Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 333
“Say, have you got a blanket for that girl?” asked Kells, removing his pipe from his lips to address Roberts.
“I got saddle-blankets,” responded Roberts. “You see, we didn’t expect to be caught out.”
“I’ll let you have one,” said Kells, walking away from the fire. “It will be cold.” He returned with a blanket, which he threw to Roberts.
“Much obliged,” muttered Roberts.
“I’ll bunk by the fire,” went on the other, and with that he sat down and appeared to become absorbed in thought.
Roberts brought the borrowed blanket and several saddle-blankets over to where Joan was, and laying them down he began to kick and scrape stones and brush aside.
“Pretty rocky place, this here is,” he said. “Reckon you’ll sleep some, though.”
Then he began arranging the blankets into a bed. Presently Joan felt a tug at her riding-skirt. She looked down.
“I’ll be right by you,” he whispered, with his big hand to his mouth, “an’ I ain’t a-goin’ to sleep none.”
Whereupon he returned to the camp-fire. Presently Joan, not because she was tired or sleepy, but because she wanted to act naturally, lay down on the bed and pulled a blanket up over her. There was no more talking among the men. Once she heard the jingle of spurs and the rustle of cedar brush. By and by Roberts came back to her, dragging his saddle, and lay down near her. Joan raised up a little to see Kells motionless and absorbed by the fire. He had a strained and tense position. She sank back softly and looked up at the cold bright stars. What was going to happen to her? Something terrible! The very night shadows, the silence, the presence of strange men, all told her. And a shudder that was a thrill ran over and over her.
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 occupied 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 darkened and then lightened. Someone now and then 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. No one, 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. Presently, 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 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 violent 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 conversing 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 speaking, 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. 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 blanching, 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, I’ll go anyway.”
This was only play at words, Joan thought. She divined in Roberts a cold and grim acceptance of 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 — whatever 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 Roberts, and his hands began to twitch and jerk.
Joan did not miss the wonderful intentness of 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—”
“You don’t strike me as a fool,” interrupted Kells. His voice was suave, smooth, persuasive, cool. What strength — what certainty appeared behind it! “It’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,” passionately 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’ pathos and passion had no effect, unless to bring out by contrast the singular and ruthless nature of Jack Kells.
“Will you hit the trail?”
“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 muffled hearing burst the boom of a gun.
CHAPTER 3
JOAN RAN ON, stumbling over rocks and brush, with a darkness before her eyes, the terror in her soul. She was out in the cedars when someone 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.”
“Safe!” she whispered.
“That’s what I said, Miss Randle. If you’re going to ride out into the border — if it’s possible to be safe out there you’ll be so with me.”
“But I want to go home. Oh, please let me go!”
“I 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.
“I’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 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, glistening 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 held for ransom. The fact was scarcely credible. She could not shake the dread of nameless peril. She tried not to recall 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 settlement 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 useless; 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 difference now. He had terribly transgressed. He had frightened her with threats of dire ruin to himself. And because of that she had trailed him, to fall herself 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 trackless 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 throbbing heart, yet looked with awe and shame and distrust at this new, strange side of her nature.
And while her mind was thus thronged the morning hours passed swiftly, the miles of foot-hills were climbed and descended. A green gap of canon, 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 canon was a wild, green-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 comfortable 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 Kells.
Another fire was kindled and preparations made toward a noonday meal. Bill and Halloway appeared loquacious, and inclined to steal glances at Joan when Kells could not notice. Halloway whistled a Dixie tune. Then Bill took advantage of the absence 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.
