Zane Grey

by The Border Legion

  Blicky darted through the door and his footsteps thudded out of hearing.

  "You can't force me to marry you," said Joan. "I—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 left 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 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 pipe and 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 footsteps 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 bewilderment in his expression, but very little fear.

  "He was preachin' down there in a tent," said Blicky, "an I jest waltzed him up without explainin'."

  "Sir, I want to be married at once," declared Kells, peremptorily.

  "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. "I'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 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 preacher's face was added horror.

  "A minister of God is needed here, but not in the capacity you name," he said. "I'll perform 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.

  "I cannot be forced." The preacher still maintained some dignity, but he had grown pale.

  "I 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 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.

  "I 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.

  "I 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. His astonishment was terrific and held him like a chain. Suddenly he lurched.

  "What did you say?" he roared, his face flaming.

  "I can't marry you to a woman who already has a husband."

  Swift as light the red flashed out of Kells's face. "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 of 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."

  "YOU—MARRIED—THEM!"

  "Yes."

  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 aloft. And then all the terrible evil in 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.

  "I 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 out 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.

  "I'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 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 Pearce's body, almost falling, and staggered back to the wall. Kells had the center of the room to himself. 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 control 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 abandonment he showed a consciousness of its futility. In a 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."

  That was Smith's expression of fidelity, and Kells 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, Williams, 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, sharply. "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, fearfully. "Gulden!"

  "He must be looking for me," replied Jim. "But there's more doing. Did you see that crowd down the road?"

  "No. I couldn't see out."

  "Listen."

  Heavy tramp 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 reveal 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?"

  Gulden leaned across the table, his massive jaw working. "I found it on the miner Creede," replied the giant, stridently.

  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!"

  "Yes."

  "Where was his—his body?"

  "I 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!... I found this nugget on him!"

  17

  *

  Apparently 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 associates.

  "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 behind 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."

  "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 believe 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.

  "Yes."

  "I'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 convincing.

  "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?"

  "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," suddenly spoke up the giant.

  If he expected to surprise Kells he utterly failed.

  "That's another and bigger lie," replied the bandit 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 himself," said Beady Jones, as if answering to the unspoken thought of all.

  "Men, between you and me, I had more queer notions about Pearce than Cleve," announced Gulden, 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 once—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, anxi
ously. "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."

  "No!"

  "Shore is. I know him. But it ain't his hoss.... Say, he's hurryin'."

  Low exclamations of surprise and curiosity followed. Kells and his men looked attentively, but no one 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-condemnation and remorse.

  "What of that?" demanded Kells, with his head leaping like the strike of an eagle.

  "I'm takin' it back!"

  Kells met the outstretched hand with his own and 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 hardeyed.

  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.