The Border Legion Read online

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  Joan Randle rode on and on, through the canon, out at its head and overa pass into another canon, and never did she let it be possible forKells to see her eyes until she knew beyond peradventure of a doubt thatthey hid the strength and spirit and secret of her soul.

  The time came when traveling was so steep and rough that she must thinkfirst of her horse and her own safety. Kells led up over a rock-jumbledspur of range, where she had sometimes to follow on foot. It seemedmiles across that wilderness of stone. Foxes and wolves trotted overopen places, watching stealthily. All around dark mountain peaks stoodup. The afternoon was far advanced when Kells started to descend again,and he rode a zigzag course on weathered slopes and over brushy benches,down and down into the canons again.

  A lonely peak was visible, sunset-flushed against the blue, from thepoint where Kells finally halted. That ended the longest ride Joan hadever made in one day. For miles and miles they had climbed and descendedand wound into the mountains. Joan had scarcely any idea of direction.She was completely turned around and lost. This spot was the wildest andmost beautiful she had ever seen. A canon headed here. It was narrow,low-walled, and luxuriant with grass and wild roses and willow andspruce and balsam. There were deer standing with long ears erect,motionless, curious, tame as cattle. There were moving streaks throughthe long grass, showing the course of smaller animals slipping away.

  Then under a giant balsam, that reached aloft to the rim-wall, Joan sawa little log cabin, open in front. It had not been built very long; someof the log ends still showed yellow. It did not resemble the hunters'and prospectors' cabins she had seen on her trips with her uncle.

  In a sweeping glance Joan had taken in these features. Kells haddismounted and approached her. She looked frankly, but not directly, athim.

  "I'm tired--almost too tired to get off," she said.

  "Fifty miles of rock and brush, up and down! Without a kick!" heexclaimed, admiringly. "You've got sand, girl!"

  "Where are we?"

  "This is Lost Canon. Only a few men know of it. And they are--attachedto me. I intend to keep you here."

  "How long?" She felt the intensity of his gaze.

  "Why--as long as--" he replied, slowly, "till I get my ransom."

  "What amount will you ask?"

  "You're worth a hundred thousand in gold right now... Maybe later Imight let you go for less."

  Joan's keen-wrought perception registered his covert, scarcely veiledimplication. He was studying her.

  "Oh, poor uncle. He'll never, never get so much."

  "Sure he will," replied Kells, bluntly.

  Then he helped her out of the saddle. She was stiff and awkward, and shelet herself slide. Kells handled her gently and like a gentleman,and for Joan the first agonizing moment of her ordeal was past. Herintuition had guided her correctly. Kells might have been and probablywas the most depraved of outcast men; but the presence of a girl likeher, however it affected him, must also have brought up associationsof a time when by family and breeding and habit he had been infinitelydifferent. His action here, just like the ruffian Bill's, wasinstinctive, beyond his control. Just this slight thing, this frail linkthat joined Kells to his past and better life, immeasurably inspiritedJoan and outlined the difficult game she had to play.

  "You're a very gallant robber," she said.

  He appeared not to hear that or to note it; he was eying her up anddown; and he moved closer, perhaps to estimate her height compared tohis own.

  "I didn't know you were so tall. You're above my shoulder."

  "Yes, I'm very lanky."

  "Lanky! Why you're not that. You've a splendid figure--tall, supple,strong; you're like a Nez Perce girl I knew once.... You're a beautifulthing. Didn't you know that?"

  "Not particularly. My friends don't dare flatter me. I suppose I'll haveto stand it from you. But I didn't expect compliments from Jack Kells ofthe Border Legion."

  "Border Legion? Where'd you hear that name?"

  "I didn't hear it. I made it up--thought of it myself."

  "Well, you've invented something I'll use.... And what's your name--yourfirst name? I heard Roberts use it."

  Joan felt a cold contraction of all her internal being, but outwardlyshe never so much as nicked an eyelash. "My name's Joan."

  "Joan!" He placed heavy, compelling hands on her shoulders and turnedher squarely toward him.

  Again she felt his gaze, strangely, like the reflection of sunlight fromice. She had to look at him. This was her supreme test. For hoursshe had prepared for it, steeled herself, wrought upon all that wassensitive in her; and now she prayed, and swiftly looked up into hiseyes. They were windows of a gray hell. And she gazed into that nakedabyss, at that dark, uncovered soul, with only the timid anxiety andfear and the unconsciousness of an innocent, ignorant girl.

  "Joan! You know why I brought you here?"

  "Yes, of course; you told me," she replied, steadily. "You want toransom me for gold.... And I'm afraid you'll have to take me homewithout getting any."

  "You know what I mean to do to you," he went on, thickly.

  "Do to me?" she echoed, and she never quivered a muscle. "You--youdidn't say.... I haven't thought.... But you won't hurt me, will you?It's not my fault if there's no gold to ransom me."

  He shook her. His face changed, grew darker. "You KNOW what I mean."

  "I don't." With some show of spirit she essayed to slip out of hisgrasp. He held her the tighter.

  "How old are you?"

  It was only in her height and development that Joan looked anywhere nearher age. Often she had been taken for a very young girl.

  "I'm seventeen," she replied. This was not the truth. It was a lie thatdid not falter on lips which had scorned falsehood.

  "Seventeen!" he ejaculated in amaze. "Honestly, now?"

  She lifted her chin scornfully and remained silent.

  "Well, I thought you were a woman. I took you to be twenty-five--atleast twenty-two. Seventeen, with that shape! You're only a girl--a kid.You don't know anything."

  Then he released her, almost with violence, as if angered at her orhimself, and he turned away to the horses. Joan walked toward the littlecabin. The strain of that encounter left her weak, but once from underhis eyes, certain that she had carried her point, she quickly regainedher poise. There might be, probably would be, infinitely more tryingordeals for her to meet than this one had been; she realized, however,that never again would she be so near betrayal of terror and knowledgeand self.

  The scene of her isolation had a curious fascination for her.Something--and she shuddered--was to happen to her here in this lonely,silent gorge. There were some flat stones made into a rude seat underthe balsam-tree, and a swift, yard-wide stream of clear water ran by.Observing something white against the tree, Joan went closer. A card,the ace of hearts, had been pinned to the bark by a small cluster ofbullet-holes, every one of which touched the red heart, and one of themhad obliterated it. Below the circle of bulletholes, scrawled in rudeletters with a lead-pencil, was the name "Gulden." How little, a fewnights back, when Jim Cleve had menaced Joan with the names of Kells andGulden, had she imagined they were actual men she was to meet and fear!And here she was the prisoner of one of them. She would ask Kells whoand what this Gulden was. The log cabin was merely a shed, withoutfireplace or window, and the floor was a covering of balsam boughs, longdried out and withered. A dim trail led away from it down the canon.If Joan was any judge of trails, this one had not seen the imprint ofa horse track for many months. Kells had indeed brought her to a hidingplace, one of those, perhaps, that camp gossip said was inaccessible toany save a border hawk. Joan knew that only an Indian could follow thetortuous and rocky trail by which Kells had brought her in. She wouldnever be tracked there by her own people.

  The long ride had left her hot, dusty, scratched, with tangled hair andtorn habit. She went over to her saddle, which Kells had removedfrom her pony, and, opening the saddlebag, she took inventory of herpossessions.
They were few enough, but now, in view of an unexpected andenforced sojourn in the wilds, beyond all calculation of value. Andthey included towel, soap, toothbrush, mirror and comb and brush, a redscarf, and gloves. It occurred to her how seldom she carried that bag onher saddle, and, thinking back, referred the fact to accident, andthen with honest amusement owned that the motive might have been alsoa little vanity. Taking the bag, she went to a flat stone by the brookand, rolling up her sleeves, proceeded to improve her appearance. Withdeft fingers she rebraided her hair and arranged it as she had wornit when only sixteen. Then, resolutely, she got up and crossed over towhere Kells was unpacking.

  "I'll help you get supper," she said.

  He was on his knees in the midst of a jumble of camp duffle that hadbeen hastily thrown together. He looked up at her--from her shapely,strong, brown arms to the face she had rubbed rosy.

  "Say, but you're a pretty girl!"

  He said it enthusiastically, in unstinted admiration, without theslightest subtlety or suggestion; and if he had been the devil himselfit would have been no less a compliment, given spontaneously to youthand beauty.

  "I'm glad if it's so, but please don't tell me," she rejoined, simply.

  Then with swift and business-like movements she set to helping him withthe mess the inexperienced pack-horse had made of that particular pack.And when that was straightened out she began with the biscuit doughwhile he lighted a fire. It appeared to be her skill, rather than herwillingness, that he yielded to. He said very little, but he looked ather often. And he had little periods of abstraction. The situation wasnovel, strange to him. Sometimes Joan read his mind and sometimes hewas an enigma. But she divined when he was thinking what a picture shelooked there, on her knees before the bread-pan, with flour on herarms; of the difference a girl brought into any place; of how strange itseemed that this girl, instead of lying a limp and disheveled rag undera tree, weeping and praying for home, made the best of a bad situationand unproved it wonderfully by being a thoroughbred.

  Presently they sat down, cross-legged, one on each side of thetarpaulin, and began the meal. That was the strangest supper Joan eversat down to; it was like a dream where there was danger that torturedher; but she knew she was dreaming and would soon wake up. Kells wasalmost imperceptibly changing. The amiability of his face seemed to havestiffened. The only time he addressed her was when he offered to helpher to more meat or bread or coffee. After the meal was finished hewould not let her wash the pans and pots, and attended to that himself.

  Joan went to the seat by the tree, near the camp-fire. A purple twilightwas shadowing the canon. Far above, on the bold peak the last warmth ofthe afterglow was fading. There was no wind, no sound, no movement. Joanwondered where Jim Cleve was then. They had often sat in the twilight.She felt an unreasonable resentment toward him, knowing she was toblame, but blaming him for her plight. Then suddenly she thought of heruncle, of home, of her kindly old aunt who always worried so about her.Indeed, there was cause to worry. She felt sorrier for them than forherself. And that broke her spirit momentarily. Forlorn, and with a waveof sudden sorrow and dread and hopelessness, she dropped her head uponher knees and covered her face. Tears were a relief. She forgot Kellsand the part she must play. But she remembered swiftly--at the rudetouch of his hand.

  "Here! Are you crying?" he asked, roughly.

  "Do you think I'm laughing?" Joan retorted. Her wet eyes, as she raisedthem, were proof enough.

  "Stop it."

  "I can't help--but cry--a little. I was th--thinking of home--of thosewho've been father and mother to me--since I was a baby. I wasn'tcrying--for myself. But they--they'll be so miserable. They loved meso."

  "It won't help matters to cry."

  Joan stood up then, no longer sincere and forgetful, but the girl withher deep and cunning game. She leaned close to him in the twilight.

  "Did you ever love any one? Did you ever have a sister--a girl like me?"

  Kells stalked away into the gloom.

  Joan was left alone. She did not know whether to interpret hisabstraction, his temper, and his action as favorable or not. Still shehoped and prayed they meant that he had some good in him. If she couldonly hide her terror, her abhorrence, her knowledge of him and hismotive! She built up a bright camp-fire. There was an abundance of wood.She dreaded the darkness and the night. Besides, the air was growingchilly. So, arranging her saddle and blankets near the fire, shecomposed herself in a comfortable seat to await Kells's return anddevelopments. It struck her forcibly that she had lost some of her fearof Kells and she did not know why. She ought to fear him more everyhour--every minute. Presently she heard his step brushing the grassand then he emerged out of the gloom. He had a load of fire-wood on hisshoulder.

  "Did you get over your grief?" he asked, glancing down upon her.

  "Yes," she replied.

  Kells stooped for a red ember, with which he lighted his pipe, and thenhe seated himself a little back from the fire. The blaze threw a brightglare over him, and in it he looked neither formidable nor vicious norruthless. He asked her where she was born, and upon receiving an answerhe followed that up with another question. And he kept this up untilJoan divined that he was not so much interested in what he apparentlywished to learn as he was in her presence, her voice, her personality.She sensed in him loneliness, hunger for the sound of a voice. She hadheard her uncle speak of the loneliness of lonely camp-fires and how allmen working or hiding or lost in the wilderness would see sweet facesin the embers and be haunted by soft voices. After all, Kells washuman. And she talked as never before in her life, brightly, willingly,eloquently, telling the facts of her eventful youth and girlhood--thesorrow and the joy and some of the dreams--up to the time she had cometo Camp Hoadley.

  "Did you leave any sweethearts over there at Hoadley?" he asked, after asilence.

  "Yes."

  "How many?"

  "A whole campful," she replied, with a laugh, "but admirers is a bettername for them."

  "Then there's no one fellow?"

  "Hardly--yet."

  "How would you like being kept here in this lonesome place for--well,say for ever?"

  "I wouldn't like that," replied Joan. "I'd like this--camping out likethis now--if my folks only knew I am alive and well and safe. I lovelonely, dreamy places. I've dreamed of being in just such a one as this.It seems so far away here--so shut in by the walls and the blackness.So silent and sweet! I love the stars. They speak to me. And the windin the spruces. Hear it.... Very low, mournful! That whispers tome--to-morrow I'd like it here if I had no worry. I've never grownup yet. I explore and climb trees and hunt for little birds andrabbits--young things just born, all fuzzy and sweet, frightened, pipingor squealing for their mothers. But I won't touch one for worlds. Isimply can't hurt anything. I can't spur my horse or beat him. Oh, IHATE pain!"

  "You're a strange girl to live out here on this border," he said.

  "I'm no different from other girls. You don't know girls."

  "I knew one pretty well. She put a rope round my neck," he replied,grimly.

  "A rope!"

  "Yes, I mean a halter, a hangman's noose. But I balked her!"

  "Oh!... A good girl?"

  "Bad! Bad to the core of her black heart--bad as I am!" he exclaimed,with fierce, low passion.

  Joan trembled. The man, in an instant, seemed transformed, somber asdeath. She could not look at him, but she must keep on talking.

  "Bad? You don't seem bad to me--only violent, perhaps, or wild.... Tellme about yourself."

  She had stirred him. His neglected pipe fell from his hand. In the gloomof the camp-fire he must have seen faces or ghosts of his past.

  "Why not?" he queried, strangely. "Why not do what's been impossible foryears--open my lips? It'll not matter--to a girl who can never tell!...Have I forgotten? God!--I have not! Listen, so that you'll KNOW I'm bad.My name's not Kells. I was born in the East, and went to school theretill I ran away. I was young, ambitious, wild. I stole. I ran aw
ay--cameWest in 'fifty-one to the gold-fields in California. There I became aprospector, miner, gambler, robber--and road-agent. I had evil in me, asall men have, and those wild years brought it out. I had no chance. Eviland gold and blood--they are one and the same thing. I committed everycrime till no place, bad as it might be, was safe for me. Driven andhunted and shot and starved--almost hanged!... And now I'm--Kells! ofthat outcast crew you named 'the Border Legion!' Every black crime butone--the blackest--and that haunting me, itching my hands to-night."

  "Oh, you speak so--so dreadfully!" cried Joan. "What can I say? I'msorry for you. I don't believe it all. What--what black crime hauntsyou? Oh! what could be possible tonight--here in this lonely canon--withonly me?"

  Dark and terrible the man arose.

  "Girl," he said, hoarsely. "To-night--to-night--I'll.... What have youdone to me? One more day--and I'll be mad to do right by you--instead ofWRONG.... Do you understand that?"

  Joan leaned forward in the camp-fire light with outstretched handsand quivering lips, as overcome by his halting confession of one lastremnant of honor as she was by the dark hint of his passion.

  "No--no--I don't understand--nor believe!" she cried. "But you frightenme--so! I am all--all alone with you here. You said I'd be safe.Don't--don't--"

  Her voice broke then and she sank back exhausted in her seat. ProbablyKells had heard only the first words of her appeal, for he took tostriding back and forth in the circle of the camp-fire light. Thescabbard with the big gun swung against his leg. It grew to be a darkand monstrous thing in Joan's sight. A marvelous intuition born of thathour warned her of Kells's subjection to the beast in him, even while,with all the manhood left to him, he still battled against it. Hergirlish sweetness and innocence had availed nothing, except mock himwith the ghost of dead memories. He could not be won or foiled. She mustget her hands on that gun--kill him--or--! The alternative was death forherself. And she leaned there, slowly gathering all the unconquerableand unquenchable forces of a woman's nature, waiting, to make onedesperate, supreme, and final effort.