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was, did not equal her love.
That morning, before being lifted upon his horse, Kells buckled on
his gun-belt. The sheath and full round of shells and the gun made
this belt a burden for a weak man. And so Red Pearce insisted. But
Kells laughed in his face. The men, always excepting Gulden, were
unfailing in kindness and care. Apparently they would have fought
for Kells to the death. They were simple and direct in their rough
feelings. But in Kells, Joan thought, was a character who was a
product of this border wildness, yet one who could stand aloof from
himself and see the possibilities, the unexpected, the meaning of
that life. Kells knew that a man and yet another might show kindness
and faithfulness one moment, but the very next, out of a manhood
retrograded to the savage, out of the circumstance or chance, might
respond to a primitive force far sundered from thought or reason,
and rise to unbridled action. Joan divined that Kells buckled on his
gun to be ready to protect her. But his men never dreamed his
motive. Kells was a strong, bad man set among men like him, yet he
was infinitely different because he had brains.
On the start of the journey Joan was instructed to ride before Kells
and Pearce, who supported the leader in his saddle. The pack-drivers
and Bate Wood and Frenchy rode ahead; Gulden held to the rear. And
this order was preserved till noon, when the cavalcade halted for a
rest in a shady, grassy, and well-watered nook. Kells was haggard,
and his brow wet with clammy dew, and lined with pain. Yet he was
cheerful and patient. Still he hurried the men through their tasks.
In an hour the afternoon travel was begun. The canon and its
surroundings grew more rugged and of larger dimensions. Yet the
trail appeared to get broader and better all the time. Joan noticed
intersecting trails, running down from side canons and gulches. The
descent was gradual, and scarcely evident in any way except in the
running water and warmer air.
Kells, tired before the middle of the afternoon, and he would have
fallen from his saddle but for the support of his fellows. One by
one they held him up. And it was not easy work to ride alongside,
holding him up. Joan observed that Gulden did not offer his
services. He seemed a part of this gang, yet not of it. Joan never
lost a feeling of his presence behind her, and from time to time,
when he rode closer, the feeling grew stronger. Toward the close of
that afternoon she became aware of Gulden's strange attention. And
when a halt was made for camp she dreaded something nameless.
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This halt occurred early, before sunset, and had been necessitated
by the fact that Kells was fainting. They laid him out on blankets,
with his head in his saddle. Joan tended him, and he recovered
somewhat, though he lacked the usual keenness.
It was a busy hour with saddles, packs, horses, with wood to cut and
fire to build and meal to cook. Kells drank thirstily, but refused
food.
"Joan," he whispered, at an opportune moment, "I'm only tired--dead
for sleep. You stay beside me. Wake me quick--if you want to!"
He closed his eyes wearily, without explaining, and soon slumbered.
Joan did not choose to allow these men to see that she feared them
or distrusted them or disliked them. She ate with them beside the
fire. And this was their first opportunity to be close to her. The
fact had an immediate and singular influence. Joan had no vanity,
though she knew she was handsome. She forced herself to be pleasant,
agreeable, even sweet. Their response was instant and growing. At
first they were bold, then familiar and coarse. For years she had
been used to rough men of the camps. These however, were different,
and their jokes and suggestions had no effect because they were
beyond her. And when this became manifest to them that aspect of
their relation to her changed. She grasped the fact intuitively, and
then she verified it by proof. Her heart beat strong and high. If
she could hide her hate, her fear, her abhorrence, she could
influence these wild men. But it all depended upon her charm, her
strangeness, her femininity. Insensibly they had been influenced,
and it proved that in the worst of men there yet survived some good.
Gulden alone presented a contrast and a problem. He appeared aware
of her presence while he sat there eating like a wolf, but it was as
if she were only an object. The man watched as might have an animal.
Her experience at the camp-fire meal inclined her to the belief
that, if there were such a possibility as her being safe at all, it
would be owing to an unconscious and friendly attitude toward the
companions she had been forced to accept. Those men were pleased,
stirred at being in her vicinity. Joan came to a melancholy and
fearful cognizance of her attraction. While at home she seldom had
borne upon her a reality--that she was a woman. Her place, her
person were merely natural. Here it was all different. To these wild
men, developed by loneliness, fierce-blooded, with pulses like
whips, a woman was something that thrilled, charmed, soothed, that
incited a strange, insatiable, inexplicable hunger for the very
sight of her. They did not realize it, but Joan did.
Presently Joan finished her supper and said: "I'll go hobble my
horse. He strays sometimes."
"Shore I'll go, miss," said Bate Wood. He had never called her Mrs.
Kells, but Joan believed he had not thought of the significance.
Hardened old ruffian that he was. Joan regarded him as the best of a
bad lot. He had lived long, and some of his life had not been bad.
"Let me go," added Pearce.
"No, thanks. I'll go myself," she replied.
She took the rope hobble off her saddle and boldly swung down the
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trail. Suddenly she heard two or more of the men speak at once, and
then, low and clear: "Gulden, where'n hell are you goin'?" This was
Red Pearce's voice.
Joan glanced back. Gulden had started down the trail after her. Her
heart quaked, her knees shook, and she was ready to run back. Gulden
halted, then turned away, growling. He acted as if caught in
something surprising to himself.
"We're on to you, Gulden," continued Pearce, deliberately. "Be
careful or we'll put Kells on."
A booming, angry curse was the response. The men grouped closer and
a loud altercation followed. Joan almost ran down the trail and
heard no more. If any one of them had started her way now she would
have plunged into the thickets like a frightened deer. Evidently,
however, they meant to let her alone. Joan found her horse, and
before hobbling him she was assailed by a temptation to mount him
and ride away. This she did not want to do and would not do under
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