by Grey, Zane
"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 forward 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 compelled to seek your protection from even worse 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.
How can it ... 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 only been 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, righting, hating--leaped to the power she sensed in herself. If she could be deceitful, cunning, shameless in holding 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 had 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 circumstances. Could she formulate a plan that this keen bandit would not see through? The remotest possibility of her even caring for Kells--that was as much as she dared hint. But that, together with all 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 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 gropped through the darkness 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 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, extending 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 remembered a heavily built, florid Jim Cleve, an overgrown boy with a good-natured, lazy smile on his full face and sleepy eyes. She all but failed to recognize 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 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 surrounded; 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 him, 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, despair, again seized upon her, and some strange, yearning maddening emotion. What had she sacrificed? 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 cabin. The man fell into the circle and faced Kell with the fire-light 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," thundered 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 nothing particular to Gulden, or else he was deep where all considered him only dense and shallow.
"It's done. Bill's dead," continued Gulden. "But 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 appeared plodding in mind. Red Pearce stepped between Kells and Gulden. There was a realization in the cr
owd, 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.
Chapter 9
Joan 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 ruffians. 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 indifference. One of the gamblers howled his disgust, slammed down his cards, and got up.
"He's cleaned out," said one, in devilish glee.
"Naw, he ain't," voiced 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 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 whiskey?"
"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 in it. 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. Morning 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 disuse. Her view from both rooms was restricted to 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 someone; 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 man. He was human, and things that might constitute black evil for observers were dear to him, a part of him. Joan feigned the sympathy she could not feel.
"I 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.
"I never thought of that till now," he said. "We always got along because I understood him. I managed 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 Canon. 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-grained. 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, Joan," he replied.
"That Gulden is not a man. I never was afraid of a real man. He's-- he's an animal."
"He made me think of a gorrilla," 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.
"I 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 kill
er--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 shipwrecked. Starvation forced him to be a cannibal. He told this in California, and in Nevada camps. 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.
"I don't know how true it is. But I believe it. Gulden is not a man.
The worst of us have a conscience. We can tell right from wrong. But Gulden can't. He's beneath morals. He has no conception 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 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.