Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 332
“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 hangdog any longer,” he said. “I love you and I’m no good without you. You must care a little for me. Let’s marry... I’ll—”
“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 longing 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’ll 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 Handle, do you mean that?” he asked.
“I 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.
“I’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!”
These were names of strange, unknown, and wild men of a growing and terrible legion on the border. Out there, somewhere, lived desperados, robbers, road-agents, murderers. More and more rumor had brought tidings of them into the once quiet village. Joan felt a slight cold sinking sensation at her heart. But this was only a magnificent threat of Jim’s. He could not do such a thing. She would never let him, even if he could. But after the incomprehensible manner of woman, she did not tell him that.
“Bah! You haven’t the nerve!” she retorted, with another mocking laugh.
Haggard and fierce, he glared down at her a moment, and then without another word he strode away. Joan was amazed, and a little sick, a little uncertain: still she did not call him back.
And now at noon of the next day she had tracked him miles toward the mountains. It was a broad trail he had taken, one used by prospectors and hunters. There was no danger of her getting lost. What risk she ran was of meeting some of these border ruffians that had of late been frequent visitors in the village. Presently she mounted again and rode down the ridge. She would go a mile or so farther.
Behind every rock and cedar she expected to find Jim. Surely he had only threatened her. But she had taunted him in a way no man could stand, and if there were any strength of character in him he would show it now. Her remorse and dread increased. After all, he was only a boy — only a couple of years older than she was. Under stress of feeling he might go to any extreme. Had she misjudged him? If she had not, she had at least been brutal. But he had dared to kiss her! Every time she thought of that a tingling, a confusion, a hot shame went over her. And at length Joan marveled to find that out of the affront to her pride, and the quarrel, and the fact of his going and of her following, and especially out of this increasing remorseful dread, there had flourished up a strange and reluctant respect for Jim Cleve.
She climbed another ridge and halted again. This time she saw a horse and rider down in the green. Her heart leaped. It must be Jim returning. After all, then, he had only threatened. She felt relieved and glad, yet vaguely sorry. She had been right in her conviction.
She had not watched long, however, before she saw that this was not the horse Jim usually rode. She took the precaution then to hide behind some bushes, and watched from there. When the horseman approached closer she discerned that instead of Jim it was Harvey Roberts, a man of the village and a good friend of her uncle’s. Therefore she rode out of her covert and hailed him. It was a significant thing that at the sound of her voice Roberts started suddenly and reached for his gun. Then he recognized her.
“Hello, Joan!” he exclaimed, turning her way. “Reckon you give me a scare. You ain’t alone way out here?”
“Yes. I was trailing Jim when I saw you,” she replied. “Thought you were Jim.”
“Trailin’ Jim! What’s up?”
“We quarreled. He swore he was going to the 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 gettrn’ recklessler 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.”
“I’ve heard nothing,” she replied. “Tell me. Why did they fight?”
“Report was that Bradley talked oncomplementary about you.”
Joan experienced a sweet, warm rush of blood — another new and strange emotion. She did not like Bradley. He had been persistent and offensive.
“Why didn’t Jim tell me?” she queried, half to herself.
“Reckon he wasn’t proud of the shape he left Bradley in,” replied Roberts, with a laugh. “Come on, Joan, an’ make back tracks for home.”
Joan was silent a moment while she looked over the undulating green ridges toward the great gray and black walls. Something stirred deep within her. Her father in his youth had been an adventurer. She felt the thrill and the call of her blood. And she had been unjust to a man who loved her.
“I’m going after him,” she said.
Roberts did not show any surprise. He looked at the position of the sun. “Reckon we might overtake him an’ get home before sundown,” he said, laconically, as he turned his horse. “We’ll make a short cut across here a few miles, an’ strike his trail. Can’t miss it.”
Then he set off at a brisk trot and Joan fell in behind. She had a busy mind, and it was a sign of her preoccupation that she forgot to thank Roberts. Presently they struck into a valley, a narrow depression between the foothills and the ridges, and here they made faster time. The valley appeared miles long. Toward the middle of it Roberts called out to Joan, and, looking down, she saw they had come up with Jim’s trail. Here Roberts put his mount to a canter, and at that gait they trailed Jim out of the valley and up a slope which appeared to be a pass into the mountains. Time flew by for Joan, because she was always peering ahead in the hope and expectation of seeing Jim off in the distance. But she had no glimpse of him. Now and then Roberts would glance around at the westering sun. The afternoon had far advanced. Joan began to worry about home. She had been so sure of coming up with Jim and returning early in the day that she had left no word as to her intentions. Probably by this time somebody was out looking for her.
The country grew rougher, rock-strewn, covered with cedars and patches of pine. Deer crashed out of the thickets and grouse whirred up from under the horses. The warmth of the summer afternoon chilled.
“Reckon we’d better give it up,” called Roberts back to her.
“No — no. Go on,” replied Joan.
And they urged their horses faster. Finally they reached the summit of the slope. From that height they saw down into a round, shallow valley, which led on, like all the deceptive reaches, to the ranges. There was water down there. It glinted like red ribbon in the sunlight. Not a living thing was in sight. Joan grew more discouraged. It seemed there was scarcely any hope of overtaking Jim that day. His trail led off round to the left and grew difficult to follow. Finally, to make matters worse, Roberts’s horse slipped in a rocky wash and lamed himself. He did not want to go on, and, when urged, could hardly walk.
Roberts got off to examine the injury. “Wal, he didn’t break his leg,” he said, which was his manner of telling how bad the injury was. “Joan, I reckon there’ll be some worryin’ back home tonight. For your horse can’t carry double an’ I can’t walk.”
Joan dismounted. There was water in the wash, and she helped Roberts bathe the sprained and swelling joint. In the interest and sympathy of the moment she forgot her own trouble.
“Reckon we’ll have to make camp right here,” said Roberts, looking around. “Lucky I’ve a pack on that saddle. I can make you comfortable. But we’d better be careful about a fire an’ not have one after dark.”
“There’s no help for it,” replied Joan. “Tomorrow we’ll go on after Jim. He can’t be far ahead now.” She was glad that it was impossible to return home until the next day.
Roberts took the pack off his horse, and then the saddle. And he was bending over in the act of loosening the cinches of Joan’s saddle when suddenly he straightened up with a jerk.
“What’s that?”
Joan heard soft, dull thumps on the turf and then the sharp crack of an unshod hoof upon stone. Wheeling, she saw three horsemen. They were just across the wash and coming toward her. One rider pointed in her direction. Silhouetted against the red of the sunset they made dark and sinister figures. Joan glanced apprehensively at Roberts. He was staring with a look of recognition in his eyes. Under his breath he muttered a curse. And although Joan was not certain, she believed that his face had shaded gray.
The three horsemen halted on the rim of the wash. One of them was leading a mule that carried a pack and a deer carcass. Joan had seen many riders apparently just like these, but none had ever so subtly and powerfully affected her.
“Howdy,” greeted one of the men.
And then Joan was positive that the face of Roberts had turned ashen gray.
CHAPTER 2
“IT AIN’T YOU — KELLS?”
Roberts’s query was a confirmation of his own recognition. And the other’s laugh was an answer, if one were needed.
The three horsemen crossed the wash and again halted, leisurely, as if time was no object. They were all young, under thirty. The two who had not spoken were rough-garbed, coarse-featured, and resembled in general a dozen men Joan saw every day. Kells was of a different stamp. Until he looked at her he reminded her of someone she had known back in Missouri; after he looked at her she was aware, in a curious, sickening way, that no such person as he had ever before seen her. He was pale, gray-eyed, intelligent, amiable. He appeared to be a man who had been a gentleman. But there was something strange, intangible, immense about him. Was that the effect of his presence or of his name? Kells! It was only a word to Joan. But it carried a nameless and terrible suggestion. During the last year many dark tales had gone from camp to camp in Idaho — some too strange, too horrible for credence — and with every rumor the fame of Kells had grown, and also a fearful certainty of the rapid growth of a legion of evil men out on the border. But no one in the village or from any of the camps ever admitted having seen this Kells. Had fear kept them silent? Joan was amazed that Roberts evidently knew this man.
Kells dismounted and offered his hand. Roberts took it and shook it constrainedly.
“Where did we meet last?” asked Kells.
“Reckon it was out of Fresno,” replied Roberts, and it was evident that he tried to hide the effect of a memory.
Then Kells touched his hat to Joan, giving her the fleetest kind of a glance. “Rather off the track aren’t you?” he asked Roberts.
“Reckon we are,” replied Roberts, and he began to lose some of his restraint. His voice sounded clearer and did not halt. “Been trailin’ Miss Randle’s favorite hoss. He’s lost. An’ we got farther ‘n we had any idee. Then my hoss went lame. ‘Fraid we can’t start home to-night.”
“Where are you from?”
“Hoadley. Bill Hoadley’s town, back thirty miles or so.”
“Well, Roberts, if you’ve no objection we’ll camp here with you,” continued Kells. “We’ve got some fresh meat.”
With that he addressed a word to his comrades, and they repaired to a cedar-tree near-by, where they began to unsaddle and unpack.
Then Roberts, bending nearer Joan, as if intent on his own pack, began to whisper, hoarsely: “That’s Jack Kells, the California road-agent. He’s a gun fighter — a hell-bent rattlesnake. When I saw him last he had a rope round his neck an’ was bein’ led away to be hanged. I heerd afterward he was rescued by pals. Joan, if the idee comes into his head he’ll kill me. I don’t know what to do. For God’s sake think of somethin’!... Use your woman’s wits!... We couldn’t be in a wuss fix!”
Joan felt rather unsteady on her feet, so that it was a relief to sit down. She was cold and sick inwardly, almost stunned. Some great peril menaced her. Men like Roberts did not talk that way without cause. She was brave; she was not unused to danger. But this must be a different kind, compared with which all she had experienced was but insignificant. She could not grasp Roberts’s intimation. Why should he be killed? They had no gold, no valuables. Even their horses were nothing to inspire robbery. It must be that there was peril to Roberts and to her because she was a girl, caught out in the wilds, easy prey for beasts of evil men. She had heard of such things happening. Still, she could not believe it possible for her. Roberts could protect her. Then this amiable, well-spoken Kells, he was no Western rough — he spoke like an educated man; surely he would not harm her. So her mind revolved round fears, conjectures, possibilities; she could not find her wits. She could not think how to meet the situation, even had she divined what the situation was to be.
While she sat there in the shade of a cedar the men busied themselves with camp duties. None of them appeared to pay any attention to Joan. They talked while they worked, as any other group of campers might have talked, and jested and laughed. Kells made a fire, and carried water, then broke cedar boughs for later camp-fire use; one of the strangers whom they called Bill hobbled the horses; the other unrolled the pack, spread a tarpaulin, and emptied the greasy sacks; Roberts made biscuit dough for the oven.
The sun sank red and a ruddy twilight fell. It soon passed. Darkness had about set in when Roberts came over to Joan, carrying bread, coffee, and venison.
“Here’s your supper, Joan,” he called, quite loud and cheerily, and then he whispered: “Mebbe it ain’t so bad. They-all seem friendly. But I’m scared, Joan. If you jest wasn’t so dam’ handsome, or if only he hadn’t seen you!”
“Can’t we slip off in the dark?” she whispered in return.
“We might try. But it’d be no use if they mean bad. I can’t make up my mind yet what’s comin’ off. It’s all right for you to pretend you’re bashful. But don’t lose your nerve.”
Then he returned to the camp-fire. Joan was hungry. She ate and drank what had been given her, and that helped her to realize reality. And although dread abided with her, she grew curious. Almost she imagined she was fascinated by her predicament. She had always been an emotional girl of strong will and self-restraint. She had always longed for she knew not what — perhaps freedom. Certain places had haunted her. She had felt that something should have happened to her there. Yet nothing ever had happened. Certain books had obsessed her, even when a child, and often to her mother’s dismay; for these books had been of wild places and life on the sea, adventure, and bloodshed. It had always been said of her that she should have been a boy.
Night settled down black. A pale, narrow cloud, marked by a train of stars, extended across the dense blue sky. The wind moaned in the cedars and roared in the replenished camp-fire. Sparks flew away into the shadows. And on the puffs of smoke that blew toward her came the sweet, pungent odor of burning cedar. Coyotes barked off under the brush, and from away on the ridge drifted the dismal defiance of a wolf.
Camp-life was no new thing to Joan. She had crossed the plains in a wagon-train, that more than once had known the long-drawn yell of hostile Indians. She had prospected and hunted in the mountains with her uncle, weeks at a time. But never before this night had the wildness, the loneliness, been so vivid to her.
Roberts was on his knees, scouring his oven with wet sand. His big, shaggy head nodded in the firelight. He seemed pondering and thick and slow. There was a burden upon him. The man Bill and his companion lay back against stones and conversed low. Kells stood up in the light of the blaze. He had a pipe at which he took long pulls and then sent up clouds of smoke. There was nothing imposing in his build or striking in his face, at that distance; but it took no second look to see here was a man remarkably out of the ordinary. Some kind of power and intensity emanated from him. From time to time he appeared to glance in Joan’s direction; still, she could not be sure, for his eyes were but shadows. He had cast aside his coat. He wore a vest open all the way, and a checked soft shirt, with a black tie hanging untidily. A broad belt swung below his hip and in the holster was a heavy gun. That was a strange place to carry a gun, Joan thought. It looked awkward to her. When he walked it might swing round and bump against his leg. And he certainly would have to put it some other place when he rode.
