bite her tongue. Suggestion
alone would have drawn her then—and Kells’s pas-
sionate force was hypnotic.

“Yes,” she whispered.

He appeared to control a developing paroxysm of
sage.

“That settles you,” he declared, darkly. ‘‘But
T’ll do one more decent thing by you. I'll marry
you.” Then he wheeled to his men. “‘Blicky,
there’s a parson down in camp. Go on the run.
Fetch him back if you have to push him with
a gun.”

Blicky darted through the door and his foot-
steps thudded out of hearing.

“You can’t force me to marry vou,” said Joan.
“JI—I won’t open my lips.”

““That’s your affair. I’ve no mind to coax you,”
he replied, bitterly. “‘But if you don’t I'll try
Gulden’s way with a woman. .. . You remember.
Gulden’s way! A cave and a rope!”

Joan’s legs gave out under her and she sank upon
a pile of blankets. Then beyond Kells she saw
Jim Cleve. With all that was ieft of her spirit she
flashed him a warning—a meaning—a prayer not to
do the deed she divined was his deadly intent. He

caught it and obeyed. And he flashed back a
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glance which meant that, desperate as her case was,
it could never be what Kells threatened.

‘‘Men, see me through this,” said Kells to the
silent group. ‘‘Then any deal you want—I’m on.
Stay here or—sack the camp! Hold up the stage
express with gold for Bannack! Anything for a big
stake! Then the trail and the border.”

He began pacing the floor. Budd and Smith
strolled outside. Bate Wood fumbled in his pockets
for pipeand tobacco. Cleve sat down at the table
and leaned on his hands. No one took notice of the
dead Pearce. Here was somber and terrible sign
of the wildness of the border clan—that Kells
could send out for a parson to marry him to a woman
he hopelessly loved, there in the presence of murder
and death, with Pearce’s distorted face upturned
in stark and ghastly significance.

It might have been a quarter of an hour, though
to Joan it seemed an endless time, until foot-
steps and voices outside announced the return of
Blicky.

He held by the arm a slight man whom he was
urging along with no gentle force. This stranger’s
face presented as great a contrast to Blicky’s as
could have been imagined. His apparel proclaimed
his calling. There were consternation and bewilder-
ment in his expression, but very little fear.

‘‘He was preachin’ down there in a tent,’’ said
Blicky, ‘‘an’ L jest waltzed him up without ex-
plainin’.’’

“Sir, I want to be married at once,” declared
Kells, peremptorily.

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“Certainly. I’m at your service,” replied the
preacher. ‘‘But I deplore the—the manner in
which I’ve been approached.”

“You'll excuse haste,’’ rejoined the bandit. ‘‘T’ll
pay you well.” Kells threw a small buckskin sack
of gold-dust upon the table, and then he turned to
Joan. ‘‘Come, Joan,” he said, in the tone that
brooked neither resistance nor delay.

It was at that moment that the preacher first
noticed Joan. Was her costume accountable for his
start? Joan had remembered his voice and she
wondered if he would remember hers. Certainly
Jim had called her Joan more than once on the night
of the marriage. The preacher’s mild eyes grew
keener. He glanced from Joan to Kells, and then at
the other men, who had come in. Jim Cleve stood
behind Jesse Smith’s broad person, and evidently
the preacher did not see him. That curious gaze,
however, next discovered the dead man on the floor.
Then to the curiosity and anxiety upon the preach-
er’s face was added horror.

““A minister of God is needed here, but not
in the capacity you name,” he said. ‘‘I’ll per-
form no marriage ceremony in the presence of—
murder.”

“Mr. Preacher, you’ll marry me quick or you'll
go along with him,” replied Kells, deliberately.

“fT cannot be forced.” The preacher still main-
tained some dignity, but he had grown pale.

“T can force you. Get ready now!... Joan, come
here!”’

Kells spoke sternly, yet something of the old,
self-mocking spirit was in his tone. His intelligence

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was deriding the flesh and blood of him, the beast, the
fool. It spoke that he would have his way and that
the choice was fatal for him.

Joan shook her head. In one stride Kells reached
her and swung her spinning before him. The
physical violence acted strangely upon Joan—
roused her rage.

“T wouldn’t marry you to save my life—even if I
could!”’ she burst out.

At her declaration the preacher gave a start that
must have been suspicion or confirmation, or both.
He bent low to peer into the face of the dead Pearce.
When he arose he was shaking his head. Evidently
he had decided that Pearce was not the man to whom
he had married Joan.

‘Please remove your mask,”’ he said to Joan.

She did so, swiftly, without a tremor. The
preacher peered into her face again, as he had upon
the night he had married her to Jim. He faced
Kells again.

“T am beyond your threats,” he said, now with
calmness. ‘I can’t marry you to a woman who
already has a husband. . . . But I don’t see that
husband here.”

“You don’t see that husband here!’”’ echoed the
bewildered Kells. He stared with open mouth.
“Say, have you got a screw loose?”

The preacher, in his swift glance, had apparently
not observed the half-hidden Cleve. Certainly it
appeared now that he would have no attention for
any other than Kells. The bandit was a study.
Ris astonishment was terrific and held him like a

chain. Suddenly he lurched.
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“What did you say?” he roared, his face flax
ing.

“T can’t marry you to a woman who already hus
a husband.”

Swift as light the red flashed out of Kells’s fame,
**Did you ever see her before?’ he asked.

“Yes,” replied the preacher.

‘Where and when?”

‘“‘Here—at the back of this cabin—a few nights
ago.”

It hurt Joan to look at Kells now, yet he seemed
wonderful to behold. She felt as guilty as if she had
really been false to him. Her heart labored high in
her breast. This was the climax—the moment cf
catastrophe. Another word and Jim Cleve would
be facing Kells. The blood pressure in Joan’s
throat almost strangled her.

“At the back of this cabin! ... At her window?”

“Yes.”

‘“What were you there for?”

“In my capacity as minister. I was summoned
to marry her.”

““To marry her?” gasped Kells.

“Yes. She is Joan Randle, from Hoadley, Idaho.
She is over eighteen. I understood she was detained
here against her will. She loved an honest young
miner of the camp. He brought me up here one
night. And I married them.”

““VYou—married—them!”""

**Ves,”’

Kells was slow in assimilating the truth and his
action corresponded with his mind. Slowly his
hand moved toward his gun. He drew it, threw it

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aloft. And then all the terrible evil of the man
flamed forth. But as he deliberately drew down on
the preacher Blicky leaped forward and knocked up
the gun. Flash and report followed; the discharge
went into the roof. Blicky grasped Kells’s arm and
threw his weight upon it to keep it down.

“T fetched thet parson here,’’ he yelled, “‘an’ you
ain’t a-goin’ to kill him!... Help, Jesse! ... He’s
crazy! He’ll do it!”

Jesse Smith ran to Blicky’s aid and tore the gun
out of Kells’s hand. Jim Cleve grasped the preacher
by the shoulders and, whirling him around, sent him
flying gut of the door.

“Run for your life!’ he shouted.

Blicky and Jesse Smith were trying to hold the
lunging Kells.

“Jim you block the door,” called Jesse. ‘‘Bate,
you grab any loose guns an’ knives. . . . Now, boss,
rant an’ be damned!”

They released Kells and backed away, leaving him
the room. Joan’s limbs seemed unable to execute
her will.

“Joan! It’s true!’ he exclaimed, with whistling
breath.

“Yes.”

“Who?” he bellowed.

“T’ll never tell.”

He reached for her with hands like claws, as if he
meant to tear her, rend her. Joan was helpless,
weak, terrified. Those shaking, clutching hands
reached for her throat and yet never closed round it.
Kells wanted to kill her, but he could not. He
loomed over her, dark, speechless, locked in his

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paroxysm of rage. Perhaps then came a realization
of ruin through her. He hated her because he
loved her. He wanted to kill her because of that
hate, yet he could not harm her, even hurt her.
And his soul seemed in conflict with two giants—the
evil in him that was hate, and the love that was good.
Suddenly he ,flung her aside. She stumbled over
Fearce’s body, almost falling, and staggered back to
the wall. Kells had the center of the room to him-
self. Like a mad steer in a corral he gazed about,
stupidly seeking some way to escape. But the
escape Kells longed for was from himself. Then
either he let himself go or was unable longer to con-
trol his rage. He began to plunge around. His
actions were violent, random, half insane. He
' seemed to want to destroy himself and everything.
But the weapons were guarded by his men and the
room contained little he could smash. There was
something magnificent in his fury, yet childish and
absurd. Even under its influence and his abandon-
ment he showed a consciousness of its futility. Ina
few moments the inside of the cabin was in disorder
and Kells seemed a disheveled, sweating, panting
wretch. The rapidity and violence of his action,
coupled with his fury, soon exhausted him. He fell
from plunging here and there to pacing the floor.
And even the dignity of passion passed from him.
He looked a hopeless, beaten, stricken man, conscious
of defeat.

Jesse Smith approached the bandit leader. ‘‘Jack,
here’s your gun,” he said. ‘‘I only took it because
you was out of your head....An’ listen, boss.

There’s a few of us left..”’
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That was Smith’s expression of fidelity, and K ls
received it with a pallid, grateful smile.

“Bate, you an’ Jim clean up this mess,” went on
Smith. ‘“‘An’, Blicky, come here an’ help me with
Pearce. We'll have to plant him.”

The stir begun by the men was broken by a sharp
exclamation from Cleve.

‘‘Kells, here comes Gulden—Beady Jones, Will-
iams, Beard!’

The bandit raised his head and paced back to
where he could look out.

Bate Wood made a violent and significant gesture.
‘Somethin’ wrong,” he said, hurriedly. ‘An’
it’s more ’n to do with Gul! . . . Look down the road.
See thet gang. All excited an’ wavin’ hands an’
runnin’. But they’re goin’ down into camp.”

Jesse Smith turned a gray face toward Kells.
“Boss, there’s hell to pay! I’ve seen thet kind of
excitement before.”

Kells thrust the men aside and looked out. He
seemed to draw upon a reserve strength, for he grew
composed even while he gazed. ‘‘Jim, get in the
other room,” he ordered, SnaED ‘‘Joan—you go,
too. Keep still.”

Joan hurried to comply. Jim entered after her
and closed the door. Instinctively they clasped
hands, drew close together.

‘Jim, what does it mean?’’ she whispered, fear-
fully. ‘“‘Gulden!”

‘‘He must be looking for me,” replied Jim. ‘‘But
there’s more doing. Did you see that crowd down
the road?”

“ma. IT couldn’t see out.”

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**Listen.”’

Heavy tramp of boots sounded without. Silently
Joan led Jim to the crack between the boards
through which she had spied upon the bandits,
Jim peeped through, and Joan saw his hand go to his
gun. Then she looked.

Gulden was being crowded into the cabin by
fierce, bulging-jawed men who meant some kind of
dark business. The strangest thing about that
entrance was its silence. In a moment they were
inside, confronting Kells with his little group.
Beard, Jones, Williams, former faithful allies of
Kells, showed a malignant opposition. And the
huge Gulden resembled an enraged gorilla. For an
instant his great, pale, cavernous eyes glared. He
had one hand under his coat and his position had a
sinister suggestion. But Kells stood cool and sure.
When Gulden moved Kells’s gun was leaping forth.
But he withheld his fire, for Gulden had only a
heavy round object wrapped in a handkerchief.

‘“Look there!’’ he boomed, and he threw the object
on the table.

The dull, heavy, sodden thump had a familiar
ring. Joan heard Jim gasp and his hand tightened
spasmodically upon hers.

Slowly the ends of the red scarf slid down to re-

‘veal an irregularly round, glinting lump. When
Joan recognized it her heart seemed to burst.

“Jim Cleve’s nugget!’’ ejaculated Kells. ‘‘Where’d
you get that?”

Guiden leaned across the table, his massive jaw
working. ‘‘I found it on the miner Creede,” replied
the giant, stridently.

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Then came a nervous shuffling of boots on the
creaky boards. In the silence a low, dull murmur
of distant voices could be heard,strangely menacing.
Kells stood transfixed, white as a sheet.

“On Creede!”

Ves?

“‘Where was his—his body?”

“T left it out on the Bannack trail.”

The bandit leader appeared mute.

‘Kells, I followed Creede out of camp last night!
fiercely declared Gulden... . “I killed him!...J
found this nugget on him!”

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CHAPTER XVII

PPARENTLY to Kells that nugget did not
accuse Jim Cleve of treachery. Not only did
this possibility seem lost upon the bandit leader,
but also the sinister intent of Gulden and his as-
sociates.

“Then Jim didn’t kill Creede!” cried Kells.

A strange light flashed across his face. It fitted
the note of gladness in his exclamation. How strange
that in his amaze there should be relief instead of
suspicion! Joan thought she understood Kells. He
was glad that he had not yet made a murderer out of
Cleve.

Gulden appeared slow in rejoining. ‘‘I told you
I got Creede,” he said. ‘‘And we want to know if
this says to you what it says to us.”

His huge, hairy hand tapped the nugget. Then
Kells caught the implication.

“What does it say to you?” he queried, coolly,
and he eyed Gulden and then the grim men be-
hind him.

“Somebody in the gang is crooked. Somebody’s
giving you the double-cross. We've known that for
long. Jim Cleve goes out to kill Creede. He comes
in with Creede’s gold-belt—and a lie! .. . We think
Cleve is the crooked one.”

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“No! You’re way off, Gulden,” replied Kells,
earnestly. ‘‘That boy is absolutely square. He’s
lied to me about Creede. But I can excuse that.
He lost his nerve. He’s only a youngster. To
knife a man in his sleep—that was too much for
Jim! ... And I’m glad! I see it all now. Jim’s
swapped his big nugget for Creede’s belt. And in the
bargain he exacted that Creede hit the trail out of
camp. You happened to see Creede and went after
him yourself... . Well, I don’t see where you’ve any
kick coming. For you’ve ten times the money in
Cleve’s nugget that there was in a share of Creede’s
gold.”

“That’s not my kick,” declared Gulden. ‘What
you say about Cleve may be true. But I don’t be-
lieve it. And the gang is sore. Things have leaked
out. We're watched. We’re not welcome in the
gambling-places any more. Last night I was not.
allowed to sit in the game at Belcher’s.”’

“You think Cleve has squealed?’’ queried Kells.

“*Ves.’”’

“ll bet you every ounce of dust I’ve got that
you’re wrong,”’ declared Kells. ‘‘A straight, square
bet against anything you want to put up!”

Kells’s ringing voice was nothing if not convin-
cing.

“Appearances are against Cleve,’’ growled Gulden,
dubiously. Always he had been swayed by the
stronger mind of the leader.

“‘Sure they are,’”’ agreed Kells.

‘‘Then what do you base your confidence on?”

‘‘Just my knowledge of men. Jim Cleve wouldn’t
squeal... . Gulden, did anybody tell you that?”

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“Yes,” replied Gulden, slowly. ‘‘Red Pearce.”

‘Pearce was a liar,” said Kells, bitterly. ‘‘I shot
him for lying to me.”

Gulden stared. His men muttered and gazed at
one another and around the cabin.

“Pearce told me you set Cleve to kill me,” sud-
denly spoke up the giant.

If he expected to surprise Kells he utterly failed.

““That’s another and bigger lie,”’ replied the ban-
dit leader, disgustedly. ‘‘Gulden, do you think my
mind’s gone?”

“Not quite,’’ replied Gulden, and he seemed as
near a laugh as was possible for him.

“Well, I’ve enough mind left not to set a boy to
kill such a man as you.”

Gulden might have been susceptible to flattery.
He turned to his men. They, too, had felt Kells’s
subtle influence. They were ready to veer round like
weather-vanes.

“*Red Pearce has cashed, an’ he can’t talk for him-
self,” said Beady Jones, as if answering to the un-
spoken thought of all.

‘‘Men, between you and me, I had more queer
notions about Pearce than Cleve,”’ announced Gul-
den, gruffly. ‘‘But I never said so because I had no
proof.”

“‘Red shore was sore an’ strange lately,” added
Chick Williams. ‘‘Me an’ him were pretty thick
onct—but not lately.”

The giant Gulden scratched his head and swore.
Probably he had no sense of justice and was merely
puzzled.

“We're wastin’ a lot of time,” put in Beard,

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UIGHL AYONDI ‘NVOl[ YOd SGUVO AHL LAD OL LAOGV ‘NAGTAD ANV ST1IAM
"u0IlsaT 49p4og ay T, ‘2A JunomDing W

 
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anxiously. ‘‘Don’t fergit there’s somethin’ comin’
off down in camp, an’ we ain’t sure what.”

“Bah! Haven’t we heard whispers of vigilantes
for a week?’’ queried Gulden.

Then some one of the men looked out of the door
and suddenly whistled.

‘Who's thet on a hoss?”

Gulden’s gang crowded to the door.

““Thet’s Handy Oliver.’

oc N Oo r ’

“Shore is. I know him. But it ain’t his hoss,

.. Say, he’s hurryin’.”

Low exclamations of surprise and curiosity fol-
lowed. Kells and his men looked attentively, but
noone spoke. The clatter of hoofs on the stony road
told of a horse swiftly approaching—pounding to a
halt before the cabin.

“Handy! ... Air you chased? ... What’s wrong?
... You shore look pale round the gills.” These and
other remarks were flung out the door.

‘“‘Where’s Kells? Let me in,” replied Oliver,
hoarsely.

The crowd jostled and split to admit the long, lean
Oliver. He stalked straight toward Kells, till the
table alone stood between them. He was gray of
face, breathing hard, resolute and stern.

‘Kells, I throwed—you—down!”’ he said, with
outstretched hand. It was a gesture of self-con-
demnation and remorse.

‘“‘What of that?” demanded Kells, with his head
leaping like the strike of an eagle.

“T’m takin’ it back!”

Kells met the outstretched hand with his own and

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wrung it. ‘‘Handy, I never knew you to right-
about-face. But I’m glad. ... What’s changed you
so quickly?”

“Vigilantes!”

Kells’s animation and eagerness suddenly froze.
‘‘Vigilantes!”’ he ground out.

‘“‘No rumor, Kells, this time. I’ve sure some
news. ... Come close, all you fellows. You, Gulden,
come an’ listen. Here’s where we git together
closer ’n ever.”

Gulden surged forward with his group. Handy
Oliver was surrounded by pale, tight faces, dark-
browed and hard-eyed.

He gazed at them, preparing them for a startling
revelation. ‘‘Men, of all the white-livered traitors
as ever was Red Pearce was the worst!’’ he declared,
hoarsely.

No one moved or spoke.

‘An’ he was a vigilante!”

A low, strange sound, almost a roar, breathed
through the group.

“Listen now an’ don’t interrupt. We ’ain’t got a
lot of time. . . . So never mind how I happened to
find out about Pearce. It was all accident, an’
jest because I put two an’ two together. . . . Pearce
was approached by one of this secret vigilante band,
an’ he pianned to sell the Border Legion outright.
There was to be a big stake in it for him. He held
off day after day, only tippin’ off some of the gang.
There’s Dartt an’ Singleton an’ Frenchy an’ Texas
all caught red-handed at jobs. Pearce put the
vigilantes to watchin’ them jest to prove his claim.
,».. Aw! I’ve got the proofs! Jest wait. Listen

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to me!... You all never in your lives seen a snake
like Red Pearce. An’ the job he had put up on us
was grand. ‘To-day he was to squeal on the whole
gang. You know how he began on Kells—an’ how
with his oily tongue he asked a guarantee of no gun-
play. But he figgered Kells wrong for once. He
accused Kells’s girl an’ got killed for his pains.
Mebbe it was part of his plan to git the girl himself.
Anyway, he had agreed to betray the Border Legion
to-day. An’ if he hadn’t been killed by this time
we'd all be tied up, ready for the noose! .. . Mebbe
thet wasn’t a lucky shot of the boss’s. Men, I was
the first to declare myself against Kells, an’ I’m
here now to say thet I was a fool. So you’ve all
been fools who’ve bucked against him. If this ain’t
provin’ it, what can?

‘But I must hustle with my story. ... They was
havin’ a trial down at the big hall, an’ thet place was
sure packed. No diggin’ gold to-day! ... Think
of what thet means for Alder Creek. I got inside
where I could stand on a barrel an’ see. Dartt an’
Singleton an’ Frenchy an’ Texas was bein’ tried by
a masked court. A man near me said two of them
had been proved guilty. It didn’t take long to make
out a case against Texas an’ Frenchy. Miners
there recognized them an’ identified them. They
was convicted an’ sentenced to be hung!... Then
the offer was made to let them go free out of the
border if they’d turn state’s evidence an’ give away
the leader an’ men of the Border Legion. Thet was
put up to each prisoner. Dartt he never answered
at all. An’ Singleton told them to go to hell. An’

Texas he swore he was only a common an’ honest
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road-agent, an’ never heard of the Legion. But
thet Frenchman showed a yellow streak. He might
have taken the offer. But Texas cussed him tur-
rible, an’ made him ashamed to talk. But if they
git Frenchy away from Texas they’ll make him blab.
He’s like a greaser. Then there was a delay. The
big crowd of miners yelled for ropes. But the
vigilantes are waitin’, an’ it’s my hunch they’re
waitin’ for Pearce.”

“So! And where do we stand?” cried Kells, clear
and cold.

““We’re not spotted yet, thet’s certain,’ replied
Oliver, ‘‘else them masked vigilantes would have
been on the job before now. But it’s not sense to
figger we can risk another day. . . . I reckon it’s
hit the trail back to Cabin Gulch.”

“Gulden, what do you say?’ queried Kells,
sharply.

“Till go or stay—whatever you want,’’ replied the
giant. In this crisis he seemed to be glad to have
Kells decide the issue. And his followers resembled
sheep ready to plunge after the leader.

But though Kells, by a strange stroke, had been
made wholly master of the Legion, he did not show
the old elation or radiance. Perhaps he saw more
clearly than ever before. Still he was quick, de-
cisive, strong, equal to the occasion.

“Listen—all of you,” he said. ‘‘Our horses and
outfits are hidden in a gulch several miles below
camp. We've got to go that way. We can’t pack
any grub or stufffromhere. We’llrisk going through
camp. Now leave here two or three at a time, and

wait down there on the edge of the crowd for me
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When I come we'll stick together. Then all do asI
do.”

Gulden put the nugget under his coat and strode
out, accompanied by Budd and Jones. They hur-
ried away. The others went in couples. Soon only
Bate Wood and Handy Oliver were left with Kells.

“‘Now you fellows go,” said Kells. ‘‘Be sure to
round up the gang down there and wait for me.”

When they had gone he called for Jim and Joan
to come out.

All this time Joan’s hand had been gripped in
Jim’s, and Joan had been so absorbed that she had
forgotten the fact. He released her and faced her,
silent, pale. Then he went out. Joan swiftly
followed.

Kells was buckling on his spurs. ‘‘You heard?”
he said, the moment he saw Jim’s face.

“Yes,’’ replied Jim.

‘So much the better. We've got to rustle... .
Joan, put on that long coat of Cleve’s. Take off
your mask. ... Jim, get what gold you have, and
hurry. If we’re gone when you come back hurry
down the road. I want you with me.”

Cleve stalked out, and Joan ran into her room
‘and put on the long coat. She had little time to
jchoose what possessions she could take; and that
choice fell upon the little saddle-bag, into which she
hurriedly stuffed comb and brush and soap—all it
would hold. Then she returned to the larger room.

Kells had lifted a plank of the floor, and was now
in the act of putting small buckskin sacks of gold into
his pockets. They made his coat bulge at the sides.

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“Joan, stick some meat and biscuits in your
pockets,’ he said. ‘‘I’d never get hungry with my
pockets full of gold. But you might.”

Joan rummaged around in Bate Wood’s rude cup-
board.

‘‘These biscuits are as heavy as gold—and harder,”
she said.

Kells flashed a glance at her that held pride,
admiration, and sadness. ‘‘You are the gamest girl
ITever knew! I wish I’d— But that’s too late!...
Joan, if anything happens to me stick close to
Cleve. I believe you can trust him. Come on
now.”

Then he strode out of the cabin. Joan had
almost to run to keep up with him. There were no
other men now in sight. She knew that Jim would
follow soon, because his gold-dust was hidden in the
cavern back of her room, and he would not need
much time to get it. Nevertheless, she anxiously
looked back. She and Kells had gone perhaps a
couple of hundred yards before Jim appeared, and
then he came on the run. Ata point about opposite
the first tents he joined Kells.

“‘Jim, how about guns?” asked the bandit.

“T’ve got two,” replied Cleve.

“Good! There’s no telling— Jim, I’m afraid of
the gang. They’re crazy. What do you think?”

“T don’t know. It’s a hard proposition.”

“We'll get away, all right. Don’t worry about
that. But the gang will never come together again.”’
This singular man spoke with melancholy. ‘‘Slow
up a little now,” he added. ‘‘We don’t want to
attract attention. ... But where is there any one to

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see us?... Jim, did I have you figured right about
the Creede job?”

“You sure did. I just lost my nerve.”

‘Well, no matter.”

Then Kells appeared to forget that. He stalked
on with keen glances searching everywhere, until
suddenly, when he saw round a bend of the road,
he halted with grating teeth. That road was
empty all the way to the other end of camp,
but there surged a dark mob of men. Kells stalked
forward again. The Last Nugget appeared like
an empty barn. How vacant and significant the
whole center of camp! Kells did not speak an-
other word.

Joan hurried on between Kells and Cleve. She
was trying to fortify herself to meet what lay at the
end of the road. A strange, hoarse roar of men and
an upflinging of arms made her shudder. She kept
her eyes lowered and clung to the arms of her
companions.

Finally they halted. She felt the crowd before she
saw it. A motley assemblage with what seemed
craned necks and intent backs! They were all
looking forward and upward. But she forced her
glance down.

Kells stood still. Jim’s grip was hard upon her
arm. Presently men grouped round Kells. She
heard whispers. They began to walk slowly, and
she was pushed and led along. More men joined
the group. Soon she and Kells and Jim were
hemmed in a circle. Then she saw the huge form
of Gulden, the towering Oliver, and Smith and
Blicky, Beard, Jones, Williams, Budd, and others.

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The circle they formed appeared to be only one of
many groups, all moving, whispering, facing from
her. Suddenly a sound like the roar of a wave
agitated that mass of men. It was harsh, piercing,
unnatural, yet it had a note of wild exultation. Then
came the stamp and surge, and then the upflinging
of arms, and then the abrupt, strange silence, broken
only by a hiss or an escaping breath, like a sob.
Beyond all Joan’s power to resist was a deep,
primitive desire to look.

There over the heads of the mob—from the bench
of the slope—rose grotesque structures of new-
hewn lumber. On a platform stood black, motion-
less men in awful contrast with a dangling object
that doubled up and curled upon itself in terrible
convulsions. It lengthened while it swayed; it
slowed its action while it stretched. It took on the
form of a man. He swung by a rope round his
neck. His head hung back. His hands beat. A
long tremor shook the body; then it was still, and
swayed to and fro, a dark, limp thing.

Joan’s gaze was riveted in horror. A dim, red
haze made her vision imperfect. There was a
sickening riot within her.

There were masked men all around the platform
—a solid phalanx of them on the slope above.
They were heavily armed. Other masked men stood
on the platform. They seemed rigid figures—stiff,
jerky when they moved. How different from the
two forms swaying below!

The structure was a rude scaffold and the vigi-
lantes had already hanged two bandits.

Two others with hands bound behind their backs
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stood farther along the platform under guard.
Before each dangled a noose.

Joan recognized Texas and Frenchy. And on the
instant the great crowd let out a hard breath that
ended in silence.

The masked leader of the vigilantes was address-
ing Texas: ‘‘We’ll spare your life if you confess.
Who’s the head of this Border Legion?”

‘‘Shore it’s Red Pearce!... Haw! Haw! Haw!’

“We'll give you one more chance,” came the curt
reply.

Texas appeared to become serious and somber.
“‘T swear to God it’s Pearce!’ he declared.

“A lie won’t save you. Come, the truth! We
think we know, but we want proof! Hurry!”

“You can go where it’s hot!’ responded Texas.

The leader moved his hand and two other masked
men stepped forward.

‘Have you any message to send any one—any-
thing to say?” he asked.

“Nope.”

‘‘Have you any request to make?”

‘‘Hang thet Frenchman before me! I want to
see him kick.”

Nothing more was said. The two men adjusted
the noose round the doomed man’s neck. Texas
refused the black cap. And he did not wait for the
drop to be sprung. He walked off the platform
into space as Joan closed her eyes.

Again that strange, full, angry, and unnatural roar
waved through the throng of watchers. It was
terrible to hear. Joan felt the violent action of that
crowd, although the men close round her were immov-

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able as stones. She imagined she could never open
her eyes to see Texas hanging there. Yet she did—
and something about his form told her that he had
died instantly. He had been brave and loyal even in
dishonor. He had more than once spoken a kind
word toher. Who could tell what had made him an
outcast? She breathed a prayer for his soul.

The vigilantes were bolstering up the craven
Frenchy. He could not stand alone. They put the
rope round his neck and lifted him off the platform—
then let him down. He screamed in his terror.
They cut short his cries by lifting him again. This
time they held him up several seconds. His face
turned black. His eyes bulged. His breast heaved.
His legs worked with the regularity of a jumping-
jack. They let him down and loosened the noose,
They were merely torturing him to wring a confession
from him. He had been choked severely and needed
a moment to recover. When he did it was to shrink
back in abject terror from that loop of rope dangling
before his eyes.

The vigilante leader shook the noose in his face
and pointed to the swaying forms of the dead
bandits.

Frenchy frothed at the mouth as he shrieked out
words in his native tongue, but any miner there
could have translated their meaning.

The crowd heaved forward, as if with one step,
then stood in a strained silence.

“Talk English!’ ordered the vigilante.

“Tl tell! ll tell!”

Joan became aware of a singular tremor in Kells’s
arm, which she still clasped. Suddenly it jerked.

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She caught a gleam of blue. Then the bellow of a
gun almost split her ears. Powder burned her
cheek. She saw Frenchy double up and collapse on
the platform.

For an instant there was a silence in which every
man seemed petrified. Then burst forth a hoarse
uproar and the stamp of many boots. Allin another
instant pandemonium broke out. The huge crowd
split in every direction. Joan felt Cleve’s strong
arm around her—felt herself borne on a resistless
tide of yelling, stamping, wrestling men. She had
a glimpse of Kells’s dark face drawing away from
her; another of Gulden’s giant form in Herculean
action, tossing men aside like ninepins; another of
weapons aloft. Savage, wild-eyed men fought to
get into the circle whence that shot had come.
They broke into it, but did not know then whom
to attack or what to do. And the rushing of the
frenzied miners all around soon disintegrated
Kells’s band and bore its several groups in every
direction. There was not another shot fired.

Joan was dragged and crushed in the mélée.
Not for rods did her feet touch the ground. But
in the clouds of dust and confusion of struggling
forms she knew Jim still held her, and she clasped
him with all her strength. Presently her feet
touched the earth; she was not jostled and pressed;
then she felt free to walk; and with Jim urging her
they climbed a rock-strewn slope till a cabin im-
peded further progress. But they had escaped the
stream.

Below was a strange sight. A scaffold shrouded
in dust-clouds; a band of bewildered vigilantes with

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weapons drawn, waiting for they knew not what;
three swinging, ghastly forms and a dead man on the
platform; and all below, a horde of men trying to
escape from one another. That shot of Kells’s had
precipitated a rush. No miner knew who the
vigilantes were nor the members of the Border
Legion. Every man there expected a bloody battle
—distrusted the man next to him—and had given
way to panic. The vigilantes had tried to crowd
together for defense and all the others had tried to
escape. It was a wild scene, born of wild justice
and blood at fever-heat, the climax of a disordered
time where gold and violence reigned supreme. It
could only happen once, but it was terrible while it
lasted. It showed the craven in men; it proved the
baneful influence of gold; it brought, in its fruition,
the destiny of Alder Creek Camp. For it must have
been that the really brave and honest men in vast
majority retraced their steps while the vicious kept
running. So it seemed to Joan.

She huddled against Jim there in the halon of
the cabin wall, and not for long did either speak.
They watched and listened. The streams of miners
turned back toward the space round the scaffold
where the vigilantes stood grouped, and there rose
a subdued roar of excited voices. Many small
groups of men conversed together, until the vigilante
leader brought all to attention by addressing the
populace in general. Joan could not hear what he
said and had no wish to hear.

‘Joan, it all happened so quickly, didn’t it?”
whispered Jim, shaking his head as if he was not
convinced of reality.

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**Wasn’t he—terrible!’”’ whispered Joan in reply.

“He! Who?”

‘‘Kells.”” In her mind the bandit leader domi-
nated all that wild scene.

“Terrible, if you like. But I’d say great! ...
The nerve of him! In the face of a hundred vigi-
lantes and thousands of miners! But he knew what
that shot would do.”

‘““Never! He never thought of that,’ declared
Joan, earnestly. “I felt him tremble. I had a
glimpse of his face... - Oh!... First in his mind was
his downfall, and, second, the treachery of Frenchy.
I think that shot showed Kells as utterly desperate,
but weak. He couldn’t have helped it—if that had
been the last bullet in his gun.”

Jim Cleve looked strangely at Joan, as if her
eloquence was both persuasive and incomprehen-
sible.

‘Well, that was a lucky shot for us—and him,
too.’”’

‘Do you think he got away?” she asked, eagerly.

“Sure. They all got away. Wasn't that about
the maddest crowd you ever saw?”

‘‘No wonder. Ina second every man there feared
the man next to him would shoot. That showed the
‘power of Kells’s Border Legion. If his men had
been faithful and obedient he never would have
fallen.”

“Joan! You speak as if you regret it!”

“‘Oh, I am ashamed,” replied Joan. ‘‘I don’t
mean that. I don’t know what I do mean. But
still I’m sorry for Kells. I suffered so much....

Those long, long hours of suspense. . . . And his
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fortunes seemed my fortunes—my very life—and
yours, too, Jim.”

“T think I understand, dear,” said Jim, soberly.

‘“‘Jim, what ’ll we do now? Isn’t it strange to
feel free?”

“T feel as queer as you. Let me think,” replied
Jim.

They huddled there in comparative seclusion for
a long time after that. Joan tried to think of plans,
but her mind seemed unproductive. She felt half
dazed. Jim, too, appeared to be laboring under the
same kind of burden. Moreover, responsibility had
been added to his.

The afternoon waned till the sun tipped the high
range in the west. The excitement of the mining
populace gradually wore away, and toward sunset
strings of men filed up the road and across the open.
The masked vigilantes disappeared, and presently
only a quiet and curious crowd was left round the
grim scaffold and its dark, swinging forms. Joan’s
one glance showed that the vigilantes had swung
Frenchy’s dead body in the noose he would have
escaped by treachery. They had hanged him dead.
What a horrible proof of the temper of these new-
born vigilantes! They had left the bandits swing-
ing. What sight was so appalling as these limp,
dark, swaying forms? Dead men on the ground had
a dignity—at least the dignity of death. And death
sometimes had a majesty. But here both life and
death had been robbed, and there was only horror.
Joan felt that all her life she would be haunted.

“‘Joan, we’ve got to leave Alder Creek,’”’ declared

Cleve, finally. He rose to his feet. The words
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seemed to have given him decision. ‘‘At first I
thought every bandit in the gang would run as far as
he could from here. But—you can’t tell what these
wild men will do. Gulden, for instance! Common
sense ought to make them hide for a spell. Still,
no matter what’s what, we must leave. ... Now, how
to gor”

“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 roac| 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.”

“Yhen part of the way.”

“No. We'd better take the stage for Bannack.
If it starts at all it "Il 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 accen-
tuate 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, yel-

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low 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.

“‘T 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 re-
turned the sack and whispered something in Jim’s
ear. Jim rejoined her and led her away, pressing
her arm close to his side.

“Tt’s all right,’’ he whispered, excitedly. ‘‘Stage
leaves just before daylight. It used to leave in the
middle of the forenoon. 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.”

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“What Il 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 discor-
dant blast frem the Last Nugget.

“That’s it—what ’ll we do?” he asked in per-
plexity.

Joan had no idea to advance, but with the lessen-
ing 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.

“Tl try to eat—but I don’t think I'll be able to
sleep to-night,” 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
vesting 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. Evi-
dently it pleased him to see the meal enjoyed. Both
the food and the friendliness had good effect wpon
Jim Cleve. He ceased to listen all the time and to
glance furtively out at every footstep.

‘Joan, I guess it Il turn out all right,” he said,
clasping her hand as it rested upon the table

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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
ofi—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. Youbelong 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.

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‘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 won-
dered 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.

“T 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

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never seen the stars so bright, so full of power, so
close. All about her the shadows gathered protect-
ingly, 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 des-
perate 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 per-

haps had wives or sweethearts somewhere. Yet
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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 burdendd, 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
aeep, dy 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
eabin 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.

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CHAPTER XVIII

pa Joan’s fancies and dreams faded into ob-
scurity, 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.
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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 ’Il you
be back?”

“TI 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. Neither 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,’
in her ear.

?

whispered Jim

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This was surprising, for Joan had been sure tnat
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 unusu-
ally 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 pas-
sengers. Jim himself appeared influenced by their
absorption in themselves. Besides, the keen, cease-~
less 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
help up by road-agents, but that when he got ready

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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 calm-
ness, and as the miles steadily passed her nervous-
ness increased.

The road left the valley and climbed between
foot-hills and wound into rockier country. Every
dark gulch brought to Joan a trembling, breath-
less spell. What places for ambush! But the
stage bowled on.

At last her apprehensions wore out and she per-
mitted herself the luxury of relaxing, of leaning back
and closing her eyes. She was tired, drowsy, hot.
There did not seem to be a breath of air.

Suddenly Joan’s ears burst to an infernal crash of
guns. She felt the whip and sting of splinters sent
flying by bullets. Harsh yells followed, then the
scream of a horse in agony, the stage lurching and
slipping to a halt, and thunder of heavy guns over-
head.

Jim yelled at her—threw her down on the seat,
She felt the body of the guard sink against her
knees. Then she seemed to feel, to hear through an
icy, sickening terror.

A scattering volley silenced the guns above.
Then came the pound of hoofs, the snort of frightened
horses.

‘‘Jesse Smith! Stop!” called Jim, piercingly.

“Hold on thar, Beady!”’ replied a hoarse voice.
“Damn if it ain’t Jim Cleve!”

“Ho, Gul!’ yelled another voice, and Joan recog-
nized it as Blicky’s.

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Then Jim lifted her head, drew her up. He was
white with fear.

“‘Dear—are—you—hurt?”’

‘No. I’m only—scared,’’ she replied.

Joan looked out to see bandits on foot, guns in
hand, and others mounted, all gathering near the
coach. Jim opened the door, and, stepping out, bade
her follow. Joan had to climb over the dead guard.
The miner and the young man huddled down on their
seat.

“Tf it ain’t Jim an’ Kells’s girl—Dandy Dale!”
ejaculated Smith. ‘‘Fellers, this means somethin’.
... say, youngster, hope you ain’t hurt—or the
girl?”

“No. But that’s not your fault,” replied Cleve.
“Why did you want to plug the coach full of lead?’

““This beats me,’’ said Smith. ‘‘Kells sent you
out in the stage! But when he gave us the job
of holdin’ it up he didn’t tell us you’d be in there. ...
When an’ where’d you leave him?”

‘Sometime last night—in camp—near our cabin,”
replied Jim, quick as a flash. Manifestly he saw
his opportunity. ‘‘He left Dandy Dale with me.
Told us to take the stage this morning. I expected
him to be in it or to meet us.”

“‘Didn’t you have no orders?”

*‘None, except to take care of the girl till he came.
But he did tell me he’d have more to say.”

Smith gazed blankly from Cleve to Blicky, and
then at Gulden, who came slowly forward, his hair
ruffed, his gun held low. Joan followed the glance
of his great gray eyes, and she saw the stage-driver
hanging dead over his seat, and the guards lying back

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of him. The off-side horse of the leaders lay dead
in his traces, with his mate nosing at him.

‘‘Who’s in there?’”’ boomed Gulden, and he thrust
hand and gun in at the stage door. ‘‘Come out!”

The young man stumbled out, hands above his
head, pallid and shaking, so weak he could scarcely
stand.

Gulden prodded the bearded miner. ‘‘Come out
here, you!”

The man appeared to be hunched forward in a
heap.

‘Guess he’s plugged,” said Smith. ‘‘But he ’ain’t
cashed. Hear him breathe? ... Heaves like a sick
hoss.”’

Gulden reached with brawny arm and with one
pull he dragged the miner off the seat and out into
the road, where he flopped with a groan. There
was blood on his neck and hands. Gulden bent over
him, tore at his clothes, tore harder at something,
and then, with a swing, he held aloft a broad, black
belt, sagging heavy with gold.

‘tHah!’ he boomed. It was just an exclamation,
horrible to hear, but it did not express satisfaction
or exultation. He handed the gold-belt to the
grinning Budd, and turned to the young man.

“Got any gold?”

“‘No. I—I wasn’t a miner,’
huskily.

Gulden felt for a gold-belt, then slapped at his
pockets. ‘‘Turn round!” ordered the giant.

“Aw, Gul, let him go!’”’ remonstrated Jesse Smith.

Blicky laid a restraining hand upon Gulden’s broad
shoulder.

?

replied the youth,

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“Turn round!” repeated Gulden, without the
slightest sign of noticing his colleagues.

But the youth understood and he turned a ghastly,
livid hue.

‘For God’s sake—don’t murder me!” he gasped.
“T had—nothing—no gold—no gun!”

Gulden spun him round like a top and pushed him
forward. They went half a dozen paces, then the
youth staggered, and, turning, he fell on his knees.

“Don’t—kill—me!”’ he entreated.

Joan, seeing Jim Cleve stiffen and crouch, thought
of him even in that horrible moment; and she
gripped his arm with all her might. They must
endure.

The other bandits muttered, but none moved a
hand.

Gulden thrust out the big gun. His hair bristled
on his head, and his huge frame seemed instinct
with strange vibration, like some object of tremen-
dous weight about to plunge into resistless momen-
tum.

Even the stricken youth saw his doom. ‘‘Let—
me—pray!’’ he begged.

Joan did not faint, but a merciful unclamping of
muscle-bound rigidity closed her eyes.

“Gull? yelled Blicky, with passion. ‘“‘I ain’t
a-goin’ to let you kill this kid! There’s no sense in it.
We're spotted back in Alder Creek. ... Run, kid!
Run!”

Then Joan opened her eyes to see the surly Gul-
den’s arm held by Blicky, and the youth running
blindly down the road. Joan’s relief and joy were
tremendous. But still she answered to the realizing

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shock of what Gulden had meant to do. She
leaned against Cleve, all within and without a
whirling darkness of fire. The border wildness
claimed her then. She had the spirit, though not
the strength, to fight. She needed the sight and
sound of other things to restore her equilibrium.
She would have welcomed another shock, an injury.
And then she was looking down upon the gasping
miner. He was dying. Hurriedly Joan knelt be-
side him to lift his head. At her call Cleve brought
a canteen. But the miner could not drink and he
died with some word unspoken.

Dizzily Joan arose, and with Cleve half supporting
her she backed off the road to a seat on the bank.
She saw the bandits now at business-like action.
Blicky and Smith were cutting the horses out of their
harness; Beady Jones, like a ghoul, searched the
dead men; the three bandits whom Joan knew
only by sight were making up a pack; Budd was
standing beside the stage with his expectant grin;
and Gulden, with the agility of the gorilla he re-
sembled, was clambering over the top of the stage.
Suddenly from under the driver’s seat he hauled a
buckskin sack. It was small, but heavy. He threw
it down to Budd, almost knocking over that bandit.
Budd hugged the sack and yelled like an Indian.
The other men whooped and ran toward him.
Gulden hauled out another sack. Hands to the
number of a dozen stretched clutchingly. When he
threw the sack there was a mad scramble. They
fought, but it was only play. They were gleeful.
Blicky secured the prize and he held it aloft in
triumph. Assuredly he would have waved it had

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it not been so heavy. Gulden drew out several
small sacks, which he provokingly placed on the seat
in front of him. The bandits below howled in pro-
test. Then the giant, with his arm under the seat,
his huge frame bowed, heaved powerfully upon
something, and his face turned red. He halted in
his tugging to glare at his bandit comrades below.
If his great cavernous eyes expressed any feeling it
was analogous to the reluctance manifest in his
posture—he regretted the presence of his gang. He
would rather have been alone. Then with deep-
muttered curse and mighty heave he lifted out a
huge buckskin sack, tied and placarded and marked.

“One hundred pounds!’’ he boomed.

It seemed to Joan then that a band of devils sur-
rounded the stage, all roaring at the huge, bristling
demon above, who glared and bellowed down a them.

Finally Gulden stilled the tumult, which, after all,
was one of frenzied joy.

‘Share and share alike!’ he thundered, now black
in the face. ‘‘Do you fools want to waste time
here on the road, dividing up this gold?”

‘“What you say goes,”’ shouted Budd.

There was no dissenting voice.

“What a stake!’ ejaculated Blicky. ‘‘Gul, the
boss had it figgered. Strange, though, he hasn’t
showed up!”

““Where’ll we go?” queried Gulden. ‘‘Speak up,
you men.”

The unanimous selection was Cabin Gulch.
Plainly Gulden did not like this, but he was just.

“All right. Cabin Gulch it is. But nobody out-

side of Kells and us gets a share in this stake.”’
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Many willing hands made short work of prepara-
tion. Gulden insisted on packing all the gold upon
his saddle, and had his will. He seemed obsessed;
he never glanced at Joan. It was Jesse Smith who
gave the directions and orders. One of the stage-
horses was packed. Another, with a blanket for a
saddle, was given Cleve to ride. Blicky gallantly
gave his horse to Joan, shortened his stirrups to
fit her, and then whistled at the ridgy back of
the stage-horse he elected to ride. Gulden was
in a hurry, and twice he edged off, to be halted
by impatient calls. Finally the cavalcade was
ready. Jesse Smith gazed around upon the scene
with the air of a general overlooking a vanquished
enemy.

‘*Whoever fust runs acrost this job will have blind
staggers, don’t you forgit thet!”

‘‘What’s Kells goin’ to figger?’’ asked Blicky,
sharply.

‘Nothin’ fer Kells! He wasn’t in at the finish!”
declared Budd.

Blicky gazed darkly at him, but made no comment.

“T tell you, Blick, I can’t git this all right in my
head,” said Smith.

‘“‘Say, ask Jim again. Mebbe, now the job’s done,
he can talk,’’ suggested Blicky.

Jim Cleve heard and appeared ready for that
question.

“I don’t know much more than I told you. But I
can guess. Kells had this big shipment of gold
spotted. He must have sent us in the stage for
some reason. He said he’d tell me what to expect
and do. But he didn’t come back. Sure he knew

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you'd do the job. And just as sure he expected to
be on hand. He’ll turn up soon.”

This ruse of Jim’s did not sound in the least
logical or plausible to Joan, but it was readily ac-
cepted by the bandits. Apparently what they
knew of Kells’s movements and plans since the
break-up at Alder Creek fitted well with Cleve’s
suggestions.

“Come on!’ boomed Gulden, from the fore.
“‘Do you want to rot here?”

Then without so much as a backward glance at the
ruin they left behind the bandits fell into line.
Jesse Smith led straight off the road into a shallow
brook and evidently meant to keep in it. Gulden
followed; next came Beady Jones; then the three
bandits with the pack-horse and the other horses;
Cleve and Joan, close together, filed in here; and
last came Budd and Blicky. It was rough, slippery
traveling and the riders spread out. Cleve, how-
ever, rode beside Joan. Once, at an opportune
moment, he leaned toward her.

“We'd better run for it at the first chance,’’ he
said, somberly.

“Nol... Gulden!’ Joan had to moisten her lips
to speak the monster’s name.

“He'll never think of you while he has all that
gold.”

Joan’s intelligence grasped this, but her morbid
dread, terribly augmented now, amounted almost to
a spell. Still, despite the darkness of her mind, she
had a flash of inspiration and of spirit.

‘Kells is my only hope! . . . If he doesn’t join us
soon—then we'll run! ... And if we can’t escape

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‘

‘STIAM GAINO . LSUIA NOA TIN THI iNaGTINAS UAH LAD LNOM NOAs,
‘u0lsaT 4apsog 2yT, ‘aANINY JuUnoMoIDY

 
 

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that”—Joan made a sickening gesture toward the
fore—‘‘you must kill me before—before—”’

Her voice trailed off, failing.

“T will!” he promised through locked teeth.

And then they rode on, with dark faces bent over
the muddy water and treacherous stones.

When Jesse Smith led out of that brook it was
to ride upon bare rock. He was not leaving any
trail. Horses and riders were of no consideration.
And he was a genius for picking hard ground and
covering it. He never slackened his gait, and it
seemed next to impossible to keep him in sight.

For Joan the ride became toil and the toil became
pain. But there was no rest. Smith kept merci-
lessly onward. Sunset and twilight and night found
the cavalcade stitl moving. Then it halted just as
Joan was about to succumb. Jim lifted her off her
horse and laid her upon the grass. She begged for
water, and she drank and drank. But she wanted no
food. ‘There was a heavy, dull beating in her ears,
a band tight round her forehead. She was aware of
the gloom, of the crackling of fires, of leaping shad-
ows, of the passing of men to and fro near her, and,
most of all, rendering her capable of a saving shred
of self-control, she was aware of Jim’s constant com-
panionship and watchfulness. Then sounds grew
far off and night became a blur.

Morning when it came seemed an age removed.
from that hideous night. Her head had cleared,
and but for the soreness of body and limb she would
have begun the day strong. There appeared little
to eat and no time to prepare it. Gulden was

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rampant for action. Like a miser he guarded the
saddle packed with gold. This time his comrades
were as eager as he to be on the move. All were
obsessed by the presence of gold. Only one hour
loomed in their consciousness—that of the hour of
division. How fatal and pitiful and terrible! Of
what possible use or good was gold to them?

The ride began before sunrise. It started and
kept on at a steady trot. Smith led down out of the
rocky slopes and fastnesses into green valleys. Jim
Cleve, riding bareback on a lame horse, had his
difficulties. Still he kept close beside or behind Joan
all the way. They seldom spoke, and then only a
word relative to this stern business of traveling in
the trail of a hard-riding bandit. Joan bore up
better this day, as far as her mind was concerned.
Physically she had all she could do to stay in the
saddle. She learned of what steel she was actually
made—what her slender frame could endure. That
day’s ride seemed a thousand miles long, and never
to end. Yet the implacable Smith did finally halt,
and that before dark.

Camp was made near water. The bandits were a
jovial lot, despite a lack of food. They talked of the
morrow. All—the world—lay beyond the next sun-
rise. Some renounced their pipes and sought their
rest just to hurry on the day. But Gulden, tireless,
sleepless, eternally vigilant, guarded the saddle of
gold and brooded over it, and seemed a somber
giant carved out of the night. And Blicky, nursing
some deep and late-developed scheme, perhaps in
Kells’s interest or his own, kept watch over Gulden
and all.

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Jim cautioned Joan to rest, and importuned her
and promised to watch while she slept.

Joan saw the stars through her shut eyelids. All
the night seemed to press down and softly darken.

The sun was shining red when the cavalcade rode
up Cabin Gulch. The grazing cattle stopped to
watch and the horses pranced and whistled. There
were flowers and flitting birds, and glistening dew on
leaves, and a shining swift flow of water—the bright-
ness of morning and nature smiled in Cabin Gulch.

Well indeed Joan remembered the trail she had
ridden so often. How that clump of willow where
first she had confronted Jim thrilled her now! The
pines seemed welcoming her. The gulch had a
sense of home in it for her, yet it was fearful. How
much had happened there! What might yet hap-
pen!

Then a clear, ringing call stirred her pulse. She
glanced up the slope. Tall and straight and dark,
there on the bench, with hand aloft, stood the
bandit Kells.

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CHAPTER XIX

HE weary, dusty cavalcade halted on the level

bench before the bandit’s cabin. Gulden
boomed a salute to Kells. The other men shouted
greeting. In the wild exultation of triumph they
still held him as chief. But Kells was not deceived.
He even passed by that heavily laden, gold-weighted
saddle. He had eyes only for Joan.

“Girl, I never was so glad to see any one!’ he
exclaimed in husky amaze. ‘‘How did it happen?
I never—”

Jim Cleve leaned over to interrupt Kells. ‘‘It
was great, Kells—that idea of yours putting us in
the stage-coach you meant to hold up,’’ said Cleve,
with a swift, meaning glance. ‘‘But it nearly was
the end of us. You didn’t catch up. The gang
didn’t know we were inside, and they shot the old
stage full of holes.”

“‘Aha! So that’s it,” replied Kells, slowly. ‘‘But
the main point is—you brought her through. Jim,
I can’t ever square that.”

“‘Oh, maybe you can,’’ laughed Cleve, as he dis-
mounted.

Suddenly Kells became aware of Joan’s exhaustion
and distress. ‘‘Joan, you’re not hurt?” he asked in
swift anxiety.

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“No, only played out.”

“You look it. Come.” He lifted her out of the
saddle and, half carrying, half leading her, took
her into the cabin, and through the big room to
her old apartment. How familiar it seemed to
Joan! A ground-squirrel frisked along a chink
between the logs, chattering welcome. The place
was exactly as Joan had left it.

Kells held Joan a second, as if he meant to em-
brace her, but he did not. ‘‘Lord, it’s good to see
you! I never expected to again. ... But you can
tell me all about yourself after you rest... . I was
just having breakfast. I'll fetch you some.”

‘‘Were you alone here?”’ asked Joan.

“Yes. I was with Bate and Handy—”

“Hey, Kells!’ roared the gang, from the outer
room.

Kells held aside the blanket curtain so that Joan
was able to see through the door. The men were
drawn up in a half-circle round the table, upon
which were the bags of gold.

Kells whistled low. ‘‘Joan, there’ll be trouble
now,” he said, ‘‘but don’t you fear. I'll not forget
you.”

Despite his undoubted sincerity Joan felt a subtle
change in him, and that, coupled with the significance
of his words, brought a return of the strange dread.
Kells went out and dropped the curtain behind him.
Joan listened.

*“‘Share and share alike!’ boomed the giant
Gulden.

“Say!”’ called Kells, gaily, ‘‘aren’t you fellows
going to eat first?’

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Shouts of derision greeted his sally.

“T’ll eat gold-dust,’’ added Budd.

“Have it your own way, men,” responded Kells.
‘IBlicky, get the scales down off of that shelf... ,
Say, I’ll bet anybody I'll have the most dust by
sundown.”

More shouts of derision were flung at him.

‘‘Who wants to gamble now?”

“Boss, I'll take thet bet.”’

“Haw! Haw! You won’t look so bright by sun-
down.”

Then followed a moment’s silence, presently
broken by a clink of metal on the table.

‘Boss, how’d you ever git wind of this big ship-
ment of gold?”’ asked Jesse Smith.

“‘T’ve had it spotted. But Handy Oliver was the
scout.”

“We'll shore drink to Hardy!’’ exclaimed one of
the bandits.

“An’ who was sendin’ out this shipment ?’’ queried
the curious Smith. ‘‘Them bags are marked all the
same.,”’

“It was a one-man shipment,” replied Kells,
‘Sent out by the boss miner of Alder Creek. They
call him Overland something.”

That name brought Joan to her feet with a thrilling’
fire. Her uncle, old Bill Hoadley, was called ‘‘Over-'
land.” Was it possible that the bandits meant him?
It could hardly be; that name was a common one
in the mountains.

“‘Shore, I seen Overland lots of times,’’ said Budd,
“‘An’ he got wise to my watchin’ him.”

“Somebody tipped it off that the Legion was

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after his gold,” went on Kells. “I suppose we have
Pearce to thank for that. But it worked out well
for us. The hell we raised there at the lynching
must have thrown a, scare into Overland. He had
nerve enough to try to send his dust to Bannack
on the very next stage. He nearly got away with
it, too. For it was only lucky accident that Handy
heard the news.”

The name Overland drew Joan like a magnet and
she arose to take her old position, where she could
peep in upon the bandits. One glance at Jim Cleve
told her that he, too, had been excited by the name.
Then it occurred to Joan that her uncle could
hardly have been at Alder Creek without Jim know-
ing it. Still, among thousands of men, all wild and
toiling and self-sufficient, hiding their identities, any-
thing might be possible. After a- few moments, how-
ever, Joan leaned to the improbability of the man
being her uncle.

Kells sat down before the table and Blicky stood
beside him with the gold-scales. The other bandits
lined up opposite. Jim Cleve stood to one side,
watching, brooding.

“You can’t weigh it all on these scales,” said
Blicky.

“That’s sure,” replied Kells. ‘We'll divide the
small bags first. . . . Ten shares—ten equal parts! .. .
Spill out the bags, Blick. And hurry. Look how
hungry Gulden looks! ... Somebody cook your
breakfast while we divide the gold.”

“Haw! Haw!”

“Ho! Ho!”

“Who wants to eat ?”’

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The bandits were gay, derisive, scornful, eager,
like a group of boys, half surly, half playful, at a
game.

‘‘Wal, I shore want to see my share weighed,”
drawled Budd.

Kells moved—his gun flashed—he slammed it
hard upon the table.

‘Budd, do you question my honesty?” he asked,
quick and hard.

‘No offense, boss. I was just talkin’.”’

That quick change of Kells’s marked a subtle dif-
ference in the spirit of the bandits and the occa-
sion. Gaiety and good humor and badinage ended.
There were no more broad grins or friendly leers or
coarse laughs. Gulden and his group clustered closer
to the table, quiet, intense, watchful, suspicious.

It did not take Kells and his assistant long to
divide the smaller quantity of the gold.

‘Here, Gulden,” he said, and handed the giant a
bag. “Jesse... .. Bossert. ... Pike... . Beady. «. .
Braverman... . Blicky.”

“Here, Jim Cleve, get in the game,” he added,
throwing a bag at Jim. It was heavy. It hit Jim
with a thud and dropped to the ground. He stooped
to reach it.

“That leaves one for Handy and one for me,”
went on Kells. ‘‘Blicky, spill out the big bag.”

Presently Joan saw a huge mound of dull, gleam-
ing yellow. The color of it leaped to the glinting
eyes of the bandits. And it seemed to her that a
shadow hovered over them. The movements of Kells
grew tense and hurried. Beads of sweat stood out
upon his brow. His hands were not steady.

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Soon larger bags were distributed to the bandits.
That broke the waiting, the watchfulness, but not
the tense eagerness. The bandits were now like
leashed hounds. Blicky leaned before Kells and hit
the table with his fist.

“Boss, I’ve a kick comin’,”’ he said.

*‘Come on with it,’’ replied the leader.

“‘Ain’t Gulden agoin’ to divide up thet big
nugget?”

‘‘He is if he’s square.”

A chorus of affirmatives from the bandits strength-
ened Kells’s statement. Gulden moved heavily and
ponderously, and he pushed some of his comrades
aside to get nearer to Kells.

“Wasn't it my right to do a job by myself—when I
wanted?” he demanded.

“No. I agreed to let you fight when you wanted.
To kill a man when you liked! ... That was the
agreement.”

“What ’d I kill a man for?”

No one answered that in words, but the answer
was there, in dark faces.

“T know what I meant,’ continued Gulden.
“And I’m going to keep this nugget.”

There was a moment’s silence. It boded ill to the
giant.

““So—he declares himself,’’ said Blicky, hotly.
“Boss, what you say goes.”

“Let him keep it,’’ declared Kells, scornfully.
“T’ll win it from him and divide it with the gang.”

That was received with hoarse acclaims by all
except Gulden. He glared sullenly. Kells stood up
and shook a long finger in the giant’s face.

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“T’ll win your nugget,” he shouted. ‘‘I’ll beat
you at any game... . I call your hand... . Now if
you’ve got any nerve!”

‘“‘Come on!’ boomed the giant, and he threw his
gold down upon the table with a crash.

The bandits closed in around the table with sud-
den, hard violence, all crowding for seats.

“T’m a-goin’ to set in the game!” yelled Blicky.

“We'll all set in,’’ declared Jesse Smith.

“‘Come on!’ was Gulden’s acquiescence.

“But we all can’t play at once,” protested Kells.
‘‘Let’s make up two games.”

“Naw!”

“Some of you eat, then, while the others get
cleaned out.”

“Thet’s it—cleaned out!” ejaculated Budd, mean-
ly. ‘‘You seem to be sure, Kells. An’ I guess I'll
keep shady of thet game.”’

“‘That’s twice for you, Budd,” flashed the bandit
leader. ‘‘Beware of the third time!”

“Hyar, fellers, cut the cards fer who sets in an’
who sets out,” called Blicky, and he slapped a deck
of cards upon the table.

With grim eagerness, as if drawing lots against
fate, the bandits bent over and drew cards. Budd
Braverman, and Beady Jones were the ones exs
cluded from the game.

‘‘Beady, you fellows unpack those horses and turn
them loose. And bring the stuff inside,” said Kells.

Budd showed a surly disregard, but the other two
bandits got up willingly and went out.

Then the game began, with only Cleve standing,
looking on. The bandits were mostly silent; they

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moved their hands, and occasionally bent forward.
It was every man against his neighbor. Gulden
seemed implacably indifferent and played like a
machine. Blicky sat eager and excited, under a
spell. Jesse Smith was a slow, cool, shrewd gambler.
Bossert and Pike, two ruffians almost unknown to
Joan, appeared carried away by their opportunity.
And Kells began to wear that strange, rapt, weak
expression that gambling gave him.

Presently Beady Jones and Braverman bustled
in, carrying the packs. Then Budd jumped up and
ran to them. He returned to the table, carrying a
demijohn, which he banged upon the table.

‘Whisky!’ exclaimed Kells. ‘‘Take that away.
We can’t drink and gamble.”

“Watch me!’’ replied Blicky.

“Let them drink, Kells,”’ declared Gulden. ‘‘We'll
get their dust quicker. Then we can have our
game.”

Kells made no more comment. The game went
on and the aspect of it changed. When Kells him-
self began to drink, seemingly unconscious of the
fact, Joan’s dread increased greatly, and, leaving the
peep-hole, she lay back upon the bed. Always a
sword had hung over her head. Time after time by
some fortunate circumstance or by courage or wit
or by an act of Providence she had escaped what
strangely menaced. Would she escape it again?
For she felt the catastrophe coming. Did Jim
recognize that fact? Remembering the look on his
face, she was assured that he did. Then he would
be quick to seize upon any possible chance to get her
away; and always he would be between her and

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those bandits. At most, then, she had only death
to fear—death that he would mercifully deal to her
if the worst came. And as she lay there listening
to the slow-rising murmur of the gamblers, with
her thought growing clearer, she realized it was
love of Jim and fear for him—fear that he would lose
her—that caused her cold dread and the laboring
breath and the weighted heart. She had cost Jim
this terrible experience and she wanted to make up
to him for it, to give him herself and all her life.
Joan lay there a long time, thinking and suf-
fering, while the strange, morbid desire to watch
Kells and Gulden grew stronger and stronger, until
it was irresistible. Her fate, her. life, lay in the
balance between these two men. She divined that.
She returned to her vantage-point, and as she
glanced through she vibrated to a shock. The change
that had begun subtly, intangibly, was now a terrible
and glaring difference. That great quantity of gold,
the equal chance of every gambler, the marvelous
possibilities presented to evil minds, and the hell
that hid in that black bottte—these had made play-
things of every bandit except Gulden. He was ex-
actly the same as ever. But to see the others sent
a chill of ice along Joan’s veins. Kells was white
and rapt. Plain to see—he had won! Blicky was
wild with rage. Jesse Smith sat darker, grimmer, but
no longer cool. There was hate in the glance he
fastened upon Kells as he bet. Beady Jones and
Braverman showed an inflamed and impotent
eagerness to take their turn. Budd sat in the game
now, and his face wore a terrible look. Joan could
not tell what passion drove him, but she knew he
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was a loser. Pike and Bossert likewise were losers,
and stood apart, sullen, watching with sick, jealous
rage. Jim Cleve had reacted to the strain, and he
was white, with nervous, clutching hands and
piercing glances. And the game went on with vio-
Jent slap of card or pound of fist upon the table,
with the slide of a bag of gold or the little, sodden
thump of its weight, with savage curses at loss and
strange, raw exultation at gain, with hurry and
violence—more than all, with the wildness of the
hour and the wildness of these men, drawing closer
and closer to the dread climax that from the be-
ginning had been foreshadowed.

Suddenly Budd rose and bent over the table, his
cards clutched in a shaking hand, his face distorted
and malignant, his eyes burning at Kells. Pas-
sionately he threw the cards down.

‘“‘There!’’ he yelled, hoarsely, and he stilled the
noise.

‘No good!” replied Kells, tauntingly. ‘‘Is there
any other game you play?”

Budd bent low to see the cards in Kells’s hand,
and then, straightening his form, he gazed with
haggard fury at the winner. ‘‘You’ve done me!...
I’m cleaned—I’m busted!’ he raved.

“You were easy. Get out of the game,” replied
Kells, with an exultant contempt. It was not the
passion of play that now obsessed him, but the pas-
sion of success.

“T said you done me,” burst out Budd, insanely.
“You're slick with the cards!”

The accusation acted like magic to silence the
bandits, to check movement, to clamp the situation-

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Kells was white and radiant; he seemed careless
and nonchalant.

‘All right, Budd,” he replied, but his tone did not
suit his strange look. ‘‘That’s three times for you!”

Swift as a flash he shot. Budd fell over Gulden,
and the giant with one sweep of his arm threw the
stricken bandit off. Budd fell heavily, and neither
moved nor spoke.

‘Pass me the bottle,” went on Kells, a little hoarse
shakiness in his voice. ‘‘And go on with the game!”

‘Can I set in now?” asked Beady Jones, eagerly.

‘You and Jack wait. This’s getting to be all
between Kells an me,” said Gulden.

‘‘We’ve sure got Blicky done!’ exclaimed Kells.
There was something taunting about the leader’s
words. He did not care for the gold. It was the
fight to win. It was his egotism.

‘‘Make this game faster an’ bigger, will vou?”
retorted Blicky, who seemed inflamed.

“Boss, a little luck makes you lofty,’”’ interposed
Jesse Smith in dark disdain. ‘‘Pretty soon you'll
show yellow clear to your gizzard!’’

The gold lay there on the table. It was only a
means to an end. It signified nothing. The evil,
the terrible greed, the brutal lust, were in the hearts
of the men. And hate, liberated, rampant, stalked
out unconcealed, ready for blood.

‘‘Gulden, change the game to suit these gents,”
taunted Kells.

‘Double stakes. Cut the cards!” boomed the
giant, instantly.

Blicky lasted only a few more deals of the cards,
then he rose, loser of all his share, a passionate and

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venomous bandit, ready for murder. But he kept
his mouth shut and looked wary.

“Boss, can’t we set in now?” demanded Beady
Jones.

“Say, Beady. you're in a hurry to lose your gold,”
replied Kells. ‘‘Wait till I beat Gulden and Smith.”

Luck turned against Jesse Smith. He lost first
to Gulden, then to Kells, and presently he rose, a
beaten, but game man. He reached for the whisky.

“‘Fellers, I reckon I can enjoy Kells’s yellow streak
more when I ain’t playin’,” he said.

The bandit leader eved Smith with awakening
rancor, as if a persistent hint of inevitable weakness
had its effect. He frowned, and the radiance left his
face for the forbidding cast.

“Stand around, you men, and see some real
gambling,” he said.

At this moment in the contest Kells had twice as
much gold as Gulden, there being a huge mound of
little buckskin sacks in front of him.

They began staking a bag at a time and cutting
the cards, the higher card winning. Kells won the
first four cuts. How strangely that radiance re-
turned to his face! Then he lost and won, and won
and lost. The other bandits grouped around, only
Jones and Braverman now manifesting any eager-
ness. All were silent. There were suspense, strain,
mystery in the air. Gulden began to win consist-
ently and Kells began to change. It was a sad
and strange sight to see this strong man’s nerve
and force gradually deteriorate under a fickle for-
tune. The tirne came when half the amount he had
collected was in front of Gulden. The giant was

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imperturbable. He might have been a huge animal,
or destiny, or something inhuman that knew the run
of luck would be his. As he had taken losses so he
greeted gains—with absolute indifference. While
Kells’s hands shook the giant’s were steady and slow
and sure. It must have been hateful to Kells—
this faculty of Gulden’s to meet victory indentically
as he met defeat. The test of a great gambler’s
nerve was not in sustaining loss, but in remaining
cool with victory. The fact grew manifest that
Gulden was a great gambler and Kells was not.
The giant had no emotion, no imagination. And
Kelis seemed all fire and whirling hope and despair
and rage. His vanity began to bleed to death.
This game was the deciding contest. The scornful
and exultant looks of his men proved how that game
was going. Again and again Kells’s unsteady hand
_ reached for one of the whisky-bottles. Once with a
low curse he threw an empty bottle through the door.

“Hey, boss, ain’t it about time—’’ began Jesse
Smith. But whatever he had intended to say, he
thought better of, withholding it. . Kells’s sudden
look and movement were unmistakable.

The goddess of chance, as false as the bandit’s
vanity, played with him. He brightened under a
streak of winning. But just as his face began to
lose its haggard shade, to glow, the tide again turned
against him. He lost and lost, and with each bag
of gold-dust went something of his spirit. And
when he was reduced to his original share he indeed
showed that yellow streak which Jesse Smith had
attributed to him. The bandit’s effort to pull him-
self together, to be a man before that scornful gang,

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was pitiful and futile. He might have been mag-
nificent, confronted by other issues, of peril or cir-
cumstance, but here he was craven. He was a man
who should never have gambled.

One after the other, in quick succession, he lost
the two bags of gold, his original share. He had
lost utterly. Gulden had the great heap of dirty
little buckskin sacks, so significant of the hidden
power within.

Joan was amazed and sick at sight of Kells then,
and if it had been possible she would have with-
drawn her gaze. But she was chained there. The
catastrophe was imminent.

Kells stared down at the gold. His jaw worked
convulsively. He had the eyes of a trapped wolf.
Yet he seemed not wholly to comprehend what had
happened to him.

Gulden rose, slow, heavy, ponderous, to tower
over his heap of gold. Then this giant, who had
never shown an emotion, suddenly, terribly blazed.

“‘One more bet—a cut of the cards—my whole
stake of gold!’ he boomed.

The bandits took a stride forward as one man,
then stood breathless.

“One bet!” echoed Kells, aghast. ‘‘Against
what?”

‘* Against the girl!”

Joan sank against the wall, a piercing torture in
her breast. She clutched the logs to keep from
falling. So that was the impending horror. She
could not unrivet her eyes from the paralyzed Kells,
yet she seemed to see Jim Cleve leap straight up,
and then stand, equally motionless, with Kells.

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“One cut of the cards—my gold against the girl!”
boomed the giant.

Kells made a movement as if to go for his gun.
But it failed. His hand was a shaking leaf.

‘‘You always bragged on your nerve!’ went on
Gulden, mercilessly. ‘‘You’re the gambler of the
border! . . . Come on.”’

Kells stood there, his doom upon him. Plain to
all was his torture, his weakness, his defeat. It
seemed that with all his soul he combated some-
thing, only to fail.

“One cut—my gold against your girl!”

The gang burst into one concerted taunt. Like.
snarling, bristling wolves they craned their necks at
Kells.

“No, damn—you! No!’ cried Kells, in hoarse,
broken fury. With both hands before him he seemed
to push back the sight of that gold, of Gulden, of the
malignant men, of a horrible temptation.

“‘Reckon, boss, thet yellow streak is operatin’!”
sang out Jesse Smith.

But neither gold, nor Gulden, nor men, nor taunts
ruined Kells at this perhaps most critical crisis of
his life. It was the mad, clutching, terrible op-
portunity presented. It was the strange and terrible
nature of the wager. What vision might have
flitted through the gambler’s mind! But neither
vision of loss nor gain moved him. There, licking like
a flame at his soul, consuming the good in him at a
blast, overpowering his love, was the strange and
magnificent gamble. He could not resist it.

Speechless, with a motion of his hand, he signified
his willingness.

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‘*Blicky, shuffle the cards,’’ boomed Gulden.

Blicky did so and dropped the deck with a slap
in the middle of the table.

“Cut!” called Gulden.

Kells’s shaking hand crept toward the deck.

Jim Cleve suddenly appeared to regain power of
speech and motion. ‘‘Don’t, Kells, don’t!” he cried,
piercingly, as he leaped forward.

But neither Kells nor the others heard him, or even
saw his movement.

Kells cut the deck. He held up his card. It was
the king of hearts. What a transformation! His
face might have been that of a corpse suddenly re-
vivified with glorious, leaping life.

“Only an ace can beat thet!’ muttered Jesse
Smith into the silence.

Gulden reached for the deck as if he knew every
card left was an ace. His cavernous eyes gloated
over Kells. He cut, and before he looked himself he
let Kells see the card.

“You can’t beat my streak!” he boomed.

Then he threw the card upon the table. It was
the ace of spades.

Kells seemed to shrivel, to totter, to sink. Jim
Cleve went quickly to him, held to him.

“Kells, go say good-by to your girl!’ boomed

Gulden. ‘‘I’ll want her pretty soon. ... Come on,
you Beady and Braverman. Here’s your chance to
get even,”

Gulden resumed his seat, and the two bandits
invited to play were eager to comply, while the
others pressed close once more.

Jim Cleve led the dazed Kells toward the door into

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Joan’s cabin. For Joan just then all seemed to be
dark.

When she recovered she was lying on the bed
and Jim was bending over her. He looked frantic
with grief and desperation and fear.

‘Jim! Jim!” she moaned, grasping his hands. He
helped her to sit up. Then she saw Kells standing
there. He looked abject, stupid, drunk. Yet evi-
dently he had begun to comprehend the meaning of
his deed.

‘‘Kells,’’ began Cleve, in low, hoarse tones, as he
stepped forward with a gun. “I’m going to kill
you—and Joan—and myself!”

Kells stared at Cleve. ‘‘Go ahead. Kill me.
And kill the girl, too. That ’Il be better for her now.
But why kill yourself?”

“‘Tlove her. She’s my wife!”

The deadness about Kells suddenly changed.
Joan fiung herself before him.

“‘Kells—listen,”’ she whispered in swift, broken
passion. ‘‘Jim Cleve was—my sweetheart—back in
Hoadley. We quarreled. I taunted him. I said
he hadn’t nerve enough—even to be bad. He left
me—bitterly enraged. Next day I trailed him. I
wanted to fetch him back. .. . You remember—how
you met me with Roberts—how you killed Roberts?
And all the rest? ... When Jim and I met out here—
I was afraid to tell you. I tried toinfluence him. I
succeeded—till we got to Alder Creek. There he
went wild. I married him—hoping to steady him.
... Then the day of the lynching—we were separated
from you in the crowd. That night we hid—and
next morning took the stage. Gulden and his gang

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neld up the stage. They thought you had put us
there. We fooled them, but we had to come on—
here to Cabin Gulch—hoping to tell you—that you’d
let us go... . And now—now—”

Joan had not strength to goon. The thought of
Gulden made her faint.

‘It’s true, Kells,” added Cleve, passionately, as he
faced the incredulous bandit. ‘‘I swear it. Why,
you ought to see now!’

‘‘My God, boy, I do see!’ gasped Kells. That
dark, sodden thickness of comprehension and feeling,
indicative of the hold of drink, passed away swiftly.
The shock had sobered him.

Instantly Joan saw it—saw in him the return of
the other and better Kells, now stricken with re-
morse. She slipped to her knees and clasped her
arms around him. He tried to break her hold, but
she held on.

“Get up!” he ordered, violently. ‘‘Jim, pull her
away! ... Girl, don’t do that in front of me!...
I’ve just gambled away—”

“Her life, Kells, only that, I swear,” cried Cleve.

‘‘Kells, listen,’ began Joan, pleadingly. ‘You
will not let that—that cannibal have me?”

“No, by God!” replied Kells, thickly. ‘I was
drunk—crazy. .. . Forgive me, girl! You see—how
did I know—what was coming? ... Oh, the whole
thing is hellish!”

‘“‘You loved me once,” whispered Joan, softly.
“Do you love me still? . . . Kells, can’t you see?
It’s not too late to save my life—and your soul!...
Can’t you see? You have been bad. But if you
save me now—from Gulden—save me for this boy

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I've almost ruined—you—you . . . God will forgive
you! ... Take us away—go with us—and never
come back to the border.”

‘‘Maybe I can save you,”’ he muttered, as if to
himself. He appeared to want to think, but to be
bothered by the clinging arms around him. Joan
felt a ripple go over his body and he seemed to
heighten, and the touch of his hands thrilled.

Then, white and appealing, Cleve added his
importunity.

‘Kells, I saved your life once. You said you’d
remember it some day. Now—now!... For God’s
sake don’t make me shoot her!”

Joan rose from her knees, but she still clasped
Kells. She seemed to feel the mounting of his
spirit, to understand how in this moment he was
rising out of the depths. How strangely glad she
was for him!

‘‘Joan, once you showed me what the love of a good
woman really was. I’ve never been the same since
then. I’ve grown better in one way—worse in all
the others. ...I let down. I was no man for the
border. Always that haunted me. Believe me,
won't you—despite all?”

Joan felt the yearning in him for what he dared
not ask. She read his mind. She knew he meant,
somehow, to atone for his wrong.

“Tl show you again,’ she whispered. ‘‘I’ll tell
you more. If I’d never loved Jim Cleve—if I’d
met you, I’d have loved you....And, bandit
or not, I’d have gone with you to the end of the
world!”

“‘Joan!’ The name was almost a sob of joy and

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pain. Sight of his face then blinded Joan with her
tears. But when he caught her to him, in a violence
that was a terrible renunciation, she gave her em-
brace, her arms, her lips without the vestige of a
lie, with all of womanliness and sweetness and love
and passion. He let her go and turned away, and in
that instant Joan had a final divination that this
strange man could rise once to heights as supreme
as the depths of his soul were dark. She dashed
away her tears and wiped the dimness from her eyes.
Hope resurged. Something strong and sweet gave
her strength.

When Kells wheeled he was the Kells of her earlier
experience—cool, easy, deadly, with the smile almost
ymiable, and the strange, pale eyes. Only the white
radiance of him was different. He did not look at
her.

‘‘Jim, will you do exactly what T tell you?”

‘Yes, I promise,” replied Jim..

“How many guns have you?”

‘Two,”?

“‘Give me one of them.”

Cleve held out the gun that all the while he had
kept in his hand. Kells took it and put it in his
pocket.

‘‘Pull your other gun—be ready,” said he, swiftly.
‘But don’t you shoot once till I go down!... Then
do your best. . . . Save the last bullet for Joan—in
case—”’

“‘T promise,” replied Cleve, steadily.

Then Kells drew a knife from a sheath at his belt.
It had a long, bright blade. Joan had seen him use
it many a time round the camp-fire. He slipped the

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blade up his sleeve, retaining the haft of the knife
in his hand. He did not speak another word. Nor
did he glance at Joan again. She had felt his gaze
while she had embraced him, as she raised her lips.
That look had been his last. Then he went out.
Jim knelt beside the door, peering between post and
curtain.

Joan staggered to the chink between the logs. She
would see that fight if it froze her blood—the very
marrow of her bones.

The gamblers were intent upon their game. Not
a dark face looked up as Kells sauntered toward the
table. Gulden sat with his back to the door. There
was a shaft of sunlight streaming in, and Kells
blocked it, sending a shadow over the bent heads
of the gamesters. How significant that shadow—
a blackness barring gold! Still no one paid any
attention to Kells.

He stepped closer. Suddenly he leaped into
swift and terrible violence. Then with a lunge he
drove the knife into Gulden’s burly neck.

Up heaved the giant, his mighty force overturning
table and benches and men. An awful boom,
strangely distorted and split, burst from him.

Then Kells blocked the door with a gun in each
hand, but only the one in his right hand spurted
white and red. Instantly there followed a mad
scramble—hoarse yells, over which that awful roar
of Gulden’s predominated—and the bang of guns.
Clouds of white smoke veiled the scene, and with
every shot the veil grew denser. Red flashes burst
from the ground where men were down, and from
each side of Kells. His form seemed less instinct

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with force; it had shortened; he was sagging. But
at intervals the red spurt and report of his gun
showed he was fighting. Then a volley from one
side made him stagger against the door. The clear
spang of a Winchester spoke above the heavy boom
of the guns.

Joan’s eyesight recovered from its blur or else
the haze of smoke drifted, for she saw better.
Gulden’s actions fascinated her, horrified her. He
had evidently gone crazy. He groped about the
room, through the smoke, to and fro before the
fighting, yelling bandits, grasping with huge hands
for something. His sense of direction, his equilib-
rium, had become affected. His awful roar stilt
sounded above the din, but it was weakening. His
giant’s strength was weakening. His legs bent and
buckled under him. All at once he whipped out his
two big guns and began to fire as he staggered—at
sandom. He killed the wounded Blicky. In the
mélée he ran against Jesse Smith and thrust both
guns at him. Jesse saw the peril and with a shriek
he fired point-blank at Gulden. Then as Gulden
pulled triggers both men fell. But Gulden rose,
bloody-browed, bawling, still a terrible engine of
destruction. He seemed to glare in one direction
and shoot in another. He pointed the guns and
apparently pulled the triggers long after the shots
had all been fired.

Kells was on his knees now with only one gun.
This wavered and fell, wavered and fell. His left
arm hung broken. But his face flashed white
through the thin, drifting clouds of smoke.

Besides Gulden the bandit Pike was the only one

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not down, and he was hard hit. When he shot his
last he threw the gun away, and, drawing a knife,
he made at Kells. Kells shot once more, and hit
Pike, but did not stop him. Silence, after the shots
and yells, seemed weird, and the groping giant, trying
to follow Pike, resembled a huge phantom. With
one wrench he tore off a leg of the overturned
table and brandished that. He swayed now, and
there was a whistle where before there had been
a roar.

Pike fell over the body of Blicky and got up
again. The bandit leader staggered to his feet,
flung the useless gun in Pike’s face, and closed with
him in weak put final combat. They lurched and
careened to and fro, with the giant Gulden swaying
after them. Thus they struggled until Pike moved
under Gulden’s swinging club. The impetus of the
blow carried Gulden off his balance. Kells seized
the haft of the knife still protruding from the giant’s
neck, and he pulled upon it with all his might.
Gulden heaved up again, and the movement en-
abled Kells to pull out the knife. A bursting gush of
blood, thick and heavy, went flooding before the
giant as he fell.

Kells dropped the knife, and, tottering, surveyed
the scene before him—the gasping Gulden, and all
the quiet forms. Then he made a few halting steps,
and dropped near the door.

Joan tried to rush out, but what with the un-
steadiness of her limbs and Jim holding her as
he went out, too, she seemed long in getting to
Kells.

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She knelt beside him, lifted his head. His face
was white—his eyes were open. But they were only
the windows of a retreating soul. He did not know

her. Consciousness was gone. Then swiftly life
fled.

Digitized by Microsoft®
CHAPTER XX

LEVE steadied Joan in her saddle, and stood a

moment beside her, holding her hands. The
darkness seemed clearing before her eyes and the
sick pain within her seemed numbing out.

“Brace up! Hang to your saddle!’ Jim was say-
ing, earnestly. ‘‘Any moment some of the other
bandits might come. .. . You lead the way. I'll
follow and drive the pack-horse.”’

“But, Jim, I'll never be able to find the back-
trail,’ said Joan.

“T think you will. You'll remember every yard
of the trail on which you were brought in here,
You won’t realize that till you see.’

Joan started and did not look back. Cabin Gulch
was like a place in a dream. It was a relief when
she rode out into the broad valley. The grazing
horses lifted their heads to whistle. Joan saw the
clumps of bushes and the flowers, the waving grass,
but never as she had seen them before. How
strange that she knew exactly which way to turn,
to head, to cross! She trotted her horse so fast that
Jim called to say he could not drive a pack-animal
and keep to her gait. Every rod of the trail’lessened
a burden. Behind was something hideous and in-
comprehensible and terrible; before beckoned some-

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thing beginning to seem-bright. And it was not
the ruddy, calm sunset, flooding the hills with color.
That something called from beyond the hills.

She led straight to a camp site she remembered
long before she came to it; and the charred logs of
the fire, the rocks, the tree under which she had
lain—all brought back the emotions she had felt
there. She grew afraid of the twilight, and when
night settled down there were phantoms stalking
in the shadows. When Cleve, in his hurried camp
duties, went out of her sight, she wanted to cry out
to him, but had not the voice; and when he was
close still she trembled and was cold. He wrapped
blankets round her and held her in his arms, yet
the numb chill and the dark clamp of mind remained
with her. Long she lay awake. The stars were
pitiless) When she shut her eyes the blackness
seemed unendurable. She slept, to wake out of
nightmare, and she dared sleep no more. At last
the day came.

For Joan that faint trail seemed a broad road,
blazoned through the wild cafions and up the rocky
fastness and through the thick brakes. She led on
and on and up and down, never at fault, with familiar
landmarks near and far. Cleve hung close to her,
and now his call to her or to the pack-horse took on
a keener note. Every rough and wild mile behind
them meant so much. They did not halt at the
noon hour. They did not halt at the next camp site,
still more darkly memorable to Joan. And sunset
found them miles farther on, down on the divide,
at the head of Lost Cafion.

Here Joan ate and drank, and slept the deep sleep

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of exhaustion. Sunrise found them moving, and
through the winding, wild cafion they made fast
travel. Both time and miles passed swiftly. At
noon they reached the little open cabin, and they
dismounted for a rest and a drink at the spring.
Joan did not speak a word here. That she could
look into the cabin where she had almost killed a
bandit, and then, through silent, lonely weeks, had
nursed him back to life, was a proof that the long
ride and distance were helping her, sloughing away
the dark deadlock to hope and brightness. They
left the place exactly as they had found it, except
that Cleve plucked the card from the bark of the
balsam-tree—Gulden’s ace-of-hearts target with its
bullet-holes.

Then they rode on, out of that cafion, over the
rocky ridge, down into another cafion, on and on,
past an old camp-site, along a babbling brook for
miles, and so at last out into the foot-hills.

Toward noon of the next day, when approaching
a clump of low trees in a flat valley, Joan pointed
ahead.

“‘Jim—it was in there—where Roberts and I
camped—and—”’

“You ride around. I’ll catch up with you,” re-
plied Cleve.

She made a wide détour, to come back again to
her own trail, so different here. Presently Cleve
joined her. His face was pale and sweaty, and he
looked sick. They rode on silently, and that night
they camped without water on her own trail, made
months before. The single tracks were there,

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sharp and clear in the earth, as if imprinted but a
day.

Next morning Joan found that as the wild border
lay behind her so did the dark and hateful shadow
of gloom. Only the pain remained, and it had
softened. She could think now.

Jim Cleve cheered up. Perhaps it was her
brightening to which he responded. They began
to talk and speech liberated feeling. Miles of that
back-trail they rode side by side, holding hands,
driving the pack-horse ahead, and beginning to talk
of old associations. Again it was sunset when
‘they rode down the hill toward the little village
of Hoadley. Joan’s heart was full, but Jim was
gay.

‘“Won’t I have it on your old fellows!’ he teased.
But he was grim, too.

“Jim! You—won’t tell—just yet!’ she faltered.

‘‘T’ll introduce you as my wife! They’ll all think
we eloped.”

“No. They’ll say I ran after you! ... Please,
Jim! Keep it secret a little. It ’ll be hard for me.
Aunt Jane will never understand.”

“Well, I'll keep it secret till you want to tell—
for two things,’’ he said.

“What?”

‘“Meet me to-night under the spruces where we
had that quarrel. Meet just like we did then, but
differently. Will you?”

“T’ll be—so glad.”

“And put on your mask now! ... You know,
Joan, sooner or later your story will be on every-

body’s tongue. You'll be Dandy Dale as long as you
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live near this border. Wear the mask, just for fun.
Imagine your aunt Jane—and everybody!”

“Jim! I'd forgotten how I look!” exclaimed Joan
in dismay. ‘‘I didn’t bring your long coat. Oh,
T can’t face them in this suit!’

“You'll have to. Besides, you look great. It’s
going to tickle me—the sensation you make. Don’t
you see, they’ll never recognize you till you take the
mask off... . Please, Joan.”

She yielded, and donned the black mask, not with-
out a twinge. And thus they rode across the log
bridge over the creek into the village. The few
men and women they met stared in wonder, and,
recognizing Cleve, they grew excited. They fol-
lowed, and others joined them.

‘Joan, won’t it be strange if Uncle Bill really is
the Overland of Alder Creek? We've packed out
every pound of Overland’s gold. Oh! I hope—I
believe he’s your uncle. . . . Wouldn’t it be great,'
Joan?”

But Joan could not answer. The word gold was
a stab. Besides, she saw Aunt Jane and two
neighbors standing before a log cabin, beginning
to show signs of interest in the approaching pro-
cession.

Joan fell back a little, trying to screen herself be-
hind Jim. Then Jim halted with a cheery salute.

“For the land’s sake!” ejaculated a sweet-faced,
gray-haired woman. ;

“Tf it isn’t Jim Cleve!” cried another.

Jim jumped off and hugged the first speaker. She’
seemed overjoyed to see him and then overcome.
Her face began to work.

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“Jim! We always hoped you’d—you’d fetch
Joan back!”

“Sure!” shouted Jim, who had no heart now for
even an instant’s deception. ‘‘There she is!”’

“Who? ... What?”

Joan slipped out of her saddle and, tearing off
the mask, she leaped forward with a little sob.

“Auntie! Auntie!... It’s Joan—alive—well!...
Oh, so glad to be home! . . . Don’t look at my
clothes—look at me!”’

Aunt Jane evidently sustained a shock of recogni-
tion, joy, amaze, consternation, and shame, of which
all were subservient to the joy. She cried over
Joan and murmured over her. Then, suddenly alive
to the curious crowd, she put Joan from her.

“You—you wild thing! You desperado! I al-
ways told Bill you’d run wild some day!... March in
the house and get out of that indecent rig!”’

That night under the spruces, with the starlight
piercing the lacy shadows, Joan waited for Jim
Cleve. It was one of the white, silent, mountain
nights. The brook murmured over the stones and
the wind rustled the branches.

The wonder of Joan’s home-coming was in learn-
ing that Uncle Bill Hoadley was indeed Overland,
lthe discoverer of Alder Creek. Years and years of
profitless toil had at last been rewarded in this
rich gold strike.

Joan hated to think of gold.. She had wanted
to leave the gold back in Cabin Gulch, and she
would have done so had Jim permitted it. And
to think that all that gold which was not Jim

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Cleve’s belonged to her uncle! She could not
believe it.

Fatal and terrible forever to Joan would be the
significance of gold. Did any woman in the world
or any man know the meaning of gold as well as she
knew it? How strange and enlightening and terrible
had been her experience! She had grown now not to
blame any man, honest miner or bloody bandit.
She blamed only gold. She doubted its value. She
could not see it a blessing. She absolutely knew its
driving power to change the souls of men. Could
she ever forget that vast ant-hill of toiling diggers
and washers, blind and deaf and dumb to all save
gold?

Always limned in figures of fire against the black
memory would be the forms of those wild and
violent bandits! Gulden, the monster, the gorilla,
the cannibal! Horrible as was the memory of him,
there was no horror in thought of his terrible death!
That seemed to be the one memory that did not
hurt. }

But Kells was indestructible—he lived in her
mind. Safe out of the border now and at home, she
eould look back clearly. Still all was not clear and
never would be. She saw Kells the ruthless bandit,
the organizer, the planner, and the blood-spiller.

| He ought have no place in a good woman’s memory.
Yet he had. She never condoned one of his deeds or
even his intentions. She knew her intelligence was
not broad enough to grasp the vastness of his guilt.
She believed he must have been the worst and most
terrible character on that wild border. That bor.
der had developed him. It had produced the time
354

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THE BORDER LEGION

and the place and the man. And therein lay the
mystery. For over against this bandit’s weakness
and evil she could contrast strength and nobility.
She alone had known the real man in all the strange
phases of his nature, and the darkness of his crime
faded out of her mind. She suffered remorse—
almost regret. Yet what could she have done?
There had been no help for that impossible situation,
as there was now no help for her in a right and just
placing of Kells among men. He had stolen her—
wantonly murdering for the sake of lonely, fruitless
hours with her; he had loved her—and he had.
changed; he had gambled away her soul and life—
a last and terrible proof of the evil power of gold;
and in the end he had saved her—he had gone from
her white, radiant, cool, with his strange, pale eyes
and his atniable, mocking smile, and all the ruthless
force of his life had expended itself in one last
magnificent stand. If only he had known her at
the end—when she lifted his head! But no—there
had been only the fading light—the strange, weird
look of a reteating soul, already alone forever.

A rustling of leaves, a step thrilled Joan out of her
meditation.

Suddenly she was seized from behind, and Jim
Cleve showed that though he might be a joyous and
grateful lover, he certainiy would never be an actor.
For if he desired to live over again that fatal meeting
and quarrel which had sent them out to the border,
he failed utterly in his part. There was possession
in the gentle grasp of his arms and bliss in the trem-
bling of his lips.

365

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THE BORDER LEGION

*‘Jim, you never did it that way!” laughed Joan.
“If you had—do you think I could ever have been
furious?”

Jim in turn laughed happily. ‘‘Joan, that’s
exactly the way I stole upon you and mauled you!”

“You think so? Well, I happen to remember.
Now you sit here and make believe you are Joan.
And let me be Jim Cleve! ... Tl show you!”

Joan stole away in the darkness, and noiselessly as
a shadow she stole back—to enact that violent
scene as it lived in her memory.

Jim was breathless, speechless, choked.

‘‘That’s how you treated me,” she said.

‘‘T—I don’t believe I could have—been such a—a
bear!”’ panted Jim.

‘But you were. And consider—I’ve not half your
strength!”

“Then all I say is—you did right to drive me off.
... Only you should never have trailed me out ta
the border.”

“Ah!... But, Jim, in my fury I discovered my
love!”

THE END

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Judith Sanford part owner of a cattle ranch realizes she is being robbed
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