Cabin Gulch

by Zane Grey

“Hands up, pards!” he exclaimed. “Reckon we’ve run ag’in’ 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 squarely into them around a corner of slope, and, as there was no room to pass, she had halted.

  “Shore it’s the Dandy Dale we heerd of,” vouchsafed another.

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

  Joan wheeled her horse and rode back up the trail. That glance of these ruffians seemed to search 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 possible decency among them, this outrageous bandit costume rendered it null. How could she ever continue 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 there were 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 in a window, curved hands around his mouth and called softly: “Hullo, sweetheart!”

  Joan was ashamed that she could feel insulted. She was amazed at the temper that seemed raised 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. Apparently she was not going to find any better crossing, 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.

  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 ruffians. That was the unexpected—the impossible—a 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 somehow mounted the bank, 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 suffered 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—who she would have died to save? Jim Cleve had seen in her only an abandoned creature of 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 surrounding 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 so 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 the beast!

  Oh, he’d been drunk . . . he was drunk, thought 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 damned 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 couldn’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 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 break-down 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, toil, and despair, she would never have known her woman’s heart and its capacity for love.

  ELEVEN

  Following that meeting, with all its power to change and strengthen Joan, there were uneventful 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 he was dangerous. There were quarrels when curses 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.

  The 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 remembered him. He manifested interest in the gambling, but he returned the friendly greetings of the players by surly grunts. Presently he said something to Kells.

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

  The noise subsided. One gamester laughed knowingly.

  “Lend me a sack of dust?” asked Gulden.

  Kells’s face showed amaze, and then 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 proposition?”

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

  “I’m mighty glad, Gulden,” replied Kells, and he looked as if he meant it. “I need you. We ought to get along. Here.”

  He handed a small buckskin sack to Gulden. Someone made room for Gulden from 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 $15 to the ounce, but the real value in money did not actuate the gamblers. They spilled the dust on the table and floor 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 borrowed, 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.

  “Boss, that there Red double-crossed you,” said Bate Wood.

  Kells had lost heavily, and he was under the influence 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 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 exercise, she was interested to see a rider tearing up the slope on a foam-flecked horse. Men 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 hurriedly out.

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

  “Shore is Blicky,” said Wood, and his usually wild 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 belonging 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 that 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 surprised. An’ when we met pack trains an’ riders an’ prairie schooners an’ a stagecoach we knew there was doin’s over in the Bear Mountain range. When we come to the edge of the diggin’s an’ seen a whalin’ big camp . . . like a beehive . . . Jess 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 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 in 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 closely shut like those of a mastiff. He looked eager, passionate, cunning, hard as steel, and that strange brightness of elation slowly shaded to a dark brooding menace. 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 ’forty-nine and ’fifty-one. 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 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 perturbed, 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 that Joan undesignedly 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 fastnesses for hiding places, was the place, and 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 that 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 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 had 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 a
lone was the cause of his attitude toward Kells—of her horror at the unshakable 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 surprised him. Evidently in the fever of this momentous 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 mien that Joan had become used to associating with weakness in him.

  “I 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 tonight?” he whispered hoarsely. “I swear to God I’ll marry you . . . and become an honest man. Tomorrow 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 intensity of his emotion. One moment he had entered the cabin—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-headed bandit?”

  “No. Because I . . . I don’t love you.”